Exurbia: A Novel About Caterpillars (An Infinite Triptych Book 1) Page 6

  One of the devotees in the plushflour field stopped to wipe the evening’s humidity from his brow. He scanned the horizon for a moment and returned to ploughing the soil.

  ‘And later, much later, a primate evolved a brain big enough to hold the universe inside it. And language was born. And sentience was born. And standing armies, and particle physics, and loan repayment schemes, and political dissent, and political obedience, and poetry, and bread, and interpretive dance, and interstellar travel. Do you see? It’s impossible, it would all have been impossible, without deep and intentional collaboration. It’s how the cells became complex organisms. It’s how the complex organisms became sentient. And it’s how man will become whatever it is he next needs to be, that which is waiting in the Up. But like those cells, like those tiny, divisible and insignificant single units, he will need to come together to give birth to that next level of complexity. And if a cell could talk, it might have screamed. It might have recoiled at the prospect of losing its individuality. But imagine telling it that millions of years later, some distant descendant of itself would be out living among the stars, on alien planets, new worlds. Well, that might just have just given it the courage required to make the jump. So I’m asking you to have courage now, in the final days. I’m asking you to revel in the miraculous shape of things to come.’

  He finished the last of the zapoei and turned to face her then in the half-dark of his chambers. ‘And no. It won’t hurt.’

  And yet it’s strange, Maria thought without daring to say it, that with a thousand other worlds in the syndicate, not a single one has broken through to the Up yet, even accidentally.

  ‘There is something, a kernel of a problem,’ he said after a time.

  ‘What?’

  'Apparently there’s a ship inbound. The Zdrastian has been using Takashi and his implant to monitor Governance communications. It’ll arrive in about twenty-four hours, apparently.’

  ‘Gnesha, is it syndicate?’

  ‘They don’t know. They gave it a good run for its money though, opened fire. Didn’t even touch it.’

  ‘How,’ she said, sitting up now, ‘did you only just think to mention this?’

  He made a placating hand gesture.

  ‘Pergrin’s toes, calm down. It doesn’t affect the imp’s big day out tomorrow. It doesn’t affect anything, for that matter.’

  ‘Anything? What if it’s syndicate?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘What if they’re bringing even tighter t’assali regulations, or harsher Pergrin restritctions, or a more sensitive wiremind detector, or -’

  ‘You’re being absurd. It’s probably just some dumb overdue diplomacy visit. There’ll be a hoo-ha for a few days, and then it’ll die down. You’ll see.’

  Out in the fields beyond, the devotees were making their way in. Assured now, Fortmann thought, of their own piety.

  ‘Do you know what history is?’ he said, like a dog refusing to give up a bone.

  She shrugged.

  ‘History is the autobiography of a madman. An old Erde thinker said that once. And he was wrong. History is what god does as he’s waking up. Sometimes he groans a little and out comes a printing press or a new vaccine. Other times, he opens a bleary eye and a species learns to flit between the stars. But sooner or later he’s going to come around entirely and sit up right there in bed, Gnesha’s teeth he will. And every burning ball of t’assali in every Ixenite basement will be a footnote to that great morning. Because only one need get through. Only one rig need go critical, only one need reach full Pergrinitude, and the planet’s face could change in a day. All of it, the death, the wars, the diasporas, the empires, the literature, the changing fashions; it’ll be realised on that day, on that morning. Let the syndicate thugs come. Let them trample over everything we’ve built. Ghesha’s spit, let them try.’

  She watched his nakedness outlined in the half-dark, gesticulating as he spoke. There is a flame at the heart of some men, and it burns for good in a few, and it burns for ill in others, and I haven’t the slightest idea, she thought, what it burns for in you.

  10

  “Every mud puddle, every bough, every bridge, every nebula – why, it's a love song to the Up, sung across entirety of time.”

  - The Second Wielder

  Jura -

  No ram-jets, Jura thought. No boosters, no chemical propulsion of any kind. It was unsettlingly quiet. The craft descended slowly, kissed the landing pad with its chrome belly, then lay still. The crowd was silent, save for a ripple of murmurs. The grand tersh straightened himself at Jura’s side, cleared his throat a few times, and moved his bulk from one foot to the other.

  ‘Let’s just hope they’re syndicate,’ whispered the tersh.

  It was possible, Jura had realised several days earlier, that the syndicate had been overtaken by some other faction, or destroyed entirely. Exurbia only received infrequent wave communications from the hub, a sentence or two every five years. Besides, any idiot could just pretend to represent the syndicate. Perhaps it had collapsed centuries ago. There was no way to know.

  The rear of the craft slid aside and a gangway emerged. Then a figure descended, tall and garbed in white flowing robes, two spherical floating objects in tow. A woman, Jura realised, by her build. Blonde flowing hair fell about her shoulders, and nestled in between the reams was a pale and austere face that surveyed the crowd. Even the murmurs were dead now. She approached the bridge platform on which stood Jura, the grand tersh, and a full compliment of Bucephalian Governance officials: worldworks analysts, diplomats to the marginals, strategists, and worldstate poets. She identified the tersh as an authority figure and approached him. The tersh opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

  ‘Welcome,’ Jura said uncertainly, ‘to Exurbia.’

  The tersh appeared suddenly furious but held his tongue.

  I should not have made the opening remarks. I will suffer for this later.

  ‘Many thanks,’ said the woman, ‘for both the reception, and attending in such a capacity.’

  The accent was neutral, almost Exurbic, the vowels natural and gliding.

  ‘I bring gifts, of course,’ she said.

  One of the floating drones glided into the forefront and opened a side panel to reveal some kind of blue and glowing matter.

  ‘A much-needed replacement for your t’assali technology. Your scientists will be able to synthesise more of the material from this original template. It’s about ten times more efficient than t’assali, and cleaner at that.’

  ‘My Lady,’ said the grand tersh, and bowed his head in customary respect. ‘You grace us with your kindness.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Jura studied the face. What is so bizarre about it? Something out of place, and yet deliciously subtle. Her features are beautiful, but typical nonetheless. Her eyes, a standard shade of blue.

  ‘We’re to assume then,’ said the tersh, ‘that you are representing the syndicate?’

  Her skin was pale and blemishless, her movements a little lacklustre; Gnesha, what is so wrong with you?

  'I have been dispatched by the inner-council personally.’

  ‘I see,’ said the tersh. ‘Then it’s a great honour to receive you. To what, might I ask, do we owe the pleasure of your making planetfall? It has been over two centuries since we were last blessed with a visitation.’

  Symmetry. That's it. Her face, her body, her gestures, all of it, perfectly symmetrical. She's more geometry than woman.

  The crowd strained to listen, but sonic equalisers ensured no fragment of the conversation left the meeting podium.

  ‘We have reason to suspect that a Pergrin crisis is imminent on Exurbia.’

  She said it without hesitation, as though announcing her intention to go for a walk later that afternoon. The tersh turned to Jura, wide-eyed, impotent now.

  ‘Your Magnanimity,’ Jura said quickly, ‘we keep an extremely close watch on even the least suspicious circumstances to e
nsure such an event -’

  ‘I am well aware,’ she cut in. ‘Nevertheless. Come, let’s not allow it to mar the first few moments of our opening remarks. Your are Grand Tersh Princewright, I believe. And Professor Jura, yes? My official syndicate title is Fifth Degree Socratic Butterworth, but Miss Butterworth will be acceptable.’

  Miss Butterworth, Jura thought. The name conjured images of an amenable music teacher or benevolent headmistress. Worse still, she knows our names already.

  ‘And you have come alone?’ said the tersh.

  ‘Save for my spyles, yes. They have kept me company during the voyage.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ the tersh continued, ‘if I may be so bold, we didn’t detect any trace of weld radiation beyond local space. Has propulsion technology undergone some recent advances?’

  ‘You will not approach my craft,’ she said. The tersh recoiled and stifled an apologetic squeak. ‘You will not touch my craft. You will not inquire about my craft in any way. It will be sealed in an official Governance hanger and remain there untouched until my departure a week from now. Have I made myself absolutely clear?’

  The tersh nodded.

  ‘Exquisite. Similarly, any attempt to interfere with my spyles will be counted as action against the syndicate hub and the entirety of its peoples.’

  The tersh nodded again.

  ‘Marvellous. As I said, I have no intention of staying beyond a week. If everything is in order, there should be no great complications. I had a rather comprehensive view of the planet on my descent, and I must say, I’m impressed at your maintenance of the forests and greenery. A valiant effort indeed.’

  The grand tersh bowed.

  ‘Though we will have to do something about all this t’assali nonsense. The planet is saturated in radiation already. But,’ she gestured to the glowing blue mass of whatever it was inside the spyle, ‘this will settle the matter. You will need to introduce it into the energy economy at once. Professor, I’m sure I can trust you to get the proverbial lark flying on that front.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ Jura said. ‘Does the substance have a name, might I ask?’

  ‘At the hub we call it ambrosia, though you are free to refer to it as whatever you wish.’

  Ambrosia. Food of the gods?

  Jura saw the stolen burning orange opal of the t’assali rig in his mind’s eye, hidden back at his laboratory, the spinning concentric rings doubling on themselves, the curling mists of steam and smoke the device emitted as it worked. Even now, it was running at half capacity on his workbench, the tell-tale heart beating and beating and beating.

  ‘The material is chemically very close to t’assali,’ said Miss Butterworth. ‘Only more stable by a factor of ten. We’ve revolutionised some of the agricultural outer planets simply by switching over to ambrosia. It has certain unique physical characteristics that I think you in particular, Professor, will find intriguing.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, I’m sure I will,’ Jura agreed.

  They walked in a slow triplet from the bridge podium, the spyles lagging politely behind.

  ‘Your Exurbic is rather good, if I might say so,’ gushed the tersh.

  ‘As proficient as your diplomacy, Your Eminence,’ she replied. ‘I spent the duration of the journey to your planet studying the dialect.’

  ‘The duration of the journey? But your accent is perfect. How long have you been in transit?’

  ‘About fourty-eight hours.’

  ‘But -’

  ‘It behoves me to tell you that there have been a few changes in syndicate policy. We will discuss them later at length, but for now I hope it’s sufficient to say that certain high-ranking members of the hub are permitted to use implant technology. This is how I accomplished the feat.’

  The tersh swallowed violently and stared agape. ‘This is a recent development, yes?’

  ‘Somewhat.’

  Those rivers of blood, thought Jura. Those coursing rivers of state-sanctioned blood that have been spilled, and for nothing.

  ‘Nonetheless, wiremind technology is still prohibited under the Pergrin Decree. If anything, the punishments are more stringent than ever before. In the place of execution we now enforce something of a more lasting punishment. But these are overly serious matters for the time being. I’m sure my visit will be beneficial for both the syndicate and Exurbia. She turned then to Jura and smiled with unrestrained gusto. ‘So long as no citizen, official or otherwise, is coveting contraband technology in secret.’

  ‘We take great efforts,’ said the tersh, ‘to ensure that the Pergrin Decree is kept holy as scripture.’

  ‘Holier, I should hope.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And there is yet to be a Pergrin crisis on the planet?’ she said, addressing them both then.

  ‘Well -’ Jura began.

  ‘One,’ said the tersh. There was something about her face, about her eyes and her symmetry, about the way she stood, indignant and inviting at the same time, that suggested deception would be impossible, or stupid at the least.

  ‘This was not reported to the syndicate hub. When?’

  ‘Seven years ago,’ said the tersh.

  ‘Eight,’ Jura corrected.

  ‘What happened?’ said the syndicate woman.

  ‘Come, let me show you to the guest district of the city and -’

  ‘What happened?’ she said again, blocking the way ahead with her sleek frame.

  ‘Professor,’ said the tersh. ‘You’re the authority on this kind of thing, after all. Please.’

  Gnesha’s feet, you spineless bastard.

  ‘A student at the Stratigraphics Department began smuggling research equipment into his dormitory and constructing a makeshift wiremind rig,’ Jura said.

  ‘Go on,’ purred Miss Butterworth.

  ‘Our detection fields weren’t as sophisticated as they are today. We weren’t able to shut the rig down before it went critical. As soon as it did go critical, we dispatched an action team and had the student incarcerated indefinitely and the rig destroyed.’

  ‘For exactly how long was the machine critical for, Professor?’

  ‘We estimate about an hour, though from the readings we suspect it wasn’t fully conscious, probably about three quarters of the way there.’

  She nodded and turned about without comment, leading the way now down the bridge podium. The crowd was silent and reverential beyond the sonic equalisers.

  What a strange episode that had been, eight years ago, the day god had risen briefly from his sleeping. It was Jura who had kicked the student's door in, the security men in close tow with their glitzes at the ready. The kid’s face - there had only been one Ixenite in the end - was bathed in t’assali orange, still fixedly staring into the spinning rings even as the grunts stormed the room. Jura hadn’t seen a t’assali orb like that before, expanding and contracting all at once, warping the light of the field at its outer edges. The kid hadn’t resisted, hadn’t said a damn word, just stood and raised his hands. One of the lowlys shuffled him out and then it was just the security men and Jura and the wiremind rig, the rings spinning and the orb jeering and jiving in the suspensor field.

  ‘We have to shut it off,’ one of the lieutenants had said.

  Jura grunted affirmatively. There were no cords or extensions yet; the kid hadn’t had time to hook it into the steams.

  ‘Professor.’

  ‘I heard you.’

  Would it really be so difficult? I could probably order them out off the room for their safety and hook it up myself.

  ‘I’ll need a few minutes alone,’ Jura said.

  ‘Why?’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘For your own safety. The Ixer might’ve installed a bomb-catch or something in case the power trips.’

  Discreetly, as though the action were automatic, Jura watched the lieutenant take his glitz from its holster and arm the nib.

  ‘What exactly is that for?’ he asked.

  ‘For our
safety, Professor, as you said. I mean nothing by it.’

  He ordered the men from the room, just Jura and himself left then.

  ‘Well, Professor?’

  ‘Yes. All right.’

  The grunt could not be reasoned with, that much had to be acknowledged from the outset. No amount of bargaining would allow Jura the five feet needed to cross the room and sync the rig with the worldframe. Threats then. No. He’d taken his glitz out already. He could not be intimidated. They stood, the two of them in the strange room, the titian light blinking and whirling on the walls, the rings spinning faster and faster still. Jura felt a fine point press into the base of his spine.

  ‘Well, Professor.’

  ‘I hope that isn’t a glitz in my back, Lieutenant.’

  ‘I’ll need you to deactivate the rig now, Professor. Tershal orders.’

  ‘And did the grand tersh himself ask you to put that weapon to my back?’

  ‘The grand tersh specifically requested that if the attending academic ever refuses to act in preventing a Pergrin crisis that I should persuade him with force.’

  ‘If you riddle me with Denkov radiation, there won’t be anyone left to deactivate the machine. What’s your name, Lieutentant?’

  The rig was hellish loud now, grinding and whirring as the rings gyrated.

  ‘Fricke. Wiremind divison,’ shouted the lieutenant above the cacophony. ‘I'm sure that I can get creative without your help, Professor. Now please, if you would, shut the hell-haunted thing off.’

  When the grunt pressed the trigger, Jura’s body would be bifurcated; spatters of blood, fat, and bone splurging out in all directions. Probably, thought Jura, a chunk of bone or muscle would fly into the t’assali sphere's centre and break the circuit. And then what? What have I won, exactly? He disconnected the power conduits and disassembled the rings, all the while with the lieutenant watching in silence, and finally stacked the rig up in height order of components; arranged like very precisely broken bones.