Feersum Endjinn

1

They descended through the tower by lift and went through broad, softly lit tunnels lined with pictures to a place where there were lots of trains and people and pillars which held the roof up.

Asura asked many questions about the lift and the station and the trains and the castle. The tall lady did her best to answer them. They went to the very end of one train and got on it. They had the carriage to themselves. It had lots of big seats and couches. They sat at a round wooden table; the woman who had introduced herself as Ucubulaire sat beside her and the man called Lunce sat across from them.

'What's that in your hair?' the woman said, when they were seated, and reached one hand — covered in the blue-net glove — up behind her head.

'What?' Asura asked. Then the blue glove touched the back of her head and there was a strange buzzing noise.

Darkness.

She lived in a tall tower in the forest. The tower had one large room at the top where she lived. The room had a stone floor with no holes in it; the walls had some small windows, and one door which led out onto a balcony which went all around the tower. The very top of the tower was made from a big cone of dark slates, like some huge hat.

She woke each day and went to wash her face. She washed from a bowl on a stout wooden wash-stand. Beside the bowl was a pitcher which was always full of water every morning. Several times she had tried to stay up to see how it got refilled every night but although she had been sure she'd stayed awake each time she never found out. Once she had sat up with her hand in the empty pitcher, pinching herself every now and again to stay awake, but she must have fallen asleep because she woke with a start to find her hand submerged in water. Another night she turned the pitcher upside down and slept beside it, but all that happened was that no water appeared in it that night and she went thirsty the next day.

There was a bread box on another table, and every morning there was a fresh loaf in it.

Each day she would use the pot under the bed and cover it with a cloth and each morning it would be empty and clean.

There was a beaten-metal mirror on the wash-stand. She had light brown skin and dark brown eyes and hair. She was dressed in a light brown shift that never seemed to get particularly dirty, or any cleaner. She looked at her reflection for a long time sometimes, thinking that once she had looked different, and trying to remember what she had looked like, and who she had been, and what had brought her here. But her reflection didn't appear to know any more than she did.

As well as the bed, the wash-stand table and the table with the bread box in it, the room contained another small table with two chairs set at it, a couch with some cushions, a square carpet with a geometrical pattern, and one wooden-framed painting on the wall. The painting was of a beautiful garden filled with tall trees; at the centre of the picture was a small white stone rotunda set on a grassy hillside above a shallow valley where a stream sparkled.

After she had washed and dried her face she would walk round the balcony a hundred times one way and then a hundred times the other way, occasionally looking out at the forest.

The tower stood in a roughly circular clearing about a stone's throw across. The tower was a little higher than the trees, which were broad-leaved. Sometimes she saw birds flying in the distance, but they never came close. The weather was always good; clear and breezy and warm. The sky was never free from clouds, but never covered by them either. It was a little colder at night.

There was no lamp in the circular room and the only light at night came from the stars or the moon, which waxed and waned in the usual manner. She remembered that women had a body-cycle associated with the moon, but waited in vain for its appearance.

On the very darkest nights, it rained sometimes. Once she had become familiar with the room in the darkness she began to get up and slip off her shift and go out onto the balcony into the pelting chill of the rain, standing naked under it, shivering. The rain felt good on her skin.

She watched the stars on clear nights, and noted where the sun came up and set each day. The stars appeared to revolve overhead but did not change otherwise, and there was no terrible dark stain across the face of the night.

The sun rose and set in the same place every day, as did the moon, despite its changing phases.

She used her thumb nail to make little grooves on the wooden foot board at the end of her bed, counting the days; those did not disappear overnight. She still recorded each day, but after the first thirty or so she had decided to count the moons instead, keeping the number in her head. She vaguely recalled that each moon was a month, and so knew that she had been here for six months so far.

She spent a lot of time just looking out at the forest, watching the shadows of the clouds moving over the tops of the trees. In the room, she busied herself by rearranging things, altering the position of the pieces of furniture, tidying them, cleaning things, counting things, and — after a month of doing this — by making up stories set in the garden in the painting on the wall, or in the landscape she conjured into being amongst the folds of her bedclothes, or in a maze-city she imagined within the geometric design of the carpet.

She traced the shapes of letters on the wall and knew she could write things down if only she had something to write with, but she could not find anything; she thought of using her own night soil but that seemed dirty and anyway might disappear overnight, the way it did from the pot under the bed; her own blood might work but that seemed overly desperate. She just remembered the stories instead.

She made up different people to populate her stories; at first they all involved her but later it amused her to make stories up in which she either played only a small part, or even no part at all. The people were based on the things in the room: there was a fat jolly man like the water pitcher, his broad-hipped wife who was like the bowl, their two plump daughters like the legs of the wash-stand, a beautiful but vain lady like the beaten-metal mirror, a pair of skinny men like the two chairs at the small table, a slim, languorous lady like the couch, a dark, skinny boy like the carpet, a rich man with a pointed hat who was the tower itself…

Gradually, though, the handsome young prince began to figure in most of her stories.

The prince came to the tower once every month. He was handsome and he would come riding out of the forest on a great dark horse. The horse was splendidly caparisoned; its bridle shone like gold. The young prince was dressed in white, purple and gold. He wore a long thin hat set with fabulous feathers. He had black hair and a trim beard and even from that distance she could tell that his eyes sparkled. He would take off his hat, make a sweeping bow, and then stand holding the reins of the great dark horse and shout up to her:

'Asura! Asura! I've come to rescue you! Let me in!'

The first time, she had seen him riding out of the forest and hidden down behind the balcony's stone parapet. She'd heard him shouting up to her and she'd scuttled away back inside the room and closed the door and burrowed under the bedclothes. After a while she'd crept outside again and listened, but heard only the sighing of the wind in the trees. She'd peeped over the balustrade and the prince had gone.

The second time, she'd watched him but hadn't said anything. He'd stood calling up to her to let him in and she'd stood, frowning, looking down at him but not replying.

He'd left his horse tied to a tree; it had grazed the nearby grass while he'd sat with his back to another tree and eaten a lunch of cheese, apples and wine. She'd watched him eat, her mouth watering as he'd crunched into an apple. He'd waved up to her.

Later, he'd called to her again but still she hadn't replied. It had started to get dark and he'd ridden away.

The third time he'd appeared she'd hidden once more. He'd stood shouting for a time, then she'd heard something metallic strike the stonework outside on the balcony. She'd crept to the door and looked out; a three-hooked piece of metal on the end of a rope had come sailing over the balustrade and clunked down onto the balcony's flagstones. It had scraped across the stones and up the wall with a rasping noise, then disappeared over the edge of the parapet. She'd heard a distant thud a few seconds later.

It had reappeared a little while later, hitting the balcony stones with a clang and leaving a mark there. Again, it had been hauled up the wall in vain; it was as though the balustrade had been designed to offer nowhere such a hook could find purchase. It had disappeared again and she'd heard the distant thud as it hit the ground far below. She'd stared in horror at the mark it had left on the flagstones.

On the fourth occasion the prince had arrived at the foot of the tower and again called out, 'Asura! Asura! Let me in!' she had already decided she would reply this time.

'Who are you?' she'd shouted to him.

'She speaks!' he'd laughed, a huge smile brightening his face. 'Why, what joy!' He'd stepped closer to the tower. 'I'm your prince, Asura! I've come to rescue you!'

'What from?'

'Why,' he'd said, laughing, 'this tower!'

She'd looked back at the room, then down at the stones of the balcony. 'Why?' she'd said.

'Why!' he'd repeated, looking puzzled. 'Princess Asura, what do you mean? You cannot enjoy being imprisoned!'

She'd frowned deeply. 'Am I really a princess?'

'Of course!'

She'd shaken her head and run back to her bed in tears, burrowing under the bedclothes again and ignoring the distant sound of his cries until it had grown dark and she'd fallen into a troubled sleep.

The next time he'd come she had hidden again, closing the door to the balcony and sitting on the couch singing to herself while she'd stared at the picture on the wall, softly singing a story about a prince coming to the white stone rotunda in the beautiful garden and leading the princess away to go with him and be his bride and live in the great castle in the hills.

It had grown dark before she'd finished the story.

She washed her face in the bowl and dried herself on the towel. She went outside for her walk round the balcony. A flock of birds flew over the forest, far in the distance. The weather was as it always was.

She stopped in the shade of the tower's roof, looking out at the shadow the tower cast, swinging imperceptibly over the canopy of forest as though together they formed some huge sundial. She was sure the prince would come today.

The prince arrived just before noon, riding out of the woods on his magnificent horse. He took off his hat and bowed deeply.

'Princess Asura!' he called. 'I have come to rescue you! Please let me in!'

'I can't!' she shouted.

'Have you no ladder? No rope? Can you not let down your hair?' he asked, laughing.

Her hair? What was he talking about? 'No,' she told him. 'I have none of those things. I have no way down.'

'Then I shall have to come up to you.'

He went to his horse and took a great slack bundle of rope from a saddle-bag. Attached to one end of the rope was the three-hooked metal thing he'd tried to scale the tower with earlier. 'I'll throw this up to you,' he shouted. 'You must tie it to something securely. Then I'll climb up to you.'

'What then?' she shouted, as he readied the rope.

'What?'

'Well, then we'll both be up here; what will we do then?'

'Why, then we'll make a sling for you; a sort of seat on the end of the rope. I'll lower you down to the ground and climb down after you. Don't you worry about that, my princess; just make sure this is tied firmly to something that won't move.'

He started to swing the hook round and round beside him.

'Wait!' she called.

'What?' he asked, letting the rope down.

'Have you an apple? I would like an apple.'

He laughed. 'Of course! Coming right up!'

He went to his saddle-bags and found a bright red shiny apple. 'Catch!' he shouted, and threw it up towards her.

She caught the apple and he started to swing the hook round and round again.

She looked at the apple; it was the brightest, reddest, shiniest apple she had ever seen.

She held it up to her ear.

'Better stand back, my dear!' the prince shouted from below. 'Don't want to hit you on the head, do we?'

She stood in the doorway, holding the apple to her ear.

There was a tiny, furtive, squirming, liquid, burrowing, writhing noise from inside it. She walked quickly round the balcony until she was on the far side of the tower from the prince and threw the apple with all her might far into the forest. She heard a distant clang as the grappling iron hit the flagstones.

She ran round and looked over the parapet.

'All right, my princess?'

'Yes! I'll tie it to the bed!' she shouted to the prince. 'Wait a moment!'

She took the grappling iron inside the room, pulled in some more rope and then untied the hooks from the rope. She left the grappling iron on the floor and then passed the end of the rope twice round one of the bed's arm-thick wooden legs, pulling on the rope to test the friction, then giving the rope another turn round the leg and testing again before walking back out to the parapet, hauling the rope after her and wrapping it once round her waist and a couple of times round her hand.

'Ready!' she called down. She pulled on the rope as the prince tugged.

'Well done, my princess!' he shouted. He began to climb. She kept tension on the rope while looking over the parapet and watching the prince climb.

When he was about two metres below the level of the parapet floor, she jerked her hand holding the rope; the prince cried out and clamped himself to the rope and looked anxiously up.

'My love!' he called. 'The rope! It might be coming loose! Make sure it's fast!'

'Stop where you are,' she told him, and raised the loose end of the rope above the parapet to show him she held it. 'The rope will stay firm as long as I let it.'

'What? But-!'

'Who are you?' she asked him. This close, she could see his short, jet-black hair, his firm, square jaw, his tanned, flawless skin and his blue, sparkling eyes.

'I'm your prince!' he cried. 'Come to rescue you. Please! My love…' He started to climb again and she let an arm's length more rope out with a jerk. The prince bounced on the rope and almost fell off. He grabbed it tightly again and glanced fearfully down at the ground, then looked back to her. 'Asura! What are you doing? Let me up!'

'Who are you?' she repeated. 'Tell me or you drop.'

'Your prince! I'm your prince, your rescuer!'

'What is your name?' she asked, slowly letting out a little more rope.

'Roland! Roland of Aquitaine!'

'Why does the water jug fill itself up every night, Roland of Aquitaine? Why does the moon change but not the season? Why do the birds never approach the tower?'

'A spell! All these things arise from a spell put on you by a wicked wizard! Please; Princess Asura; I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on; let me up!'

'And why was the apple you threw me poisoned?'

'It wasn't!'

'It was.'

'Then it must be the spell! The spell the wizard put on you, Asura! Please; I'm going to fall!'

'What wizard is this?' she asked.

'I don't know!' the prince cried. She could see his hands and arms quivering as he gripped the rope. 'Merlin!' he said. 'That was his name! I remembered. Merlin! Now, my love; please; I must come up or I'll fall. Please…' he said, and his gaze fixed upon her, beseeching and beautiful and tender.

She shook her head.

'You are not real,' she told him, and let the rope go.

The rope flicked across the balcony and into the room as the prince fell screaming towards the ground. She stepped back to let the end of the rope whip past her and plummet to the ground.

The prince hit with a terrible thud. She looked over the parapet. He lay, still and broken-looking on the grass at the foot of the tower; the rope fell loosely about and on top of him.

She picked up the grappling iron and dropped that on him for good measure; it missed his head and whacked into his back, bouncing off across the ground.

She looked up at the sky and said, 'Not that way, either.'

Darkness.

The young Cryptographer rose up from the couch, stretching as she rubbed her back. 'Ouch,' she said. She was small and dark and wore a disposable one-piece suit. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles as she swung her legs off the couch and sat there for a moment. Then she looked over at the two Security people who'd brought the girl in. She shook her head.

'Your woman's fucking impregnable,' she told them.

The tall woman looked at the square-built man she'd called Lunce. The three were in a bland but comfortable staff suite in the minus-one cistern-level Security complex, deep beneath the fastness. The girl they'd called Asura was being held in a cell within the building's basement.

'Nobody's impregnable,' the woman with the blue gloves said.

'Nobody's indestructible,' the girl corrected her, getting up from the couch. 'But some people are impregnable.' She went across to the curtains and drew them open. She was still rubbing her back, and stretching. She looked out at the light-strewn darkness. A ship moved in the distance, lights glittering on the black waters at the end of the Ocean Tunnel. The port was a multi-strand necklace in the distance.

She gave a half-laugh as she rubbed her back. 'What a bitch!' she muttered, but sounded almost admiring.

'You're saying you can't get through to her?' the man said.

'Right,' the girl said. She looked back at them. 'I've tried all the obvious scenarios and I've tried a few pretty obscure ones, too.' She shrugged, looking away. 'She's wise to all of them. That last one — the princess in the tower: fairy story, legend; but it was like she'd never heard of it before, just accepted it on her own terms. And so suspicious! There was nothing nasty in the apple; it was a nice crunchy, scrumptious little piece of code; tasty and nutri­tious, dammit. If there was anything ulterior about it, it might have distracted her a bit while I climbed up, though what the hell… but she imagined the worm or the maggot or whatever in it; just threw it away.' The girl shook her head again, first at her reflection, then, turning, at the two Security people. 'You can keep trying, but you won't get anywhere; she's even learning as she goes along, she's remembering. Fuck knows how.'

'Clearly you don't, anyway,' the man said. The woman looked at him sharply.

The girl laughed. 'Perhaps you'd like to try, Mr Lunce?' She shook her head. 'That… ingénue you brought in could skin you alive in there, if she wanted. She's a natural. There's nothing you can give her she won't work out and exploit. You can destroy her — you can wake her up and start torturing her if you like — but it'd be strictly for your own enjoyment. Don't kid yourself you'd have any chance of getting at her core; that'll stay hidden until it's triggered. Strip her brain molecule by molecule and you still won't find out what was in there. I'd stake my life it'll destruct.' She snorted. 'Well, I'd stake your life on it.'

'But she is the asura?' the woman with the blue gloves asked.

'She's an asura,' the girl said, sitting back on the window sill. 'But frankly if she is this rogue piece of chaos come to infect all our precious higher functions, announcing she is an asura — using it as a name — is a pretty strange way of going about it.'

'A decoy, then?' the woman asked, looking troubled.

'Or an incredibly confident double-bluff.'

The woman nodded, looking away. 'Well, we have her now,' she said, as if to herself.

'Indeed you do,' the girl said, yawning. 'And, thankfully, she's your problem. I'm just a hired hand and I've done all I'm going to do. I need some sleep.' She pushed away from the window. 'Probably have nightmares about that vicious little bitch,' she muttered, heading for the door.

'Well, pity you failed. Thank you for your help,' the man said, sounding bored. 'We'll expect a full report; it may help your successors. Let's hope their approach is a little less negative than yours was.'

The girl stopped in front of him. She looked up at him and smiled broadly. 'Honey, you'll get your report,' she told him, 'but I'm the best there is. You're on to the proxime accesserunt after me and if you persist with them your new toy down there might start getting annoyed and really chew one of them up.' She tapped the man on his chest. 'Don't say you weren't warned, big boy.' She turned to the woman with the blue gloves. 'Charming working with you. Let me know how you get on.'

She left.

The other two exchanged looks.

'You know what I think? I think we should kill her.'

'No one cares what you think. Contact the next one on the list.'

'Oh, yes, ma'am.'

2

Gadfium left the traumparlour. The door clunked shut and she heard bolts snick home, locking it.

– Left.

She turned left and started walking.

– Hurry.

She walked faster.

Gadfium couldn't stop shaking. It was so bad it was affecting her eyesight and she could not believe other people weren't able to see her quivering from fifty or more metres away.

– You're breathing too quickly and too shallowly. Calm down. Take longer, deeper breaths.

– Am I this bossy with other people? she asked, taking a long, deep breath.

– Yes, you are. Turn right, here; take the lift. It'll arrive in twelve seconds.

– Where are you taking me?

– Away from here; out of the Palace.

– After that?

– Don't ask.

– Oh, grief! I'm too old to be on the lam.

– No you're not. You're only too old when you're dead, and you aren't that either, not yet.

– Yet. Oh, thanks.

– Here's the lift. Ignore the display; I've told it where to go.

– Oh, grief!

– Will you calm down? And wipe your eyes; I can hardly see when I look out of them.

She wiped her eyes while the lift zoomed. They were heading for the ceiling level.

— I know; I'm already dead, there is a hell and you're my punishment.

— Stop gibbering. I'm your guardian angel, Gadfium.

The elevator stopped at a luxuriously appointed tube station.

– Straight ahead. And try to look arrogant, and cruel, like nobody'd better interfere with you. We're taking a Security service carriage.

– Oh, grief!

– Head up ! Arrogant! Cruel!

– If I get out of this I swear I'll never order anybody about ever again.

– Arrogant! Cruel!

She marched to the carriage with her nose in the air and a sneer on her lips, passing between potted palms standing on gleaming marble beneath a ceiling of polished hardwood. She sensed a few other people around but nobody challenged her. The carriage opened its doors, she stepped aboard and it rolled away immediately, through some points, across other tracks and into a tunnel where it accelerated quickly. She sat down on a leather couch, shaking again.

– We're out of the Palace.

Gadfium put her head between her knees.

– I feel faint.

– Yes, you do, don't you?

– That was awful, awful, awful.

– You did fine.

– I meant in the shop; those women. The man.

– Oh. Of course. I'm sorry. But you didn't have to watch it in slow motion.

– I suppose it was a long time ago, for you.

– Quite. I've been through the process.

Gadfium straightened. She sniffed and took the gun, ammunition and knife out of her pockets, holding them in shaking hands. The gun was a long, thick black flexible tube. It was weighty; it felt like metal covered by some tough, almost sticky foam. It straightened into a cosh or curved into a comfortable hand-gun shape with a finger-sculpted grip, depending on how she held it.

– Here; allow me.

Her hands and fingers moved without her willing them to; she stopped them without difficulty, making them pause poised above the gun, then let her other self — a sighing, finger-tapping presence somewhere at the back of her mind — control her again.

– It has a homing mechanism built in but I've switched it off, the construct said as she used Gadfium's fingers to click the gun open, put some of the fresh ammunition in, closed the stock again, checked the weapon's action, briefly switched on a laser-dot sight, then gave her back control.

– I very much doubt I can use this again, Gadfium told her other self, before repocketing the gun.

– So do I.

– Perhaps I ought to throw it away.

– Don't be silly. You only throw away weapons when they might get you into trouble.

– You don't say.

– And you're already in deep trouble. So deep it can't get any deeper.

– Wow. It's a good job you're here to keep my spirits up.

– Keep the gun, Gadfium.

– What about this knife? she asked, taking it from her pocket. It was flat; the blade was as long and broad as two of her fingers. It was wickedly sharp; slots in the centre of the flat of the blade guided it into the hard plastic sheath, keeping the edges away from the sides.

– Keep that, too.

Gadfium shook her head as she slid the knife back into its sheath and carefully put it in her pocket.

– I don't suppose you can tell me any more about what's going on, can you? she asked.

– Still investigating. Though I think I may now know who betrayed you.

-Who?

-… I'm not yet certain. Let me check.

– Oh, check away, Gadfium thought, and sat back, sighing. She held her hands up. They had almost stopped shaking.

The carriage hurtled through the tunnels, swaying and rattling as it took turns and crossed points. Lights flashed sporadically through the shaded windows. Air whistled.

– Where are you taking me?

– I suppose it can't do any harm to tell you now, her other self said crisply. The carriage started to slow down. — You'll be getting on one of Security's secret intramural microclifters very soon and descending four levels. You're going to the castle core, Gadfium; the deep dark inner rooms.

– Oh, grief! Where the outlaws are?

– That's right. The carriage drew to a halt and the nearest door hissed open to darkness; a wave of cold, damp-smelling air flowed in over Gadfium. — Where the outlaws are.

3

Sessine wandered the face of the world beyond Serehfa, journey­ing through its version of Xtremadur to the distant Uitland, travelling across its prairies and plains and deserts and lakes of salt, through its rolling hills, broad valleys and narrow ravines, between its tall mountains and its rolling rivers and its dark seas, amongst its scrub, grassland, forests and jungles.

He soon grew used to the perverse negativity of this world, where the empty aridity of the semi-desert indicated the greatest richness and intensity of transmitted knowledge, which yet remained untappable, and where the seeming fecundity of the jungle's congested greenery betokened impassible lifelessness, and yet radiated a kind of barren beauty.

Cliffs and mountains indicated buried fastnesses of storage and computation, rivers and seas embodied unsorted masses of chaotic but relatively harmless information, while volcanoes represented mortal danger welling from the explosively corrosive depths of the virus-infested corpus.

The wind was the half-random machine-code shiftings sym­bolic of the movement of languages and programs within the geographical image of the operating system, while the rain was raw data, filtering through, slowed, from base-reality, and as meaningless as static. The grid of lights available in the sky was simply another representation of the Cryptosphere, like the landscape visible around him, but mapped on a smaller scale.

The optionally visible highways, roads, trails and paths which criss-crossed the countryside were the information channels for the whole of the uncorrupted crypt. Data within them moved at close to the speed of light, which meant that viewed within the context of crypt-time their traffic appeared to move at supersonic speeds. Sometimes he stood near the great coiling highways, listening, rapt, to their eerie, hypnotic songs and staring intently at their gargantuan writhings as though trying through concentration alone to divine the meaning of their cargoes, and always failing.

The first time he saw somebody else he felt a mixture of emo­tions; fear, joy, expectation and a kind of disappointment that this wilderness was not his alone. He saw a light in the distance across the rocky plain he was crossing, and went, cautiously, to investigate.

An old woman sat alone, staring into a small fire. He had found no need for or way of making fire. She sensed him watching her and called out to him.

He kept his rucksack open and held in front of him and went to join her at the fire. He gave a small bow from a few metres away, uncertain what protocols might apply. She nodded; he sat a quarter-way around the fire from her.

She wore her white hair in a bun and was dressed in loose, dark clothes. Her face was deeply lined. She was sitting back against a small pack.

'You're new here?' she asked. Her voice was deep but soft.

'Forty days or so,' he told her. 'And you?'

She smiled at the fire. 'A little longer.' She looked quizzically at him. 'So, am I your Friday?'

He frowned. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Robinson Crusoe; a story. He believes he is alone on his desert island until he sees another's footprint, on the day called Friday. When he meets the other man he calls him Friday. We call the first person a new arrival meets their Friday.' She shrugged. 'Just a tradition. Silly, really.'

'Then you are, yes,' he told her.

She nodded as though to herself and said, 'Another tradition — and I think it a good one — has it that a Friday answers any questions a newcomer may have.'

He looked into her old, dark eyes.

'I have many questions,' he said. 'Probably more than I know.'

'That is not uncommon. First, though, may I ask what brings you here?'

He turned his hands palm up. 'Oh, just the passing of events.'

She nodded and looked understanding, but he felt he might have been rude. He added; 'I made enemies in the other world, and was brought near to extinction. A friend — a Virgil to my Dante, if you will — led me away from that to whatever sanctuary this represents.'

'Dante, not Orpheus, then?' she asked, smiling.

He gave a modest laugh. 'Ma'am, I am neither poet nor musician, and I don't believe I ever quite found my Eurydice, so was unable to lose her.'

She chuckled, suddenly childlike. 'Well then,' she said, 'what can I tell you?'

'Oh, let's just talk, shall we? Perhaps I'll find out anything I need to know in the course of our conversation.'

'Why not?' she nodded. She sat up a little. 'I shan't ask your name, sir; our old names can be dangerous and I doubt you have settled on a new one yet. My name here is Procopia. You are not tired?'

'I am not,' he said.

'Then I shall tell you my story. I am here because of a lost love, as are not a few of us here…'

She told him a little of her life before she came to be incrypted, much of the particular circumstances which led to her being in this level of the crypt, and all she thought relevant of what she had learnt since she had been here.

He talked a little in return, and she seemed content.

Mostly, though, he listened, and as he did so, learnt. He decided he liked the woman; it was very late when they bade each other goodnight and fell asleep.

He dreamt of a far castle, sweet music and a long-lost love.

In the morning when he awoke she was packed and about to depart.

'I must go,' she said. 'I had thought of offering my services as a guide, but I think you may have some point to your wanderings, and I might impose too much of my own course on yours.'

Then you are doubly kind, and wise,' he said, rising and dusting himself down. She held out her hand, and he shook it.

'I hope we meet again, sir.'

'So do I. Travel safely.'

'And you. Fare well.'

Gradually he started to meet more travellers. He discovered, as Procopia had told him, that these fellow wanderers of the mirror-world, human and chimeric, were either exiles like him — some through choice, some through coercion — or those who were really no more than illicit tourists; adventurers come to sample the strangeness of this anomalous paradigm of base-reality.

A kind of subsidiary ecology had arisen within the fractured human community he made occasional contact with; there were those who preyed upon other wanderers — taking on the form of animals in some cases, but not all — and those who seemed to exist only to mate with others, merging from the time of their coupling to become an individual incorporating aspects of both the former lovers, usually still imbued with whatever hunger had driven them to fuse in the first place, and so seeking further unions.

Most of the people he met wanted only to absorb his story and exchange no more than information; he declined to reveal who he had once been but was happy to share what he knew of this level of the crypt. He was neither surprised nor disappointed when he realised he appeared to have lost all interest in sex.

He discovered that his rucksack contained three things: a sword, a cape and a book. The sword had a coiled metal blade which extended up to two metres and was not particularly sharp but which produced an electric charge which could stun the largest chimeric — or, at least, the largest which had ever attacked him. He thought of the cape as his chameleon coat; it took on the appearance of whatever his environment was at the time and appeared to offer almost perfect concealment. In its own way, it was more effective than the sword.

The book was like the one he'd found in the room in Oubliette; it was every book. Opening the back cover let the book function as a journal; words appeared on the page when he spoke. He made entries in the journal every few days and kept a note of each day that passed even when he didn't record anything more about it. He read a lot, at first.

The landscape of the crypt was littered with monuments, buildings and other structures, most of them well away from the shifting sum-paths of the great data highways and many of them of indefinable design. It was here, in these singular follies, usually in the evening after a long day's travel, that he tended to meet and converse with others; men, women, androgynes and chimerics. He never saw anyone who even looked like a child. They were rare enough in base-reality, but quite absent here.

He found, as his time in the crypt extended, that his dreams attained a vividity that sometimes made them seem more real than his waking hours. In those oneiric passages, when he felt that he sank beneath the surface of the land and entered a deeper underworld, he played the hero, often as not, in a landscape filled with people, cities, commotion and event: he was a dashing captain thrust by circumstance to unsought glory and fame, a poet prince compelled to take up arms, a philosopher king forced to defend his realm.

He commanded a squadron of cavalry, of ships, of tanks, of aircraft, of spacecraft; he wielded clubs, swords, pistols, lasers; he climbed to surprise an enemy cave, besieged walled cities, charged across river shallows to fall upon a vulnerable flank, planned the mining of lines zig-zagging across the swell of countryside, rode the leading missile-carrier to the smoking rubble of rail-heads, threaded a corkscrew course between black bursting clouds towards enemy capitals, slid unseen through the folds of sable space to wheel against unwarned convoys lumbering between the stars.

Gradually though, as if some part of him — the realist, the cynic, the ironist — could not accept the improbable serial tri­umphs of his exhausting martial adventures, the furniture of each of these aspirant dreams began to include the Encroachment, and in the midst of the bright clamour of some clash upon a dusty plain, he would find himself looking up above the joined havoc of the contesting armies to see the moon in a cloudless sky, whole face half dimmed by some fearful agent beyond precedent; or on some night mission, below radar across the darkened enemy coast, he would look up to see the stars had disappeared from half the sky; or, sling-shotting through the well of a gas-giant, the planet's ringed bulk would fall away to reveal no welcoming spatter of familiar constellations, but a dark void, glowing beyond sight with the inflamed exhalations of long-drowned stars.

Increasingly, he woke from such dreams with a sense of gnawing frustration and abject failure no amount of subsequent rationalisation could assuage.

'Let me see, let me see,' the woman said. She looked perhaps ten years younger than he, though she sported an unflatteringly tonsured scalp and had no eyebrows. Black-clad, she sat in the centre of a circle of seven travellers, on a bare floor in a bare room in a large, square-planned house which stood, stark and alone, on a dark plateau.

He sat a little way off with his back to a wall where earlier callers had left strange curlicued designs and patterns carved into the plaster. Light came from a bulb hanging above the centre of the group. He had been reading while the others had told their own stories, taking turns in the centre of the circle.

It was the seven thousand, two hundred and thirty-fifth day of his time within the crypt. He had been here for nearly twenty years. Outside, in base-reality, somewhat more than seventeen hours had passed.

'Let me see,' the woman in the centre of the circle said again, tapping her finger on her lips. She had completed her own tale and was supposed to choose the next story-teller. He had been half listening while he'd read, finding this group's compended histories more absorbing than most. 'You, sir,' the woman said, raising her voice, and he knew she was addressing him.

He looked up. The others were turned towards him.

'Yes?' he asked.

'Will you tell us your story?' the woman asked.

'I think not. Forgive me.' He smiled a little then went back to his book.

'Sir, please,' she said, pleasantly enough. 'We would count ourselves fortunate if you'd join our group. Will you not share your wisdom with us?'

'I have no wisdom,' he told her.

'Your experiences, then?'

'They have been trivial, uninteresting, and full of error.'

'So you protest,' she said evenly. She looked at one of the others in the circle. 'Great souls suffer in silence,' she said quietly, amidst laughter.

He frowned, hiding his face with the book.

He slept that night in a high bare room looking over the dark plain.

The woman came to him in the night, her presence signalled by a creak on the stairs even before the rucksack — balanced against the door — fell over.

Called from a dream — in which he heaved a cutlass, knee deep in a fly-blown salt marsh — he sat with his cloak drawn around him up to his eyes, the sword concealed beneath.

She stood in the doorway, a pale ghostly head seeming to float above her black gown. She saw his eyes, and nodded.

He swept the cloak aside to let her see the sword.

'I did not come for a duel, sir,' she said quietly.

'Then I regret there is no field in which I can give you satisfaction.'

'Nor for that,' she said, shutting the door and sitting down beside it. They sat looking at each other for a moment.

'Why, then?' he asked.

'Absens haeres non erit,' she told him.

He took a while to reply. 'Plainly,' he said without inflection, and waited to see which way that would be taken.

He saw the whiteness of her teeth as she smiled. 'I was told it might not be possible to tell if you are the one. That might be a further sign in itself.'

'Nonsense.'

She nodded. 'That's what I thought.'

'What "one", may I ask?'

'You may. Choose from the many rumours, myths and legends. I don't know.'

'You have disturbed your own sleep and mine merely to tell me what you don't know?'

'No; to tell you this: seek the transformation of the enemy.' She rose. 'Good night.'

Then she opened the door and left, more silently than she had arrived.

He sat, thinking.

It took him a while to work it out.

4

Am in thi lammergeiers roost, ma bref soundin loud in ma eers & mixd in wif theez hissy clikky noyses coz am wearin this mask on ma fais & a breevin botil on me bak boath ov witch I got off thi ded spier.

This is a spooki ole playce & no mistake. Thers nobodi aroun & its very coald indeed & thi lite is very wyt & intens & washd out lookin. Bein in thi lammergeiers roost is like bein insyd a jiant holy cheez; sorta interconectid bubbilz & stretchd punkchird membrains ov stoan & metil evrywheare & hi up on thi wols in plaises whare thi bubbilz mak cup & boals juttin out thers theez nests lynd wif babil plant & fevirs onli thers no birdz in them nor eggs nor nufin. Thi floar of thi roost is lyk a hoal lot ov littil craters eech ov them holdin loadsa brokin, splintird boans. Ma feet go cruntch cruntch as I wok, lookin up & aroun & tryin 2 c if thers enybodi else heer Ithir hoomin or creetch but thi plais seems 2 b dessertid.

Ther r hooj sirkils in thi outer wols lyk porthoals whare thi winds cumin whistlin thru & soundin hi & reedy & weerd; I clime up 2 1 ov thi bigir holez & luke out. Its hazy whyt clowd out thare like a lair ov fog whot extends 2 thi horyzon; u can juss about c thi lowir levils ov thi cassil showin undirneef, like sumfin trapt inside a transparim glaysier. Thers a cupil ov towrs stikin up froo thi cloud but they luke very small & far away. No sine ov no birds out thare neevir, but then thats thi fing; this is 2 far up 4 birdz 2 fly, so how cum thi lammergeiers wer evir here?

I slide doun a curv ov bubil & cruntch in2 sum boans, then hed 2wards thi centir ov thi towir, in2 thi shades whare thers a faint breez cumin from.

Thi nests fin out & disapeer as I go deeper, stil cruntchin ovir thi occaysinal boan while it gets darkir & darkir & I can hardly c whare am puttin ma feet. Av got this torch whot thi ded spyer had on him so I turn it on & juss as wel; thers a dirty grate hoal rite in front ov me. I edje closir & hold on2 thi wol & stik ma hed out ovir thi hooj sirkulir hoal. Muss b 50 metirs or moar acros. Blak deep. Goze strate up in2 thi darkniss, 2. Thers a jentil draft ov air cumin up thi shaft. Iss warm, @ leest in comparison wif thi freezin air up heer. No sine ov eny uthir entrinses aroun thi shaft, juss this 1.

Am stil not enywhare neer thi centir ov thi towir; thass way, way furthir deep, probly a cupil ov klometirs away. Am in thi fass towr, stil on thi lam & serchin 4 litl Ergates.

I leen bak from thi hoal.

Then thers a cruntchin noyse sumwhare in thi darknis bhind me. I whirl roun.

I foun Gaston thi slof peekin out ovir a stoan ledj on thi inside wol ov thi slofs' towr, neer thi sloped tunnil whot led 2 thi ole lift shafts. Accordin 2 thi glimpse Id had ov thi locality when Id cripted erlier these shafts wer abandind & unyoosd but Id fot wif eny luk theyd b thi tipe ov shaft whot has stares goan roun thi inside ov thi shaft 4 merjencies, & mayb they wooden b garded by thi bods whot wer attakin thi slofs.

Wel, that woz thi feery. In fact thi scoop ov thi tunil on thi levil blow whare Gaston woz hidin woz fool ov Security geezirs wif guns. O grate, I fot.

I'd climed along btween thi dank blak wol ov thi towr & thi framework ov scaffoldin whot woz thi slofs' hoam neyburhood, hedin 4 heer, whare thi floar dropt away in steps & thi aksess tunil woz. Lookt like old Gaston had had thi saim idear.

I didn fink Id maid a noyse but he turnd roun sloly & saw me & pushed himself bak from thi edj ov thi ledj & climed up thi scafoldin 2wards me, poyntin bhind me.

We retreetid a bit, bhind sum ov thi canvas-hung scafoldin.

… yung Bashkule, he sed, u r shafe; gude.

Yeh & u, I sed. But it lukes like thi Security boyz ½ this playce strung up gude & tite. U no eny uthir waze out ov heer?

… ash it happinsh, Gaston sez, I do actchirly. If yule jusht folo me…

Gaston set off bak froo thi scaffoldin hedin upwards @ whot woz probly a extreme sprint 4 a slof. I ambild aftir him.

We climed up about 7 floars ov thi slof scaffoldin; ther woz qwite a lot ov smoak up here & I cude c flaims in thi distins, deepir inside thi struktyir.

… Heer, Gaston sed, stopin @ a pritti ordnari lookin bit ov wol. He gript thi top ov a drippin blak stoan; it hinjed down 2 riveel a roun blak hoal. He moashind me in.

I muss ½ lookt doobeyus.

… I'll go firsht, then, he sed, & clambird in2 thi hoal.

I shuden ½ luked doobeyus bcoz I cuden lift thi stoan bak up aftir us & so Gaston had 2 sqweez past me 2 do it. I doan no if u ½ evir had a larj swety slof wif kopeyis qwantities ov fungis on itz pelt sqweez past u in a confined spaice… Cum 2 fink ov it probly u Vant, but asoomin thass thi case fink uself luky thass ol I can say.

½in Gaston sqweez past me agen didn seem like sutch a gude idear.

Al juss leed off then if itz ol thi same 2 u Gaston ole sun, I sed.

… By ol meenz, yung Bashcule.

Thi tunil woz crampt & only fit 4 crollin in. Thi dam fing wen up, doun & roun this way & that way; it woz like climein around in thi intestinez ov sum hooj stoan jiant. Wif Gaston's pelt-fungis stil smeerd ol ovir me, it didn smel dissimilir neevir.

Lissin Gaston, I sed @ 1 point while he woz givin me a punt up a partikerly steep bit ov thi jiant intestin, am reely sorry if that woz me whot brot ol that thare shit down on u gies. I reely presiate whot u did, rescuin me & takin me in etc & Id hate 2 fink I woz responsibil 4 ol this.

… I qwite undirshtand yoor angwish, yung Bashcule, Gaston sed. But itsh not yoor folt shertin pershinsh r tryin 2 pershicute u.

U reely fink they woz aftir me? I askd.

… Zhat woz zhe impreshin I formed from what I overherd, Gaston sed. Zhey did not sheem 2 b intereshtid in eny ov ush. Zhey were lukin 4 shumbody elsh zhey shuspected ush ov harberin.

Blimey.

… In eny event, Gaston sed, Zhi reshponshibility ish thersh, not yoorsh. Whot happind ish just 1 ov thoshe thingsh I shupoashe.

Wel, fanks, Gaston, I sed.

… U didn… kript, did u? Gaston sed. Ish jusht that mite ½ led them 2 ush. But u didn, did u?

O no, I sed. No, not me; I didn. Nope. Not gilty. No sirree. Uh-uh. Wooden catch me doing a fing like that. O no.

… Zhare u r then, Gaston sed.

& so we wound on fru thi guts ov thi towr, me feelin lowir than a tapewurm.

Eventyooly we came 2 a bit whare thi tunil wideind out & thi floar turnd from stoan 2 wood; I moar or less fel in2 this woodin bowl whare a faint lite shon. I didn qwite get out ov thi way in time so Gaston slid down on top ov me.

Moar pelt fungis.

… ther shude b a trap heer shumwhare, Gaston sed, feelin aroun on thi floar… A, heer it is. Ther woz a sorta holo clunkin noyse & in thi ½-lite I cude c Gaston pullin whot lookt like a hooj plug up out ov thi floar.

… Itsh a holod out babil shtem, Gaston explained, settin thi plug 2 1 side. I'll go firsht, I shink.

Thi holo babil trunk heded down in a serees ov long, stretchd Ss. Ther wer rungs on thi wols; Gaston wen down them prity qwikli 4 a slof. Now & agen we passd whot mite ½ been doars in thi trunk whare thi okayshinal crak ov lite showd, but moastli it woz toatily dark. We seemd 2 go on doun 4evir & I neerli fel off a cupil ov tyms. Juss as wel Gaston woz beneef me; thi thot ov anuthir cloas encountir wif his pelt fungis qwikly consintraitid my mynd, I can tel u.

@ last Gaston sed,… Heer we r, & we stept on 2 a platform ov stoan & wen thru a doar in2 a crampt spais whare Gaston wriggld & I crold btween a stoan floar & this metil sealing witch maid a sorta blurbilurbilurbil soun. We cairn out in whot luked lyk a big long kurvin servis duct hoos wols wer lynd wif pyps; weed juss crold undir a big gurglin tank ov sum sort. I cude heer whot soundid lyk a trane rumblin sumwhare neerby.

… Zher ish a frate tube line juncshin thru zhare, Gaston sed, poyntin @ a hatch in thi floar. Zhi tranes ½ 2 shlo doun 2 negoshiate thi poyntsh & it ish poshibil 4 a hoomin 2 jump on bord a wagin & sho shicure a ryde. I shink I ½ 2 retern 2 c whot has befolin ma frendsh, but if u can maik yoor way 2 thi sekind levil shousht-wesht buttry u wil fynd a toun zhare. Go 2 thi shentril sqware; shum1 wil b lukin 4 u & wil luke aftir u. Im sorri 2 ½ 2 abandin u in zhish way, but it ish ol I can do.

Thass ol rite, Gaston, I sed. U dun ol u can & I doan deserv ol thi kyndniss yoov shown me. I woz so choakd I cude ½ hugd him, but I didn. He just noddid his big funy pointid hed & sed,… Wel, gude luk yung Bashcule, u tak care now… & u promish u wil go 2 thi shousht-wesht buttry & thi toun zhare?

O yes, I sez, lyin thru ma teef.

Good. Fair wel.

Then he woz away, crolin bak undir thi big gurgli tank.

I went doun fru thi hatch in thi floar in2 a brod dark cavern whare lots ov toob lyns converjd from singil tunnils. Ther woz nobodi about but I hid bhynd sum hummin sorta cabinet fings between 2 ov thi trax & wated; a whyle laitir a trane ov opin wagins came rattlin fru, claterin acros thi points; I let thi unmand endjinn & moast ov thi wagins go pas & then jumpd on 1 neer thi end, hollin maself up thi side & ovir in2 its emty interier.

After a few minits during witch thi trane entird a blak-dark tunnil & pikd up speed agen, I rekind it woz safe 2 kript.

Ther woz no horibil corrosiv fog/sleet heer. Everyfin loakily seemd normil. Thi trane woz heddin 4 thi far end ov thi 2nd levil, neer 2 thi Sutherin Volcano Room. It wude slo down @ a few moar playces yet whare I cude get off. I kriptd furthir afeeld.

/Thi lammergeiers roost woz frozen. Its kript-space repre­sentation woz thare but it woz like a stil piktcher insted ov a moovy; ther wer no birds nor enybody or enyfin thare & u cuden interact wif nufin thare. I sensd sumfin neerby in thi kript space & suspectid ther woz sum kinda gard on thi playce, waitin 2 c who turnd up inarestid in thi lammergeiers. I disconectid qwik.

Thi trane rold on. Thi lammergeiers livd — or used 2 liv — in thi fass towr, on thi 9th levil. I rekind ther woz sumfin goan on up thare. Thi frate trane wude pass almost undirneef thi fass towr. Gude enuf 4 me. Thi 9th levil soundid a bit hi & cold & inaxessibil but Id burn that bridje when I came 2 it.

I almost decapitaytid myself jumpin off thi trane when it wen fru anuthir set ov points in a wide bit ov tunil thi lenth ov witch. I slitely overestimated, but apart from bangin a shoaldir on a wol & skinnin 1 nee I escaped unscaved. I climed a ladir, wokd a bit ov servis tunnil & took a servis elevaitir up 2 thi main floor levil. I foun maself in whot lukd like a jiant kemikil wurx, all pipes & big preshir vessils & leekin steem & funy smelz. Shurenuf, a qwik chek on thi kript & confirmd it woz a plastix rfinery.

Aftir a lot of fancy & hily teknikil kriptin, sum wokin & climein ovir pipes & ducts & avoidin thi dodjier lookin shados I foun a otomatik frate elivaitir taikin vats ov sum sorta fertilizer up thi towr & hitchd a ryde up in that.

Ma eers popt aftir 2 minits, & aftir about 5, & 10.

Sumoar fancy kriptin got thi elevaitir 2 go a floar abuv whare it woz expectid; this woz as hi as it cude go. I got out in a sorta tol opin gallery whare a feerse coal wind blu & thi vew woz ov babil plantz formin a fretwurk ov narled branchis lettin in a spare icy lite.

I let thi elevaitir tak itself bak doun a floar.

Ther woz a piller about 100 metirs away witch supportd thi roof ov thi tol gallery. Thi 1 in thi uthir directshin woz twice as far away. I set off 2wards thi neerir 1.

I woz stil only dresd in ma yewshil cloavs & this wind woz makin me shiver olredy, but then it had been fairly warm furthir down so mayb it woz juss thi suddeniss ov thi change. I wokd along thi gallery, btween thi silooetid babil & thi smoov ashlar ov thi towr's barely curvd wol. Thi floar felt coald thru my shooz & I wishd I had a hat.

Thi kript startid 2 get a bit vaig & unhelpful about thi layout ov thi fass towr @ aroun this levil. I juss had 2 hoap thi piller mite ½ a set ov stares in it.

It didn. It had 2 sets ov stares in it, intertwynd in a dubil heelix like deenay.

Didn seem 2 mattir whitch 1 I took. I startid climein.

I went fass @ furst 2 try & warm up but thi bref juss wissld outa me & my legs turnd 2 jelly; I had 2 sit down & poot ma poundin hed btween ma nees b4 I cude continu, moar sloly.

Thi steps went roun & roun & roun; pretti steep.

I ploddid on & up, tryin 2 settil in2 a rithim. This seemd 2 wurk but I woz gettin a hel ov a hedaik. Luky I woz fit, not 2 menshin determind. (Not 2 menshin bludy stupid, it woz startin 2 okur 2 me.)

Thi piller got 2 thi next storey — anuthir opin gallery — & didn stop; it went on up. Seemd 2 go on 4 a good ways yet so I stuk wif it. Thi stare case had no handrales & tho it woz a good cupil ov metirs wide it wude ½ been friteninly open & exposed on thi outir side if thi babil plants hadent bin hangin growin ol over thi outside ov thi towr. As it woz it woz stil prity friteninly exposd on thi uthir side, but thi best ring 2 do woz not 2 fink about it & sertinly not 2 luke.

I kept climein.

Anuthir levil. My hed woz hurtin lyk mad. I luked 4 thi piller but it wozent thare eny moar. Insted ther woz a hoal network ov twistid pillers, weevin this way & that wif hi-alt babil — thin weedy stuf — ol ovir it, coatin thi floar ov thi galery, nettin thi weev ov thi frettid stoan wol.

I wandird, my feet trippin ovir thi babil, lookin 4 a strand ov stonework wif steps in it or on it so that I cude go hier, my vishin gettin dark @ thi edjis, my legs feelin bouncy & strange & sumfin howlin in ma eers that mite ½ bin thi wind & mite not.

I doan no how long it woz b4 I foun thi spyer, fallin amungst thi babil, ded, crumplid, head shattered, skin dried, white bones pokin thru his neepads. I remember lukin up & finkin he must ½ follin from thi opin-wurk seelin, & I saw his mask & thi cylinder on his bak but I just wanderd off agen, feelin like I woz wokin along this tunil coz that woz ol I cude c & it seemd like ours layter while I woz stil serchin 4 anuthir stareway or @ leest a doar or sumthin that I thot, Hey, mayb I cude yoos thi spyers geer! & I startid 2 turn roun & almost tript ovir him bcoz Id wanderd in a sirkil.

Ther woz old brown blood dried on thi faice mask but it fel away like dark dandruf when I nokd it. Thi oxijin in thi tank wos coald & it felt like it waz freezin ma lungs but my hedaik startid 2 go & I wozen lukin down a tunnil ol thi time no moar.

I finishd thi watir in his canteen, took his jaket, hat & torch & left thi poor buggir lyin thare.

Thi stares wer in a reely obvyis place, just along from thi top ov thi piller Id climed.

Thi lammergeiers' roost woz on thi next levil. I got thare @ dusk & collapsed in a nest ov dry babil an hooj scratchy fevvirs. Thi don woke me & I startid investigaytin, endin up lookin down thi big shaft.

I heer thi cruntchin njoyse.

I swing thi torch roun aimin thi beem down thi tunnil; thi warm breeze cumin up thi deep blak shaft tugs @ my jaket. Thi torch beem juss disapeers in2 thi dark, swolod up.

Sumthin cruntches agen, then thers a noyse ov sumfin cumin whisslin 2wards me.

I doan ½ time 2 duk & I doan c whot hits me, but it bashis in2 my chest & noks me bakwards, thi bref goan Hoof!, outa ma lungz. I feel myself start 2 go ovir thi edj ov thi shaft & grab wif 1 hand as thi lip ov stone skates under my bum. My hand misiz.

I fol in2 thi blak frote ov thi shaft.

Thi rore ov air bilds up aroun me, tearin thi mask off ma fayce.

After a few sekinds I get my bref bak & I start screemin.