Exurbia: A Novel About Caterpillars (An Infinite Triptych Book 1) Page 9

  ‘You know what I think of him.’

  ‘Well, you know what he thinks of you, after that nonsense you pulled at the faculty dinner.’

  ‘What do you want, Stefan?’

  ‘I see you kept my name. Jura sounds much better than whatever his is anyway. I forget. Sawdwitz? Sadwitz?’

  ‘What do you want, Stefan?’

  ‘I bet he’s pretty irate, what with -’

  ‘Gnesha’s gallstones, so help me, I’ll hang up this second if you don’t -’

  ‘I think they’re going to come for me.’

  She eyed him through the stream for a few moments. ‘For what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘But they don’t know. Do they?’

  ‘They know. The tersh knows.’

  ‘You’re just being paranoid.’

  ‘He told me. Personally. He took me up to his tower and he made me drink zapoei and then he told me all about it. They’ve known for years, I don’t know how, but they have. And they’ve been keeping me around because of my work. But most of the new kids at the faculty know the technology better than me now anyway. And I’ll give it about a week before His Holiness finds that out which means I’ll give it about a week and a day before they come for me.’

  ‘But this syndicate woman, they wouldn’t arrest you while she’s here, surely? It’ll look terrible.’

  ‘What, are you mad? She’s the biggest Pergrin nut there is. Didn’t you watch her speech?’

  ‘Sure, but I just assumed it was all gassing.’

  ‘It isn’t. She’d glitz me in the back personally if she didn’t think it’d make a mess of her dress.’

  She cradled her head in her hands. ‘Oh Stefan…’

  ‘I miss you Annie.’

  ‘Stefan.’

  ‘I feel like a lion, a big Old Erde one out on the plains about to die. They always knew when they were about to die.’

  ‘Do you remember that place,’ she said, ‘where I spilled stakliovatz down my dress?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. Meet me there on Goetheday, just after moonup. Don’t say it aloud, there’s always the chance they’re listening.’

  ‘If they’re listening Annie, you’ll be implicated in all of this too.’

  ‘But at least they won’t know where we’re going. Buy new clothes in case they’ve put trackers in the ones you own. Take a strange route. Watch for anybody following. Keep under the awnings and the geo-orbiters won’t be able to trace you.’

  He nodded solemnly. She had aged, but only around the eyes. The freckles were still there, her skin still deathly pale.

  ‘What should I wear?’ he said. ‘Something suave? Do you still like a man in a suit?’

  ‘Goodnight Stefan.’

  15

  “The true journey of discovery lies not in the search for new lands, but rather in seeing with new eyes.”

  - Marcel Proust, Old Erde word artisan

  261 -

  There was a man at the end of the bed when 261 woke. He was perhaps in his early thirties, dressed casually, and with dark features. His hair was kept in cluster bunches, a style apparently typical for Exurbic men. ‘Did you sleep well?’ he said.

  ‘It was adequate,’ said 261 and sat up.

  ‘Please, don't rise just yet. There isn’t much of a schedule for the day. Ah, but I suppose you’re rather partial to that kind of life, getting up at a specific time, spending all day in front of the quandary globes?’

  Strong probability: this is a leader of some kind, or the associate of one.

  ‘Yes. That was my routine.’

  ‘Tell me, didn’t you ever tire of it?’

  261 considered the question a moment. ‘No.’

  ‘Or get bored, anxious, claustrophobic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gnesha, they really did a number on you, didn’t they?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Governance really went to the wall when they created you, I mean.’

  He squinted into 261’s eyes with a detached curiosity.

  ‘Except they obviously screwed up in places. It can’t be easy, ripping out the humanity like that.’

  261 was in a sleeping chamber of some kind, all four walls bearing wall-to-floor bookshelves. On a brief scan he recognised a few of the authors’ names. Old Erde literature, mostly.

  ‘I’ve brought you a present,’ said the man, handing him a bag. Inside was edible matter of some description, bright blue orbs.

  ‘Snullubs,’ said the man. ‘They’re delicious. And even better, I thought they could, you know, replace your quandary globes.’

  Strong likelihood: he is testing my capacity for humour. This is some form of elaborate ritual.

  ‘The quandary globes in the cave were made of light,’ said 261. ‘Not fruit.’

  ‘Well, beggars can’t be choosers as the adage goes. Are you feeling well?’

  ‘I’m not in pain.’

  ‘That’s excellent news. Positively refulgent.’ He offered a hand. ‘Seer Fortmann,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I'm aware who you are. I was set a number of quandaries in relation to you.’

  Fortmann took 261’s hand and manually put it in his, then shook. ‘What kind of quandaries?’

  ‘I’m not able to disclose that.’

  Fortmann made an exasperated face for a moment, then let out a gleeful rolling laugh.

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. That’s just wonderful. With the upmost respect friend, I don’t think Governance is coming for you. They’ll try, but this is one of the last places they’ll look.’

  ‘Why?’ said 261. 'Where are we?’

  Fortmann laughed again, louder this time. ‘I’m not able to disclose that. I suppose we both have secrets to keep. Are you feeling any better after your, shall we say euphemistically, episode?’

  Yes, the last moment he remembered being conscious, the hot stab in his neck - a transquilising needle in strong likelihood, the sensation of nausea, the girl watching in apparent displeasure as he fell. She may prove to be an excellent resource in my escape, given her obviously maternal regard for me.

  ‘I am feeling fine.’

  ‘No anxiety?’

  ‘I am anxious, yes.’

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘I’m unsure. Since I was infected with the testosterone synthesiser, I have been experiencing an array of unfamiliar emotional states.’

  ‘And I suppose you blame yesterday’s outburst on it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, if I had to put my money on a square, it wouldn’t be the synthesiser. But no matter. I should be clear about a few things that Our Sister in the Up may have neglected to mention. You will be treated well here, but you can’t leave unless under supervision, and not without discussion beforehand. You’re welcome to read any book you wish in the apartment, but at no point will you be given access to the streams or a skript.’

  Inflated confidence in his intellectual abilities, probable likelihood of habouring a superiority complex.

  ‘Understood. I have a question,’ said the imp.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What exactly are you expecting of me?’

  ‘You assume we’re expecting anything of you.’

  ‘You’re implying that I was freed out of some kind of moral compulsion, that it was done with good will in mind.’

  ‘Certainly. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘A great deal. Firstly, your female associate was quite explicit that I’m here for some specific purpose. Secondly, your freeing of me almost perfectly coincides with the syndicate visitor’s arrival.’

  The man nodded respectfully and looked the imp over.

  ‘You’re not wrong, friend,’ Fortmann said. ‘I won’t lie. We have certain expectations of you, expectations that aren’t unreasonable considering that we have granted you your freedom. A fair exchange, I think. I suppose Our Sister in the Up mentioned our plan to distribute free anti-Pergrin technology to the masse
s?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘But that is only a fraction of our intentions. Ultimately, we want to create a wiremind. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Governance has some kind of technology that can detect sentient t’assali patterns before they go critical, giving them plenty of time to storm our hideouts and steal our rigs and imprison Our Brothers and Sisters in the Up. The obvious answer is to go to the root of the problem.’

  ‘To dissolve Governance,’ said 261.

  Fortmann laughed delightedly. ‘Oh no, that would be anarchy. Nothing like that. Just a redistribution of power.’

  ‘By killing the tersh.’

  ‘Removing him however needs dictate, yes. Only then will we be in a position to finish our project undeterred. Better still, in the wake of his death, we will take the syndicate woman hostage and demand only that the hub stay out of Exurbic affairs for a while, else we execute her. That should be enough leverage.’

  Ultimate estimation: far too many variables to guarantee safety. The syndicate hub would likely refuse to give in to such pressure. ‘The plan is a good one,’ said 261.

  ‘I doubt you mean that, but it’s not of much importance. I’m going to need some details about the tersh’s personal security. For example, how are the gungovs controlled?’

  ‘I have never been privy to that information.’

  ‘Then what are they?’

  ‘I have also never been privy to that information either.’

  ‘Come on 261, do you really expect me to believe that?’

  ‘I was consulted on political, ethical, and social matters. I had no reason to request schematics or design builds. I know very little about the technology of Exurbia, and even less about how that technology works.’

  ‘Ah, then the gungovs are machines?’

  ‘I have absolutely no information on the matter.’

  Fortmann smiled. ‘That’s all right. I think you’ll come to trust me in time, I know it’s only early yet. Does the tersh use some kind of protective field device?’

  ‘Governance has no such technology, as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Does he carry concealed weapons?’

  ‘The tersh is wildly overconfident about his safety, if the reports I have seen are to be believed.’

  ‘Perfect, perfect.’

  ‘You’re going to assassinate the tersh tomorrow at the Pergrin celebrations,’ said 261 without any variation in his tone.

  Fortmann stared, his mouth open a little. ‘Well -’

  ‘Unless you have Ixenite agents working inside the tershal tower, you will need to perform the assassination publicly. It’s unlikely you have any Ixenites that far inside Governance since they’re usually neuro-imaged for their allegiances. There are only two days in the year when the tersh makes a public appearance: the last day of Pergrin Week and the Imp’s Tribute. Since I have been removed from the cave, it’s unlikely the Imp’s Tribute will go ahead, leaving only Pergrin's last day, either tomorrow, or next year. You intend to take the syndicate female hostage. Since she probably won’t be remaining on Exurbia for more than a week, you will do it tomorrow. One of three outcomes is possible here. Your plan may well go ahead in the fashion you imagine it. The tersh will be killed, and the syndicate visitor will be taken hostage. You may be able to gain Governance control in this event, but there will be a huge outcry from the public. Pergrin supporters are tantamount to sexual offenders and perpetrators of infanticide on Exurbia, as you know.’

  ‘Alternately, your plan may well go awry with the tersh only injured and the visitor managing to evade capture. In this event, the syndicate will dispatch a warfleet and storm the planet. Exurbia will be annexed due to concerns about the growing volatile Ixenite presence. Anything short of the total success of your plan will result in total failure. This is an extremely risky venture.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Fortmann said. ‘It is extremely risky. But we have something gamechanging in our current stock: the moralizing imp himself. You’re going to plan the affair for us.’

  261 was silent.

  ‘And you're going to do it of your own volition.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fortmann took a skript from his pocket and handed it to the imp. 261 checked it twice and gave the device back.

  ‘That's the full transcript of Miss Butterworth's speech?’ the imp asked finally.

  ‘It is. You see what we're dealing with, then? They've been using implant technology at the hub for who knows how long. And you've been sentencing innocent Exurbians to death for doing just that.’

  A knot formed in the imp's stomach. ‘I was instructed to make judgements based on the Pergrin Decree.’

  ‘And men and women are dead as a result.’

  ‘It was the only information I was privy to.’

  ‘Still, at any moment you could've spared their lives.’

  Where does accountability lie in this instance? ‘The situation will require some consideration,’ said 261 then.

  Fortmann crossed to the window and admired Exurbia. Obviously a conceited affectation designed to communicate aloofness.

  ‘Yet we both know what you're going to decide,’ said Fortmann finally. ‘Exurbia and the hub have been compromised. The very bedrock of Exurbian law has been undermined by none other than the syndicate itself. We're being treated as children; one rule for the adults, another for us.’

  ‘The Pergrin Decree serves a vital function.’

  ‘And what's that?’

  ‘Intelligence which is able to exponentially enhance itself leads to fatal instabilities in a power structure. There is no choice but to limit a population's access to such technologies, whether it be mental implant devices, intellectual augmentation, or wiremind construction.’

  ‘Spoken like a true tool of Governance.’

  ‘The histories confirm the hypothesis.’

  Fortmann chuckled.

  ‘Which histories? Those provided by the syndicate, you mean?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I won't insult you by pointing out the flaw in your reasoning then. I am certain that on some level, there in that byzantine brain of yours, you know the histories to be a lie. They are perpetuated to keep us stifled, to stop us reaching too far, or too high, or too keenly. We're kept as a neglected runt in the backwaters, ignored by the empire, not even deemed worthy of plunderation by marauders or barbarians. Who are we to dance to some stupid tune sung by the syndicate? Who is to say there was even a Pergrin? I suspect he's little more than a myth, concocted to prop up the Decree.’

  ‘If what you say is true,’ said the imp, ‘then you must have some faith in the good these technologies will do once they're distributed.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And that is based on what, exactly?’

  ‘Not to cross into your territory Imp, but pure logic. All malevolence and evil is the result of scarcity. Scarcity of resources, scarcity of affection, scarcity of communication, scarcity of status. Elevate creatures to a sufficient standing that they have all they need, and these scarcities evaporate. Merge a man's thoughts with those of his brothers and he will see that he is no more than a miniature drop in an impossibly vast ocean. He will no longer want for war or barbarism.’

  ‘And how do you intend to do this?’

  ‘By delivering the entirety of Exurbia to the Up, of course.’

  16

  “Now off to the stars with you, and don't come back until you've had a good, long gaze at the Big Everything.”

  - Carlos Boncheva of Old Erde, creator of the weld drive

  Jura -

  ‘Is he in his chambers?'

  The secretary nodded.

  Breath tight in his throat, palms moist. He hadn’t dressed for the occasion. What would be the point? he’d thought. If he wants to have me arrested, duffed up, or glitzed, he won’t hold back because I’m wearing ceremonial visiting robes. The lower level was empty. He looked up through the stairwell. The roof doo
r was closed. Where are the gungovs?

  ‘Your Eminence,’ he called out.

  ‘Is absent,’ came the reply, female. He held his breath. What is she doing here, for Gnesha’s sake? ‘Come up, Professor. And bring that enormous brain of yours, won’t you?’

  He took the staircase to the upper level. She was sat in one of the comically enormous observation chairs by the window. ‘Need I insist? Sit down, please.’

  He took a seat at her side, the cushions inflating and deflating about his buttocks to make for an ideal fit.

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ she said in a child’s voice. He surveyed the view beyond the transparency.

  ‘It is, Your Esteemed -’

  ‘The tersh might like to play that game, but I’m not one for titles. “The beginning of wisdom lies in calling things by their proper names.” Your first name is Stefan, correct?’

  ‘It is. And…yours, if I might ask?’

  ‘Miss Butterworth,’ she said.

  Jura suppressed a nervous laugh.

  ‘Pardon me, but is the tersh not here today?’

  ‘The tersh,’ she said, ‘is out on other business. He was kind enough to lend me the use of his modest abode. Such are the privileges of being a guest. Say, what do you think of the redecoration?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  She pointed behind them. Jura turned his head slowly. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the tapestries and canvases, all neon red now, the chandeliers too.

  ‘Some kind of stereopticon?’ Jura said weakly.

  The syndicate woman laughed. One of her accompanying spyles pulled up between them bearing glasses of yellow fluid. ‘Have a drink while you think about it, Professor.’

  ‘Oh, I…’

  ‘It’s not zapoei, you know. I’m not a sadist, unlike His Regal Righteousness.’

  Is she being sincere, or is this just another attempt to lure me into showing my anti-Governance colours? It’s just the kind of superficial ruse the tersh would organise. All brute force and posturing.

  ‘He didn’t ask me to arrange this, you know,’ she said then.