Un Lun Dun

by China Miéville

  “Hang on,” Deeba said. “Your umbrellas are broken.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Your umbrellas are sticks,” Brokkenbroll said coldly. “My unbrellas are awake. And still protectors. So I decided to train them, with a little finessing, to protect UnLondoners.

  “I needed an army. It wouldn’t be enough to rely on the discards that usually dribble through. So I’ve been recruiting. All the way from here.

  “Then I heard something had happened. I listen to the gossip of clouds, which come and go between this sky and yours, and they said the Smog was cackling, that it had defeated its enemy. I wondered if something had happened to the Shwazzy. So I called a watcher to check. Hoped the information was wrong. That’s what you saw, young lady.”

  “Zanna didn’t get hit,” said Deeba. “It was another girl.”

  “Ah…” said Brokkenbroll. “Blond? Tall? That explains the confusion. I was under the impression that the Shwazzy had been incapacitated. Which, sadly, has now turned out to be true. So it’s just as well I’ve been preparing, after all.”

  There was a faint light in the hallway. Brokkenbroll stood by the outline of a door.

  “But how?” said Deeba. “Umbrellas can’t stop bullets.”

  “Please,” hissed Mortar. “You’re being rather brusque.”

  “Leave her alone, Mortar,” Lectern muttered. “What our visitor is trying to say, Unbrellissimo, is that, uh…”

  “She’s absolutely right,” Brokkenbroll said. “Neither umbrellas nor unbrellas can stop bullets. Not untreated, they can’t. But as I say—the Smog’s bullets are just rain, and my subjects keep the rain off. I knew there must be ways of reinforcing them.”

  “So they’re like bulletproof vests?” said Deeba.

  “Almost. The problem is that the Smog can change its chemicals, can fire missiles in many different compounds. The only way to make unbrellas effective against anything it might produce was to know everything about the Smog.”

  “So that’s why we’re here,” Deeba said. “You got into Unstible’s workshop and read his books, innit? He knew more’n anyone else, and you’ve been learning.”

  “Smart girl,” murmured Lectern.

  Brokkenbroll laughed.

  “You flatter me,” he said. “I couldn’t make head or tail of those texts. Believe me, I’ve tried. No, I knew I’d need help from an expert.”

  He opened the door. The illuminations in the room beyond made them blink.

  It was an enormous workshop. The ceiling soared. There were shelves crammed with books and dusty machines, and flasks and scrolls and pens and junk. There were piles of plastic, and bits of coal. By a huge fireplace was a freight elevator.

  The chamber was filled with boiling kettles and glass and rubber tubes, boilers and conveyor belts. In the center was a bubbling brass vat.

  There were no windows in the room. The light came from an enormous number of placid-looking insects the size of Deeba’s fist, which sat on shelves and stools and crawled sluggishly up the walls. Their abdomens were lightbulbs, screwed into their thoraxes. Their slow motion made the shadows crawl.

  The room was a hubbub. Thronging every surface were broken umbrellas. They trotted in spidery motion through turning cylinders, in front of sprays of liquid. They hauled up a ridge to the edge of the vat, and one by one jumped in.

  They darted in the liquid like penguins underwater, and emerged again, shivering, leapt out and slotted themselves into an enormous rack. Rows and rows of unbrellas dripped and dried.

  Mortar and Lectern gasped.

  Standing by the ash-filled fireplace was a man in a filthy white coat. He looked pale in the glow of the shifting insect bulbs. He was short and fat, with bloodshot eyes and an enormous bald head.

  He looked tired, but he smiled at Deeba and the Propheseers.

  “No!” Mortar said at last. “Is that you?”

  “Hello old friend,” the strange little figure said.

  “Ben?” said Mortar. “Benjamin Unstible?”

  29

  Hope Hiding with a Cauldron

  After his delight, Mortar was angry.

  “How long have you been here?” he demanded. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! We thought you were dead…”

  “I know, I know,” Unstible said. “I’m sorry. There were reasons.”

  He wheezed when he spoke. He shook Deeba’s hand, and his flesh felt taut under her fingers. He looked terrible, though he moved energetically and spoke quickly.

  “What reasons? What could possibly justify—”

  “The Smog’s still looking for me.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’ll tell you all the details,” Unstible said. “I promise. The short version is this. While I was in London, I found the Armets.”

  “What?” said Mortar. “How? No one knows for sure that they even still exist.”

  “Huh? Oh, yes. Well, you know, they may be a secret society, but nothing can hide from someone determined. So I found them. There’s a few of them left. Hiding. And they taught me their spells.”

  “Did they show you the Klinneract?” said Lectern reverentially.

  “Unfortunately, ah, that is long gone. Magic weapons don’t last. It did its job and now it’s broke. But they did teach me about the Smog. I know everything. I know what it’s made of, and more importantly, I know what can stop it. That’s what I went for, and I found it.

  “But the Smog must have realized what I was doing. Because I found out it was following me.

  “If I wasn’t studying it so close I might not have realized it had crept through, but I had some…feelers out. I had to hide. Go to ground. No one from here knew where I was, for sure. Or even if I was alive. But the Smog was looking for me. Once, it came very close to finding me. I was able to get away and slip back here, but I hadn’t yet made preparations. I knew that as long as the Smog thought I was lost or gone it would leave me alone. So I had to stay hidden. I couldn’t come out, because I hadn’t got things ready.”

  “We made a plan together,” the Unbrellissimo said.

  “Exactly. Brokkenbroll’s servants found me. When he asked me how to make his unbrellas into shields, I realized the concrete applications of what I’d learnt.”

  “It could stop the Smog,” Brokkenbroll said.

  “Exactly.” Unstible waved at the strange machinery and the vat full of fervently swimming unbrellas. “It’s a slightly more supernaturally interesting version of vulcanization. A cocktail of chemicals, technique, and magic that can fend off anything the Smog throws at us. Anything it can do.”

  “And we’re almost ready,” Brokkenbroll said, his voice tense with excitement. “I’ve been amassing troops. Unstible’s been getting them ready. In a few days I’ll start issuing treated unbrellas to everyone in UnLondon. It’ll take awhile, but everyone’ll get one. I’ll keep pulling them in from London. Until everyone in the abcity’s protected.”

  “But we can’t all move those things like you do, Unbrellissimo,” Lectern said.

  “You don’t have to. That’s the beauty. They obey my orders. I’ll tell them to protect whomever carries them. With Unstible’s liquid and my soldiers, we can protect everyone in UnLondon. If the Smog tries to rain its bullets at us…just pull out your unbrella, and you’re safe.”

  “That’s…brilliant,” said Mortar.

  “It’s a plan,” said Lectern. “A real plan.”

  “So UnLondon don’t need the Shwazzy after all?” Deeba said. “With your umbrellas or unbrellas or whatever they are? The Smog doesn’t seem to know that. It’s still in her lungs. What’s it doing to her? What if she’s really sick? If something happens to her, I don’t care how scary the Smog is, I’ll find it.”

  There were a few moments’ silence.

  “I think you might at that,” said Brokkenbroll thoughtfully. “It says a lot about you that you came with your friend. You must have been very afraid. It says you’re something to be reckoned with.
I wonder what we can do…” He narrowed his eyes and seemed to be evaluating her. “Give me a second,” he said, and beckoned Unstible over.

  The two men muttered together. “…we could…” Deeba heard. Lectern shuffled a little closer to her, as if protectively. The two men seemed to be disagreeing. “…absolutely not…” she heard, and “…might work…” and “…worth a try…” and “…not unless we have to…” They bowed their heads together and muttered.

  “Alright then,” Unstible said suddenly, and shrugged.

  “I’ve had an idea,” Brokkenbroll said. “I think I might be able to get the Smog out of your friend.”

  “The trick,” he said, “is to get the Smog so rattled it has to gather every bit of itself to fight. And it’s not used to facing someone with the weapons to keep it at bay.” He pointed to his unbrellas.

  “Really?” Mortar said. “You honestly think you can scare the Smog? If you can do that…well.” His expression left little doubt that if the Unbrellissimo could achieve that, he’d win Mortar’s respect and loyalty.

  “And how can you help the Shwazzy?” said Lectern.

  “I’ll attract its attention,” Unbrellissimo said. “Somewhere away from here, some waste ground where no one can get hurt. Light a couple of old tires, go Smog-fishing.”

  “You’re going to call it deliberately?” Mortar said.

  “I can’t believe this,” said the book miserably. “For centuries I’ve known what was supposed to happen. Ins and outs. And with that whack on the back of the Shwazzy’s head…that was all gone. Turns out I don’t know anything. But for the record, it sounds to me like you’re an impressive general. Maybe your plan will even work. Even without the Shwazzy, maybe UnLondon does have a chance.”

  “Propheseers, Propheseers, please,” Brokkenbroll said. “We’re not just talking about the abcity. We’re also talking about a young girl, lying back on that bridge, struggling to breathe. Now, if I can make this work,” he said to Deeba, “then you can rest. Your friend will be safe. The prophecies…well, they’ll still be wrong, but that won’t matter, because UnLondon’ll have a new way to protect itself.” He twirled an unbrella. “So there’ll be no need for the Shwazzy to come running back, and no need for you to worry about her.”

  “What can I do?” Deeba said. “I want to help. She’s my friend.”

  “It’ll be dangerous. I really can’t…” He stopped and thought. “Perhaps there is one thing.”

  “Tell me!”

  “It’ll mean you going home. I need time to prepare, and we have to get her as far away from the Smog as possible, as fast as possible. So it’s something you can only do from London.”

  Deeba almost sobbed with laughter.

  “I want to go home!” she said. “That’s what we’ve been trying to do since we got here.”

  “Alright then,” said the Unbrellissimo. “Let me tell you what to do.”

  30

  Taking Leave

  The bridge certainly hadn’t been there when they came out of the factory. But Mortar and Lectern led them just one or two quick turns, and its familiar towers and cables rose before them, and they were back on its tarmac, heading for the office.

  The loon was high overhead. It was a fatter oval than the previous night, was almost full.

  The Propheseers were waiting, gathered around Zanna’s immobile body. Curdle scampered and rolled towards them.

  “Come here, you stupid carton,” Deeba said, and stroked her friend’s head gently, listening to Zanna’s breath rattle. Then Deeba cried out with delight as she saw three familiar figures on the Pons Absconditus.

  “Obaday! Conductor Jones! Skool!” she shouted, and ran to hug each of them in turn—even Skool, who leaned awkwardly and patted her back with enormous clumsy gloves.

  “Deeba!” Obaday shouted.

  “How are you, girl?” said Jones.

  “You made it,” she said. “How did you get here? Are you all alright?”

  “It was a bit hairy there for a while,” Jones said. “We laid up south of the river. Rosa had to do some extreme driving there…” Skool nodded and made a zigzag motion with his hand. “We got rid of another of the grossbottles, but a couple of airjackers boarded us. Used up all my current getting rid of them.”

  “Then Skool took over,” Obaday said, and Skool struck a strongman pose.

  Somewhere between Jones’s laconic descriptions, Obaday’s enthusiastic gabbling, and Skool’s hand motions, Deeba learnt that the bus had landed, and there’d been a fight: “It wasn’t much,” according to Jones, and “It was terrible!” according to Obaday. “Stink-junkies…smombies…some other horrible-looking things…”

  “We held them off as long as we could,” Jones said. “When they got inside the bus, they snatched the captive—that toga’d swine—and left.”

  “When they saw the Shwazzy wasn’t there,” Deeba said.

  “Poor thing,” Obaday said, looking at Zanna. Skool stroked her head.

  “She’ll be okay,” Deeba said quickly. “We know what we’re going to do.”

  “I couldn’t believe it, seeing her like that,” Obaday said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “Tell me about it,” the book said miserably, from Lectern’s arms.

  “If she isn’t going to save UnLondon, then who is?” Obaday went on.

  “Well,” said Lectern. “There may be another plan. Something rather extraordinary. A plan involving someone you will not have been expecting to see again.” She glanced at the book, and added quietly: “Just not a plan that’s written.” The book sighed.

  “You remember what to do?” Brokkenbroll said. Deeba nodded.

  The loon shone down. The Propheseers and a few binja were lined up to see Deeba off. She looked down at Zanna, slumped, eyes closed, in the wheelbarrow into which the Propheseers had gently placed her. It felt disrespectful, pushing her friend like that, but she had no choice.

  “Soon,” the Unbrellissimo said. “I’ll get everything prepared. Six in the morning. Be ready, won’t you?” Deeba nodded again, and looked at the rest of her companions.

  She’d been so desperate to go home for so long, and she was still, was frantic to see her family, but she was suddenly sad to say good-bye to these UnLondoners. By the look of their faces, they felt the same.

  “You’re a tough one, Deeba Not-the-Shwazzy,” Conductor Jones said. “You…you have yourself a great life, you hear?”

  “I might come back,” she said.

  “I…doubt it,” Jones said slowly. He lowered himself, bringing his face to her level. “Not that easy. Believe me. I had to try for years.” He looked down for a moment. “It would be lovely if you did, believe me. You’ve impressed me. But…” He gave her a sad smile, shook his head, and gave her a sudden hug. “I’m afraid it’s good-bye.” Deeba could hardly hear him.

  Skool squatted, patted Deeba clumsily, gave her a hug and a thumbs-up for good luck.

  “It was an honor to take you both to the bus stop,” Obaday said. “Don’t forget me. And…remember me to the Shwazzy.”

  “Or not,” warned Brokkenbroll. “You’ll have to be very careful what you say.”

  “I know, I know,” Deeba said.

  “Alright then,” said Obaday forlornly. “Well, you remember me then.”

  “You.” It was the book. Its voice was sulky. “Fing. You’ve given me an idea.”

  Lectern held the book up. Obaday leaned in, and the pinheaded designer and the redundant book of prophecies had a whispered conversation.

  “As long as I can remember, I’ve been waiting for her,” the book said to Deeba. “The Shwazzy’s not to blame for my inadequacies. I always imagined how I’d be there, in the Shwazzy’s arms, giving her advice as she does what’s needed for UnLondon. I’ve been imagining that since a long time before you or she were born.

  “I can hardly believe that’s not going to happen. I want to think of her carrying me around in some way. I’d like to ask you to giv
e her something for me.”

  “This is a bad idea,” Brokkenbroll said. “We have no idea what state the Shwazzy’s going to be in when she wakes…”

  “Well, if it’s not appropriate,” the book snapped, “then you keep the gift, Deeba Resham. Agreed? For goodness’ sake, I want to make a gesture. For her. It’s not as if there’s much point sticking to my original use, is there?

  “Open me,” it said to Lectern. “Somewhere near the beginning. A page of descriptions—they’re not inaccurate. No matter what else is.” Lectern did, and then she, Mortar, and Deeba all let out horrified shouts as Obaday leaned over and tore the page neatly out.

  “What are you doing?” Lectern shouted. “Are you mad…?”

  “Calm down,” said the book. “I told him to. My main job was foretelling, and it turns out that I’d be more useful as a recipe book. At least that way you’d get a decent lunch out of me. So this way these two can get a real remembrance of us.”

  Obaday was working on the sheet with his quick fingers. He whipped scissors from his pocket and cut shapes from it. He plucked pins from his head, attached bits together, pulled a white-threaded needle from his scalp, and began to sew at incredible speed.

  In less than two minutes he was done.

  “Here,” he said to Deeba. “Hold out your hand.” He pulled onto it the single glove he had made her.

  Deeba flexed her fingers. The ancient paper was so soft it did not crinkle, but folded like felt. The glove was covered in words, snips of sentences and the ends of paragraphs, in ancient-looking print that was hard to read.

  “Something to keep us in mind,” the book said.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Deeba said. “I…She’ll love it.”

  “If she sees it,” Brokkenbroll said, looking uncomfortable. “Which is probably not appropriate.”

  Mortar and Lectern were staring at the glove as if they were about to have heart attacks.

  “Oh, leave it, you two,” the book said. “My pages. I can do what I want.”

  “Now don’t worry,” said Unstible. “We’ll keep UnLondon safe.”