‘Iggy?’ I snapped awake. ‘There’s someone downstairs.’ ‘Probably a dog,’ I said. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘But what if... There—did you hear that?’
In those days (before I learned better) I sometimes played the Big Man. ‘I’ll check it out.’ Arming myself with the limb of a quartered automaton, I descended into the darkness. I pulled the torch from my belt; pointed it, my thumb easing back its switch. Then; twanging elastic; horrible pain; someone opening (it seemed) a door for me (thank you); and the darkness became absolute.
The door reopened. The world had turned red. But this was no fashion show. No dream. Before me was a raging bonfire; above the flames, a winged boy with a bow and arrow. Boys—of the mortal variety (and some girls too), their heads shaved, and wearing medicine-head apparel—were dancing about a diddly-blaster and swigging from bottles of beer. I was propped against street railings, my hands tied to the iron bars. I blinked, trying to clear my eyes of blood; but the red ink in which the world had been dipped was indelible.
‘So much for your brilliant plans,’ said Primavera. I screwed my head in the direction of her voice. ‘Down here,’ she said. Primavera lay in a basement courtyard. She was also tied; not with rope, like me, but with an escapologist’s nightmare of chain. ‘You see the bedsteads?’
About the bonfire, familiarly arranged, the twisted frames of improvised death machines stood ready for their nightly ritual, thin metal spikes emerging from the pavement and protruding through their rusted springs.
‘It’s no good. I’m just a little doll. I can’t break these chains.’ I think I started to cry. ‘Shut up, Iggy, and think of something!’
‘Captain!’ shouted a medicine-head. ‘Captain Valiant! The pride of London! Over here, over here!’
A bicycle-drawn soapbox cart materialized from out of the blood-red cityscape. It would have reminded my future self of a trishaw.
‘We got one!’ someone yelled above the hoopla. ‘We got a belly! Come and see!’
The cart halted, and a tall man in hand-me-down surgeon's garb stepped onto the street. His chauffeur, dismounting, proffered a walking cane. The cane clacked against kerbstone. The Captain was blind.
‘One?’ said Captain Valiant, petulantly, his voice straining against the uproar of the fire. He was older than his confederates; in his mid-twenties, perhaps; an anachronism in a city where fewer and fewer cleared the hurdle between adolescence and maturity. ‘London is full of belly and you can only find one?’
The medicine-heads studied their feet, kicked at tinder and scrap. ‘Jesus, Captain, belly’s dangerous. Last week they got Bobbo. And Danny’s lost an arm.’
‘Where,’ said the Captain, dark glasses aflame, so he seemed like a hungover jackal, is the belly?’
A boy stepped forward (a catapult mounted with an infrared sight stuck from out of his belt) and took the Captain’s arm, leading him across the street.
‘Belly?’ enquired the Captain, tapping his cane upon the rails.
‘Leave her alone,’ I said. ‘You’ve got no right. You’re not from the Hospitals. I’ll tell -’
‘Who is this pathetic boy?’
‘He was with her,’ said the Captain’s eyes. ‘Doll junkie. Addict.’
‘Ah,’ said the Captain. He reached out and, after wrestling with the air, got a grip about my throat. ‘You know what you are? A traitor. A stinking traitor to your race. She’s inside you. Can’t you feel her? Creeping around inside your cells. Filthy, filthy, filthy.’
‘If you hurt him I’ll take your face off,’ Primavera shouted. She swore in Serbo-Croat.
The Captain hissed. ‘I can smell it from here. The belly. Corrupt. Malignant. It must be sanitized. Put to the spike. It must have its moment of truth.’ He spat through the railings. ‘How did you take her?’
‘She’s young,’ said the eyes. ‘Still in metamorphosis. Didn’t need the magic dust. She’s—she’s just a kid.’
‘Stop,’ said the Captain, ‘you’re making me weep.’ He wiped his cane across the railings in an ugly glissando. ‘What brave soldiers I have! I’ve told you before: I want dolls, real dolls. Three green-eyed bitches a night. They must learn to take their medicine. But most of all I want the Big Sister. I want Titania, spiked and at my feet!’
The Captain froze; spun about. His cane fell to the ground. ‘My God—look!’ He pointed to one of the nearby streets where, half concealed in shadows, a big black car had parked, its engine still running. He put his hands to his face; covered his eyes; uncovered them. ‘I can see,’ he said. He tore off his glasses and simpered like a village idiot. ‘Surrender my loins to a shark-toothed fellatrix—I can see!’
And then Captain Valiant burst into flames.
‘Iggy, what’s happening?’
The Captain ran into the street, clawed at his gown, dropped to the asphalt, and rolled over, again and again, screaming, ‘It’s her! Get her! It’s her! It’s her!’ But his impaling party had dispersed, vanishing into the night; and soon he too was gone, his body a smouldering ruin beneath the pyre of the winged boy-god of love.
‘Iggy!’
‘I don’t know—I don’t know what’s happening!’
The black car. I recognized its make. It was an antique. A Bentley. A girl, dressed in leathers and a peaked cap, stepped from the driver’s seat and approached us. Her eyes burned green, and the opalescence of her flesh, like a highly polished mirror, reflected the tower of flames, so she seemed a translucent cast brimming with molten bronze. She stood over me, sneering. A snap of fingers; the sound of chain falling to the ground.
Cat-like, Primavera scaled her prison’s walls and hauled herself onto the pavement. She busied herself with untying my bonds, one eye on our rescuer.
‘Who is this human trash?’ said the newcomer.
‘This is Iggy. My boyfriend. You’re not to talk about him like that.’
The doll yawned. ‘Oh dear. You are a baby, aren’t you. Your friend can find his own way home. It’s you our mistress wants to see.’ The doll turned and walked back to the car.
‘We both come,’ said Primavera, ‘or not at all.’
‘Mmm. I suppose part of you still thinks it’s human. I almost remember being like that myself. Okay, baby. Bring him along. For the time being that is. She might be amused.’
‘And who’s she?’ I said.
‘The queen, of course,’ said our saviour. ‘The Queen of Dolls.’
As we approached the car a door opened. In the corner of the back seat a girl in her early teens—our chaperone, presumably—huddled beneath a wrap of grey fox fur. A box of chocolates was on her lap.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Josephine. Call me Jo.’ Primavera and I climbed in beside her. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Jo, ‘you’re safe with us.’ The car stalled, performed a series of kangaroo leaps, and then lurched into the night.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To the East End,’ said Jo. ‘To the palace of the dolls. Please...’She offered Primavera a chocolate. Primavera bit down; a dark red juice flowed over her hands, between her fingers, and down her wrists.
‘Blood?’ whispered Primavera.
‘The real thing,’ said Jo. ‘Where we’re going everybody lives happily ever after.’ Jo looked at me askance, dabbing at her lips with a tissue. ‘Well, nearly everybody.’
Primavera licked her fingers and wound down the window. ‘This is the Strand,’ said Jo, ‘and soon we’ll be in the City. See those fires over there?" She pointed down a side street. ‘More paramedical scum. Every night Titania sends one of us out on patrol to see if we can pick up any runaways before they do.”
‘Did you set that man alight?’ said Primavera.
‘Sure. You’ll be able to do things like that soon ’
‘All I can do now,’ said Primavera, ‘is turn on TVs. I say On.’
‘When your hair turns black and your eyes go green you’ll be able to do anything.’
‘Only Titania
,’ said our driver, ‘can do anything. The rest of us have to be content with working a few tricks.’
Jo seemed a little abashed at her lèse-majesté. ‘That’s what I meant,’ she said. ’You’ll be able to do tricks. Of course only Titania can do anything.’
We sped through the silent streets of the City; silent too, my back-seat companions, consumed by the task of devouring their sweets.
‘Titania.’ I said, after their bloody feast was through. ‘Is she a doll?’
‘Of course she’s a doll,’ said Jo. ‘But not like us. She wasn’t born; she was made. She’s an original Cartier automaton. The last of the Big Sisters. She’s—’
‘She’s my mother,’ interrupted Primavera. startled but infinitely satisfied by this sudden insight. ‘My real mother.’
‘Only Lilith,’ said Jo, ‘is that.’
We drove through an empty concrete wilderness that might have been twinned with Troy, Carthage or Pompeii; all about us were the lineaments of greatness soiled by sudden defeat.
‘Whitechapel,’ informed our driver. ‘Brick Lane.’
Whitechapel. That was where Mum and Dad lived when they first came to England. Jumping the kerb to avoid a burned-out car, the Bentley swung into a warehouse.
We got out, Jo leading us across an oil-stained expanse littered with automobilia—the sort of place grease monkeys dream of going to when they die—to where a rusted samovar stood. There, bending over, she grasped an iron ring set in the floor, and pulled. A trap opened.
Beneath our feet, a spiral staircase unwound into infinity; a plume of green light rose from the depths, casting a halo upon the warehouse’s roof.
‘Down we go,’ said our escort.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Fairy Queen
Primavera screamed, curling up into a foetal ball.
‘What is it?’ said Kito.
‘She told you before.’ I put an arm about Primavera’s waist, easing her into a sitting position. ‘She’s sick. There's a batch of nanomachines inside her, and they’re tearing her matrix to pieces.’
Kito wriggled through the pillars of her bodyguards. ‘This Titania,' she said, ‘she know about doll-plague?' She raised a hand as if to demonstrate to her Schéhérazade the consequence of not resuming her tale; but before Kito could strike, Primavera fell forward, her body limp.
‘She’s passed out,’ I said. ‘We have to get one of your engineers to look at her. Now!’
Kito ran her hand over her matronly hips. ‘Maybe this all big bluff, Mr Ignatz?’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘if she doesn't get help soon you'll never know the truth. The Americans are going to jerk you around from now until fucking nirvana. And for you that’ll be a long time.’ I gathered Primavera into my arms. ‘Can't you see—she's sick. Really sick.’
Kito looked sick. A chao mae is unused to taking orders. But Kito was too clever to be ruled by pride now that her situation had become so desperate.
‘Mr Bones number two,' said Kito, ‘take friend to private elevator.’
Slinging Primavera over my shoulder, I followed the android through the still darkened apartment; Kito was behind me, arms folded across her small, nonfunctional breasts.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said—I was looking at a camera -‘I see no one disturb.’
The elevator took us to the roof.
‘New R and D man live here,’ said Kito.
We were in a hydroponic garden, the scent of night blooms counterpointing the malodour of the streets.
‘Spalanzani,’ called Kito, ‘where are you, you old fool?’
‘Madame?’ An elderly man emerged from behind a gazebo, a spray of opium poppies in his hand.
‘I have bijouterie here I want you to look at.’
The nanoengineer chose a buttonhole, fixed it to his lapel, and walked over to us. ‘Is there some dysfunction?’ Walking behind me, he took Primavera by the hair and lifted her head for inspection. ‘Lilim! Oh sogno d’or!’ Relenting of his caddishness he cradled her head in his hands. ‘Forgive! Forgive! Mia belta funesta! I have never seen one such as she before.’
‘She’s taken a dose of magic dust,’ I said. ‘She needs cleaning.’
He sighed, pulled out a pair of pince-nez (a common affectation amongst automaton makers) and began probing Primavera’s face.
‘Take your hands off her,’ I said. He stepped back; Primavera again hung limply from my shoulder.
‘Please. I want to help. Lilim! I cannot believe. Oh, such marvellous toy! From series L’Eve Future. Yes. Let me help her. Let me take a little peep inside!’ In the centre of the garden stood a black dome. ‘My workshop,’ he said. ‘Come, come!’ He ran before us, stripping off his gardening overalls as a segment of the dome opened obediently at his approach.
Inside, the dome combined the elements of operating theatre, chemical plant and mortuary. Beneath its apex was a rectangular marble slab, about which were arrayed computers, a scanning tunnelling microscope, lasers and a stainless-steel cabinet crammed with surgical tools. Vats
lined the dome's perimeter, each one containing a protodoll; above, in a series of racked drawers, several of which were open, the decanted, successes and failures, slept their undead sleep. In contrast with the dome's exterior, everything within—with the exception of the black marble slab—gleamed with clinical whiteness. Mr Bones squatted on all fours, providing his mistress with a seat.
‘Put her down,’ said Spalanzani. I carefully laid Primavera out on the slab. 'And help me get this dermaplastic off.’ He handed me a pair of surgical scissors. Soon Primavera was naked, her pallid lines thrown into relief by the cold stone bed.
Spalanzani picked up a jeweller's loupe and applied his eye to Primavera’s umbilicus.
‘The navel of the world,’ he said, ‘the centre of everything. And of nothing. The wormhole of lunacy! Ah yes, descended from L’Eve Future, but what mutations. What exotica!’
He stepped to one side to allow a bar of light to run over his patient from head to toes; a hologram materialized in mid-air. Fleshless, a glittering schema of veins, bones and plastic, the hologram turned, revolving on its axis, displaying itself like a see-through Sally before the eyes of a prurient clientele.
‘Most fascinating,' he said. ‘Living tissue has adopted the structure of polymers and resins, metals and fibres. It is difficult to perceive in what sense she is actually alive.’
‘Dead girls,' I said. They call them dead girls. Primavera’s DNA has recombined.’
‘I don't think we’d find DNA in this,' he said, his finger jabbing the hologram’s thigh. ‘Recombined? The entire body chemistry has been altered, reorganized at the atomic level. Mechanized, you might say. By every definition I can think of she is dead.’ His finger moved to the hologram’s belly. ‘This, I suppose, is what gives her life. Animation, at least. The sub-atomic matrix. I read about
it in Scientific American.’ He poked at a ball of green fire that swirled with op-art geometries; chaoses that teased with intimations of order; finitudes that knew no bounds. The matrix,’ he said, picking up a syringe, ‘is where our trouble lies.’
I put my hand on his wrist. ‘What's in that?’
‘I want—with your permission—to inject a remote.’
‘You don’t need his permission,’ said Kito.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘I must see what is happening in there.’ I released my hand.
The needle pricked the taut flesh, emptying a clear solution into Primavera's belly. ‘Good girl,’ he said, his hand lingering a little too long, I thought, on his patient's abdominal wall. ‘That didn’t hurt, did it?’ He sat down at a keyboard; a monitor lit up, and fractals, in vortices of green, loomed from the screen’s vanishing point, like abstract representations of unresolved crescendos, the music of unrequited desire. I tottered forward, those shifting geometries threatening to suck me into some terrible fastness of space and time.
Freezeframe; the germination ceased, and I was pitched forward by
my vertigo’s inertia.
‘The dust,' he said. ‘It is carrying an anti-fractal programme that is infecting the matrix with Euclidean imperatives.’
He turned from the monitor, wiped his pince-nez on his sleeve, and sighed. ‘At the heart of the matrix lies her source of being. Space-time foam. Ylem. The nanomachines will replicate smaller and smaller until that singularity is breached. And then she will fall victim to the laws of the classical universe. She will ... He was genius, that Toxicophilous. My own toys...’ He nodded towards the gestation vats. ‘I still work from the periodic table and aborted foetuses. Cheaper, of course. That’s all they care about out here.’ A printer hummed; he tore off the print-out and scanned it.
‘As far as I’ve ever been able to understand, L’Eve Future, and their descendants, the Lilim, retain in themselves a model of the quantum field, a model of creation, a bridge, if you like, between this world and the mind of God. And now it seems that bridge is burning.’
Dead Girls, Dead Boys, Dead Things Page 9
