Feersum Endjinn

1

'Ah, this must be she. Good morning, young lady.'

'Good morning, young lady.'

'I beg your…? Ah, well, no, though I am half flattered.'

'You not young lady, no?'

'Neither young nor remotely lady-like. My name is Pieter Velteseri; I understand you may not know your own name, but —'

'No, I do not.'

'Quite. Well, first let me welcome you to our estate and to our house, both of which are called Jenahbilys. Please; do sit down… Well, I meant… Ah, perhaps the seat might be more appropriate? There; behind you. You see? Like this.'

'Ah, not floor; seat.'

'There you are. Just so. Now… Ah, would you excuse me?… Gil, I can see this young lady's pudenda, and despite my surfeit of years it is most off-putting, if more in the memory than in the tumescence. Might we clothe her in something more, ah, complete than what would appear to be merely your jacket and fundamentally nothing else?'

'Sorry, uncle.'

'… What are you looking at me for?'

'Come on, Lucia; you could lend her something of yours.'

'Tech. She hasn't even been washed or anything yet; have you seen the state of her feet? Oh, all right…'

'… My nephew's friend has gone to fetch you some further attire. I thought she might take you, and… well, never mind. Perhaps you would like to come to the window over here? The view of the formal gardens is particularly pleasing. Gil, perhaps our young guest would like something to drink.'

'I'll attend to it, unc.'

The second man — of course not a lady, which was to do with women, like herself (and she had to search for the word she now felt; it was embarrassed) — the second man, who was old and a little stooped and had a crinkled face, motioned to one of the windows, and they both walked there while the first man, the young one, closed his eyes for a second. The view from the window was of a gravel and flower garden, arranged in a strange, half-swirling, half-geometric pattern. Small tracked machines rolled amongst the blooms, clipping and sorting.

A little later a small wheeled thing appeared in the room, humming quietly and carrying a tray which held four glasses, several bottles and some small filled bowls. Then Lucia Chimbers appeared with some clothes and took her to a side room where she showed her how to put on shorts, pants and a shirt.

They stood looking at their reflections in a long mirror for a moment. 'You on something deep?' Lucia Chimbers asked quietly.

She looked at Lucia Chimbers.

'Because if you are, I'd like to know what it is.'

'On something deep,' she repeated, frowning (and watched herself frown, in the mirror). 'In something deep, mean you? I mean; you mean?'

'Never mind.' The other woman sighed. 'Let's wheel you out there. See if the old man can get any sense out of you.'

'I believe she may be an asura,' Pieter Velteseri said, over lunch.

He had spent the morning patiently questioning the girl in an effort to determine what memories she possessed. From this he knew that she had appeared in the clan vault a few hours earlier, seemingly artificially rebirthed in the manner a family member might be were there no clan member suitably pregnant at the time of their scheduled reconstitution. Being born without warning, alone, and in adult form did make the girl unique in his experience, however. She had an extensive vocabulary but seemed uncertain how to employ it, though he had gained the impression that her linguistic skills had developed considerably just in the two hours or so of their conversation.

Gil and Lucia had sat in on his gentle inquisition for a while, then grown restless and gone for a swim. Lunch-time had reconvened them, though if he had been hoping to impress his nephew and Lucia with their guest's new-found articulacy it seemed Pieter was to be disappointed; the presence of large quantities of food seemed to have temporarily driven all thought of conversation from the girl's head.

They sat at one end of the dining-room table. The windows were open to the veranda and the curtains billowed slowly.

Pieter sat on one side of the table while the young lovers sat on the other, with their strange, fey guest at its head, a generously proportioned napkin tucked into the neck of her blouse and — another spread across her lap while she frowned and sighed and dipped her head down almost level with the table while she attempted to manipulate a knife, fork and spoon to the end of eating the food on her plate.

Gil and Lucia exchanged looks. Pieter watched the young woman at the head of the table attack a lobster claw with the wrong end of a heavy spoon, and sighed.

'On reflection, perhaps seafood salad was a mistake,' he said.

Bits of red-white carapace spattered across the table; their guest made an appreciative growling noise at the back of her throat and after sniffing at the meat revealed, sucked it out and sat back, chewing open-mouthed and smiling happily while looking at the other three diners. A cleaning servitor hummed and clicked from under the table and busied itself on the floor, gathering up the bits of food and debris the girl had let drop. She looked down at it, grinning, and swept more shards of lobster off the table and onto the floor.

'What,' Lucia asked Pieter, 'exactly is an assurer?'

'I can't find it either,' Gil said, smiling at Lucia and squeezing her hand. Like her, he was eating one-handed.

'An asura,' Pieter said, secretly pleased, though wondering if the two young people really couldn't find the word in their habitua or were just being polite. 'A Hindi word, originally,' he told them. 'It used to mean a demon or a giant opposed to the gods.'

Lucia wore that annoyed look Pieter had come to recognise as her reaction to anything that was not expressed through implants and which she thought ought to be. It was fairly common for those in the first inflationary rush of infatuation, lust or love to embrace almost exclusively the inner voicelessness of implant-articulation in preference to the somehow physically off-putting and clumsy medium of normal speech, and although Pieter did not think Lucia jealous of their guest — any more than Gil seemed able to spare the girl more than the most cursory attention — she did seem to resent both the simple distraction she represented and the fact Pieter had suggested they communicate by speech in deference to the girl's seeming total lack of implants.

'Hindi, hmm,' Gil said, obviously having to look the word up. 'So what does "asura" mean nowadays?' He smiled at Lucia, squeezing her hand again under the table.

'A sort of… natural, one might say,' Pieter replied (mischie­vously, knowing they would both have to look that up too). He spooned a little crabmeat and ate contemplatively while watching the girl flick bits of shell further and further away across the floor so that the cleaning machine described a zig-zag course towards the windows. 'Something generated semi-randomly by the corpus or some separate system for reasons of its own,' he went on, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. 'Usually to do with some required change impossible to achieve from within. A non-predictable variable; a wildness.'

Lucia glanced at the girl. 'Why does she have to appear here, though?'

Pieter shrugged. 'Why not?'

'She's nothing to do with the clan, is she? She doesn't belong to any of our families,' Lucia said, her voice low, though the girl didn't seem to be listening, still throwing lobster-chunks towards the window. 'So why does she have to pop out of our vault; bit cheeky, isn't it?'

'I think it may have been sheer chance,' Pieter said, frowning a little. 'Whatever; she is here now and we must decide what to do with her.'

'Well what does one normally do with… asuras?' Gil asked.

'Gives them shelter and does not try to impede them when they want to move on, I believe,' Pieter said. 'Rather like any guest.'

The girl aimed and threw; a piece of lobster-claw bounced at the edge of the window between the softly blowing cur­tains, ricocheted through the rails of the balcony outside and disappeared down towards the garden. The pursuing cleaning machine trundled as far as the rails, and then stopped. It clicked a couple of times, then retreated into the room. The girl looked disappointed.

'Why, where's she going to go?' Lucia asked.

'I don't know,' Pieter admitted, nodding at their guest. 'Though she may.' He sipped at his wine.

They looked at her. She was holding another section of lobster above her, squinting up into it, one-eyed. Gil and Lucia exchanged glances.

'But what exactly is she supposed to do?' Gil asked.

'Again, I have no idea,' Pieter admitted. 'She may provide some fresh input for some section of the corpus, or possibly — indeed probably — she is what one might call a system test; a specimen signal-carrier whose only purpose is to ensure everything is in working order should the medium require to be used in anger — as it were — at some point in the future.'

Lucia and Gil looked at each other again.

'Could this have something to do with the Encroachment?' Gil asked, his expression serious. He squeezed Lucia's hand again.

'It might,' Pieter said, waving his fork while inspecting the oysters on his plate. 'Probably not.'

'Suppose she isn't just a signal test?' Gil asked with deliberated patience. 'What does she do then?' He refilled Lucia and his glasses.

'Why then, she will probably find her way to wherever she is supposed to find her way and deliver her message.'

'She can hardly talk in joined-up words,' Lucia snorted. 'How is she going to deliver a message?'

'She doesn't even have any implants,' Gil added.

'The message may be in an unusual medium,' Pieter said. 'It might lie in the precise pattern of flecks in the iris of one eye, or in one of her finger-prints, or in the disposition of her intestinal flora, or even in her own genetic code.'

'And this message is something the data corpus knows and yet doesn't know?'

'Quite. Or it may come from some system which isn't part of the main corpus and which can't communicate with it.'

The girl was watching Gil drink from his glass. She imitated the action and spilled only a little.

'Machines that can't communicate?' Lucia said, laughing. 'But that's…' she waved her hand.

'Diseases are communicated, too,' Pieter said quietly, folding his napkin. Their young guest seemed to be practising gargling.

'So?' Lucia said, with a contemptuous glance at the girl.

'Well, anyway,' Gil said emolliently, patting Lucia's hand while addressing his uncle, 'She's here and our guest; she may even prove amusing if she is so preternaturally naive. At least she appears to be house-trained.'

'So far,' Lucia said. 'Anyway; isn't there somebody we ought to tell about her?'

'Oh, I suppose one might report her arrival to the authorities,' Pieter said easily. 'But there's no hurry.'

The girl sat back, belched, looked pleased with herself, then farted. She appeared slightly taken aback, then just grinned.

'Air,' she said, nodding to the other three people round the table.

Pieter smiled. Gil guffawed. Lucia stared at the girl for a moment. Then set her napkin down primly. 'I am going to lie down,' she announced, rising.

Gil got up too, still holding Lucia's hand. 'Me too,' he said, smiling broadly.

Pieter returned their nodded farewells and watched the two young people leave.

He turned to the girl. She wiped one bloused forearm messily across her mouth then thumped her chest hollowly with her fist.

'Asura,' she said, grinning triumphantly, and burped again.

Pieter smiled thinly. 'Quite so.'

2

'The signal came at noon yesterday,' Clispeir said quickly, quietly. 'The observatory was stationary. Gad,' she laughed gently, 'all our preparations and cryptography went for nothing; the signal came in light all right, but not in any ancient code or any fancy wavelength, and not in frequency or amplitude modulation; they just manipulated the beam to make actual letters appear upon the plain, shining lines like the reflections waves cast on a wall or ceiling.'

'What did it say?' Gadfium asked. They sat together on the small bed, curtains drawn, light dimmed, whispering like school girls conspiring a prank. She was not sure if it was some ancient memory that made her head spin, some genuine reaction to the impoverished air in the observatory, or the import of what they were talking about.

Clispeir laughed. 'At first it just said, "Move",' she said. 'Oh, Gad, you should have seen us. We stared at the letters on the salt for a full minute before we pulled ourselves together and decided that even if we had gone plain-crazy, and it was some mass hallucination, we might as well shift. So we did; we moved a couple of metres. The letters stayed where they were, then disappeared. When they reappeared it was as though they had followed us.'

'But what did they — ?'

'Ssh! I'm coming to that!' She pulled on a chain round her neck and drew a slim pen from inside her tunic, unscrewed it and pulled out a piece of flimsy paper which she unrolled and handed to Gadfium. 'They came in groups every eight seconds. Here; read for yourself.'

Gadfium stared at the scribbled writing.

* (flash)

MOVE /

NOW MOVE BACK /

THANK YOU/

LOVE IS GOD / ALL ARE HALLOWED / * WE HAVE — NOTED / THAT YOU ATTEMPTED / TO COMMUNI­CATE WITH / US IN THE PAST / HOWEVER STAND­BY / SYSTEMS THEN FUNCTIONING / WERE NOT ENABLED TO / REPLY OR INSTRUCTED / TO COM­MENCE / OUR REACTIVATION / THIS HAS NOW / OCCURRED DUE TO / SOLAR SYSTEM'S APPROACH /TO INTERSTELLAR/ DUST CLOUD / WHICH EVENT YOU CALL / ENCROACHMENT / THIS CONCERNS US ALL / CURRENT ESTIMATES / OF EFFECT ON EARTH / GIVE CAUSE FOR / ALARM / WE HAVE NOT / RECEIVED NOR DO / WE BELIEVE YOU HAVE / RECEIVED ANY / COMMUNICATION FROM / OFF-PLANET THERE / FOR WE MUST ACT / ALONE TO SAVE / OURSELVES / ACTION OPTIONS / INCLUDE CURRENT / LOWER-LEVELS / ATTEMPT TO CON­STRUCT / ROCKETS FOR / EVACUATION / THIS IS ALMOST / CERTAIN TO FAIL / IT IS KNOWN / SEC­TIONS OF LOWER— / LEVELS COMPETE / AGGRES­SIVELY FOR / SUBSIDIARY SPACE / TECHNOLOGIES BUT THIS / TOO IS UNLIKELY / TO SUCCEED / ALSO NOTE DANGER / WORKINGS IN L5SWSOLAR / * HALLOWED BE / THE CENTRE THE / ABSENCE THAT / GIVES STRENGTH / GIVES MEANING / * THREATEN SIGNIFICANT / FABRIC INTEGRITY LOSS / CORRECT ANSWER MUST / LIE IN CRYPTOSPHERE / OR AN ASSOCIATED / BUT COMMUNICATIVELY / REMOTE SUB-SYSTEM / WE BELIEVE AS / WE BELIEVE YOU DO / THAT TECHNOLOGY EXISTS / TO SAVE US ALL / BUT ACCESS TO / DISCOVERY OF THIS / TECH­NOLOGY EVADES / US AND WE ARE / UNABLE TO CONTACT / CRYPTOSPHERE / DIRECTLY DUE TO / CURRENT CHAOTIC / INFECTIOUS STATE / OF SAME / GIVEN RUMOURED / EXISTENCE OF EMERGENCY / META-PROTOCOLS / WE THEREFORE URGE / YOU TO REMAIN / VIGILANT AS SHALL / WE FOR ADVENT / OF EXTERNAL DATA— / CARRYING EVENT OR / SYSTEM-EMISSARY / (ASURA) / PLEASE ALSO NOTE / WE BELIEVE RULING / SECTIONS OR LOWER— / LEVELS KNOW THEIR / APPARENT ATTEMPTS / TO ESCAPE CERTAIN / TO FAIL / WHY IS THIS / WE QUESTION / REPLY THROUGH / HELIO SEMAPHORE OR / SIGNAL-LAMP ONLY / * LOVE IS FAITH / IS UNKNOWING / BE ALL HALLOWED / IN THE EYE OF / NOTHING / SHANTI / END *

She couldn't take it all in; she started, got half-way through, lost it again, started more slowly, then read it in full a sec­ond time.

By the end of it, Gadfium was staring at the piece of paper; she could feel her eyes bulging from her face and sense the tension in the surrounding skin. Her head still felt as though it was spinning. She gulped, looked at the smiling, shining face of Clispeir.

There was a knock at the cabin door. 'Ma'am?' Rasfline asked, voice muffled.

Gadfium cleared her throat. 'I'm alive, Rasfline,' she called, her voice shaking. 'Just let me rest. Ten minutes.'

'Very well, ma'am.' She could hear his hesitation.

'Yes, Rasfline?'

'We should not stay much longer, Chief Scientist… and also, there is an urgent message from the Sortileger's office. He would like to see you.'

'Inform him I'll be on my way in ten minutes.'

'Ma'am.'

They waited a few moments, then Clispeir seized the other woman's shoulders, glancing at the paper Gadfium held. 'I know some of it seems like nonsense, but isn't it just the most exciting thing?'

Gadfium nodded. She put one shaking hand to her brow and patted Clispeir's shoulder with the other hand. 'Yes, and very dangerous,' she said.

'You really think so?' Clispeir said.

'Of course! If Security hear about this, we're all lost.'

'You don't think if you could somehow get this to the King he'd, well, have a change of heart? I mean: realise that the best thing was for us all to work tog — ?'

'No!' Gadfium said, appalled. She shook the other woman's shoulders. 'Clispeir! The message itself mentions the King and his pals seem to have some secret agenda; if we tell them we know they'll just silence us!'

'Of course, of course,' Clispeir said, smiling nervously. 'You're right.'

'Yes,' Gadfium said, 'I am.' She took a deep breath. 'Now, we have ten minutes — may I keep this?' She held up the sheet of paper.

'Certainly! You'll have to make your own copies for the others.'

'That's all right. Now, as I was saying; we have ten minutes to decide what to do.'

3

The Palace was situated in the Great Hall's central lantern, a tall octagonal construction protruding from the centre of the steeply pitched roof which in a humanly scaled version of Serehfa would have been open and hollow and have helped light the Hall's interior below.

The Palace filled a hundred tall storeys within the lantern and projected downwards into the Great Hall for another ten levels; those lower floors were mostly devoted to the Security services and their equipment. Lush gardens and broad terraces graced its outer walls, and within it were housed its own great halls, ballrooms and ceremonial spaces. Its summit was capped by further walled gardens and a small airfield.

His Majesty King Adijine VI sat in the great solar, at one end of a mighty table too long to be used for purely vocal discussion without amplification. He listened to the chief ambassadorial emissary for the Engineers of the Chapel as he forcefully outlined some subsidiary position on possible technological cooperation should the hoped-for peace be forthcoming. The emissary's voice boomed out across the hall. Possibly, thought the King, the emissary would not have required amplification.

The chief ambassadorial emissary was a fully sentient human-chimeric; a man in the guise of an animal — in this case ursus maritimus, a polar bear. Such creatures were generally frowned upon; animals were seen as the final resting place — or at any rate one of the last resting places — for the crypt-corroded souls of the long dead, but the clan Engineers had a tradition of such beasts. It had been something of an aggressive statement for the Chapel usurpers to make, appointing such a being as their main representative at the talks. Adijine didn't care.

He was finding the chief ambassadorial emissary's tirade tiring; certainly in the course of providing the bear's body with vocal equipment capable of reproducing human speech the Chapel scientists had created a powerful and profoundly bassy instrument, but one could grow weary of it all the same, and the man within the beast ought to leave the sort of detail he was now dealing in to his retinue. However, as well as liking the sound of his own voice, the chief ambassadorial emissary seemed unable to delegate effectively, and Adijine had rather lost interest in the substance of what was now being discussed.

He switched away.

Like the other Privileged, the King had no implants, save for those which would be used only once, to record and transmit his personality when he died. Unlike most of them he had access to technologies that allowed him the benefits of implants without the drawbacks, giving him unrestrained one-way access to all those with implants and — in the right circumstances — even those without them. It did mean he had to wear the crown to make it all work, but he had a choice of several attractive models of crown, all of which were tastefully designed and sat lightly on one's head.

In theory the regal paradigm best expressed the reality of mod­ern power — better than a commercial, civil or military archetype for example — and certainly it seemed that people were happy enough with a kind of benignly dictatorial meritocracy which at any given moment looked somewhat like a real monarchy — with primogeniture and fully hereditary status — but wasn't.

Actually he suspected few people these days really believed that in the past kings and queens had been chosen by the accident of birth (and this when it really had been an accident and even their crude attempts at improving their bloodstock tended to result in in-breeding rather than regal thoroughbreds). Equally, though, the sheer grandiosity of the stage that Serehfa itself presented might be seen to demand an imperial repertoire.

The King entered the minds of the men behind the walls.

Twenty troops of his bodyguard were concealed behind the paper partitions lining the room. He scanned each quickly — on principle, really, they were thoroughly programmed — and then focused on their commander. He was watching the scene in the hall on a visor monitor. Adijine followed the man's slow sweep of the view and listened to quiet system chatter coming over his audio implants. Head-ups flickered on and off as the guard commander's gaze fell on individuals in the room.

His gaze settled on the King for a second, and Adijine had the always rather strange experience of looking at himself through another's eyes. He looked fine; handsome, tall, regal, impressively robed, the light crown sitting straight on his curly black locks, and by his expression paying due but not deferential attention to what the polar-bear emissary was saying.

Adijine admired himself for a while longer. He had been bred to be King; not in the ancients' crude hit-or-miss interpretation of the words but in the literal sense that the crypt had designed him; given him the aspect, bearing and character of a natural ruler before he'd even been born, selecting his physical and mental attributes from a variety of sources to make him handsome, attractive, charming, gracious and wise, balancing wit against gravitas, human under­standing against moral scrupulousness and a love of the finer things in life against an urge towards simplicity. He inspired loyalty, was difficult to hate, brought out the best in men and women and had great but not total power which he had the sense and modesty to use sparingly but authoritatively. Not for the first time, Adijine thought what a damn fine figure of a man he was.

He looked like an absolute ruler, even though he wasn't; he shared his power with the twelve representatives of the Consistory. They were his advisers, or better, his board; he was managing director. He controlled the physical realm of the structure through the other clans, the personal loyalty he commanded from the masses, and the Security services (now including the newly formed Army), while the men and women of the Consistory spoke for the crypt itself and the elite body of Cryptographers who formed the interface between the data corpus and humanity. It was a nicely balanced arrangement, as was proven by the fact it had existed for multi-generations of monarchs. Nothing had disturbed the calm face of old Earth for millennia until that Nessian cloak of darkness had started to stain the heavens.

Adijine watched as the guard commander's gaze curved above his King, then around him, then resumed its slow sweep.

Adijine had hoped to find the man day-dreaming, but the guard commander wasn't thinking of anything at all; he was on automatic pilot, watching, listening, being professional. He did day-dream, very occasionally (it would have been suspicious in the extreme had he never done so) but he wasn't at the moment. Adijine switched again.

The colonel-in-chief of the Security services was herself remoting into another mind, watching a meeting of clan Cryp­tography chief programmers through the mind of one who was trying to suppress thoughts of republicanism and revolution. Utterly boring. The colonel-in-chief had a robust, healthy and inventive sex-life and Adijine had spent many a happy hour with her and her partners, but everything seemed to be strictly business right now.

His private secretary was receiving details of a conversation his construct had just had with the shade of the late Count Sessine. Oh yes, thought the King; poor Count Sessine. He'd always felt a certain empathy with Sessine. The private secretary was eating lunch at the same time; anchovy salad. The King detested anchovies rather more than his private secretary adored them, and so switched again.

His seneschal was surveying the zeteticist team monitoring the Chapel usurper party for stray noetic radiations. Boring and incomprehensible.

His current favourite courtesan was remoting into the mind of a mathematician contemplating an elegant proof — the court retained many mathematicians, philosophers and aesthetes to provide this sort of vicarious epiphany — but Adijine found the third-hand experience less than absorbing.

How frustrating to attempt to pry on people only to discover they were in turn spying on others.

He checked that the ursine ambassadorial emissary was still talking (he was, and the King allowed himself a pre-emptive gloat at how the emissary was going to feel when the bomb workings in the fifth-level south-western solar came on line and he realised that this entire negotiation was just a materielly inexpensive exercise in time-wasting), then the King dipped into minds elsewhere in Serehfa; a peruker in a tower-roof terrace-town, crouched over her latest extravagant creation; a cliometrician carrelled half-asleep in a bartizan high on the east fifth level; a moirologist petitioning in the sacristy of the northern upper chapel; a funambulist reaping babilia on the pyramid spur of a shell-wall tower.

Prosaic.

He checked on his spyers, clinging to ledges and lintels, shivering on shingles and cinquefoils, hooked and netted under hoardings and machicolations or just crawling like half-frozen fleas through the gilled vertical forest of high altitude babilia while they watched the lofty, cold, snowy slopes and plains of the high castle for enemy movement, or just something interesting… Another one dead on the tenth-level northern pentice; the spyer-master Yastle insisted acclimatised men could survive at ten thousand metres, but the poor devils kept proving him wrong… A faller from the seventh level butry gable … One watching the black smoke drift inside the white, a tiny snow-scene within the cold cauldron of the Southern Volcano Room… One on the south side of the octal tower, snow-blinded and raving… Another in a mullion of the seventh-level western clerestory, holding his black, frostbitten fingers up in front of his face, crying, knowing that he would never get down now. Little wonder people thought spyers must be mad. Less dangerous to be a spy.

He examined the view from a few ordinary static cameras and avians; they'd been losing a few of those recently to real birds. Some blip in the crypt's faunastatus, possibly caused by the workings in the L5 SW solar, the Cryptographers said; they were sorting it out.

He looked in on the Palace Astronomical Observatory; they had instruments watching the sun. Radiation was ninety-one per cent of normal; still falling slowly and still decreasing more steeply in the IR-end of the spectrum. Boring and depressing.

He cast his regard further afield, and was briefly in the mind of a scrape-scrounge haunting the quiet ruins of Manhattan, then looked through the eyes of a wild chimeric condor, high above the southern Andes, then in the mind of a young woman surfing at dawn off New Sealand, before becoming part of a chimeric triple-mind within a sounding hump-back in mid-Pacific, then joining a chanting priestess in some midnight temple in Singapore, followed by a drunken night-guard at an ovitronics plant in Tashkent, an insomniac agronometricist in Arabic, a spanceled Resiler preaching unheeded in the smoky chaos of a traumkeller in old Prag, and finally a sleepy balloonist descending through the dusk above Tammanrusset.

All very mind-broadening, but still… ah; the Army colonel-to-the-court was thinking about his new mistress. This was more like it.

… Sessine's wife!

Now, wasn't that a coincidence?

You must have thought seven, in the context of having used up seven out of your eight incrypted lives. Unless you are here for the trivial reason that you have been very careless with those lives, I assume you're in trouble and under direct — and directed — threat.

So you're here, in the place you prepared for yourself a long time ago, in case. You're safest staying in the room, where everything works the way it would in reality. Using the screen may be risky, leaving certainly is. You're in the crypt's crustal basement, the last sane level before the chaos.

If you know of anybody who remains loyal to you back in the mortal world, you can try to contact them on the screen; it's a brand new address, never been format-collapsed, so the first call is safe. The rest can't be guaranteed.

If you think it's safe to sit and wait to be rescued, look inside the bedside cabinet; there's a book, a phial and a pistol. The book contains a general library, the phial will make you sleep until somebody comes to get you and the pistol will work on others within the confines of the room.

If you're going to leave, head west from here — that's away from the ocean tunnel, which is the direction the room's window faces — until you reach the walls and then turn left and walk until you reach the spill-sluice; take the steps up. There's a smoking-tavern called the Half-way House. The hopfgeist is friendly. I hope you never did tell anybody your most-secret code, or forget it. Or change it.

Remember that if you do leave this room, or transmit more than once from it, you are vulnerable, and that if you commu­nicate openly with the crypt you will betray both your identity and location. You can ask information of other constructs you can trust, and you can move within the crypt. That is all.

You are an outlaw now, my friend; a fugitive.

I am — that is, you are — setting all this up in direct-link just after a snort of Oblivion, so if it works — worked — you may remember once waking up on the floor of your study on a Wednesday evening with a head-full of nothing, wondering what possessed you to take that stuff. And if anything goes wrong, that's because you were drunk when you had the idea.

I'm drunk now but I feel fine, in here. Anyway, Alandre; best of luck. I'll be with you all the way.

Yours.

Sessine folded the sheet of paper and tore it into little strips, slowly and carefully, thinking.

He was in the level of the crypt just above the chaotic regions, where — apparently perversely — things worked much more according to the rules of the real world than they did elsewhere in the corpus. Throw yourself off a roof here and you wouldn't be able to decide suddenly to fly; you'd hit the ground and die. Here, knowing how literally things worked, it was difficult to make the kind of mistake that might lead one to enter the crypt's chaotic regions accidentally; it was the last safeguard the system provided.

He wasn't sure what to do with the sheet of paper he'd just read, so he shrugged to himself and imagined it gone, but of course it didn't go. He ate one of the strips but it tasted bitter and he felt foolish. He shook his head and put the paper scraps in one pocket of his jacket.

He looked at himself in the bedroom mirror. He was wearing… he tried to instigate a search but that, too, didn't work, so he had to resort to a laborious shuffle through his own memory. Grief, what did you call this stuff? And this stuff? A lifeless, ill-fitting, creased blue shirt, a jacket of… tartan? plaid? and the trous… Nimes, de Nimes… neams? Geams? Something like that.

Awful stuff; the shirt felt scratchy, the jacket had great hairy Ms of fabric sticking out from it like mussed hair and the seams had enormous, crude, visible stitches. Late twentieth-century corporate dress would have been his choice, but then maybe that was what people would be looking for, if they were still looking for him.

He inspected the bedside cabinet. The items his note to himself had listed were indeed there. He hefted the pistol; an ancient automatic projectile weapon. It wasn't supposed to work outside the room. He put it down the back of his trousers anyway. He took the little glass phial, too.

He went to the screen. He thought of calling his wife but she was probably still busy fornicating. He was reasonably certain she had started seeing some courtier recently and round about now had always been her favourite time of day for sex. He hadn't bothered trying to find out who the fellow was; it was her business.

He smiled regretfully, thinking of his own latest affair. A girl in the air corps, keen on skiing and ancient flying machines; long red hair and a wicked laugh.

Never again, he thought. Never again.

Well, he could be her incubus, of course, but it would never be quite the same.

Perhaps if he appeared to her in the guise of an antique airman…

… Anyway, he would call Nifel, the clan Security chief; the man was ferociously efficient and he felt they had become friends over the years. Probably never have got into this mess if Nifel had been in charge; trust the Army. Nifel; just the man, Sessine thought. He turned the screen on, sound only.

'Nifel, Mika; officer clan Aerospace, Serehfa.'

'Nifel's agent-construct.'

'Sessine.'

'Count. We have heard. Commander Nifel is shocked and saddened. He —'

'Really? How unoriginal of him.'

'Indeed, sir. He wishes to know why you did not want the in-crypt support systems instigated around your data-set.'

'But I do,' Sessine told the construct, and felt fear. 'I always did. Kindly institute them immediately and tell Nifel the Army may be behind all this; Army intelligence, especially. I am down to my last life in here and whoever killed me the other seven times comes very well-equipped, very well-informed and with the ability to intercept calls from the crypt to specific Army high staff.'

'I shall inform Commander Nifel —'

'Never mind informing him; first get those support systems running and give me some back-up down here.'

'It is being done.' There was a pause. 'What is your loca­tion, sir?'

'I'm in…' Sessine hesitated, then smiled. He had died eight times today; seven of them in the space of about a tenth of a second, real time. He was becoming cagey at last.

'First,' he said, 'complete this phrase, if you will: Aequitas sequitur…'

'Legem, sir.'

'Thank you,' Sessine said.

'… your location, sir?'

'I beg your pardon. Of course. I am near the representation of a place called Kittyhawk, North Carolina, North America.'

'Thank you, sir. Commander Nifel, on your instructions —'

'Would you excuse me for a moment?'

'Sir.'

He switched the machine off and sat on the bed for a moment, his head in his hands.

So there was nowhere in the real world to turn.

Aequitas sequitur funera had been the more mordant version of the saying he and Nifel had settled on.

He stood, looked once around the room, then opened the door and left. The gun's bulk simply vanished from the small of his back as soon as he crossed the threshold. He paused.

Well now, he thought, for the duration of these real days I am like the ancients used to be; restricted to one careful life in a time of danger. Every instant might be his last, and the only memories he could access were those in his own mind.

Nevertheless, he told himself, he was still better off than those of purely mortal ages; he could hope that he would wake up again after his funeral, and rejoin the universe of the crypt for at least a little of eternity. Somehow, though, given the ferocity and apparent profundity of the forces ranged against him, he doubted that was really likely, and suspected he was indeed on his own, with one slim chance of survival. Desperado, he thought, and smiled, amused at his fall from power and grace.

He wondered anew how the ancients had endured such fragility and ignorance, then shrugged, closed the door and walked down the dim, deserted corridor.

Aequitas sequitur funera. Justice follows the grave, not the law.

It had not occurred to him he would ever employ that mutated phrase in circumstances that might give him the chance to verify it.

Or refute it, of course.

4

1nce thi sky woz ful ov birdz; used 2 go blak wif birds it did & birdz roold thi air (wel, apart from thi insectz) but thas all changed now; hoomins came along & startd shootin & trappin & killin them & evin if they've mostly stoppd doin that sort ov fing now theyr stil top ov thi roost partly coz they kild off so meny speesheez & partly coz they make stuf fly, witch when u fink about it duz kind ov spoil it 4 thi birdz on account they had 2 spend milyons ov yeers jumpin off clifs & out ov treez & crashin 2 thi groun & dyin & then doin it ol ovir agen & 1 time miby not crashin qwite so hard but glidin a bit & then a bit moar & a bit moar stil & so on & so on etc & juss jenerily paynstakinly evolvin in this incredibly complicatd way (I meen, lizird-scales in2 fevvirs! & holo bones, 4 goonis sakes!) & then theez bleedin hoomins theez ridicolos-lookin bald munkys cum along whot ½ nevir showd thi slitest inarest in flyin nor sine ov adaptayshin 2 thi air whot-so-bleedin-evir & they start buzzin aroun in flyin masheens juss 4 a laf!

Makes u sik. Din evin ½ thi decincy 2 do it slo; one minit theyr flyin mashines is made from paper & spit, then 1 evilushinary blink ov thi i & thi bastirds is playin golf on thi moon!

O, thers stil birdz around olrite but thers a dam site fewr ov them & a lot ov what u wood fink is birds iznt; itz chimerics, or machines, & even if it is thi case that whot looks like a bird is a bird if its a big one its probably not evin got its hed 2 itself but its been taken over by a ded persin. Can't evin ½ peece in yoor own bonce. Birdz av coped wiv tics & flees & lice ol ther evilushinary life but theez dam hoomins r wurse & they get evryware!

Am flapin & skwokin & wokin about ma perch & wishin Mr Zoliparia thi hoomin wude hury up & wake me coz thi moar I think about peepil thi less I like them & thi moar I like bein a bird.

Been almos a week now; whatz keepin thi man? Mi own folt 4 entrustin mi saifty 2 a old geezir. Thats thi trubl wif old persins; slo reactshins. Probly dropt thi pen I askt him 2 catch & is evin now scrabblin about on thi flor 4 it, forgetin thi importint thing is 2 wake me, not get thi bleedin pen. But it must ½ been a minit in reel time by now; shurely evin a old persin cant take that long 2 luke 4 a bleedin pen 4 gooniss sakes.

Howma goan wake up? Am blo thi levil whare u get askd in yoor sleep otomaticly & mi own wake-up code woz taikin from me by that big bastardin bird whot slapt me down heer in thi furst place & evin tho Ive rimemberd it sinse it juss dozen seem 2 b wurkin no moare.

Mi goos, like they say, may wel b cookd.

Am on a perch in a sorta litl dark caiv.

If u can imagine a jiant black brain in a evin biggr dark space, & then zoom in on thi brain & go down inamungst its corugayshins & foldz & c that thi walls ov evry fold is made out ov zillions ov litl boxes wif a perch in it, well, thatz whot this bit ov bird-space is like, in thi kript.

Mi litl box lukes out on2 a uge hangin dark spaice oll fild with shades & thi okzhinal passin bird flappin sloly past (we oll flap slo — thi pretend graviti is less heer). Wel, am sayin its all dark but maybe it iznt realy, maybe thats juss me coz truth 2 tel Iv not been very wel; in fact Im ½ blind, but thats betr than whot I woz a cupl ov days ago, which woz ½ ded.

Therz a dainti flutr ov wings @ thi entranse 2 mi box, & in cums litl Dartlin, whos thi frend Iv made heer.

Ullo, Dartlin, howzit goin?

Fine, Mr Bathcule. I bin tewibwy bizzy, u no; tewibwy bizzy bird i been. I flu thwu 2 thi paliment ov thi cwows & pikd up sum gothip, wood u like 2 here it?

Dartlin is my spy, sort ov. When I imagind miself in heer in thi furst place, bak in Mr Zoliparia's pad, I juss naturily sumhow took on thi apperince ov a hok, which is whot I stil am now. Dartlins a sparo, so in feery we shood b rapter & prey respectivly, but it dozen actule work that way here, not in this bit nway.

Dartlin foun me on thi flor heer. Id juss got bak from thi levil beneeth whare thi reel fun in thi kript starts & I woz in a sory state, let me tel u.

Thi furst cupl ov days wer thi wurst. When thi big burd slapt me down thru all them levils I thot mi time woz up; I meen, I new Id wake up in thi Iball ov thi septentrynal gargoil Rosbrith sooner or later, but I thot I woz goin 2 die in heer, & thats a helluva fing 2 take back 2 yoor waitin mind; scar u 4 life, that can.

Iss ver difficult 2 explain what its like when u go that deep in thi kript, but if u can imagine bein in a sno storm, flyin in a fik snostorm only thi sno is multi-colurd & sum ov it seems 2 b cumin @ u from evry angil (& each sno-flake seems 2 sing & hum & sizil & hold littl flashin images & hints ov faces in it & as they go past u heer snatchiz ov speech or music or u feel a emoshin or fink ov a idear or consept or seem 2 remembir sumfink) & if 1 ov thi sno-flakes hits u in thi I u r suddenly in sumbudy elses dreem & its a effort 2 remember who thi hel u r, wel if u can imagine xperyencin oll that when u r feelin a bit drunk & disoreyented then thas a bit like whot iss like, cept wurse ov course. & weerder.

I doan actuly remember much about that bit & I doan think I want 2, Ither. I lernd 2 navigate by thi flavir ov thi surroundin dreemz & graduly sortd sum sens out ov thi gibbersh & tho I got blindid by thi abraidin impact ov ol those sno-flakes & loss thi wordin ov my wake-up code, I fynaly broke bak thru 2 thi darknis & peece & qwiet here, & lay xosted on thi flor amungst lotsa scraggly ded fewirs & solidifyd droppins & thass whare Dartlin foun me.

Heed been terifyd by sumthin & loss thi memry ov how 2 fly & so ended down on thi flor 2, but he could c & so 1nce Id got my strenf bak he got on2 my back between my wings & gided me 2 whare thi sparos gather. They told him how 2 fly agen but they didn feel cumfterbil ½in a hok around so they foun me this place down here & thass whare Ive been thi last 4 days, gettin mi site back wyle Dartlin flits about makin inkwyries & bein bizy & nozi & gossipin, which is whot sparos like doin nway.

Y I certinly wood like 2 heer whot u herd, litil frend, I tel Dartlin.

Wel, ith tewibwy intiwestin & i hope u doan get fwitened but, tho u r a feerth hok aftir ol & pwobibwy doan get fwitened… o, ithn thith a dark ole place? I doan like perchin here on thi edje. May I hop up bethide u?

By ol meens, Dartlin, I sez, shufflin along a bit on my perch.

Thank u. Now; ah yeth, now i doan wan 2 make u nervith or anthin — like i thay, with u bein feerth i cant imagin u no thi meenin ov thi word — but it wood appeer that therth a bit ov a dithturbinth in thi air — o, it givth me a shiver juth lookin @ thoze big feerth talonth ov yourth — whot woth i thayin? — o yeth, a dithturbinth in thi air, affectin evwybody, neer enuf — u no i think i felt it begin mythelf evin tho i woz down on that hawwibl flor @ thi time with uthir thingth on mi mind — wothint hawwibil down thare? I hatid it. Nway, it theemth thi raptorth & carrion-feederth & moatht ethpethyally thi lammergeierth ½ been behavin thtrainjly — o! woth that a theegull jutht thare? I new a theegull 1nce, hith name woth…

Thas thi trubl wif sparos; they got a veri limitid tenshun span & r inclind 2 go witterin on 4 ages b4 they get 2 thi poynt, always flutterin off @ tanjints & keepin u gessin whot it is thare actuli tokin about. Iss veri frustratin but u juss ½ 2 b payshint.

Nway, I bettir parafraze or weel b here oil bleedin day listnin 2 this sparo-crap.

Furst, sum ov thi birdz is lookin 4 sumbody & I get a funy feelin it might b yoors truli. Thi song goes that thers a hunt on 4 sumbodi whoze loose in thi sistim, existin in thi kript &/or thi base-wurld & thers a pryce on ther hed. Apparintly this persins a furst-born, which fits me. Fits lots a peepil, u mite say, but apparintly this persins got sumthin a bit difrint about them; they ½ sum peculyarity, sum strainjnis, & thare a signil carryer, carryin a mesidje they mite not evin no they ½.

O I no itz probly not me, but u no how it is; I alwiz felt I woz speshil — juss like evrybodi els — but unlike evrybody els I got this weerd wirin in mi brane so I cant spel rite, juss ½ 2 do evrythin foneticly. Iss not a problim cos u can put eny old rubish thru practikly anyfin evin a chile's toy computir & get it 2 cum out speld perfictly & gramatisized 2 & evin improvd 2 thi poynt whare yood fink u waz Bill bleedin Shaikspir by thi langwidje. Nway, u can probly c y I got a bit paranoyd when I furst herd ol this, & it gets wurse.

Thi stori goze that this persin — mayb a burd, mayb not — is a contaminint from thi kript's nasti ole nethir reejins, a vyris cum 2 corupt evin more levils, which is qwite a thot & mite evin b a bit worryin juss in case it woz me, onli not evry1 seems 2 bleev this bit ov thi roomir coz its rekind that thi stori cums from thi palas & thi king & thi consisterians r behind it & thay can almost b garanteed not 2 tel thi trooth.

Sum flox rekin its oll 2 do wif thi approachin enkroachin; they fink thi kaotic levils ov thi kript ½ sumhow woken up 2 thi fact that rings cude eventjulie get a bit hazardis even 4 them.

U c, evrybody's assoomed that thi kript's kaotic levils qwite liked thi idear ov thi enkroachmint; sumthin that ushird in a new ice age (@ thi veri leest) & cut off thi sunlite & kild off praktikly thi hole planitiry ecosfere & juss jenerili gaiv hoomins & byological stuf a hard time sounded rite up thi kript's tree thang-u-veri-mutch, but now that it lukes like thi enkroachmint mite b evin moar seryis than that & possibly fretin thi existins ov thi sun, thi planit, thi cassil & thi kript, well thi beests ov thi kaotic zones ½ fynaly sat up & took notis & fings ½ been stirin evir sins.

Y it shood b happenin in thi relm ov thi birdz spesifikly is a good qwestyin but thare u r; not much point tryin 2 figir out thi kript.

Xactly whot is goin on apart from thi fact that thare lookin 4 sumbodi isnt 2 cleer Ither, thers 2 meny conflickin roomirs (& nway this is ol bein tranmitd by Dartlin, who is a deer litl bird but wude not evin get a oneribil menshin if they woz givin out prizes 4 conversayshinil coherince) but thi poynt ov it ol is that basikly thers big doo-doo flyin aroun & ol thi flox is nervis & a bit histerikl & enybody whos a bit diffrent is bein sot out, roundid up, interogatid & taken away. Ol ov which mite sound familyir 2 eny studints ov history & juss goze 2 sho that sum fings nevir chainj, leest not when theez pluckin hoomins desined thi orijinil sistim.

So thare u r Mr Bathcule, ithnt it ol tewwibwy, tewwibwy interethtin ?

O its inarestin ol rite, Dartlin, ole chum.

I think tho 2 — o look, i think i juss thaw a flee on yoor leg thare; may I preen u?

I feel like sayin, U shure its a flee not a ant? coz I stil think tendirly ov poor litl lost Ergates now & agen, but I juss sez, Preen away, yung Dartlin.

Dartlin peks roun thi fethery top ov my left leg & eventjulie crunches on a flee.

Yum. Thank u. Wel enway, i wonder whot on erth can b goin on? Who do u think they ah lookin 4? Do u think it cood akchooly b 1 ov uth birdth? I dont think tho, do u?

Probly not.

O, ith not u, ith it? Tee-hee. Tee-hee-hee-hee.

I doan fink so. I juss a poor blindid ole hok.

Well I no that, thilly, tho u r a very feerth old hok, & gettin less blind ol thi time. I woth jutht kiddin. O luke anuthi thee-gull. Or ith it? Lookth moar like a albino cro, akchooly. Well, i cant thtand awound hea ol day chattin with u; i ½ 2 fly, Dartlin sez, & hops down off thi perch. Ith ther anythin i can get u, Mr Bathcule?

No, Dartlin, am gettin bettir ol thi time, fanks. Juss u keep yoo eers opin tho; I like heerin about ol this stuf.

My pwezhir. Thure i cant get u somthin 2 eet, perhapth?

No, am fine.

Vewy well.

Dartlin hops 2wards thi edje ov thi box lukin out ovir thi dark canyin. It preens itsself a bit, then balansis on thi edje, lukes roun 2 say, Well, bye then… but iss litl voyce sorta trailz off, & it lukes bak roun 2 thi outside & then it stars shiverin & it jumps bak & almost falls ovir & keeps jumpin bak until iss underneef mi perch.

Dartlin! I shout. Whas thi mattir? Whot is it? & I luke down @ thi litl fellir & hees juss pressd bak agenst thi reer ov thi box & qwiverin wif frite, hiz tiny Is buljin & starin & not seein me, & meenwhile thers movemint & thi soun ov flutirn wings outside thi box & sum whisperd sqwawks. A cupil ov larje dark shapes flit past thi entrinse 2 thi box.

Dartlin shaiks like thi poor littl buggurs ½in his own pryvit erfqwake.

He lukes @ me & wails, Feerth, Mr Bathcule! Feerth! & then juss keels ovir on2 thi flor ov thi box, his Is stil opin.

Dartlin! I sez, not shoutin, but I doan fink this sparo's goan 2 b doin no more spyin nor flyin. I can c his flees gettin redy 2 move out ov his scrawny littl bod, & thas always thi wurst ov sines.

I luke up agen & thers more movemint & a rustlin sound from outside & then suddinly thi noys ov uge grate wings flappin.

A crow pops itz hed roun thi side ov thi box.

It lukes @ me wif 1 beedy blak glintin I & croaks,

Yeh thass im, muss b im.

It disapeers b 4 I can say anyfin.

Then there's a face @ thi entrins 2 thi box, & I cant beleve it; its a hoomin face, a hoomin hed but its bin flayed, iss got no skin on it @ ol & its ol red with blud & u can c tendons & mussils & its Is r starin out wif no lids neethir but iss also got thi biggist smile u evir seen & its held in thi claws ov sum huge bird I cant c apart from its talons & lower legs; thi talons r holdin thi hed by thi eers & thi hed opins its mouf & starts makin this weerd noise, incredibly loud & gutteril & its tung comes out, but iss not a ordinary tung iss far 2 long 4 a start & iss flapin & lashin & thi hed's makin this screemin noise & thi tung is snakin rite @ me & iss got hooks & claws @ thi end ov it & thi tung flix 2wards me & I jump bakwards off thi perch & land almost on top ov Dartlin's body & thi tung is snappin bak & 4th ovir thi top ov thi perch tryin 2 get me & Im peckin & screetchin & tryin 2 get @ it with my talons but its 2 hi up & ol thi while this hoarse cacofoni ov noise is ringin in ma eers & @ furst I think its screemin Gimme gimme gimme but it isnt, iss moar like Gididibididibididigididigigigibididigibibibi ol run 2gether like that like iss a mashine gun or sumthin & thi tung lashiz bak roun thi top ov thi perch & down & now iss cummin strait 4 me & I slash @ it wif mi talons but it twists & grabs my rite wing & starts 2 pool & am scretchin & iss goin gididibibibigigigibigigigibibigigi & am tryin 2 hold on2 thi perch wif 1 talon & scratch thi tung wif thi othir & peck @ it 2 & its tearin ma wing off, brakin it & it snaps & it pools off a hole buncha fevirs & thi orribil face gets a moufful ov those & I hop bak agen 2 thi reer ov thi box, flappin & screetchin & trailin mi broken wing; thi tung fliks bak in & I kik littl Dartlin's body @ it & thi tung raps tite round it & pulls it bak but throws it away when it gets it outside & iss still hammerin away wif this gigigibididibibibigigigi stuf fillin mi eers & am juss about 2 die ov frite as thi tung cums snappin 2wards mi face when it goze gididibibibibibibigididibigiBasculefastawake!

– & am bak in thi study ov thi gargoil Rosbrith sqwattin on thi chair & starin @ this hooj hoomm Mr Zoliparia holdin a pen & shakin my sholdir & goin, Bascule? U olrite?

It can b a bit ov a shok watchin sumbodi cum out ov a kript trip; if its only a minit in yoor time its a week in thers & a lot ov fings can happen in a week & if its been a bad 1 it tends 2 sho in yoor face, so 4 thi persin wakin u up its like they tel u 2 wake up & instantly yoor face goes old & paind & worn-lookin & thi persin finks O no, whot ½ I dun?

Am sqwattin on thi balustrade whare Ergates woz liftid from, hunkerd down takin moar t & biskits wif Mr Zoliparia. He's lookin a bit worryd coz Im sqwattin here facin thi drop like am about 2 lonch miself in2 thi air, but ther is thi safety net aftir ol & nway I juss feel cumfterbil perched here & I like thi vew & thi feel ov thi wind on mi face.

My left arm has that sorta echo-pain u get from a bad kript trip injury & I keep wantin 2 lift thi biskits wif my foot & eet them that way but I fink am graduly loosin mi birdishnes. I can tel Mr Zoliparia wants 2 ask me lots ov qwestyons but Im stil findin it a bit hard 2 tok.

Few, that woz a hard ole kript trip that 1. I supose u cood argu I shood ½ taken a bit more time & juss sent a send ov miself in; a image or construct whood ½ dun everyfin I did & felt everyfin I felt & in fact wude ½ been a dooplicate me, xcept meanwhile Id stil ½ been fooly conshis here wif Mr Zoliparia, but it takes much longir doin it that way; u ½ 2 prepare furrily b4 u go & u ½ 2 spend ages reeintigratin yoor 2 selvs when thi send cums bak, sortin memirys & feelins & caractir chainjes & so on; juss jumpin in & out wif thi 1 persinality is a lot qwicker; less than a sekind rather than up 2 ½ a day… but ov coarse that supposid sekind dozent alow 4 thi persin whots supposed 2 wake u up gettin confused bcoz almost thi lass thing u sed 2 him woz, 'Juss giv me a minit heer,' & them totily misunderstandin whot u ment on account ov them bein old & confused, & so u spendin a week in thi kript insted ov a few ours, & thusly gettin so alterd by yoor kript-self that u fink yoor a blinkin hok 4 thi next cupil ov ours.

I c a flok ov smol birdz in thi distince & while 1 ½ ov me's finkin, this is how this ol started, & rememberin that poor deer litl ant, thi othir ½ is goin, Ha! Prey!

No I doan fink it is ol a haloosinayshin, Mr Zoliparia, I sez (am missin out thi bits whare he keeps apologisin 4 what hapind). I fink its ol as tru as u & me sittin here. Thers sumfin happenin in thi kript; I coodin work out whot part ov its 2 do wif thi palas & whot part is 2 do wif thi kaotic reejins, but thers sumfin goan on, & thers a wotch bein kept 4 sumbody or sumfin unusual in thare & out here 2, + sumthin reely disgustin from thi hoomin relm has axsess 2 thi bird part ov thi kript & has sikured thi copperashin ov @ least sum ov thi birdz.

It ol sound moar like a nitemare, speshily thi lass part, Mr Zoliparia sez.

Weer boaf sittin now; I feel less like a hok ol thi time. Mind u, I stil need 2 b out here on thi balcony; doan like thi thot ov goin inside & bein trapt.

I saw it wif mi own Is, Mr Zoliparia. I no u doan hold wif thi kript & ol & fink its ol a dreem nway, but iss not that simpl, & whot I saw I saw, & I nevir seen nor herd ov nuffink like that fing like a flaid hed & makin that orribl noise; I meen, u heer stories ov goasts & beasties & stuf like that from thi kaotic relms cumin up & snatchin peepil & gobblin them up, but u nevir c it happen; that stufs juss mif; this woz reel.

U r sure dat bcoz it had a hoomin hed it wos sumtin from di hoomin part ov di kript?

Thas thi way it wurx, Mr Zoliparia. It woz sumfin that had 2 preserv hoomin form evin in its monstrisness or it coodin funkshin, or mayb bcoz it mite ½ let thi birdz c whot it woz reely like, which givin that birdz doan much like hoomins in thi furst place, is sayin sumfin.

& it woz after u.

It shure woz. Am not sayin I am what thare actuli lookin 4 — doan xpect I am — but thare catchin & cajin evrybody a bit diffrint or suspishis & that hed fing seems 2 b involved in thi round-up.

Mr Zoliparia shakes his hed. O deer Bascule, o deer.

Nevir mind, Mr Zoliparia. No harm dun.

Thass tru, Bascule; lease u bak heer safe & soun, no tanks 2 me. Nway, i tink u shude keep away from thi kript 4 a bit, doan u?

Wel that mite b a idear, Mr Zoliparia, I sez. U certinly got a point thare..

Good boy, he sez. I no; why doan we play a game? Or mayb u wude like 2 go 4 a wok; take a constichewshinil roun sum ov thi terrices on thi roof, mayb stop off sumware 4 lunch — wot u say, Bascule?

Ol soundz good 2 me, Mr Zoliparia.

Less do boat tings, he lafs. Weel go 4 a wok but weel take di portibil Go board wif us & ½ a game ovir a nice long lunch @ a rathir nice restoront i no.

Good idear, Mr Zoliparia. Thas a fine ole complicatid game, that Go.

Rite! Ahl get di Go, den weel go! he lafs, & he jumps up & heds indoars. Drink up yoor t! he shouts.

I luke out @ them birdz again, circlin above a far towr. I doan want 2 tel Mr Zoliparia but am goan strait bak in thare 2 that kript juss as soon as I feel abil. I stil want 2 find out whot happind 2 poor Ergates, but I want 2 no whots goan on, 2.

Truth b told, it terryfys me ½ 2 def jus finkin about it, but I got this feelin I lerned a lot while I woz in thi kript today & iss tru whot they say; iss like a addictiv game, & 1nce u cum out ov it a bit brused & woondid, thi furst thing u want 2 do is get strate bak in thare & get it rite next time. I juss woan fink about that horribl hed fing.

I finish my t & tidy up thi cups & stuf (u ½ 2 do this @ Mr Zoliparias cos he hasnt eny servitors) & take thi tray inside juss as heez puttin on his coat & stuffin thi portabil Go board in his pokit.

Redy, Bascule? he asks.

Am redy, Mr Zoliparia.

Redy ol rite. Big stuf happenin in thi kript & sum poor buggir bein huntid & me wif a hed start on thi peepil doin thi huntin.

Bascule thi rascule thas me & am moar than redy; am feerce.

A lid bird tole me.