Un Lun Dun

by China Miéville

  “As I was about to explain,” said the book testily. “As I was saying. At first, it was just a dirty cloud. Nasty but brainless as a stump. But then something happened.

  “There were so many chemicals swilling around in it that they reacted together. The gases and liquid vapor and brick dust and bone dust and acids and alkalis, fired through by lightning, heated up and cooled down, tickled by electric wires and stirred up by the wind—they reacted together and made an enormous, diffuse cloud-brain.

  “The smog started to think. And that’s when it became the Smog.”

  Lectern shivered and shook her head at the thought. “It’s no surprise it wasn’t…nice,” she said. “Its thoughts are clotted from poisons, and things we’ve burnt to get rid of.”

  “It was never going to be our friend,” Mortar said.

  “As smoke kept going up,” the book said, “the Smog got bigger and stronger and smarter. But no kinder. It wanted to grow.

  “It had always strangulated some people who breathed it in. At first it didn’t set out to, but then it realized that some of the dead would be cremated, and that their ashes would blow up and fatten it…So it became a predator.”

  “It knew it would be safer if Londoners thought it was just dirty fog, so it kept its new brain to itself.”

  “Mostly…” Mortar sighed and hesitated, appalled by what he had to say. “It had some allies. Believe me, there’s nothing so terrible that someone won’t support it. It has allies here, too.”

  “Yeah, we know that,” said Deeba.

  “One of them set airjackers on us,” Zanna said.

  Mortar and Lectern shook their heads in disgust.

  “For ages, the fight went on,” Mortar said. “But slowly, the Smog was losing. Even without knowing you were fighting, you were winning. Then it counterattacked. For five days, half a century ago, it assaulted London. It killed four thousand people. Its worst single attack. And still, most of you didn’t even know you were at war!

  “After that…” He breathed out and threw up his hands. “Well…it gets a bit vague.”

  “He’s right,” said the book. “There are hints, in me, but I’m about UnLondon, not London. There’s nothing clear.”

  “We know a little bit, from stories,” said Lectern.

  “From travelers,” said Mortar. “Secret histories. The Smog was beaten. There was a secret group of guardians. Weatherwitches. The Armets. It’s an old word for helmet, and they were like London’s armor, you see? And we’ve heard how they won. They had a magic weapon.”

  “The Klinneract,” announced Lectern.

  Lectern and Mortar looked at Zanna. Eventually they looked at Deeba. They seemed a bit disappointed by their lack of recognition. “As I say,” Mortar went on. “It was a secret group.

  “So with magic and a secret war, Londoners drove the Smog away, but they didn’t manage to kill it. It got away.”

  “By coming here,” the book said.

  “There was so much rubbish in it, it could slip through the crevices through which moil comes to UnLondon,” Mortar said. “It was weak for a long time. It arrived…depleted.

  “At first, even we Propheseers didn’t think it was a threat. The book…we saw no clear references to it.”

  “We’ve talked about that,” the book whispered. “You’re being unfair.”

  “That wasn’t my point,” Mortar muttered. “Can we discuss this later?”

  “Yeah, please do,” Zanna said.

  Mortar cleared his throat. “It crept into chimneys. It looked for smoky fires to feed at. We ignored it. But it was preparing. It remembered the way to London. It would send a few wafts through the gaps, and they’d reach your factories and suck the smoke down. Drank from you as well as us. It took years. It was patient.

  “We should’ve realized. But the first we knew what was happening was when…it started providing its own food.”

  “It…what?” Zanna said. “How?”

  “It started fires. Or it got its followers to.”

  “There’s so much rubbish in the Smog, it can concentrate it and move things. Pick things up. It’s got as many chemicals in it as the best laboratory, and it can mix them, make poisons and flammables and tar and whatever. It can squeeze the coal and metal and ash it carries, and throw it around.

  “It rains petrol, lights it by squeezing metal dust into shards and dropping them until they spark. We realized, at last, what we were facing. And it made sense of warnings in the book, too.”

  “Yes, it did,” said the book. “So less of your ‘It wasn’t mentioned,’ please.”

  “We’ve been fighting it awhile now,” Mortar went on. “Since we understood. With vacuums, and extinguishers, and everything we can find. But then about a year ago, it suddenly stopped attacking.”

  “Isn’t that good?” Deeba said.

  “No, ’cause it’s waiting for something,” Lectern said. “It’s planning something.”

  “And this we know because?” the book said expectantly.

  “Because it’s in the book?” Zanna said.

  The book said “Bing!”

  “Sometimes the words are riddles,” Lectern said. “But there’s not much controversy over ‘The choker will rest, then rise, and fire, and grow, and return.’”

  “Who was the man on the bus?” said Zanna.

  “Someone who thinks it’ll help him,” Lectern said. “But there are heroes, too. For every one like him, there’s someone like Unstible.”

  “We heard that name before,” Deeba said.

  “Who’s Unstible?” Zanna said.

  “Our greatest mind,” said Mortar. “Benjamin Hue Unstible. Propheseer. Also inventor, scientist, explorer, statesman, artist, banker, furniture designer, and cook. You see, you have to remember we know very little about London’s secret war with the Smog. Unstible researched and researched, all the stories he could find, about the Armets and their secret weapon, and about the Smog itself. He knew more about it than anyone else, ever. In the end, he decided that our best chance to defeat it was to know how it had been beaten before.

  “He was sure the Smog would move against us. So he decided to find the Armets.

  “That’s why he crossed over, to search. More than two years ago. We haven’t heard a word from him since.” Mortar looked forlorn. “Hopefully we’ll hear from him…any day now.”

  “And he was right, too,” Lectern said. “The Smog is attacking again. And now we know what it’s been waiting for.”

  “It’s been waiting for you, Shwazzy,” Mortar said.

  “We knew it was approaching your time,” the book said. “Word’s been spreading. We heard your face had appeared in the clouds over London. That was the first sign.”

  Zanna looked at Deeba.

  “Told you,” Deeba muttered.

  “Seven-oh-one,” the book said. Lectern turned pages. “‘One shall come from that other place. She shall be called the Shwazzy. To her alone it is given to save UnLondon.’ The Smog’s heard the prophecy. ‘She shall prevail in her first encounter, and again in her last.’ It knows you’re its enemy. And it wants you gone. That’s why its forces are emerging at last. It’ll attack you as soon as it can.”

  “Actually,” said Zanna, “it already has. In London.”

  “But we didn’t know what it was,” said Deeba.

  “It found you there?” gasped Lectern. “Oh, you poor thing.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Look,” Deeba said reasonably. “This is all…y’know, important and that. But you still haven’t told us how to get out of here—”

  “Wait a minute,” Zanna interrupted her. “This is stupid. Why did Unstible go?” She stared at Mortar and Lectern.

  “I mean…I’m supposed to defeat the Smog, right?” she demanded. “The prophecy says. It’s…mad, but just say for a moment, right? So why did Unstible go looking for the Armets? What was he worried about if I’m going to take care of it? It’s not his job.”
/>   Mortar and Lectern looked at each other uneasily.

  “He…always had certain ideas, about what was written,” Mortar said. “He said he wanted to be sure. ‘It’s given to her to save us,’ he used to say. ‘That doesn’t mean she’ll take it. I’ll go see what I can do.’”

  “So…” said Zanna, “he disappeared ’cause he was trying to help me?”

  23

  The Meaning of the Trail

  “What happened to Jones and the others?” Deeba said. “The ones who sent the message to you?”

  “I’ve given orders to the binja to let them in if they reach us,” Mortar said, looking at Zanna. “Conductors can take care of themselves. And their passengers. Shwazzy, are you…”

  “This is crazy,” Zanna said. “I’m just a girl. How’s a Shwazzy get chosen anyway? Why’s it a girl? Why not a local? How d’you even know I’m it? None of it makes sense.”

  “That’s how prophecies work,” Mortar said gently. “They’re not about what makes sense; they’re about what will be. That’s how they work. And not only do you fit the description, but you’re here. You crossed over…with your friend, even. What greater evidence could there be than the fact that you’re here, now? That you found your way through the Odd, and through UnLondon, to us, the only people who could tell you what you are?”

  Zanna looked at Deeba.

  “You felt something, Zann,” Deeba whispered. “You did. You knew you had to get us here.”

  “Did you turn a wheel?” Lectern said. “You did, didn’t you? How did you get down here?”

  “Well,” said Deeba. “There was this smoke, and then there was this umbrella.”

  In a confused, overlapping way, Deeba and Zanna told the Propheseers about the attack of the terrible smoke, and the umbrella that had come to listen at Zanna’s window.

  “And then Zanna followed a trail,” Deeba said at last.

  “Not on my own,” said Zanna. “We were both following it…”

  “Whatever,” said Deeba. “We ended up here.”

  Mortar and Lectern stared at each other.

  “I wonder,” said the book.

  “What is he doing?” Lectern said.

  “Who?” said Zanna.

  “The man whose servant you saw,” Mortar said. “Mr. Brokkenbroll. Head honcho of the Parraplooey Cassay tribe. The Unbrellissimo. The boss of the broken umbrellas.”

  “Lots of the moil tribes have leaders,” Mortar said. “Certain substances in UnLondon exist in prologue form in London, and enter a second life-cycle here with new purposes, even as sentient denizens of the abcity. They are moil, which is an acronym, the letters thereof standing for—”

  “Mildly Obsolete In London,” interrupted Deeba, raising her eyebrows. “We know what moil is.” She leaned in to Zanna. “Old manky rubbish,” she muttered.

  “Ah…well,” Mortar said. “Quite correct. And as I say, many of the tribes of moil have leaders of various calibers. Like that princess of discarded typewriters.”

  “What’s her name?” Zanna said.

  “Can’t pronounce it,” Lectern said. “It’s all punctuation marks. Then there’s Shard, the jack of cracked glass.”

  “Arthur Poise-Catching, the pope of empty mousetraps,” Mortar said. “And the others. Some of the moil never seem to care. I don’t know quite what the nabob of ring-pulls ever gained from his reign. But he seemed happy.

  “Brokkenbroll’s different. He really does command. And he takes our side. He’s always been one of UnLondon’s protectors. An umbrella’s for keeping off the rain. But as soon as you break it, it doesn’t have that purpose anymore, and it seeps through to here. It becomes something else.”

  “An unbrella,” Lectern said.

  “An unbrella. And when it’s that, here, Brokkenbroll commands it.”

  “This one didn’t seep nowhere,” Deeba said.

  “It was dancing around,” said Zanna.

  “Yes. That’s what’s confusing,” Mortar said. “Brokkenbroll must have been actually calling it all the way from here. That would take an awful lot of energy.”

  “He’s not just waiting for them to come through,” said Lectern. “He’s recruiting. But why?”

  “Is there anything about it in, er…?” Mortar nodded at the book.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells,” the book said. “Page two-twelve? Three-oh-three? No…”

  “What’s he doing?” Mortar said. “Having unbrellas keep watch on the Shwazzy after she’s attacked. What’s his plan?”

  “I’m sorry, but why can’t you just get us home?” Deeba begged. “Our families…”

  “My mum and dad…” Zanna said. “They’ll be desperate.”

  “They won’t,” Mortar said.

  “What?” said Zanna.

  “Of course they will!” said Deeba. “So’ll mine! They love us.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Mortar said. “That’s not what I mean. Something happens, you see. There’s a zone somewhere between London and UnLondon we call the Fretless Field.”

  “What does it do?” said Zanna.

  “Is time standing still in London?” Deeba said.

  “Well, no. But I promise you your parents aren’t panicking. There’s something called the phlegm effect…”

  “That’s disgusting.” Deeba said.

  “Not that sort of phlegm,” said Lectern. “But you don’t have to worry about them panicking. And we can help you make contact before there’s any problems.”

  “What?” said Zanna.

  “We still need to go back,” said Deeba.

  “Soon as we can,” said Zanna.

  “We’ll try,” Mortar said. “But we have to find out what’s going on. If Brokkenbroll’s putting that kind of effort in, sending commands to unbrellas that far away, it sounds like he knows something we don’t.”

  “UnLondon needs you, Shwazzy,” Lectern said.

  “I’m sorry, but this ain’t our problem!” said Deeba. “We have to go.”

  “Go back and what?” Mortar said. “Wait for another attack?”

  The girls stared at him. “Please,” Mortar said. “UnLondon needs your help, it’s true. But in any case, it isn’t safe for you to leave. You’re followed. All the way in London. If you left now, there’d be nothing to protect you.”

  “Think about it,” said Lectern gently. “You think the Smog won’t try again? How safe do you think you are? You’re here for a reason, Shwazzy. For your own sake as well as ours. So we need to know what Brokkenbroll knows. And so do you.”

  Zanna and Deeba stared at each in horror.

  “We’ll see if we can’t track Mr. Brokkenbroll down,” said Lectern. “Don’t you worry.”

  “So he can explain why his umbrella was watching my house?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  24

  An Interruption in the Process

  “That thing came after you,” Deeba said. “Becks…she’s alright, but she might not have been. That was meant for you.”

  Deeba stroked Curdle. The girls sat in the middle of the Propheseers’ bridge-office as their hosts scurried around them.

  “Put out a message on the walls?” the girls heard someone say. The Propheseers had been debating strategy. They rummaged in files, pulled up information on their strange computers, bickered over how to proceed. “Who do we know who might give us an in?” they heard Mortar say over the tapping of typewriters.

  “I thought you might be hungry.” It was Lectern, carrying a plate of strange-looking cakes. The girls eyed and sniffed them, but despite their peculiar colors, they smelt like food. Deeba and Zanna ate.

  “Sorry this is taking awhile,” said Lectern. “Normal service. You know. Resumed as soon as possible.” She watched them until they were uncomfortable. “Sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I know this must be hard for you. We’re doing everything we can. This is…a very big time for us. I’ve been Mortar’s second for, well, an embarrassing number of years, and no one knows t
he book better than me—I’m its bearer, after all—and I still can’t believe it.” She couldn’t stop smiling. It was infectious.

  The UnSun was halfway across the sky, but Zanna and Deeba’s body-clocks were totally confused. They fought not to doze. Every so often a Propheseer would bring them cups of tea. “We’ll be with you very shortly,” she or he would say. “Sorry for the delay.” Birds flew overhead, along with bigger, odder-looking things.

  From the street under the bridge came a faint whistle.

  “Did you hear that?” said Deeba. Curdle skipped back and forward.

  “Oy,” someone below shouted. The voice was very faintly audible.

  “No,” said Zanna, standing. “But I heard that.” There was a commotion.

  “Something’s coming,” Zanna said. A figure was stumbling slowly up the bridge, Propheseers running to help it.

  “What’s happened?” Zanna shouted. She ran towards them, Deeba and Curdle on her heels.

  Helped up the slope of the Pons Absconditus was a binja. Its metal was cracked, and bleeding a tarry goo.

  “We’re under attack!” a Propheseer said. “The binja were ambushed! Thank goodness they heard something.”

  From the empty street where the bridge touched down, several other binja were coming. They walked backwards, weapons up, guarding the end of the bridge.

  “They’re watching both ends,” Mortar said. “No one should be able to get past us.”

  “I thought no one could get on the bridge,” Zanna said.

  “Well no one’s supposed to,” he snapped. “But no system’s perfect. That’s what the binja are for. Just in case.”

  The binja congregated in front of their injured friend and the cowering Propheseers. They stood with weapons ready. They waited.

  And waited.

  “So…where are they?” Deeba whispered.

  There were tiny whispering noises. The Propheseers and the binja looked frantically around.

  “There!” said Zanna.

  Meters behind them, in the center of the bridge by the office, grappling hooks were soaring up from below, trailing ropes. They coiled around the girders.