Exurbia: A Novel About Caterpillars (An Infinite Triptych Book 1) Read online

  ‘261,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not a name’

  ‘It is what I am referred to. That is the most general definition of a name, I think.’

  ‘Can you leave?’ she said.

  ‘I never have.’

  ‘But can you?’

  ‘I think, in all likelihood, that I would be stopped.’

  ‘Then you’re a prisoner.’

  ‘The visitor will exit the habitat in twenty seconds,’ said the cave in its androgynous drawl.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I suppose I misspoke something awful.’

  ‘That may be,’ said 261.

  She shrugged and took a final survey of the cave and its grey uniform interior, settling finally on his face. He gestured to the entrance panel and she crossed the threshold, turning once inside, meeting his eyes again.

  ‘All citizens are free by virtue of being citizens,’ she said and leaned out of the access tube towards him. He felt her lips compress on his cheek and release, the skin still tingling when she pulled away.

  ‘By virtue of being citizens,’ she said again.

  The panel slid shut and sealed itself hermetically with the girl behind it.

  ‘Day eight thousand seven hundred and five. Quandary two will display in three minutes,’ said the cave, undeterred. The imp crossed to the wallsink and looked himself over in the mirror. There was some kind of residue left on his cheek where the girl's lips had been. The mark was elliptical like an eye.

  He returned to the chair and waited for the omnicast to activate. All citizens are free by virtue of being citizens. Grand Tersh Stanislav had said that in a speech some two decades ago at the Amethyst Rally, he recalled. He swivelled the chair around to face the cave's sealed entrance where the girl had stood only moments before. By virtue of being citizens.

  4

  “Every birth is traumatic. In these final moments there will be little ground to stand on, but I promise you the contractions are well worth it.”

  - Cato the Wiremind of Old Erde

  Jura -

  The irony was not lost on Jura: a wiremind bust during Pergrin’s Week. Before the summons he had watched the celebrations from the balcony of his office at the faculty, paying particular attention to the floats as they passed. Most were the same as last year – the smashed and twisted wiremind components – though the final float, the Pergrin cart, was more elaborate than any he remembered.

  This time it was not a statue but a real man, dressed as Pergrin might have dressed, in an Old Erde suit, smashing what was presumably supposed to be a wiremind brain over and over again with a steel club. There had been no club according to the records, Jura knew, but liberties could be taken with myths so old. The man on the cart, the faux-Pergrin, looked familiar. A student of his at the faculty perhaps. He recognised a good deal of the crowd too, also probably students of his. They were animals today, shrieking as the floats passed and raising their fists. Atavistic fools.

  Now there would be the post-Pergrin hysteria for a few days; the anti-Ix badges pinned to the breast pockets, the sudden intensity of debate during his seminars. The more provocative students would begin to question the anti-Ix sentiments publicly. He doubted he had the energy this year to answer a fresh wave of Ix-curious twenty-somethings. No matter, they would leave it all behind when they graduated. Only a few fanatics had the resilience to keep it up outside of academia.

  He caught a shape in his peripheries, a stooped and slow figure approaching, unmistakably Knox.

  ‘Quite the turn out,’ said the newcomer. Jura nodded. ‘I remember,’ he continued, ‘when the parade used to run on down through Precosa Street. Too big for that now.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Jura and turned to face the old man. I am tired, too tired for your empty pleasantries.

  ‘We could do with your expertise. Fresh Ixers out near the Blueberry Projects. There’ll be a bust this afternoon,’ said Knox and continued to watch the parade. ‘Almost got one up and running, we think. Enough evidence for a search. I want you there.’

  Jura had read of fascist states in the ancient days of Old Erde when men of power made simple demands of their populace. None of this euphemism and sugar-coating. Times must have been simpler then, he thought. It was easier when the monster had only one face.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Jura.

  ‘We’ve been monitoring one of them for some time. He’s been making a number of strange purchases at the glitter markets. Logic decouplers and the like.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s for an innocent project,’ said Jura and regretted it immediately. This would be taken as an uncooperative statement and marked against him, noted on some file of his by Knox personally in a few hours.

  ‘I think you know better than that,’ said Knox. ‘There’s a transport waiting at the back of the faculty. It should only take a few hours.’

  Jura thought for a moment of feigning illness and let the idea go. He took a final look at the Pergrin parade, left wordlessly, put on his coat and met the flyer by the rubbish skips, nodding to the guards inside.

  The pilot took them over the Stratigraphics Faculty first – the crowd surrounding the Pergrin parade turning quickly into distant ants as they ascended – and out into the projects. The bluetin glimmers of the innercity buildings gave way with ease to the suburbs, everything suddenly grey and churning; improvised chimneys that billowed sulphur from amateur t’assali generators. Gnesha knows what ungodliness pervades those ill streets. God would be born, down there in the smog despite Governance’s best efforts. He had no doubt of it. Only a matter of time. That was a certainty he would never pass onto Knox and the old men at Governance.

  And what a strange lap to be born into, the slums. Too many of the Blueberry Projects Ixenites were working tirelessly, filching parts from the glitter markets, ripping off Governance technology. Even if ten thousand of them had no idea what they were doing, it only took one genius born among the crowd to build a working wiremind. And that genius had probably already been born. The harbinger. There will be only one horseman.

  He liked to imagine it in his darker moments: that vile hour when the first wiremind woke up and took stock of the world. It would reach out into the planet communication networks and in one deft move take hold of trade, of the military, of the propaganda outlets, the retail centres, the black markets, the crèches, the radio telescopes. Everything entire.

  They passed over the Turner Flatlands and began to descend in a lazy spiral. Jura looked for an enforcement outfit and could see none. Of course not, they’d hardly be dressed in uniform, halfwit. The pilot set the flyer down behind a warehouse. Jura climbed from the hatch, a plainclothes already waiting for him.

  ‘Professor Jura,’ the grunt said.

  ‘Presently.’

  ‘This way please.’

  There were more of them than usual, fifteen maybe, plainclothes, all probably straight from the recruitment centre. They crossed through alleys strewn with scrap metal and baby clothes and approached the door of a terraced hovel. The grass was cut. Perhaps it was exactly that which had given them away, a tended lawn on a street of weeds and tyre streaks. One of the plainclothes beat on the front door with a fist. ‘Raid,’ he shouted. The others took offensive positions. There was no answer. ‘Wiremind bust,’ said the plainclothes again, kicking at the wood this time. Eyes appeared at the window next door.

  ‘Storm it,’ said the superior. The plainclothes stepped back and one of the others took a glitz from his pocket. The door went up in a cough of vapour.

  The hall was empty. Most of them ran in, the superior hanging back with Jura. Primal shouts came bursting from the windows. A few of the plainclothes emerged with two dishevelled men, cuffed already, both with morning hair and still in their dressing gowns. One fixed Jura with a stare as he passed, doubtless bound for some unforgiving holding cell for the rest of his life at the Bureau of Rehabilitation. Perhaps he had been a student of Jura’s at the Stratigraphics Faculty. It was not imposs
ible. That indignant pro-Ix streak in the kids sometimes, rare though it was, gave way to maverick sentiments. A decade later and they were usually being led out of some projects hovel by a plainclothes, always with that bitter and quiet resentment on their faces. When the grunts were all out, the superior gestured to the front door.

  ‘Take a look around, Professor. That's why you’re here isn’t it?’

  Jura took the tineye from his pocket, clipped it to his lapel and began recording. The inside of the hovel bore the usual marks of neglected squalor. Detritus and mountains of unwashed dishes. These were men with a singular purpose. The usual pleasantries and appliances of comfortable living were absent. It was always this way.

  There was no point in going upstairs. It would not be there. It never was. He made instead towards what looked like a door to the cellar and descended the stairway. No need to find the light, the room was already suffused in the characteristic orange glow of t’assali.

  ‘Gnesha’s knees,’ muttered the superior, following him in. ‘They were almost there, weren’t they?’

  Makeshift generators were scattered all about the cellar, power couplers and leads feeding the central podium. Atop it, five rings hung suspended in what must have been a Garlyle field, spinning fast enough to blur and intersecting. A pure ball of orange t’assali throbbed and waned at the heart of the rings. The sphere was still unstable, bobbing about uncertainly in the field. Still uncohered.

  ‘It’s not…’ whispered the superior.

  Awake, thought Jura. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it? And then what would you do? Explode it, I should expect. Would that be murder by your definition?

  ‘No,’ said Jura. ‘But they were just days from it. Lucky we got here when we did.’

  He didn’t take his eyes from the t’assali sphere. ‘What will happen to the Ixenites?’ he said, unable to resist.

  ‘A quick trial, no jury. Then the rest of their lives in holding. You’d think they would know better.’

  I wish I knew better, Jura thought.

  ‘Well, the sphere isn’t stable,’ said Jura. ‘They didn’t have the power yet. It takes a lot of energy. They were probably going to try and hook it into the local grid, source the electricity that way. It’s how the others always do it. You’re done here, Detective. Go back to the Bureau, tell them it was mere days from a stage one crisis.’

  The t’assali sphere jerked uncertainly and settled again.

  ‘I’m taking the machinery into my custody,’ he said then. I cannot help myself.

  ‘Your custody?’ said the detective, guardedly incredulous.

  ‘Mine, yes. It’s my job to decommission Ixer equipment. Don’t worry, you can take the credit for the brute force, that’s the part the media streams will care about. Go back to the flyer. I’ll make my own way back.’

  ‘Professor -’

  ‘I always administrate the decommissioning in these instances. Go back to the Bureau.’ You know I have ties with Governance. You wouldn't dare contradict me.

  The superior eyed him cautiously and ascended the cellar’s staircase, stopping at the landing to take a last look at the spinning rings, then finally leaving.

  Jura bent to a crouch and stared into the orange sphere. It seemed, he thought, to stare into him.

  5

  “Every conflict tends towards total surrender on both sides.”

  - The Ixenite Manifesto – 6th Edition

  Fortmann -

  ‘Friends,’ Fortmann said. ‘Romans, countrymen, Ixenites.’ I wonder if they know what a Roman was. Never mind, it was a little joke he could enjoy by himself if nothing else.

  ‘I have vital news, a little surprise if you will. But first, as you are all no doubt aware, the Ayakashi obliterated Xianxi several days ago. Several of Our Brothers in the Up, Tanaka Godel and Jonathan Incandenza, were visiting family members there. The entire city was lost. Let us hope that their final moments were not painful. They were good men, both having given themselves completely to our cause and the Up.’

  Good riddance. Godel was an incompetent, and Incandenza a total simpleton.

  ‘Now, to happier matters. As you know, our sister Maria met with the moralising imp himself, thanks to our lottery scheme.’

  He found her eyes in the audience. She was wearing the beginnings of a proud smile.

  ‘And had the chance to speak with him at length. I’m sure she will give you the full details of the proceedings in a moment. Let me assure you that it is good news. And let me further assure you that this is the breakthrough we have been waiting for, the fatal chink in Governance’s armour. As ever, we are tasked with being god’s midwives. And like any birth, it will now only take one final resolved push.’

  They applauded at that. The Zdrastian was staring with desperate eyes. Even Mr. Covert Woof was up on his front paws at his master’s side.

  Fortmann looked about. Gnesha, they're all staring with desperate eyes. Had Ceaser felt like this? he wondered. Had Alexander? Some men were followers. It was in their nature. Others, a precious few, were born with something else in their blood, a kind of violent talent for leadership. He could feel it coursing through him now, a sort of vitality. He stifled the applause with a wave.

  ‘And it is with great pleasure and without further ado then that I invite Our Sister in the Up, Maria, onto the stage.’

  Applause again. He took Maria’s seat in the audience as she made her way to the podium. She walked with a kind of feigned confidence. One, Fortmann thought, she learned from me.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Maria. He pictured her without clothes now, still wearing that almost-smug smile. ‘Thank you, of course, to Our Brother in the Up, Seer Fortmann, without whom none of what I’m about to tell you would have been possible. He engineered the entire operation from the outset. I volunteered for two reasons. Firstly, I considered it an honour to be able to meet with the imp, if only for such a short while. And secondly, I was a perfect candidate since as far as we can tell, Governance is extremely lax with their security checks when it comes to young women. Two weeks ago, Seer Fortmann and Our Brother Mikhail Ivanov -’

  The Zdrastian smirked sheepishly at the mention of his name.

  ‘- broke into a military cemetery and retrieved a neural implant from the body of a deceased political strategist, Dr. Kliment. We now have absolute proof that Governance is using exactly the kind of technology they have been executing their own citizens for trying to manufacture, as per the Pergrin Decree.’

  This would only have been proof, Fortmann thought, to a total idiot. Anyone who hasn't worked it out by now is either soft in the brain, or missing one entirely.

  ‘After retrieving the device and bringing it back to the Chapterhouse, a brave volunteer, Our Brother Charlie Takashi, offered to undergo the implantation procedure. I acted as a consultant to the procedure myself, and can confirm that it was a complete success.’

  Success. That's a rich term. Poor Takashi, lying on a medical bed in the basement producing puddle after puddle of spittle on his pillow and moaning incomprehensibly. All great causes require some degree of sacrifice.

  ‘Using Our Brother Charlie Takashi and the implant as a conduit, Seer Fortmann was able to break into the Governance mainframe and predetermine the outcome of the lottery, planting my name in the database. The rest was easy. Two days later, a small outfit of Governance men arrived at my apartment and informed me that I had been chosen to visit the imp in his dwelling. I feigned surprise and accompanied them to the Political District. They de-retinised me during the ride. We’re not sure how the device works, but it appears to disrupt all electrical signals between the optic nerve and the brain, rendering me blind for the entire journey. Seer Fortmann had already embedded a miniature geotracker in my foot, however.’

  ‘I was given grey overalls and told to remove all traces of make-up, which I did. The Governance men were extremely concerned with me not arousing the imp in any way. Then I was instructed to ask only very simple qu
estions, and not to touch on any current events or moral quandaries, else I would be, as they put it, “ejected.”’

  She holds the stage well, Fortmann thought, arms free and easy, keeping constant eye contact with the crowd, sentences precise and succinct. It hadn’t always been like this. He remembered her only a few years ago desperately begging to join up with the organisation. He was convinced at the time that she was nothing more than a mole. Everything reeked of it; her supple body, her desperation. He’d convinced her to undergo the Dmitrova procedure by explaining that it was the only way to be sure of her allegiances. The procedure was only designed to detect underlying mental illness, but she couldn’t possibly have known that. She had stepped into the machine without hesitation and stepped out with the same resolve. That had been enough for him. Either she was so conditioned that even she didn’t know she was a mole, or she was telling the truth.

  ‘I was then put into a motion tube and descended about one hundred feet below the ground, stopping at a partition. I heard slow footsteps behind the door. It slid aside to reveal an emaciated shadow of a man. It was of course the imp himself. He looked in perfect health, though the total absence of any hair on his head took me back at first. He was extremely well-mannered, and as far as I could tell, well-meaning. He offered me tea and welcomed me inside. The interior was as we assumed, if not a little worse. Everything inside is entirely beige so as not to excite him in any way. The cave is split into two sections; one side is his quarters, the other, the moral hub. There’s some kind of stereopticon machine inside the hub which projects a visual representation of whatever Governance has assigned him for consideration. He sits in an enormous beige chair, resolves the quandaries, then sleeps; ad infinitum, day after day.’

  Pause for effect. The Ixenites were positively on the edge of their seats. She’s not bad. Not bad at all.

  ‘The imp isn’t as inhuman as we’d assumed, despite genetic tampering from Governance. He’s particularly receptive to female company, apparently. He’s also extremely passive, which is excellent news for us. Would you like me to outline the details of the next step, Seer Fortmann, or would you prefer to introduce it yourself?’