by Hugh Cook
‘The sooner the Crab hears of this the better,’ said Justina. ‘It may need some time to - to prepare itself for its transformation.’
Nobody doubted the wisdom of that.
‘I’ll go, then,’ said Ingalawa.
‘Wait for the dorgi,’ said the therapist. ‘It’ll be far quicker. Besides, you’ll never find your way out of here alone.’
‘I am an Ashdan,’ said Ingalawa. ‘Do you know what that means?’
‘I know what Ashdans believe it to mean,’ said the therapist. ‘Very well. If that’s how you want to play it, be my guest. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
So, with the therapist’s consent, Artemis Ingalawa set off through the underworld on her own to give the Crab advance warning of the advent of the organic rectifier. If she was afraid to travel alone through the underworld, through realms of black grass, ice-making machines, derelict bones and occasional nightmare, then she gave no sign of it as she strode away with every appearance of confidence.
Then all the others could do was to wait.
At last the dorgi arrived.
‘Come here,’ said the therapist.
‘Why?’ said the dorgi.
Pokrov understood the Code Seven in which therapist and dorgi conversed.
Chegory Guy and Olivia Qasaba did not understand, but were too busy canoodling to care.
And Artemis Ingalawa was gone, leaving only Justina Thrug to puzzle over this therapist-dorgi dialogue.
The Empress Justina could not understand a word of this conversation between machines, for she had no knowledge of Code Seven. The Empress was something of a linguist (despite her inability to comprehend Slandolin) but the multiple tongues of the Golden Gulag were entirely unknown to her.
As Justina struggled for comprehension (a fruitless struggle, this) the colloquy continued: ‘I said come here!’
‘But why?’ said the dorgi.
‘Because,’ said the therapist, ‘I have something for you.’ There was a high metallic whine. A slot opened amidst the therapist’s mechanisms. A mechanical arm was extruded from the slot. It held a needle of gleaming metal. Then two metal tentacles also emerged from the slot.
‘No,’ said the dorgi, starting to whine. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t hurt me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the therapist. ‘This isn’t to hurt you. It’s to educate you.’
‘Education hurts,’ said the dorgi.
It spoke with complete sincerity, for this proposition was, to the dorgi, a dearly held article of faith.
‘Whether it hurts or not,’ said the therapist, ‘you need an education. It will make you less stupid.’
‘But I want to be stupid,’ said the dorgi stoutly. Stupidity was intrinsic to its personality. It would not feel properly dorgi-ish if it were to be anything other than stupid.
‘Relax,’ said the therapist. ‘Even with this education you’ll still be stupid enough. More than stupid enough.’ ‘But what do I need with an education?’
‘You need languages,’ said the therapist, brandishing the glittering needle. ‘So you can talk to these humans.’
‘I don’t need to talk to them. I can kill them without saying a word.’
‘You’re not going to kill them! You’re going to take them to the Stasis Store so they can get an organic rectifier.’
‘Won’t,’ said the dorgi.
‘You will, you know,’ said the therapist. ‘It’s a direct order. Understand? Come here. I’m giving you a direct order. Come here! Now! I am a class one. Obey!’
‘You are not a class one,’ said the dorgi. ‘You are a class two.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said the therapist. ‘But it makes no difference. You’re so low in the intellectual scale you don’t even have a class. You’d have to obey me even if I was a class nine. And you know it. Come here!’
The dorgi struggled to disobey. Against its will, its mechanisms jerked it toward the therapist. The dorgi whimpered as metal tentacles writhed across its integument. The tentacles opened a hatch.in the dorgi’s flank. The therapist’s mechanical arm lunged, plunged, sank the needle into the dorgi’s data-dart receptor. The dorgi screamed in psychic agony. Its mind (such mind as it had) was thrown into chaos as a full three dozen languages bubbled through its consciousness in full and frenzied life.
Long had the therapist studied the languages of Untunchilamon, interrogating its captives at length before it killed them. All this linguistic data had now been gifted to the dorgi. Not that the dorgi was grateful for the gift.
‘Feel better?’ said the therapist sardonically as the dorgi’s screams eased to a whimper.
The therapist spoke in Toxteth, a coarse and brutal language if ever there was one. Toxteth makes the simplicities of Code Seven look positively arcane.
‘No,’ answered the dorgi sulkily, answering in Dub.
But it lied. It did feel better. And, much as it would have hated to admit it, already it was experiencing some inner rewards as a consequence of its education. To be precise: it could now think in Dub. This language, native to the Ebrell Islanders, might almost have been designed for dorgis; for such are the nuances of this tongue that everything which can possibly be said in Dub is simultaneously violent and obscene. In Dub, even the pauses between words tend to have vicious connotations.
Hence the dorgi’s secret delight.
Furthermore (it checked its mental functions carefully) it was still stupid. It knew that two and two is four, but still had no idea why two and two didn’t actually add up to seven and a half.
‘Your guide,’ said the therapist, addressing itself to Justina, ‘now shares your own language.’
The dorgi gruffed and grumbled.
‘Guide?’ said the dorgi. ‘Are you talking about me?’
‘I am,’ said the therapist coolly. ‘And what are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m - I’m going to - I’m—’
‘Oh, we are on form today,’ said the therapist. ‘Come back and see me some time and I’ll give you some remedial speech therapy. In the meantime, you’re to guide these people to the Stasis Store.’
‘But I’m a dorgi!’ protested the dorgi. ‘A dorgi! A killer of men! And of women! And of children, babies, cats, dogs, turtles, yaks, llamas and budgerigars.’
‘Budgerigars!’ said the therapist scornfully. ‘You don’t even know what a budgerigar is.’
The dorgi grumbled a bit then admitted the truth of that assertion.
‘But,’ it continued, ‘I know what I am and I know what I’m not. I’m not a stinking tourist guide.’
‘You are now,’ said the therapist with a chuckle, a hideous chuckle which sounded like a barrel of rotten vegetables and fractured knucklebones being slushed down a sewer by an outpouring of blood.
Then the therapist issued formal orders to the dorgi, directing it to take Justina and Olivia (the sole imperial companion since Ingalawa had gone on ahead and Chegory was to remain with Pokrov as a hostage) to the Stasis Store, to show them the organic rectifier, and not to hurt them. With a very bad grace, the dorgi accepted these orders (it had no choice in the matter) and let Justina and Olivia climb aboard.
Then it rumbled away into the depths.
Thanks to the dorgi’s help, Justina and Olivia were soon at the Stasis Store, a huge place some twenty-seven times the size of the Xtokobrokotok. It was packed with weapons, machines and assorted arcana, including 74,961 warp spranglits, 446,298 pornographic sensorium cubes, a million full-scale ground strategy maps of the dark side of the moon, five million vials of a prophylactic vaccine against rabies, a ten-year supply of toilet paper, sufficient force field tents to equip a regiment, and nine thousand boots (to fit the left foot only, the matching right hand boots having been directed by error to another planet entirely).
Had the intruding humans been exploring the Stasis Store on their own, they would probably have got themselves killed in short order, for a great many things in t
hat Store were far more dangerous than blood-crazed sharks or down-striking lightning. But with the dorgi’s help, they found an organic rectifier without trouble. It was a free-floating chunk of ornately sculpted metal all wreathed around with wires, pipes and antennae.
Justina pushed the organic rectifier. It did not move. Instead, blue lights crawled silently over its surface. Green and red eyes winked open and shut. Little halos of white light floated downward, following twin wires which hung right down to the ground, reminding Justina of the barbs of a big catfish she had once caught in the Riga Rimur.
‘Ugh!’ said Olivia, throwing her shoulder against the organic rectifier. ‘It’s heavy!’
‘It is,’ agreed Justina.
‘And,’ said the Ashdan lass, in amazement, ‘and . . . and it’s drumming!’
‘No, child,’ said Justina.
‘But it is! Listen!’
Justina listened. And heard it. A sound like a distant cicada. Thus:
Zibit . . . zibit . . . zibit . . . zibit . . . zibit . . .
Justina threw all her strength against the organic rectifier. This time it moved. Just. It possessed no weight but still had mass, which meant a lot of muscular effort was required to move it, even though the thing floated free of the ground.
‘Come here, you dorgi-thing,’ said Justina. ‘You can help us move this thing.’
‘Won’t,’ said the dorgi.
‘What do you mean, won’t?’ said Justina. ‘You must! The therapist told you to.’
The dorgi gruttered and grumbled as it chewed its way through a complicated logic sequence. Then it announced in triumph:
‘Wrong. It said take you here, show you the machine, not to hurt you. That’s all. Shift it yourself.’
At that, Justina lost her temper.
She kicked the dorgi.
She might as well have kicked the island of Untunchilamon for all the difference it made.
‘We’ll go back to the therapist,’ she threatened. ‘We’ll tell it to make you.’
‘It won’t find me,’ said the dorgi. ‘I’ll hide.’
‘You’ll get caught,’ warned Justina.
The dorgi growled. It dearly wanted to give her a shove. Just a little one. That would be enough. Blood and bone would be splattered in all directions.
It tried.
It jerked forward.
Then inescapable inhibitions made it brake abruptly. And a programmed pain injector went into play, administering instant agony to the murderous machine. The dorgi howled in pain and agony.
Then fled, the echoes of its passage crashing through the underground tunnels as it smashed from one wall to another in the heat of its agony.
‘Well,’ said Justina reluctantly, ‘I suppose that’s it. We’ll just have to shift this thing ourselves.’
And they began the great labour.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
You will remember that Justina Thrug and her companions initially fled Downstairs to escape a rampaging mob, a mob which then turned its attentions to looting the pink palace. There were drummers in amongst that rabble, and the drummers in particular gave a good account of themselves as the mob devastated the pink palace. Unfortunately, things did not stop there, for riots have a way of spreading - particularly when there is a possibility of loot.
By early afternoon, the political map of Injiltaprajura had changed.
The Empress Justina had no authority at all. She was Downstairs, a prisoner of a therapist, and her soldiers had scattered.
Fear of the Crab no longer compelled order, for the mob in its frenzy ignored any anxieties its members might earlier have had on that score.
And the wonder-workers, who might have maintained order had they combined their forces for that purpose, instead chose to hold to the fastness of the Cabal House. A course of cowardice which was in keeping with their past actions; the greatest disgrace of their history being that, when a maverick demon had intruded upon the peace of Injiltaprajura, they had chosen such isolation even though they feared the world itself to be in danger.
Thus the sorcerers who had once proved impotent in the face of demonic force now turned out to be equally useless when their city was menaced by riot.
As for Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek, High Priest of the Temple of Zoz, he was in no position to command anything. For his most loyal supporters had been brought to a high pitch of hatred by Ek’s own demagoguery; and therefore naturally chose this opportunity to go hunting for Justina.
Thus did law and order collapse in Injiltaprajura; the proximate cause of this collapse being the run on the Narapatorpabarta Bank, something which the Empress Justina had herself engineered.
News of riot disturbance soon reached certain ships afloat on the Laitemata Harbour. Had news been denied those barks, the outbreak of smoke and fire in a dozen different buildings would soon have given their captains a hint as to the stramash taking place ashore.
Fire breathed its dragons through the slumlands of Lubos and winged its butterflies through the jungle gully humidity of Thlutter. Fire set the dogs to barking, the monkeys to screaming, and the populace to shouting. Dub contended with Toxteth, and both with Janjuladoola; and all three tongues ran panic-stricken through the streets. Black smoke and grey ascended skywards; supplemented, where stocks of oddly configured chemicals caught fire, by green smoke, blue smoke and orange.
One of the seadogs who took cognizance of the work of accident and arsonites was Troldot ‘Heavy-Fist’ Turbothot, a captain who had sojourned upon Untunchilamon merely to rest from the labours of sailing around the world. As Injiltaprajura burnt, Turbothot decided this was a good time to leave. But he declined to leave empty handed, for he wished to take with him his true love Theodora. And if Theodora, then why not much else?
The men under Turbothot’s command then included the Yarglat warrior Guest Gulkan, who was ready to help in any looting expedition provided he was rewarded with possession of the fabled wishstone of Untunchilamon. The shifty-eyed Thayer Levant was also aboard, and would fight alongside Guest Gulkan if the price was right.
On a neighbouring ship were certain Malud marauders from the island of Asral. These uitlanders were led by the piratical Al-ran Lars, who had come to Untunchilamon (like Guest Gulkan) to seek possession of the wishstone. Al-ran Lars had, however, done a deal with Turbothot and Guest Gulkan. When the moment to strike arose, Al-ran Lars and his crew would settle for gold, silver, diamonds and other such trash, and let the wishstone go to other hands.
All this had long been arranged.
All that had been missing had been the moment.
Now, with mob rule replacing that of law, the moment had arrived.
Thus, very shortly, all crewmen loyal to Troldot Turbothot of Hexagon and Al-ran Lars of Asral went marching up Lak Street in a disciplined body. The enforcement of discipline was made much easier by the heat of the day, which remained intense and stifling though the wind was getting up; for this heat discouraged the over-eager from surging ahead of their fellows.
A great many people had it in mind to loot the treasury of Injiltaprajura, and few of those who made the attempt were entirely unrewarded. But the dragon’s share went to the combined crews under the command of Turbothot and Al-ran Lars, and the ships of both these well-satisfied captains were under sail and cruising forth from the Laitemata long before salahanthara came to an end.
Those were not the only ships to leave. As one building in three was ablaze by nightfall, is it surprising that the remaining ships found it wisest to depart if they had not done so already? As a bloody sun sank in the west, as salahanthara gave way to undokondra, the last bark in the Laitemata weighed anchor and set sail, regardless of the perils of departing from Injiltaprajura by night.
Those ships left with their fair share of loot.
And with refugees: those refugees able to pay their way.
For the trouble ashore was not a mere matter of looting. Instead, there was a lot of killing.
; Untunchilamon boasted a great many races, most of which hated each other. It was also graced with considerable cultural diversity in the form of many religions. And these too—
But then, you are a student of human nature, otherwise you would not be reading a history of this kind. You need no lectures on the consequences of the juxtaposition of hostile races and hostile religions in a setting which also features great differences in personal wealth (some citizens living near starvation level, others in sybaritic bliss), a lawless soldiery and a complete collapse of central government attended by a generalized abrogation of all effective authority.
Only the Analytical Institute and the island of Jod remained aloof from this turmoil. For, when the first looter dared set foot upon the harbour bridge, the dreaded Hermit Crab exerted some fraction of its power and caused that bridge to burst into flame; a repeat performance, for in the preceding year it had once had occasion to embark upon a similar course of action.
Thereafter, the Crab made no direct interventions in the riot. Instead, it stood on the shores of Jod and watched, occasionally opening one of its huge claws then closing it again with a decisive click-crunch. So much for the promises of those humans who had lately tried to beguile it with sweet words about an organic rectifier!
Thus disaster came to Untunchilamon, and all those ships which the Empress Justina had hoped to seize for her own purposes escaped from the Laitemata and commenced upon the long lagoon journey which would ultimately take them a great many leagues to the north, to the Galley Gate at the northern end of Untunchilamon, and into the open waters of the Great Ocean, that ocean otherwise known as Moana.
Had the Empress Justina known about this, she would have been horrified. But she knew of it not, for by this time she was labouring Downstairs with Olivia Qasaba, striving to bring an organic rectifier to a surface which she expected to find much as she had left it.
Shall we give a list of the dead?
A list could be given, but most of the names would be meaningless to those with no personal acquaintance of the fallen.
Suffice it to say that a great many of those whom the empress had hoped to rescue from the wrath of Aldarch the Third met with death. Some were raped then murdered; others were murdered then raped. More than a few, it must be admitted, died while attempting to murder or rape on their own account. Some expired amidst the incontinent flames which were threatening the survival of Injiltaprajura as a city. While one or two expired from natural causes; for, though history seldom overtly acknowledges the fact, the normal processes of birth, growth and death proceed even during the greatest and grandest of disasters.
