Feersum Endjinn

1

She stood on the piazza of the landing tower, looking west towards the heights of the structure.

The curtain-walls — easily two kilometres high and punctuated by the tall half-cylinders of the mural towers — curved away to either side, rising and falling over the gentle undulations in the landscape to diminish and disappear into the misted distance. Within the vegetation-strung cliffs of the walls lay a broad rolling landscape of wooded hills, sparkling lakes, manicured parkland and broad fields, all dotted with the spires and towers of small villages and towns.

Beyond, still slightly blued with the distance, the fastness itself reared forever into the sky. She stared, slack-jawed.

Serehfa was a frozen turbulence of architecture beyond the merely monumental: revetments rose like cliffs topped by broad, wooded scarps, stout bastions stood like jutting bluffs, serrated ridges of parapet lay stretched hazily like squared-off mountain ranges themselves, cloud-lined walls ascended sheer or stood pierced by the vast caves of dark windows, whole forested slopes of steep-pitched roofs lay serried green beneath the warmth of the high summer sun, and soaring arches of gables and buttresses climbed to higher and higher levels piled one on top of another, all swathed in whorling patterns of colour and climbing stacked, packed, placed and lifted to where the sparkling whiteness of snow and ice sat in a broad band of collected light thrown dazzlingly against the shining sky.

Everywhere about the panoramic, sight-saturating expanse of the central structure gigantic towers of mountainous diameter forced their way into the atmosphere, piercing the few, drifting, scale-diminished clouds which left their barely moving shadows aslant along the soaring walls and were themselves thrown into shade by still higher reaches of further towers casting their own stone shadows across both the clouds and the monstrous upheaval of the edifice itself; a crescendo of form and colour filling the horizon and culminating in the stark shining column of the central tower, drawing the gaze upward like some anchored moon.

'Well, there it is, in all its glory,' Pieter Velteseri said, joining her at the balustrade. He waved his walking stick at the castle.

Asura looked at him, eyes wide. 'Big,' she said.

Pieter smiled and took in the view of the fastness. 'Indeed. The single largest artefact on Earth. The capital of the world, I suppose. And the last city, in a sense.'

She frowned. 'There are no more cities?'

'Well, yes, most of them survive, but someone from the Age of Cities would regard them more as large towns in terms of their populations.'

She turned to stare at it again.

'Do you know yet why you had to come here?' Pieter asked her softly.

She shook her head slowly, gaze fixed upon the fastness.

'Well, I dare say you'll remember when you have to.' Pieter took a fob watch from his waistcoat, frowned, closed one eye for a second, then reset the watch. He sighed and looked around the broad piazza, where umbrellas and sun shades flapped over tables and cafe bars. The airship rode at anchor above them in the breeze, nose connected to the landing tower. There were still a few lingering groups of castilians greeting those who had arrived on the craft, but most of the people now were either about to embark or bidding passengers farewell.

'Cousin Ucubulaire reports she is on her way,' Pieter told her. He nodded towards the countryside of the bailey. 'She's under there somewhere, in a slow-running tube train.'

'Tube train,' she repeated.

'My dear, I think you ought to have this.' He fished in one pocket of his dress coat and handed her a small wallet containing a thin card with writing and numbers on it. She studied it. 'It makes you an honorary member of our clan,' Pieter explained. 'Ucubulaire will look after you, but in case you feel you have to move on elsewhere from Serehfa, that ought to make sure you don't have to rely on hostels for a bed or public kitchens for food; can't have you hanging onto the outside of airships or trains, now can we?'

She looked at him, uncomprehending.

'Ah well,' he said. He closed her hands over the small wallet and patted them. 'You ought not to need it, but if anybody asks you what clan you're from, just show them this.'

She nodded. 'Phremylagists and Incliometricists.'

'Not one of the more active clans, I'll grant you, but ancient, and honourable. I hope we have been of some service.'

She smiled. 'You have made me welcome, and brought me here. Thank you.'

Pieter nodded to a wooden bench behind them. 'Let's sit, shall we?'

They sat, and for a while simply contemplated the castle.

She jumped when the airship sounded its horn. Pieter looked at his watch again. 'Well, I must go. Cousin Ucubulaire ought to arrive presently. Will you be all right waiting here?'

'Yes, thank you.' She stood with him, and he took her hand and kissed it. She returned the gesture and he laughed gently.

'I don't know what your business is here, my dear, or what lies in store for you, but I do hope you will come and visit us again, when you know what all this has been about.' Pieter hesitated and a troubled expression crossed his face for a moment, then he shook his head. 'I'm sure it will all sort itself out happily. But do come back and see us.'

'I shall.'

'I'm very glad to hear it. Goodbye, Asura.'

'Goodbye, Pieter Velteseri.'

He returned to the airship. A little later he appeared on the observation deck. He waved and she waved back, flourishing the wallet he'd given her before placing it carefully in a pocket. The airship's engines hummed into life; it lifted, turned across the breeze and started back east across the hills of Xtremadur.

She watched the vessel grow slowly smaller in the sky, then turned back to feast her sight upon the castle.

'Ah, Asura?' the woman said.

She looked up. There was a tall lady standing by the bench. She wore cool blue clothes the same colour as her eyes. Her skin was pale.

'Yes, I am Asura. Are you Ucubulaire?'

'Yes.' The woman put her hand out. 'Yes, I am.' Her grip was scratchy; her hands were covered with thin net gloves made from some fine but hard filaments. 'Pleased to meet you.' She indicated a tall, square-set, powerful looking man with deep-set eyes standing a little way off. 'This is a friend; Lunce.'

The man nodded. Asura smiled. He smiled, briefly.

'Shall we go?' the woman said.

'To there, to the fastness, yes?'

The woman smiled thinly. 'Oh yes.'

She stood up and went with them.

2

Consistory member Quolier Oncaterius VI sat in the sin­gle ice-scull, pulling hard on the oars while the seat slid under him, the breath whistled out of his lungs and the claw-blades bit and chipped into the smoothly glistening surface on either side. The scull was an A-shaped tracery of carbon tubing a child could lift with one hand; it skittered across the ice on its three hair-thin blades with a nervous, rumbling, hissing noise.

The chill blast of air slid round his body-suit and licked up over the seat harness towards his face.

He pulled, slid, pulled, slid, pulled, slid, settling into a steady rhythm of heart, lung and muscle, flicking the oars back and hauling them forward, the hooked claws at the shafts' ends embedding in the ice and providing the leverage to snap himself forward on each explosive haul.

The trick with ice-rowing was to judge precisely the weight and angle of attack of the stramazon — or downward cut — of the claws, while balancing the vertical and horizontal components of the stroke, thus ensuring both that one always had a sufficiently embedded grip on the ice's skin to provide purchase while wasting as little effort as possible lifting the claw-tips out of the ice again, and that one was always just on the edge of lifting oneself and the scull partially off the ice, but never quite doing so. It was a delicate double-balance to maintain and required both finely tuned judgment and great concentration. There were many aspects of a politician's — indeed a ruler's — life which demanded exactly such equipoise.

Oncaterius was proud of the skill he had developed at the sport.

He stroked on, oblivious to the space around him save for the fuzzy black mark of the lane centre-line printed under the ice. Around him stretched kilometres of ice, lightly populated by people on skates, ice boards and ice yachts. The thin air of the level-five Great Flying Room sounded to the zizz of blades inscribing the floor-lake's frozen surface and the propeller blades of the microlights describing lazy arcs about its lofted spaces.

Something clicked in Oncaterius' mind and a display superim­posed itself in his vision, giving him his time for the kilometre course.

He shipped oars and sat back, breathing hard, the scull still skidding quickly across the ice. He gazed up at the microlights circling round the ornate, suspended architecture of the central stalactite at the crux of the room's groin-vaulted ceiling.

Soon, he thought, in perhaps as little as a century, all this would be gone. The Great Flying Room, Serehfa, Earth itself. Even the sun would never again be the same.

It was a thought that filled Oncaterius with a sort of delicious gloom; a melancholic ecstasy which made the appreciation of this current life all the sweeter. To treasure each moment, to savour every experience, to evaluate individually one's multitudinous feelings and sensations with the knowledge lodged within that events were hurrying to a close, that there was no longer a seeming infinitude of time stretching ahead of one; that was truly to live.

All that they and their ancestors had known throughout the monotonous millennia of the past since the Diaspora had been a kind of elegant death, an automaton's graceful impersonation of life; the surface without the substance. Well, it was going now. The arc of humanity's purpose — that is, real humanity, the part that had chosen to stay true to the past and what it meant — was finally drawing itself back into the shade after whole long troubled ages spent in the vexatious light of day.

Fruition. Consummation. Termination… Closure.

Oncaterius savoured the thoughts and correlations such words evoked, drawing their meanings and associations into his mind as he drew the cool, sharp air into his lungs; arid — even sterile — and yet invigorating. Especially when one knew that one would not necessarily have to share the fate of one's fellows, or one's surroundings.

The scull skated on across the water-filmed ice, gradually slowing.

Oncaterius leant back against the seat's spindly head-rest, letting it cup his neck and scalp. He crypted for a moment, reviewing the current security condition.

They still sought Sessine, who remained loose after all this time. Probably in hiding.

Security's quasi-official leak/rumour that any asuras would actually be agents of the crypt's chaotic levels sent with the purpose of infecting the properly functioning Cryptosphere seemed to be meeting with a mixed reception; however, enough people/entities appeared to believe it for an atmosphere of satisfyingly useful paranoia to have settled over at least some sections of the data corpus.

His Majesty himself had first reported the loss of a soldier at the bomb-workings; it remained to be seen to what extent this had jeopardised the project. There had been no reaction yet from the Chapel ambassadorial mission, though they had to assume that the Engineer emissaries had been informed through their secure channel to the Palace.

Concern remained over unusual patterns within the lower crypt; some obscure species of chimeric bird appeared to have developed behaviour above its station and so was under suspicion of being an agent for the chaos; the birds would be sought out and apprehended as soon as was practical. Linked with that, perhaps, was a young Teller who'd been making a nuisance of himself and who also appeared to have a suspiciously unusual turn of mind. He too had got away, like Sessine. Oncaterius cursed the millennia of peace and prosperity which had left the Security service so unpractised in dealing with genuinely serious problems. Still, they were keeping watch; the boy would show up sooner or later.

And, at last, his fellow Consistorians had finally agreed that it was time to act against the conspiracy they had known existed for the last five years.

That… was being dealt with satisfactorily.

Chief Scientist Gadfium and her staff left the office of the High Sortileger with the issue of the stray crypt signals still not resolved. They returned to the Great Hall the following day and ascended to the Lantern Palace so that Gadfium could attend the weekly cabinet briefing. Gadfium found these meetings exasperating; they were supposed to keep people up to date with developments and help facilitate actions which might be of use in the current emergency, but so far all they ever seemed to do was pander to some of the attendees' feelings of self-importance and produce vast amounts of talk that substituted for deeds rather than leading to them.

Nevertheless, with that familiar feeling that she was wasting her breath on matters more easily — and far more quickly — dealt with by reference to the data corpus, she outlined her opinions on the various issues she had been involved with during the past seven days, including the progress on the oxygen works, the odd pattern formed on the Plain of Sliding Stones and the worrying irregularities in the Cryptosphere which were making the Sortileger's predictions unreliable.

The meeting — in a fair approximation of the Hall of Mirrors in ancient Versailles — was attended in person by most of the partici­pants including the King and Pol Cserse for the Cryptographers, though Heln Austermise, the second Consistory member, was at the rocketry test site at Ogooué-Maritime and so represented at the meeting by her court attaché, and speaking through him. He was a slim, middle-aged man in a tight-fitting court uniform; Gadfium suspected Rasfline — sitting behind her along with Goscil — would look like this man when he was older.

'Nevertheless, Chief Scientist, the tests with both the direct-lift and aerofoil-assist vehicles are proceeding as planned,' the attaché said. It was his own voice; the only sign that it was not his thoughts and volition producing it was that he sat very still, with none of the usual shiftings and fidgets people tended to exhibit. Gadfium had long since ceased to find it odd talking to somebody who wasn't there through somebody who — in a sense — wasn't there either.

'I don't doubt it, ma'am,' Gadfium said. 'But some of us are a little concerned at the lack of raw data being provided. The critical nature of this project —'

'I'm sure the Chief Scientist appreciates the importance of retaining the prophylactic distance we have been fortunate enough to achieve from the chaos of the Cryptosphere,' the attaché said.

Gadfium paused before replying. She glanced at some of the others seated around the long table; the group was made up of the King, Consistorian Cserse, Austermise's attaché, repre­sentatives of other important clans and various civil servants, technicians and scientists. Gadfium thought the King — dressed soberly in a white shirt, black hose and tunic — looked bored in a handsome and elegant way.

Probably crypting somewhere more interesting.

'Indeed, ma'am,' Gadfium said, and sighed. She was starting to lose patience. 'I'm not sure I follow. Sending us data can pose no threat to —'

'On the contrary,' the attaché said. 'If the Chief Scientist will consult with Consistory member Cserse, she will perhaps be reminded that recent cryptographic research indicates that the transmission of chaotic data virus is possible through interface-handshakes and error-checking mechanisms. Even the link through which I am talking to you now cannot be guaran­teed totally proof against such contamination.'

'I thought that there were comparatively simple, fully math­ematically provable programs which could deal with —'

'I think madam Chief Scien-'

'Kindly allow me to finish a sentence, madam!' Gadfium shouted. That woke the King up. Others around the table moved as though uncomfortable. The attaché appeared utterly unruffled.

'I understood,' Gadfium said icily, 'that this problem had been dealt with.'

At the end of the table, Adijine sat up a little in his seat. It was enough to turn every eye to him. 'Perhaps madam Chief Scientist would like to detail the nature of her concerns regarding the lack of raw data?' he said, smiling at her.

Gadfium felt herself blush. This often happened when she addressed Adijine. 'Sir, I'm sure those in the facility at Ogooué-Maritime are exemplary in their dedication and scrupulousness. However I do feel that an independent check on their results might ensure that this project — of potentially vital importance, as I'm sure we all agree —' she glanced again at the others, looking for and receiving a few nods '-is beyond reproach in terms of its methodology and hence the reliability of its results.'

The King was sitting forward, pinching his lower lip between his fingers and looking absorbed by what she was saying.

'I would also suggest that regardless of their precautions it can anyway only be a matter of time before their data corpora are contaminated by nanotech chaos-carriers.'

'I think if the Chief Scientist inquires of Consistory member Cserse-' the attaché began.

'Thank you, Madam Consistorian,' the King said, smiling broadly and nodding as though in encouragement as he inter­rupted her. 'I believe Gadfium may have a point,' Adijine continued, frowning a little and looking at Cserse. 'I think per­haps if we form a sub-committee to investigate data-transmission security and viral protection…'

Cserse nodded and looked wise. He turned to an aide and whispered to her, and she nodded too, sitting back and closing her eyes.

Adijine smiled at Gadfium. She showed her teeth and tried to look grateful, meanwhile biting back on the urge to scream.

'Another triumph for the decision-making process,' Gadfium said as she, Rasfline and Goscil exited to the antechamber. The briefing had finished and the group was splitting up, breaking into smaller groups of people standing in the Hall of Mirrors itself or the antechamber beyond. Gadfium usually hung around at this point too — it was now, as well as before such briefings, that real decisions were occasionally arrived at — but on this occasion she doubted her ability to remain polite if she had to talk to some of those she imagined might want to speak with her.

'I thought you made your points very well, ma'am,' Rasfline said quietly as they passed between the mirrored doors.

'Maybe,' Goscil said, brushing hair from her face. 'But the rocket people hate being reminded their fancy computers are going to catch chaos too.'

'Their precautions have worked so far,' Rasfline said.

Goscil snorted. 'They've only been up and running properly for the last year, and even then with minimal real input until two months ago. I give them three months, maximum, before something gets them.'

'You seem quite an expert in data contamination,' Rasfline told her, smiling at her and then at Consistorian Austermise's attaché, who was talking to a high-rank civil servant.

Goscil ignored the insult. 'There are nanotechs you can exhale, Ras; chaos-carriers that can float in an aerosol or crawl out of a skin pore.'

'Still,' Rasfline said, 'Ogooué-Maritime has avoided such infection so far; perhaps it will continue to do so.'

'Three months,' Goscil said. 'Want to bet on it?'

'Thank you, no. I believe gambling to be a pastime for the weak-minded.'

Gadfium looked round the various groups of people in the antechamber, the feeling of frustration building up inside her again. 'Oh, let's just go,' she said.

Rasfline smiled. Goscil scowled.

'Madam wishes a copy of herself made?'

'That's right. A construct, for the crypt.'

Gadfium had given herself, Rasfline and Goscil the rest of the day off. Rasfline had probably gone to socialise with some of the people they'd left in the Hall of Mirrors' antechamber. Goscil was doubtless crypting fresh data on some arcane subject. Gadfium had gone to change from her court clothes into something less formal in her apartment and then made her way to the Palace's Galleria, a shopping complex modelled after part of twentieth-century Milan where the court elite could indulge themselves. She had been here only once before, five years earlier, when she had first been summoned to the Lantern Palace to be Adijine's tame white-coat. She had been slightly disgusted by the snooty opulence of the place and its too-obviously perfect clientele then and felt no different now, but she had a plan to execute.

She sat in the subtly lit boutique — a traumparlour by any other name — sipping coffee over an antique onyx table.

'With what purpose in mind, might one ask?' asked the sales girl.

'Sex,' Gadfium told her.

'I see.' The shop assistant had called herself a sales executive and was probably the daughter of some clan chief; this would be her societal apprenticeship, Gadfium expected; the equivalent of one of the genuinely shitty jobs young people from the lower orders were expected to take on before they were allowed to enjoy themselves. The girl looked fashionably delicate and stainlessly steely at the same time. She was dressed in red, wearing what looked like a one-piece swim suit, large boots and wrist muffs. Her skin glowed like polished chestnut, her body was flawless and her ice-blue eyes looked out over cheekbones Gadfium fancied a chap might cut himself on.

'I'm too busy for a real affair,' Gadfium told her, 'and anyway the other party is also Privileged and physically distant, so we want constructs made which can have fun on our behalf and then download the rosy afterglow, or whatever.' Gadfium smiled and slurped her coffee deliberately. The girl winced, then smiled professionally and patted her tied-back black hair, held in place by a red comb which — assuming the girl was Privileged — was probably a receptor device.

'Madam does realise that there are potential recompatibility problems, over time, with constructs made from Privileged persons.'

'Yes I do, especially with the kind of full-mind construct I'd like. But I am decided, and that is what I want.'

'Full-mind constructs are particularly prone to developing independence and becoming incompatible.'

'It only has to last a few weeks in crypt-time; a couple of months, maximum.'

'The contiguity-expectancy may indeed be of that order,' the girl said, looking troubled and recrossing her long legs with what Gadfium could only think of as a flourish. 'Most people would not be happy with a self-construct becoming independent over such a time-frame, especially in a romantic context.'

Gadfium smiled. 'Most people aren't realists,' she said. She put her coffee down. 'When can we do it?'

'Madam has the permission of her clan?' the girl asked, sounding dubious.

'I'm seconded to the Palace; I think you'll find I have all necessary authorisation.'

'There is also the question of… discretion,' the girl said, smiling thinly. 'While of course not illegal, strictly speaking, the service madam is requesting is not one it is generally thought best to publicise widely. Madam would be requested to make an undertaking to the effect that she would restrict knowledge of her acquisition strictly to those of her own standing whom she is certain could have no objection to the process involved.'

'Discretion is the whole point of this,' Gadfium said. 'Only myself and the other party would know.'

'The process will utilise the neuro-lattice which would nor­mally only be activated on madam's quietus. This is the device which —'

'Yes, I know what it does.'

'I see. There is some danger…'

'I'll risk it, dear.'

Another Gadfium woke, looking out through the eyes of the original. This must be a bit how old Austermise feels, they both thought, and experienced the other's thoughts as an echo.

The view was of a gently lit booth lined with curtains of intricate design. She was in some reclined seat, her neck and head held firmly but comfortably. There were two people standing looking down at her; a serious-looking older woman in a white coat, and the young lady in red.

'Madam's very first memory, again?' the older woman said.

'Earlier I said it was the blue swing,' she said (and heard herself say it, and thought: oh yes, the blue swing, but what about the — ), 'but actually I think it must have been the time when my father fell off his horse into the river.' ( — horse? Ah…)

The woman nodded. 'Thank you. Do you still wish your construct to be released into crypt-time now?'

'Please,' Gadfium said, trying to nod but failing.

The woman in the white coat leant forward and reached out one hand to touch something on the side of the unit restraining Gadfium's head.

The man slipped in through the curtains behind the two women as the older woman's hand disappeared from Gadfium's field of view. He was tall, slim and dressed conservatively in a light suit. His face did not look quite right. He held something thick and black and curved in his hand. Gadfium only recognised it as a gun when he brought it up towards her.

Gadfium felt her eyes widen and her mouth start to open. The girl in the red swimsuit began to turn round. The man saw her turn towards him; the gun moved quickly to one side so that it was no longer pointing at Gadfium's face but at the girl. The man shot her first.

The noise was minimal; the girl's head jerked back and she fell instantly, a delicate fountain of blood spraying up and back onto the tented ceiling. Gadfium watched it all in real time

/and in crypt-time, as the older woman began to turn, her hand still somewhere behind Gadfium's neck.

Gadfium felt her other self, the construct, drop away from her like a bomb from a plane, producing an instant of vertigo as the girl hit the floor and the man — his face too straight, too unmoving — turned the black tube towards the woman in the white coat. The shot hit her in the temple, whirling her round so that she pirouetted as she collapsed. More blood, Gadfium felt, as she tried to move her head but still could not, still trapped, still held, as though her neck and head had been fixed in concrete, bored through and bolted with steel.

The man's face turned impassively to her and the gun came up. She beat her feet on the reclined couch, brought her hands up to scrabble over the surface of the helmet unit trapping her, feeling desperately for some release mechanism.

He took a step forward and pointed the gun at her forehead.

/Quickened, she fell away from the scene in the traumparlour an instant before the man shot the woman in the white coat.

Gadfium had visited the crypt many times, through receptor devices in helmets, chairs and pillows; she was less adept than the average person in navigating its complexities — the sort of natural ease that came with immersion from childhood would never be hers — but she was no stranger to the medium.

It took her new self only a few seconds of crypt-time to realise that she was effectively free within the system, at least for now. Existing initially within the traumparlour's grey-zone hardware she had not yet been given an official crypt identity.

She checked the immediate surroundings for clues to why one woman had been murdered, another was about to be and a third — herself — soon going to be.

Everything seemed normal; no security blanket thrown over the local data corpus, no obvious gaps in local traffic, no closed-off circuits. Certainly the Palace crypt-space was sup­posed to be completely unrestricted — once you were in, which was the hard bit — but she had half expected to find some sort of crypt presence linked to the assassin. Perhaps the Palace's private channels really were inviolable; perhaps that was why simply sending in a man with a gun was con­sidered the best way of dealing with a problem. She wondered briefly why all this was being done, what had triggered this ghastly, murderous act, but decided to leave investigating that for later.

She looked into the hardware surrounding her head. You turned off the restrainer field… well, just here… but she hesitated. Perhaps she could save her base-reality self.

She glanced back through Gadfium's eyes. The view was still, like a photograph. Running her own vision round the picture in Gadfium's mind exposed both the weakness of the human sight system and its cleverness. Looked at closely from inside with an independent ability to focus and concentrate on different parts of the view, you could see the lack of clarity and colour at the edges of vision; the view was grey and smeared everywhere about the lucid central portion. And so slow! What torture to watch somebody being killed and know your turn was next; the woman in white was still turning, the gun in the man's hand still moving to point to where her head would be in a moment's time…

She sucked herself away from the view. First she had to double-check the headset release mechanism, then decide what her physical self ought to do next, then work out the right moves to get her out of this situation, then form it into a plan that could be dropped instantly into her base-reality self's head and be acted upon without the slightest flicker of hesitation… she had less than a second, real time; a couple of hours, in here. It might be a close run thing…

The gun came up to point at the middle of her forehead. Gadfium watched it, helpless.

Then it was as though the bomb she had felt dropping away from herself earlier had somehow slammed straight back into the top of her head.

Move!

Her head was free and suddenly there was a whole choreo­graphed pattern inside her head; a slotted-in four-dimensional sculpture in which all she had to do was follow the tunnel-shape her body made through that sculpture.

The lights in the booth would go out now. They went out.

It was almost as though the pattern moved her body for her. She ducked her head and flicked it to one side as the shot cracked into the head unit. She levered herself forward with her elbows while drawing her right leg back. She snapped it forward and up just here…

The impact was appreciably two-fold, as both the bones in the man's fore-arm broke. She added to the momentum of her still swinging leg with a two-handed push off the couch and landed already swivelling on the floor. She punched upwards but the man hadn't reacted quite as she'd expected; cloth brushed her fist as he fell away, a sudden soughing noise coming from his mouth.

Something thudded into her head and for an instant she thought he had clubbed her, but the blow was light and the thing that fell from her head and bounced off her hip was the gun; she caught it on the floor.

The lights went on again. She turned the gun towards the man. He was crouched entangled within some of the room curtains, holding his broken arm and looking at her. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over on his side.

She started over towards him.

'… Gadfium,' said a voice, whispering.

She turned and stared in horror at the white-coated woman on the floor. Blood was still flowing from the dark hole in her temple; her eyes stared straight up. Her jaw moved again, looking stiff and mechanical, like a puppet's. 'Gadfium!' the voice croaked.

She spared the collapsed man a glance then went over to the woman, kneeling so that she could still see the man crumpled in the corner.

'This one's still not quite dead,' said the voice. 'She's been crypted, but she's still alive. It's me; you,' said the voice. 'Listen; he's faking a faint; the man. He's faking it. You must kick or cosh him in the head; now. Use the gun if you must, but if you want to avoid killing him do it now.'

Gadfium felt she was going to faint. The room was spinning, or her brain was. 'I can't,' she said to the woman, watching in horrified fascination as the rich, dark red blood oozed slower and slower and the jaws and tongue moved beneath the open, staring eyes.

'You must; now,' the soft voice said.

'But he might just have —'

'Too late,' sighed the voice.

The man was whirling round, bringing his good hand back. Gadfium reached out with the gun and squeezed, closing her eyes. The gun shuddered once in her hands.

When she opened her eyes again the man was sprawled face down in front of her, a small thin knife still clutched in one hand.

She wasn't sure she'd hit him until the blood started to well blackly from beneath his hidden face.

She dropped the gun, then started when the woman said, '… I'm losing her. The girl's comb… quickly, Gad…'

She could not do it immediately. Gadfium sat against the curtain-concealed wall of the room for a few minutes, shaking and staring at the three bodies in the room, watching the blood flowing slowly across the tiled floor.

When the blood from the fallen man reached the pool spilled from the woman who'd spoken after her death, something broke within Gadfium, and she cried.

She had not shed tears since she'd been a teenager.

Then she sniffed, wiped her nose and went to the girl in red. She pulled the comb from the dead girl's tied-back hair. There were flecks of blood on it. She ignored them and shoved the comb into her own hair at the back of her head.

-… can you hear me? said her own voice.

'Yes,' Gadfium said, her voice trembling.

– Just think it, Gadfium; no need to vocalise.

– I can hear you. Are you me?

– I am. I'm the construct.

– You planned… all that?

– Yes. Are you all right?

– Oh, far from it. But what do I do now?

– Take the knife, its sheath, which is in his pocket, the gun and any extra ammunition and equipment the man has, then leave the shop. If you do exactly as I say I think I can get you out of there.

– Wait. Why was he trying to kill me?

– Because the conspiracy's been betrayed and you were about to enter the crypt. Please; there isn't much time; hurry.

Gadfium went shakily back to the young man. She fought the urge to vomit as she caught sight of her face reflected in the dark pool of blood. She felt in the man's pockets.

– Is he from Security? she asked her crypt-self.

– Yes.

– How did they know?

– I told you, you were betrayed. I don't know by whom.

Gadfium stopped, her hand clasping the bullet magazine.

– Betrayed? What about the others?

– I don't know what's happened to them. I haven't dared to try and contact them in case I'm being watched somehow and my movements are being traced. Look, hurry up, will you?

– Betrayed. Gadfium stared at the intricate pattern on the curtain in front of her. Betrayed.

– Yes; now please; you must hurry now. Take what you can and leave. Turn left when you leave the shop.

– Betrayed, Gadfium thought, pocketing the knife, sheath, gun and ammunition. Betrayed.

– Yes, yes, yes; betrayed. Now move!

3

Sessine was dressed in plain, utilitarian clothes and carried a light rucksack across his shoulder. He stood on the last ridge of the hills, where the land sloped away like some huge wave powering towards a beach. The dusty plain extended before him, the colour of a lion; not featureless, but almost so. Hints of hills lay upon the horizon, and patches of reflection promised water that probably was not there. The trees behind him, above him, made giant shushing noises.

The light came from every part of the sky, shining without a sun. The sky was light blue to the glance, darker blue then purple on closer inspection, and utterly black when stared at. On that blackness — just by willing it into existence — a network of shining lines appeared, and what looked like brightly coloured stars and fat planets shone beyond, in constellations and patterns never seen from the real Earth. He knew what these meant without having to think about it. He looked away, and the sky was light blue again.

He stared at the broad expanse of tableland, and in an eyeblink the plateau filled with a grid of tracks, roads and paths so densely packed and interlaced they created their own solid surface, overwhelming the plain. The network of trails and lines radiated away to the horizon, filling the view with blurred, flickering movement; vast broad highways buzzed and glittered with complex articulations travelling too quickly for any individual element to be discerned, but creating a conglomerative impression of streamed solidity. Elsewhere, on narrower routes, long trains of material flashed past, just glimpsed, while an unseen myriad of paths specked and sparkled with solitary packets of traffic.

In another blink, it was all gone again.

He turned to his other self.

'Well, here we are,' said the construct. 'The parting of the ways. You remember all you need to remember?'

'How would I know if I didn't?'

'Hmm-hmm. What do you remember?'

'I am going into the wilderness,' he said, looking back at the plain.

'For sanctuary?'

'For sanctuary. And to seek and be sought. To provide a container, a medium for whatever I find out there.'

'You will change.'

'I have already changed.'

'You will change forever, and may die.'

'I think you will find we have always lived with that knowl­edge; not all our betterments have really changed such matters.'

'I hope I've given you all you may need.'

'So do I.' He looked the other man in the eye. 'And you, now?'

Alan turned and glanced back to where a distant mural tower was visible through the swaying trees. 'I'll be back in there,' he said. 'Doing what I've always done; watching. And waiting on your return; preparing.'

'Well, until then.' He offered his hand.

'Until then.'

They shook hands, both smiling self-consciously at the physicality of the ritual, still germane even in this translation from base-reality.

The construct nodded out at the plain, where the ghost-image of furious movement still seemed to linger.

'Sorry it will be so slow.'

'Slow is safe, in this.'

'Good luck.'

'And you.'

Then they each turned, and one headed back uphill on the path between the trees, making for the vast cliff of wall towering beyond, while the other set off down the slope towards the plain.

He walked out across the semi-desert. The paths here were so densely packed there was indeed effectively one single surface. He watched dust drift behind him on a soft breeze and wondered what aspect of the crypt's nature it signified. He stopped and looked behind him, back to where the foothills rose, sprinkled with trees. The fastness hung half-hazed in the sky beyond.

His footprints lay in the dust, leading back to the ridge.

He looked around and saw other footprints scattered here and there in lines that criss-crossed the plain. Above, the sky stayed blue, with no hint of cloud. He walked on, and when he first saw a stretch of ground where flat rocks lay like pages of stone upon the prairie, walked towards them and then upon them, changing his direction a little to follow the outcrop. When the rocks submerged beneath the dusty ground again he struck off in a different direction again.

At the next group of rocks, he sat down and held one of his shoes out to one side so that he could look at the sole. The sole was composed of simple ridges running from side to side. He thought about it changing, and the pattern changed to chevrons. He did the same with the other shoe, and felt pleased that on this scale such changes could still be effected. He hefted his rucksack, wondering what might be in it but knowing better than to look. All that mattered — he could half recall being told — was that there were useful objects within it.

He got up and continued walking.

A few times he heard the sand and rocks around him making a high-pitched keening noise, and knew he was near one of the great data highways. He would stop and stare and the highway would be there; a vast shining pipe on the surface of the plain, roaring like a waterfall, charged with pulsing, flashing movement and itself moving ponderously, writhing like an immense snake stretching from horizon to horizon, sweeping from side to side in great loops and waves and alternately raising its semi-fluid bulk up from the ground and troughing it back down.

The first time he encountered one of these gigantic, shimmer­ing pipes, he sat and watched it. The accumulation of its sinuous movements gradually took it away, then started it moving towards him again. He inspected the surface of the plain, and saw where the ground had been scuffed clean by the paths the highway had taken. It reminded him of a river delta, where channels form, flood, silt and shift, and islands seem to move, shuffled across the flood by the ever-weaving braid of waters.

He chose his spot and — more because he wanted to check that it was possible than because he particularly wanted to proceed in that direction — ducked beneath the arched under-surface of the highway as it bowed over the sand and ran, doubled up, for the far side, the highway's great bulk a roaring shadow above him.

It was done without mishap and he looked back at the tubular rush of the highway with satisfaction.

He continued walking.

A breeze got up after a while and he was grateful for it though he was not hot; the breeze was simply something different. He felt no hunger or thirst and no fatigue; realising this he started to run, and after a while did feel tired, and his breathing became laboured. He settled back to a stroll and when he'd got his breath back he increased his speed to the pace he'd been maintaining earlier.

Darkness waxed slowly.

When the light had quite gone from the sky he was able to see a ghostly grey image of the ground in front of him, and walked on. He stared up at the black sky and it filled with the network of lines and lights again. He watched the grid shift and the constellations change, just for something to do, knowing that somewhere inside himself he knew what this silently fabulous display signified, and unworried that its import was not quite immediately available to him, but lodged in some memorative backwater he knew he could explore if he really needed to.

He stared at the plain and saw the great roads and tracks and highways again, though they looked a little more dispersed than they had been before.

Most of the time he just walked, head down, hardly thinking about anything.

After a while he felt light-headed and thought he heard voices and saw shapes that weren't there in any reality. He started to trip over rocks or roots that were not there either, each time feeling like he was back in his earlier, biological life, and was in bed, about to fall asleep, but had suffered some involuntary spasm which had wrenched him back to wakefulness. This happened again, and again and again.

He decided he needed to sleep after all. He found a hollow under a rocky outcrop, put his rucksack beneath his head and fell asleep.

4

U no whot am goan 2 do if u doan tel me whot I wan 2 no, doan u? I sez 2 thi ole crow caged in ma talinz.

Am restin in ma big nest on thi fingir ov stoan lookin out ovir thi desirt, sittin here qwite happily pullin out thi old grey-black crows fevvirs 1 by 1 wif ma free foot, hummin 2 maself & tryin 2 get sum sens out ov thi ole bird.

I doan no nuffin! thi grey-black cro shouts. Yool pay 4 this, u peece ov filf! Set me bak whare u fownd me imeedyitly & mibi we say no moar about this — eerk!

(I scrunch his beek a bit wif 2 ov my talinz.)

Zhou schwine! he blubbers.

I dcide itz time 2 fix thi old fellir wif a serius stare, so I lower my grate-beekd head doun 2 his levil & luke in thru thi talin-bars @ his litl black beedi Is. He trys 2 luke away but I hold his hed roun lukin 2wards me wif a talin & put my hed closer 2 him (tho not 2 cloas — Im not stupid). Crows cant acthurely move ther Is very much & now he cooden move his hed neethir. They'v got a thing cold a nicitatin membrane whot they can flik over ther I & this old chap's nicitatin like mad tryin 2 blok me out & if I wozen such a fine firm fleshd-out eggzampil ov a sirnurg he mite blok me out (or evin takin me ovir if he woz tryin), but I am so he cooden & I woz in thare.

I had dcided in my oan mind by this time that simurgs wer relatid 2 lammergeiers & as eny fule wil tel u lammergeiers r also nown as bone crushers. So thi ole crow lukes in2 ma mind & seez whot I intend 2 do & promtly shits himself.

I luke @ thi mess on ma fine razor-sharp talons & ma nicely decorated nest & then luke @ him agen.

O f-f-fuk, he whimpirs. Zhorry about that. His voyce is qwivirin. Ah wil tel u enyshink u wan 2 no; jhust doan do those shings 2 me.

Hmm, I sez, liftin him up a bit 2 luke poyntidly @ thi shit on ma nest. Weel c.

Wot u wan 2 no? he shreeks. Jhust tel me! Whot u lookin 4?

I jab ma hed 2wards him. A ant, I tel him.

A wot?

U herd. But letz start wif thi lammergeiers.

Zhi lammergeiersh? Zhare gon.

Gon?

From zhe kript. Gon.

Gon whare?

Nobudi noaz! Zhey bin weerd & dishtint 4 a while & now zhey juss aint aroun no moar. Itsh thi troof; check it out 4 yooself.

I wil, & b4 I let u go, so u betr b telin thi troof. Now wot about this bleedin red-face fing goze gidibibidibigibi etc etc u get thi idear, eh? Whots it when its @ hoam then?

Thi ole crow freeziz 4 a sekind, then he starts 2 shake & then he — I can hardly bleev it — he lafs!

Wot? he shrieks, ol histerikil. U meen zhat shing bhind u, is that whot u meen?

I shake my hed. What sorta bird u take me 4? I ask it, shakin it up & doun so it rattlz like a dice ina cup. Eh? Eh? Juss how stupid u fink I am? Do I look like a bleedin pidgin?

Gidibidibigidigibigi! screams a voyce bhind me.

(I feel ma Is go veri wide.)

I stair @ thi bedraggled blak crow trapt in thi talinz ov ma rite foot.

Anuthir time, I sez, & crush thi crow 2 thi size ov a frush.

I whirl roun & fro thi ded crow @ whare I hope thi orribil red hed fing is, pushin maself off thi nest @ thi same time.

Gidibidibigidigibigi! thi skind hed shrieks, & thi old ded crow explodes in2 flame & disappeers as it hits thi jaggd red hole ov thi thingz flayd nose. Thi hed's bigr than it woz b4 & itz got wings ov its own now; wings like thi wings ov a skind bat, ol wet & bludy & glistenin. Fukr's biggr than I am & its teeth luke sharp as hel. I beat ma wings, not turnin & flyin away but hoverin thare, starin @ it like its starin @ me.

Gidibidibigidigibigi! it screams agen & then itz xpandin, rushin 2wards me like its a planit bloatin, a sun xploadin. Am not fuled; I no its stil thi size it woz reely & this is just a feynt. I glimpse thi reel thing cumin strate @ me like a punch throan thru thi xplodin imidje.

This is ma nest. Thi hed's over thi edje ov it rite now.

I take 1 qwik flap cloaser & reach out wif a foot & slap down on a hooj white-bleechd hunk ov timber; thi timber is most ov a tree-trunk & it leevirs up in a xploashin ov smallir branchis & smaks strate in2 thi face ov thi thing goan Gidibidi-urp!

Itz wings cloase involuntirly aroun thi tent ov branchis stikin up in front ov it & it fols flappin 2 thi nest, ol tangled & shriekin & bouncin & flappin & tearin its wingz & I juss no I shude get thi hel out while thi goans good but col it instinkt, col it madnis, I jus ½ 2 attak.

I giv 1 moar flap 2 get a bit ov hite — noatisin that thi sky seems 2 b gettin briter — then spred ma talins & start 2 drop 2wards thi orribil hed fing.

Thi sky's gon very white & brite.

I cansil thi stoop & flap Ice more, hoverin ovir thi flappin screemin entangled hed & lookin up @ thi sky; its gon dark agen, but itz startin 2 bulje sumwot.

O-o, I fink, & say my wake-up word 2 myself.

Ther r certin fings witch wil impose themselvs on u evin when u r in thi depfs ov thi kript, & a xploashin is 1 ov them; Ither a very brite flash ov lite or a shok wave & certinly boaf, witch is whot I woz gettin heer. U doan ½ 2 wake up & if yoor in deep enuf u woant, yool juss xplain it away 2 yoourself evin if itz blowin u apart as u fink, but am not so daft.

Thi blast rols me ovir in ma room, bouncin me off a taut-strung wall & flinging me bak in2 thi centir ov thi room agen.

I luke out thi doar thru smok & flames & c men cumin down ropes from abuv thi big window in thi tower; a handful ov gies in wing-shutes r flyin in thru thi windo, hedin 4 thi scaffoldin, shootin wif guns that send bolts ov lite thru thi smoak. A slof fols flamin past thi doorway ov ma room, makin a tearin, roarin noise as it fols & leavin a trail ov thik blak smoak. Anuthir xploashin roks thi scaffoldin aroun me & thi wols bulge. I c thi lite ov big flames shinin thru thi fabric wol 2 my rite. Outside, thi gies in thi wing-shutes swing ther guns 2 1 side & reech out 2 grab thi scafoldin as they thump in2 it; ther shutes fall away as soon as they tutch.

I rol away 2 thi bak ov ma room & bite @ thi fabric juss abuv thi floar; it holes & I hawl & pool @ it til it tares sum more then sqwirm out thru & in2 relativ darknis.

Am bhind thi wols ov thi slofs' scafold structyir, swingin from poal 2 poal like a munky, hedin downwirds. A hooj xploshin ov flame bursts out overhed, showerin me wif flamin debree; I ½ 2 hang by 1 hand from a poal & pat out flames on ma shirt. Thi debree fols on down, litein thi way. Ther r qwite a lot ov flaims now, & gunfire.

Part ov ma mind is thinking, Blimey, can ol this reely b 4 me? & anuthir part is thinkin, No, Bascule, doan b silly! But thi first bit is goan, Then how cum ther's ol this vilence & stuf happenin aroun yures truly? This aint a vilent sosiety; bags is pretti peesfil as a rool. How cum ol this is happenin ol ov a suddin? O fuk; those poor slofs woz juss tryin 2 b frendly & how do I repay them? I wunder how fings ½ shakin out 4 Gaston & ole Hombetante. Then I figir mayb its best if I try not 2 fink about that sorta fing; iss dun now.

Amazin thi survivil mekanisms u bild up in times like this.

Ahed ov me I can c thi curvd innir surfis ov thi wol ov thi towr, its undressd stoan & ol blak & glistenin wif moystyir in thi lite ov flames. A few last poals 2 go, regularly spaced.

Rite hand lef hand rite hand lef hand; am in a feevir or sumthin coz I fink; juss thi time 2 kript 4 a sekind, & as I reach 4 thi next poal I fink, rite, kript until u tutch this poal, & am thare, deliberitly not finking about whare I am @ thi momint but swingin out in2 thi imeedyit locality

/only 2 find it isnt thare eny moar.

It's like ther's juss a grey fog ol aroun me; a metallic; growlin, hissin, static-ish sorta fog. I can rufly remembir whare things wer from erlyer but I doan wan 2 ½ 2 trust 2 memry that mutch. Then thi fog semes 2 collect aroun me & its like its not fog @ ol its made up not ov water but ov metil filings, metil dust, sleetin in2 ma skin like asid, burrowing in2 ma pores & it hurts & ma Is go wide & thi metil dust is sandpaperin ma Is & makin me screem & as I opin my mouf its fillin it & nose wif metil grit & am breevin it in & its fire, like breevin flame, fillin me, roastin me from inside.

I flail out @ it, tryin 2 push it away & my hand tutches sumfink solid & I remember that means sumfing & wif a struggil I wake up.

My hand clutches thi cold bar ov thi scaffold poal & I feel thi bref whistel out ov me & I sneez & my Is watir & my skin itches evrywhare & I juss manidje 2 grab thi last poal & then fump in2 thi blak stone wol & stop thare, stil shakin & not feelin 2 good.

Thi floar is a cupil ov metirs lower down, coverd in rubish. Lukin up, thi wol disappers in2 darknis. On ither side, it curvs away, blak & barely visibil. Thi slofs' scafoldin structure fits raggedly agenst thi wol, poals stuk restin on bits whare thi ruf stone juts out & thi grey sakclof stuf flappin in thi breez. Thi channil I escaiped down rises like a naro blak canyin abuv me. Flames burn in thi distins.

I try 2 remember thi layout ov thi place from thi start ov my kriptin erlyer. Bleedin hel.

I shake my hed, then start leepin acros from poal 2 poal along thi side ov thi ruf stoan wol. Shude b this way…

& so I go swingin off thru thi dark space behind thi wols ov thi place whare thi slofs hang out, or @ leest did until theez gies — wif thi guns & parashoots & stuf cairn collin.

Am a rat bhind thi bleedin wols, I fink, skurryin abuv thi rubish lookin 4 a hole 2 disapeer down.

O deer Bascule I think 2 myself, not 4 thi furst time & Ive a orribil feelin not 4 thi last time neethir. O deer o deer o deer.