Perdido Street Station

by China Miéville

  “Kill it.”

  Isaac shrugged hugely.

  “I tried. It wouldn’t die.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake . . .” David laughed exasperatedly, and strode over to the desk. He wrung the pigeon’s neck.

  Isaac winced ostentatiously and held up his massive hands.

  “They’re just not subtle enough for that sort of work. My hands are too clumsy, my sensibilities too damned delicate,” he declared airily.

  “Right,” agreed David sceptically. “What are you working on?”

  Isaac was instantly enthusiastic.

  “Well . . .” He strode over to the desk. “I’ve had fuck-all luck with the garuda in the city. I heard rumours about a couple living in St. Jabber’s Mound and Syriac, and I sent word that I was willing to pay good moolah for a couple of hours’ time and some heliotypes. I’ve had absolutely nil response. I’ve whacked a couple of posters up in the university as well, asking for any garuda student ready and willing to drop by here, but my sources tell me there’s been no intake this year.”

  “ ’Garuda aren’t . . . adept at abstract thought.’ “ David imitated the sneering tone of the speaker from the sinister Three Quills party, which had held a disastrous rally in Brock Marsh the previous year. Isaac and David and Derkhan had gone along to disrupt proceedings, hurling abuse and rotten oranges at the man on stage to the delight of the xenian demonstration outside. Isaac barked in recollection.

  “Absolutely. So anyway, short of going to Spatters, at the moment I can’t work with actual garuda, so I’m looking at the various flight mechanisms you . . . uh . . . see around you. Amazing variation, actually.”

  Isaac sheafed through piles of notes, holding up diagrams of finches’ and bluebottles’ wings. He untied the dead pigeon and delicately traced the movement of its wings through a rolling arc. He pointed wordlessly at the wall around his desk. It was covered with carefully rendered diagrams of wings. Close-up sections of the rotating joint at the shoulder, pared-down representations of forces, beautifully shaded studies of feather patterns. Here too were heliotypes of dirigibles, with arrows and question marks scrawled on them in dark ink. There were suggestive sketches of the mindless men-o’-war, and hugely enlarged pictures of wasps’ wings. Each was carefully labelled. David moved his eyes slowly over the hours and hours of work, the comparative studies of the engines of flight.

  “I don’t think my client’s too fussy about what his wings—or whatever—look like, as long as he can get airbound as and when.” David and Lublamai knew about Yagharek. Isaac had asked them for secrecy. He trusted them. He had told them in case Yagharek visited when they were in the warehouse, although so far the garuda had managed to avoid them on his fleeting visits.

  “Have you thought about just, y’know, sticking some wings back on?” said David. “Remaking him?”

  “Well, absolutely, that’s my main line of enquiry, but there’re two problems. One is what wings? I’ll have to build them. Second is, do you know any Remakers prepared to do that on the quiet? The best bio-thaumaturge I know is the despised Vermishank. I’ll go to him if I fucking have to, but I’ll be sorely desperate before I do that . . . So at the moment I’m doing preliminary stuff, trying to work out the size and shape and power-source of something that would hold him up at all. If I go that way, eventually.”

  “What else have you got in mind? Physico-thaumaturgy?”

  “Well, you know, UFT, my old favourite . . .” Isaac grinned and shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I have a feeling his back’s too messed up for easy Remaking, even if I could get the wings sorted out. I’m wondering about combining two different energy fields . . . Shit, David, I don’t know. I’ve got the beginnings of an idea . . .” He pointed vaguely at a roughly labelled drawing of a triangle.

  “Isaac?” Lublamai’s yell sailed over the relentless squawks and screeches. Isaac and David looked over at him. He had wandered on past the lasifly and the pair of gild-parakeets. He was pointing at a smaller set of boxes and cases and vats. “What’s all this?”

  “Oh, that’s my nursery,” shouted Isaac with a grin. He strode towards Lublamai, pulling David with him. “I thought it might be interesting to see how you progress from something that can’t fly to something that can, so I managed to get hold of a bunch of neonates and unborns and baby things.”

  He stopped by the collection. Lublamai was peering into a small hutch at a clutch of vivid cobalt eggs.

  “Don’t know what they are,” said Isaac. “Hope it’s something pretty.”

  The hutch was on the top of a pile of similar open-fronted boxes, in each of which a clumsy little hand-made nest contained between one and four eggs. Some were astonishing colours, some a drab beige. A little pipe coiled away behind the hutches and disappeared over the railings into the boiler below. Isaac nudged it with his foot.

  “I think they prefer it warm . . .” he muttered. “Don’t really know . . .”

  Lublamai was bending down to peer into a glass-fronted tank.

  “Wow . . .” he breathed. “I feel like I’m ten again! Trade you these for six marbles.”

  The tank’s floor writhed with little green caterpillars. They munched voraciously and systematically on the leaves stuffed rudely around them. The stems were crawling with little bodies.

  “Yeah, that’s quite interesting. Any day now they should go into their cocoons, and then I think I’m going to ruthlessly cut them open at various stages to see how they transmogrify themselves.”

  “Life as a lab assistant is cruel, isn’t it?” murmured Lublamai into the tank. “What other disgusting grubs do you have?”

  “Bunch of maggots. Easy to feed. That’s probably the smell that’s got Sincerity upset.” Isaac laughed. “Some other grubs that promise to turn into butterflies and moths, horribly aggressive water-things that I am told turn into damask-flies and what have you . . .” Isaac pointed at a tank full of dirty water, behind the others.

  “And,” he said, swaggering over to a little mesh cage some feet away, “something rather special . . .” He jabbed his thumb at the container.

  David and Lublamai crowded round. They gazed with open mouths.

  “Oh, now that is splendid . . .” whispered David, after a while.

  “What is it?” hissed Lublamai.

  Isaac peered over their heads at his star caterpillar.

  “Frankly, my friends, I have not an arsing clue. All I know is that it’s huge, pretty, and not very happy.”

  The grub waved its thick head blindly. It shifted its massive body sluggishly around the wire prison. It was at least four inches long and one inch thick, with bright colours slapped randomly around its chubby cylindrical body. Spiky hairs sprouted from its rump. It shared its cage with browning lettuce leaves, little snips of meat, slices of fruit, paper strips.

  “See,” said Isaac, “I’ve tried to feed the thing everything. I’ve put in as many herbs and plants as exist, and it doesn’t want any of them. So I tried it on fish and fruit and cake, bread, meat, paper, glue, cotton, silk . . . it just roots aimlessly around being hungry, staring at me accusingly.”

  Isaac leaned in, planting his face between David’s and Lublamai’s.

  “It obviously wants to eat,” he said. “Its colour’s fading, which is worrying, both aesthetically and physiologically . . . I’m at a loss. I think the beautiful thing’s going to sit there and die on me.” Isaac sniffed matter-of-factly.

  “Where did you get it from?” asked David.

  “Oh, you know how this stuff works,” said Isaac. “I got it from a cove who got it from a man who got it from a woman who got it . . . and so on. I’ve no idea where it came from.”

  “You’re not going to cut this open, are you?”

  “ ’Stail, no. If it lives to build a cocoon, which I’m afraid I doubt, I’ll be very interested to see what comes out. I might even donate it to the Science Museum. You know me. Public-spirited . . . So anyway, this thing’s not really much use to me for res
earch. Can’t even make it eat, let alone metamorphose, let alone fly. So everything else you see around you—” he spread his arms wide, wriggled his wrists to take in the room “—is grist to my counter-gravitational mill. But this little geezer—” he pointed at the listless caterpillar “—this is social work.” He grinned widely.

  There was a creaking from below. The door was being pushed open. All three men lurched dangerously over the side of the walkway and peered down, expecting to see Yagharek the garuda, with his false wings under his cloak.

  Lin peered up at them.

  David and Lublamai started in confusion. They were embarrassed at Isaac’s sudden cry of irritated welcome. They found something else to look at.

  Isaac was scurrying down the stairs.

  “Lin,” he bellowed. “Good to see you.” When he reached her he spoke quietly.

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing here? I thought I was going to see you later in the week.”

  As he spoke he saw her antennae quivering miserably, tried to temper his nervous irritation. It was clear that Lub and David understood what was going on—they’d known him a long time: he did not doubt that his evasion and hints about his love life had left them guessing reasonably close to the truth. But this was not Salacus Fields. This was too close to home. He might be seen.

  But then, Lin was clearly miserable.

  Look, she signed rapidly, want you to come home with me, don’t say no. Miss you. Tired. Difficult job. Sorry for coming here. Needed to see you.

  Isaac felt anger and affection jostle. This is a dangerous precedent, he thought. Fuck!

  “Hang on,” he whispered. “Give me a minute.”

  He raced up the stairs.

  “Lub, David, I’d forgotten I’m supposed to be out with friends this evening, so someone’s been sent to fetch me. I promise I’ll muck out all my little charges tomorrow. On my honour. They’re all fed, that’s taken care of . . .” He was looking around him rapidly. He forced himself to meet their eyes.

  “Right,” said David. “Have a nice evening.”

  Lublamai waved him away.

  “Right,” said Isaac heavily, looking around him. “If Yagharek comes back . . . uh . . .” He realized he had nothing to say. He grabbed a notebook from the desk and bounced downstairs without looking behind him. Lublamai and David studiously did not watch him go.

  He seemed to carry Lin with him as if he was a gale, billowing her helplessly with him through the door and into the darkening streets. It was only as they left the warehouse, when he looked at her clearly, that he felt his own irritation diminish to a low burn. He saw her in all her exhausted dejection.

  Isaac hesitated a moment, then took her arm. He slipped his notebook into her bag, which he snapped closed.

  “Let’s have us a night,” he whispered.

  She nodded and leaned her headbody against him, briefly, held him tight.

  They disengaged, then, for fear of being watched. They walked to Sly Station together slowly, at a lovers’ pace, a few careful feet apart.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  If a murderer stalked the mansions of Flag Hill or Canker Wedge, would the militia waste any time or spare resources? Why, no! The hunt for Jack Half-a-Prayer proves it! And yet, when the Eyespy Killer strikes in Smog Bend, nothing happens! Another eyeless victim was fished from the Tar last week—bringing the number killed to five—and not a word from the blue-clad bullies in the Spike. We say: it’s one law for the rich, another for the poor!

  Around New Crobuzon the posters are appearing demanding your vote—should you be lucky enough to have one! Rudgutter’s Fat Sun huffs and puffs, Finally We Can See spout weasel-words, the Diverse Tendency lies to the oppressed xenians, and the human dust of the Three Quills spread their poison. With this sorry crew as the “choice,” Runagate Rampant calls on all “winners” of the vote to spoil their ballots! Build a party from below and denounce the Suffrage Lottery as a cynical ploy. We say: votes for all and vote for change!

  The vodyanoi stevedores of Kelltree are discussing strike action after vicious attacks on wages by the dock authorities. Disgracefully, the Guild of Human Dockers has denounced their actions. We say: towards an all-race union against the bosses!

  Derkhan looked up from reading as a couple entered the carriage. Casually and surreptitiously, she folded her copy of Runagate Rampant and slipped it into her bag.

  She sat at the very front end of the train, facing backwards, so she could see the few people in her carriage without appearing to spy on them. The two young people who had just entered swayed as the train left Sedim Junction and sat quickly. They were dressed simply but well, which marked them out from the majority of those travelling to Dog Fenn. Derkhan pegged them as Veruline missionaries, students from the university up the road in Ludmead, descending piously and sanctimoniously into the depths of Dog Fenn to improve the souls of the poor. She sneered at them mentally as she took out a little mirror.

  Glancing up again to ensure she was not observed, Derkhan looked critically at her face. She adjusted her white wig minutely, and pressed at her rubber scar to make sure it was solid. She was dressed carefully. Dirty and torn clothes, no hint of money to attract unwanted attention in the Fenn, but not so fouled as to attract the opprobrious wrath of travellers in The Crow, where she had started her journey.

  Her notebook was on her lap. She was taking some time during her journey to make preparatory notes on the Shintacost Prize. The first round was taking place sometime at the end of the month, and she had in mind a piece for the Beacon about what did and did not get through the early stages. She intended to make it funny, but with a serious point about the politics of the judging panel.

  She stared at her lacklustre beginning and sighed. Now, she decided, is not the time.

  Derkhan stared out of the window to her left, across the city. On this branch of the Dexter Line, between Ludmead and the industrial zone of New Crobuzon’s south-east, the trains passed at about the midpoint of the city’s tussle with the sky. The mass of roofs was pierced by militia towers in Brock Marsh and Strack Island, and far away in Flyside and Sheck. Sud Line trains passed south beyond the Gross Tar.

  The bleached Ribs came and went beside the tracks, towering over the carriage. Smoke and grime built up in the air until the train seemed to ride on a smog tide. The sounds of industry increased. The train flew through clutches of vast, sparse chimneys like blasted trees as the train passed through Sunter. Echomire was a savage industrial zone a little way to the east. Somewhere below and a little to the south, realized Derkhan, a vodyanoi picket is probably massing. Good luck, brothers.

  Gravity pulled her to the west as the train turned. It broke off from the Kelltree Line and veered away to the east, gearing up to leap the river.

  The masts of tall ships in Kelltree swung into view as the train turned. They teetered and swayed gently in the water. Derkhan glimpsed the furled sails, the massive paddles and yawning smokestacks, the excited, tightly reined seawyrms of trading ships from Myrshock and Shankell and Gnurr Kett. The water boiled with submersibles carved from great nautili shells. Derkhan turned her head to stare as the train arced.

  She could see the Gross Tar over the roofs to the south, wide and relentless and bristling with vessels. Antique ordinances stopped the large ships, the foreign ships, half a mile downriver of the confluence of Canker and Tar. They collected beyond Strack Island, in the docklands. For a mile and a half or more, the north bank of the Gross Tar thronged with cranes loading and unloading constantly, bobbing like massive feeding birds. Swarms of barges and tugs took the transferred cargos upriver to Smog Bend and Gross Coil and the mean slum-industries of Creekside; they hauled crates along New Crobuzon’s canals, linking minor franchises and failing workshops, finding their way through the maze like laboratory rats.

  The clay of Kelltree and Echomire was gouged by fat square docks and reservoirs, huge culs-de-sac of water that jutted into the city, linked by deep channels to the river, thro
nging with ships.

  There had once been an attempt to replicate the Kelltree docks in Badside. Derkhan had seen what remained. Three massive stinking troughs of malarial slime, their surfaces broken with half-sunk wrecks and twisted girders.

  The rattle and boom of the tracks beneath the iron wheels changed suddenly as the steaming engine hauled its charges onto the great girders of Barley Bridge. It veered a little from side to side, slowing on the unkempt tracks as it rose as if with distaste over Dog Fenn.

  A few grey blocks rose from the streets like weeds in a cesspool, their concrete seeping and rotten. Many were unfinished, with splayed iron supports fanning out from the ghosts of roofs, rusting, bleeding with the rain and the damp, staining the skin of the buildings. Wyrmen swirled like carrion crows over these monoliths, squatting on the upper floors and fouling their neighbours’ roofs with dung. The outlines of Dog Fenn’s slum landscape bloated and burst and changed every time Derkhan saw them. Tunnels were dug into the undercity that stretched in a network of ruins and sewers and catacombs below New Crobuzon. Ladders left against a wall one day were hammered into place the next, reinforced after that, and within a week had become the stairwells to a new storey, thrown precariously between two drooping roofs. Wherever she looked, Derkhan could see people lying or running or fighting on the roofscape.

  She stood wearily as the smell of the Fenn seeped into the slowing carriage.

  As usual, there was no one to take her ticket at the station exit. Had it not been for the profound consequences of discovery, however small the possibility, Derkhan would never have bothered buying one. She flung it down on the counter and descended.

  The doors of Dog Fenn Station were always open. They had rusted into position, and ivy had anchored them against the walls. Derkhan stepped out into the squalls and stench of Silverback Street. Barrows were thrown against walls slick with fungus and rotting paste. All manner of wares—some of surprisingly high quality—were available here. Derkhan turned and walked deeper into the slum. She was surrounded with a constant hubbub of shouts, advertising that sounded more like riotous assembly. For the most part, it was food that was announced.