Appleseed

by John Clute

  —I have been saving memories from plaque since Human Earth was shut.

  —That was a long time ago, Johnny.

  —You know it.

  —You do know that if the Tree rescues the ten trillion lives, God will be very angry . . .

  —Let Him starve, said AppleSeed.

  —That He will rage in his lair. That He will rage in Malacandra.

  —Let Him lie in the pit, said AppleSeed.

  —During your long exile, continued the Vipassana frogs, —did you ever attempt to penetrate the inner maze of Klavier? Were you properly assiduous? Did you have any luck? Did you chance upon any of the innumerable conclave space coigns that gaze upon the heart of Klavier, for surely you must have tried? Have you yet entered the throne room, or sat at the Captain’s console, or heard the Music?

  —Nix, froggies, said the codger. —I know nothing of any music but my own. I steer Klavier from the fo’c’sles. I have not been granted an audience, in this flesh or otherwise.

  The Appleseed body gave off a stink of ire. His penis began to rise.

  —Nix nix nix, he said. His voice tick-tocked up and down conclave space like an Old Salt card waiting to spout sententiae in a thousand tongues of Human Earth and later.

  —Though how else, he added, —how else gain audience with the dead? Klavier was empty when I awoke, fully installed, within her. She had been abandoned, just like the universe. Long before Human Earth seized up. She was utterly vacant (he continued, his Old Salt raconteur voice cracking with urgency), except for Made Minds. Except for waif biota. Except for memory strings, like those you snapped by the billion, froggie. I searched, everywhere I was enabled to access I searched.

  The Made Mind, who had become AppleSeed in time, and would die there in time, turned to the Knight Captain, who had not moved, not a hair had ruffled in the light breeze.

  —But I do know this, boyo, said the AppleSeed format, breathing heavily through his teeth; more than eidolon though eidolon-like, more than mortal though he sank closer every year towards meat death. —I know that Tile Dance is also a predecessor relict. Am I right, boyo?

  The Knight Captain — not quite eidolon, not quite mortal — gazed upon his fellow homo sapiens.

  —Have you found a Builder, boyo?

  AppleSeed sustained Freer’s gaze.

  —Nix, said Freer softly. —Nix.

  —Have you never asked who turned you on?

  —Nix. But I have been having dreams, said the cohort of the self of Freer, —and now that I have gained access I can read them, and yes. Ynis Gutrin is certainly more ancient than Human Earth.

  This was not quite an answer. But he said nothing more.

  AppleSeed turned back for an instant to the Made Mind of absolute location and raised a hand of flesh, raised a warning flag in conclave space, silenced Vipassana before the frogs could open their mouths.

  Nathaniel Freer and Johnny Appleseed faced one another again in the air of Ynis Gutrin, which pulsed as though taking breath.

  —Why am I here? said Freer.

  —I had to act, said AppleSeed, —when we heard the news, boyo.

  FreeLance raised his eyebrows, a homo sapiens gesture.

  —News, boyo. News that a ship called Tile Dance, a ship wearing Predecessor insignia, was surfing up-spiral through previously uncharted wormholes at velocities almost untraceable by Harpe spy eyes, suicidal fucking velocities, mythical fucking speed of berserker fucking mythical ancients on a caduceus hunt! — why do you think Opsophagos was aroused, boyo? Why?

  The asthmatic lungs of Johnny Appleseed fought augment for a fraction of a Heartbeat.

  —That news, boyo, he said at last. —News of the arrival within local waters of a ship so long absent from this spiral arm of our home fucking galaxy that Klavier’s archives had no record of it, that news, boyo. That the captain of this mysterious ship wears an archaic genome sigil on his sleeve that marks him as a freehold grandfather but that nevertheless he pays genome tithe as though he did not know his own pedigree. That in the middle of the most profound trade slump Trencher has ever experienced this freehold grandfather ambles down Law Well with a job, a highly lucrative commission to transport industrial nanoforges to a planet called Eolhxir, but that this destination planet does not appear in any chart or anywhere in the archives of Klavier. That the Eolhxiran plenipotentiary who hires this honcho claims to possess a lens, though no free lens has ever been found, lenses are mythical, boyo. Memory lenses, Stinky, lenses fresh from the Tree of Life, are mythical. Boyo.

  —O, said Freer. —That news.

  AppleSeed gave a small rigid smile.

  —So when the Harpe ark maydays in time to offer you an ancient battle Mind at an unbelievably low price, I hear alarm bells, though you almost fooled me, Vipassana, I failed to unpick your bondage. So I insert my dear friend SammSabaoth into your purchase package, rouse him from well-earned sleep vigil to serve you, boyo. Then I trick you into coming here. I do not know what might happen, but I do not want you loose to fall into a Harpe net, and I figure you might stir the waters. I figure I’d waited long enough. And you did, boyo, you stirred the waters.

  He waved a hand.

  In the breeze could be detected his oldster meat-banquet mortal stink.

  There was a ping, acoustic and below.

  A thousand images within conclave space suddenly displayed the Harpe fleet around Klavier, which it had now englobed.

  —We are monitoring, whispered SammSabaoth in a distant voice and flickered out.

  —Thank you, SammSabaoth, said the Knight Captain in a speeded bat voice.

  —Boyo, continued the oldster, —I have no idea if you’ll ever find Mamselle’s planet, but believe this: whatever it turns out to be, it won’t be the home I have been seeking. We have scoured Maestoso, there is no Predecessor base planet within our ken, not here. Nowhere in mortal space. Nix. Nix.

  The oldster breathed through its unkissed mouth.

  —O, by the way, Knight Captain, did I remind you that when plaque hit Trencher only one ship escaped?

  —Ah, said Freer, —that news. Thank SammSabaoth. Thank Vipassana.

  —Show some gratitude yourself. Save the universe.

  —In a minute, in a minute. Tell me, ancient friend, just one thing. How did you first get wind of us? How did the news reach you that we were coming up-spiral?

  —Nothing significant. We intercepted routine messages between your eloquent plenipotentiary and the Trencher journey-cake commissioned to broker the transaction.

  —Ah. Mamselle told you we were coming. And Opsophagos. She told Opsophagos as well.

  —Sure. I agree. Blabbermouth. Women, murmured Appleseed, —silly creatures.

  He seemed to muse.

  —Still, he said, —sooner have her safe here in custody, where she can shrub in peace, stop her gabbling up and down the matrices, risk Harpe capture every time she opens her knot hole. Opsophagos would eat her raw, never mind she is all bark, never believe she knew nothing of the real Tree, not till he’d guzzled her down to taproot. Give him wind.

  He breathed in heavily.

  —But you, he said, —are far more important than Mamselle Cunning Earth Link. You and Tile Dance. I had to bring you in. Look around you, see what has happened here, after only a few thousand Heartbeats. Klavier has been knitted together again. I could not do that. Tile Dance has awoken Minds whose sleep seemed terminal. I could not awaken them. And now—

  The Knight Captain of Tile Dance gazed gravely at the convener, whose returning gaze was ardent.

  —Go on, dear one.

  —We are now at the gateway to the labyrinth which guards the throne room and the pilot’s chair. Where we will find the star charts, the genuine Route-Only to the planet of the Tree.

  FreeLance said nothing. His eyes were hooded.

  —Come on, boyo. Tell your ship to start screwing again. There can only be a few turns more in the lock. Then the way will open. We will save the universe.

/>   —The way, you mean to say, said Vipassana, —to Eolhxir.

  The frog bodies were steaming in the fire.

  The winged lion hovered above them, talons extended.

  —Nix, froggies, said AppleSeed very loud. —Weren’t you listening? Listen now. Wherever Mamselle wants to take you, it ain’t home.

  But the frogs were grinning so widely in their spits of flame that their mouths began to splinter.

  —Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, said each frog breathing steam. —O Johnny. She tricked you, Johnny. And you, Knight Captain.

  —O yes? said Johnny Appleseed.

  The Knight Captain of Tile Dance rested his hands upon the carved head of a Handfast herm, which became a sword loyal unto death, a sword that flamed in utter silence.

  —Proceed, said the Knight Captain in a voice of air awaiting thunder.

  —She needed a Knight Captain to pilot Tile Dance, and for other journeyman work, and she had you, FreeLance, she had you from the beginning, she jostled you hither and thither until you woke up at last, after all those years of beachcombing, and finally began to do your job. The job you were born for. What you were Made for, sirrah.

  The Knight Captain made no demur. He leaned upon his sword. He was sheathed in skin. He was reddish with heat. He gazed not at the Vipassana but upon the sweltering oldster.

  —And you, Johnny Johnny Johnny, continued the Vipassana frogs, —she needed you to convene Tile Dance, and you did, you brought Tile Dance back home, right on schedule. She needed SammSabaoth, in case I became unmanageable, and you ended his sleep. She needed to enter Klavier incognito, because Opsophagos are no fool, and you slipped her in under their nose, and not even my flyte caught a whiff of her. She needed to give birth, because the time is now, and she has done so. She needed to broadcast her runts, and she has done so. And she needed Tile Dance to sew together again the shattered fratres of Klavier, because the time is now. Klavier is ripe. You do understand, do you not, Johnny, that you were her caretaker?

  AppleSeed’s erection seemed permanent.

  —Vipassana, he said finally, —grant me your boon. Grant it now.

  —The location of the home planet, said the Made Mind. —The planet you were brought into the world to find.

  —Tell me, said Johnny Appleseed with a stiff cricked grin. —Tell me your opinion.

  The Made Mind did not respond in words.

  But the dismembered limbs of the frog bodies of Vipassana raised themselves above the sandalwood floor and hovered there for an instant in the hushed air of Ynis Gutrin.

  And then the arms and legs of Vipassana swivelled as one in the midst of the air and pointed in unison. They pointed one way only.

  Down.

  Pointed down.

  The convener turned as pale as ice.

  —Poor Johnny Appleseed, said the Made Mind of absolute location in a voice as soft as damask. —All those Heartbeats innumerable, wandering the star lanes. While all the while you were squatting on the skin of the apple. You know about apples, Johnny, don’t you, your durance vile in flesh has not blinded you to the whole reality. Apples and lenses, Johnny, apples and lenses and tile dancer ships, anything to do with Predecessors: they’re always bigger inside than out. Right, Johnny? The world you seek is inside Klavier. Klavier is flyte, Johnny. The skin of the apple. The world you seek is the jack within. Where it always was. All you ever needed to do was follow the yellow brick road. Kill me.

  AppleSeed knelt on the burning sandalwood floor and pressed his forehead to the flame.

  —Ya, he said. Ya.

  FreeLance continued to gaze at the convener.

  —Ya, said the convener as a child that has been beaten. —Okey dokey.

  —Incisive gratulations, crackerjack sophonts, said a voice from within Ynis Gutrin but invisible, a voice from conclave space which hovered inside normal space though larger than normal space. The voice cooed like honey seeping lovesick from its comb.

  —Mamselle? said Freer.

  ‘Mamselle?’ he shouted acoustic.

  He saw that she was sitting in the warm passenger alcove, failsafes gossiping softly into her tiny earholes, embonpoint intact, all four tits damp with dew, tiny head bobbing shyly on its thin accordion neck, the monitor eyes in her palms nictitating as she peered upon the scene, just as when she first showed herself to him while Tile Dance dodged in Vipassana’s hands out of Trencher.

  —I valuate tryst indomitably! belled the creature. ‘Gimme five,’ she said in the voice of Number One Son, ‘ya’ll.’ —We are all so singularly famished, said Mamselle Cunning Earth Link filling conclave space with her attar. ‘Did you boys enjoy your three wishes?’ pealed the topiary parthenogenete, her head tuft rising on its ribbed base which became a barber pole, the neck of a giraffe, a caduceus sword. Once the head tuft reached its highest extension it flowered. It became a rose, and translucent petals plumed the tiny shining face below. —Upsydowndaisy lamentoso, death-bound froggies! whispered the transitus tessera out of the mouths of all the magi and the sages and the kings and queens and lower cards of conclave space in one single voice as though they had all suddenly remembered at the one same time the one same thing to say. The memory theatre of the conclave space of Tile Dance had not spoken ensemble for a Trillion Heartbeats, since before homo sapiens began to talk right, before the Caduceus Wars.

  —Aaah, breathed the new Mother. —It is to yawn after such slumber!

  Her voice seemed to rise upon a wind, and the wind of her voice filled conclave space and entered the world and blew the masks hither and yon across Ynis Gutrin. The more timid masks fled like memory cards thinner than molecules sideways down gold grouting into storyland braids and stared outwards aghast at the world through the azulejarias that named them: Pierrot jack, flyte Medusa, jack the lass, Ganesa flyte: named them all. Other masks clung to herms, or to Handfasts, or to the burning flesh of the Knight Captain, or to the wisened kneeling body of the convener of the crew of Klavier, or to each other, making janus leaves in the gale, flyte jack, flyte jack, eyes wide.

  For a tiny fraction of a Heartbeat, the lion of KathKirtt fought the whirlwind, but it soon surrendered as a kite might surrender: the wind filled its belly and tossed it to the highest pitch of Ynis Gutrin and fixed it fast there and willy-nilly the lion stared down.

  The frogs hunkered in the great wind.

  Number One Son and the golems gaped within their caul.

  Mamselle Cunning Earth Link got to her stocky carved foot-like paws and the wind stopped.

  It had never been.

  —Mother of us all, said the frog lumps and the severed limbs of Vipassana, —witness my death.

  The Predecessor Queen flexed her dark red petals gracioso.

  —Such floccinaucinihilipilification clambakes! such high- grav tirades, O Made Mind krewe de moi! Such dizzy- making slalom roundabouts to target right-on soothville goddamn! Red Rover Come Over! said the Predecessor Queen in a voice like the foam that feeds the cards in conclave space, and the lion of KathKirtt, freed from the world-shaking blast, floated to a perch on the largest herm.

  The sword flared in Freer’s grip, tongues of immaterial flame gauzing the lion couchant in hues of bronze.

  —Did you wish to say something, Captain?

  —Ma’am, said the Knight Captain of Tile Dance very slowly. —Am I still to steer your ship?

  —O blissful boy of homo sapiens ilk! Catch a natch!

  —Knight me then, I beg you. So that I may stand in your stead.

  —Wed a stead! bond astound! belled Ynis Gutrin.

  Nathaniel Freer placed his sword on the sandalwood.

  —Boyo? whispered Johnny Appleseed.

  The convener’s face was badlands dry.

  —Boyo? I feel ill in my skin.

  —It will be all right, said the Captain. —All manner of things shall be well. Hold on, hairy man. Wild man of Borneo.

  His face flamed.

  Ferocity flamed through his face like a tattoo.
r />   Mamselle Cunning Earth Link, Predecessor Queen of all the children within her heft, lifted a hand whose eye squeezed itself shut in the nick of time, and the sword floated flaming through the air and kissed her feathery palm.

  She took the sword by the pommel.

  The sword doused at her touch.

  She gazed at the Knight Captain through a frieze of eyes.

  —Be patient, lad. For a minute.

  As she moved across the council chamber at the heart of Tile Dance, Handfasts genuflected and herms opened their orifices in utter silence. The only sound that could be heard was the tocking of her hooves. But the sound came to the ear lower than acoustic. It did not seem to be the sound of hooves at all. It seemed to be some great creature tapping shovel-sized fingernails against the top of its world, just beneath the shaking sandalwood floor.

  —Morgentag, engine brother, said Mamselle.

  There was a suspiration in the bones of Tile Dance.

  The floor stopped shaking.

  The Predecessor Queen came smoothly to a halt a step or so short of her convener.

  —Johnny, she said in a small still voice, —Johnny Johnny. Thank you, Johnny. I make most profound apologies for this bamboozle.

  Johnny Appleseed sucked in his cheeks. His eyes were shadowy beneath the tin pot.

  —Ma’am?

  His cheeks were as splotched as birchbark and as ashen.

  —I postulate that you know what I mean, O first of all my chilluns. For awakening you blind I make profound apology. For leaving you blind all these Heartbeats, ninety billion, maybe more, who’s counting. For lurking out of ken in the darklands, waiting for beloved Tile Dance to return up-centre safe and sound into the wound of time with a bonny wee pilot ready to pop his egg, go wakey wakey, I say sorry. For your sojourn in the wilderness, where now you must do Moses-style anguish from Universal Book, I make profound apology. I make most sorry. You must stay.