GLASS
Stephen Palmer
Glass
Stephen Palmer
A plague is spreading through the city of Cray. Nobody knows its origin and nobody has discovered a cure. Cray is dying. Of glass.
As the city’s ruling council resorts to increasingly desperate measures to maintain order, two people’s lives are about to change. When the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower witnesses a vast lens in the night sky, his work collating the city’s scattered historical records takes on a significance he could not have imagined. And when Subadwan the Archivist is chosen to explore a land she never knew existed, she finds herself at the centre of a plot which threatens to shatter the very nature of reality.
And the glass plague advances.
Glass is the brilliantly imaginative and instantly compelling second novel by Stephen Palmer, whose Memory Seed was acclaimed as one of the most outstanding debuts in recent years.
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© Stephen Palmer 1997, 2013
Cover © Stephen Palmer
ISBN: 9781311305473
Electronic Version by Baen Books
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Praise for Glass
Best Original SF novel of the year: Guy Haley’s choice in SFX, December 1997
Recommended by Ian Watson as among the best science fiction and fantasy of 1997 —Daily Telegraph
“Not always a comfortable read, Glass is haunting and hallucinatory in its effect, a journey into a dreamlike world littered with evocative names and savagely bizarre images. This latest novel confirms that in Stephen Palmer, science fiction has gained a distinctive new voice.” — Lee Mason, Ottaker’s SF Newsletter
“Blending good science fiction with an elegant exploration of the relationship between humans and their ancient electronic creations, Palmer’s tale is littered with characters who behave in an ultimately believeable way… This is a brilliant second novel and makes, like its predecessor, a welcome change in a genre clogged with tat.” — Guy Haley, SFX
“Stephen Palmer’s Glass is somewhat easier to read but even more strange than his first novel, Memory Seed, to which it is a sort-of sequel… This is no ordinary SF novel with nice neat explanations; we’re never really told how we got there from here, only that the city of Cray is some five hundred years old. What happened before that, to create the city, and why? That’s where the link between the two books come in… but don’t expect it all to be spelt out for you… In both his poetic style of language and his elliptical style of plotting, Stephen Palmer looks set to become a British Gene Wolfe… Give him a try; his originality is refreshing.” —David V Barrett, Freelance Informer
Praise for Stephen Palmer’s first novel, Memory Seed
“Memory Seed flowers into a very convincing and entertaining first novel. The sense of location is particularly well realised, with the wretched overrun streets, the lost quarters of the city and the impinging ruin depicted particularly vividly… This attractive voice, coupled with a complex and fascinating plot and a simple but stylish book design, makes Memory Seed a notable debut novel.” —SFX
“The exotic horticulture is as inventive as anything in Aldiss’ classic Hothouse, and parallels with present environmental concerns aren’t bludgeoned home… Palmer is a find.” —Time Out
“Memory Seed is a speculative novel of the distant future that extrapolates many of today’s environmental and New Age concerns into an enjoyable thriller about human survival against the odds. Stephen Palmer has concocted a beguiling adventure that draws on some of the best sf of recent years for its basic themes, yet also adds just as much to the genre’s melting-pot of ideas.” —Starburst
“Stephen Palmer brilliantly explores a lot of the environmental and social issues of today as Kray, the last city left on Earth, is threatened by the approach of a fast-growing deadly vegetation. Palmer is most definitely a name to keep an eye on.” —Muzik
“Stephen Palmer has a powerful imagination and the scenes of urban collapse and encroaching jungle are vivid and compelling. In this respect he has created an intriguing dystopian ecological-catastrophe novel, diverging from the recent trend of socially-driven catastrophes in British sf.” —Foundation
“Stephen Palmer’s Memory Seed is a great debut, whose central premise of a world strangled by vegetation is more affecting than you might believe… Memory Seed is told with a real sense of belief.” —Third F&SF Books @ Dillon’s
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.
The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
Books by Stephen Palmer
Memory Seed
Glass
Flowercrash
Muezzinland
Hallucinating
Urbis Morpheos
The Rat and The Serpent
Hairy London
Prologue
Laspetosyne turned and pointed to the scaffolded pillar. ‘That rocket will take us away from this system. We save ourselves. That was ever our goal. You humans misunderstood us, and that is none of our concern. Go save yourselves.’
‘But we can’t. You’re leaving forever?’
‘Girl, there’s hardly any point returning, now is there?’
‘But where are you going?’
Laspetosyne pointed east. ‘We made a bridge to take us from Gwmru to this island, and crossed it not one month ago. Soon we shall destroy the bridge, then take off making for a star. There we can resume our lives, and devote ourselves to our arts. This rocket will be our vehicle.’
‘What about us? You can’t leave us to die.’
‘Can organic things transmit themselves at the speed of light? Not as far as I know. Tomorrow at dawn, we shall take off. In forty-two years of our time the light of that star will shine upon us. Make the most of my grace, girl, then depart.’
CHAPTER 1
The Reeve of Cray lived in a spherical chamber located in the heart of the Archive of Noct. It was split into two hemispheres, the upper containing electronic apparatus coagulated into lumps set here and there with screens, the lower, malodorous below the grille that was the floor, of less apparent purpose. Furniture was spartan – a desk, a chair, a black statue dedicated to the perpetually nocturnal – and the atmosphere seemed poisoned with fumes.
The Reeve, Umia, looked at home here. He was of medium height and weight, his large head topped with cropped white hair, a pair of small blue eyes over-shadowed by wild eyebrows. He wore a cloak of glittering blue salmon leather and a kirtle embroidered with crimson thread. His left lower leg and left forearm had been replaced, the leg a node-encrusted lump like a steel sea urchin, the forearm a polished orb with dangling cable. These prosthetic limbs in addition to the vexed manner made Umia seem like an afflicted old soldier oppressed by memory.
The door to the chamber opened, and he saw his First and Second Deputies, Heraber tall and saturnine like an evil siren, Ciswadra small and bent like a crone. The pair walked in.
‘Are the other two here yet?’ Umia asked Heraber.
‘Good. I hate wasting valuable time.’
Umia frowned and looked at the still open door, hearing the sounds of bootsteps, then seeing the other two members of Cray’s ruling Triad, Querhidwe the Lord Archivist of Selene, dressed in clothes so dusty and unwashed they might be those of a street beggar, and Rhannan – cursed Rhannan – of the Archive of Gaya. Gruffly Umia welcomed them, though his words were traditional and held no sincerity.
Since only Umia had a chair, all except he were forced to stand.
‘We are gathered here this morning,’ Umia began, ‘to discuss the threat to Cray of the invader gnostician creatures, with specific reference to the plague of glass that is spreading. I have been thinking on this topic, and I have come to the conclusion that some sort of purge would help–’
‘Purge?’ Rhannan interrupted.
‘That is what I said.’
‘Has this been discussed with Heraber and Ciswadra?’
Umia found himself irritated by her question. ‘Of what relevance is that? My methods are my own. These gnosticians I believe to be the menace that has deprived us of our security, since they populate the Earth in its entirety, and are unlike us. This is obvious. The question is, do we actively pursue them or merely banish them from the city?’
‘Talk of a purge of gnosticians is indecent,’ Rhannan said. ‘They are harmless. Any link with the glass plague would be disputed by my Archive.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Umia said, ‘but you are of Gaya. Heraber…?’
‘The glass is spreading, my Lord Archivist. I now suspect this plague to possess an exponential vector. If we take the age of Cray to be five hundred years and extrapolate from what we know, then little time remains, perhaps less than a year. The fact that until recently the plague has been eating at the foundations of Cray, rarely appearing above ground, has also confused our calculations. But there can be no doubt now that you have a serious problem.’
‘I? You mean all of us in the Archive of Noct.’
‘You are the Reeve,’ Rhannan pointed out. ‘Noct is forever in charge because the Lord Archivists of Gaya and Selene are not allowed to bring deputies to the Triad, unlike yourself.’
‘What then do you suggest?’ Umia asked with poor grace.
‘A purge is pointless,’ Rhannan replied. ‘We must first see to the appalling conditions suffered by the general populace, many of whom live in the streets. Then we must create shelters and homes away from those districts worst affected by vitrification. The people suffer grinding poverty, and this is why they care for little other than their predicament in the city. Certainly an emergency Triad consisting of the Lord Archivists of all seven Archives must be set up, and discussions begun. Will you do this, for the Crayans you rule?’
Umia sighed. ‘Heraber and Ciswadra would agree to a purge, so you are outvoted. We three will decide how it is to be managed. You two need not contribute. I will discuss the matter with my advisers.’
At this point Heraber and Ciswadra exchanged uncertain glances. Umia did not miss this. Abruptly he stood up and began declaiming, as if to conceal a mistake. ‘Why is it that only Cray seems to matter to us? Are we solipsists? No. It is because of these gnosticians and the glass plague they spread, for it is well known that foreign bodies bring diseases. Whoever heard of disease at home? I say – we here at Noct say – that humans have been ousted. Yes, ousted. We must have the courage to act against that which threatens Cray. There will be a purge, once suitable methods have been decided. Good! This meeting is now at an end.’
Silent and with grim faces, Rhannan and Querhidwe departed the chamber. For a few moments Heraber, the more decisive of Umia’s two deputies, looked at her Reeve as if with malice. Then she said, ‘What of the other Archives, my Lord Archivist?’
‘What of them?’
‘Rhannan at least will stir up trouble amongst the masses.’
Umia waved her away. ‘I will discuss the matter with my advisers.’
‘But surely we must consider Tanglanah of the Archive of Safekeeping, and Ffenquylla of the Archive of Wood?’
‘The Archive of Wood? Do you jest? It is but the home of the nostalgic and the terminally unrealistic. And likewise for the other two minor Archives.’ Umia hesitated, then said, ‘Tanglanah at least has some charisma, and if the reports are correct a certain popularity.’
‘The reports are correct,’ Ciswadra said, ‘for I collated them.’
‘Well,’ Umia frostily replied, ‘investigate her if you must, but do not let your work on the plague and the gnosticians suffer. It is paramount. I will not go down in history as the Reeve who could not recognise an enemy.’
‘Very well,’ the deputies said in unison, turning to leave.
‘Wait,’ Umia said. ‘Rhannan has angered me with her foolish criticism of the Triad’s constitution. We will deal with it in the usual way. See to it.’
At last the chamber was silent. Umia put one ear to the wall, to hear the faint booming of innumerable feet on plastic and metal, and below that, like the echo of a sonic boom, the din of the city outside.
He sat in his chair. Perhaps it was time to talk with the voices.
CHAPTER 2
When the two orange-suited enforcers barred her from walking further along Red Lane, Archivist Subadwan began to worry. The din of the city, groaning and clashing all around, and the inebriating effect of the jellies she had eaten conspired to confuse her mind. It was late at night. And both of the enforcers were armed with serrated scimitars.
‘Halt!’ one bellowed through a megaphone. ‘You’re one of the Gaya girls, ain’t you?’
Subadwan leaned against a scuffed copper wall. Because she was small and slim, some of the Triad’s more officious servants found their zeal difficult to restrain. Yet tonight she wore no Archive clothes, dressing instead in red and yellow striped breeches, a blue jacket embroidered with bells, and a black scarf. Her dark, braided hair was streaked yellow, the glossy locks reaching down to the small of her back. Four opal earstuds glittered as white mote storms passed through the perspex paving below her feet.
Subadwan stood up and with an effort raised her hands for sign language. I am Subadwan of the Archive of Gaya. I am no child. I have done nothing illegal.
‘Ha!’ came the inevitable response through the megaphone. ‘Show us your fishtail, girl.’
A shocking thought entered Subadwan’s mind.
‘Um…’ she said, hands in pockets, apprehension draining away some of the lethargy she felt. The men approached until they were close enough to hear her voice over the hundred-decibel babble that the Rusty Quarter produced. ‘Um, I seem to have left it at home.’
‘At home? And you so high in Gaya’s estimation? Dear Subadwan, consider yourself under our jurisdiction ’til we can stand you up in front of our top orange.’
‘This is just harassment,’ Subadwan retorted. ‘You were waiting for me. Gaya save us.’
‘Say, quiet, girl.’ Their sweating, Cray-grimed faces leered down at her, framed by dangling black fuzzlocks. Each of them grabbed an arm.
She was forced to move, but when she showed herself able to walk they relaxed their grips. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.
‘Enforcer House.’
Subadwan tried to stop. They tugged her into Feverfew Street. ‘All that way? Why? I’ve got my ’tail at home. We can go there and I’ll show it to you.’ To this the brute pair just laughed.
Feverfew Street was golden bright, illuminating the plastic houses on either side to their upper storeys. Some of the taller towers were shadowy up high, their turrets and spires indistinguishable from the dusty night air unless some blue flickering aerician should swerve around one, or the halogen lamps of an aeromorph, far, far higher, happened to be occluded. Subadwan, as she was marched down the street, tried to avoid the glances of other nocturnal folk, feeling ashamed that once again she – her Archive – had become the
target of Triad callousness. Huddled groups of outers lay among cables and ducts stretched along the street, their filthy, dusty bodies clothed in rags. A few lessers, many dressed in the official uniforms of their masters, ran by on errands. A clerk of the Archive of Selene sped by, her white gown rippling.
After a few minutes they reached the part of Feverfew Street that had become vitrified. To Subadwan’s right, panes of glass, bent into spikes and bubbles glittering blue and white, reflected and refracted the light of the street; houses to her left seemed to have avoided the infection. But even from the street she could sense an inner darkness to the glass – its black heart, where luminophages multiplied unchecked. ‘That’s what you should be fighting,’ Subadwan shouted to the enforcers. ‘Why aren’t you doing anything about our city turning to glass?’
‘Say, quiet,’ they responded.
‘Glass can cut people,’ Subadwan continued. ‘Why don’t you get on with clearing it up?’
‘We said quiet.’
They hurried on into the Blistered Quarter. The noise was deafening. Subadwan had not had a chance to put earmuffs on. The two enforcers wore radio transceivers over their ears and so were spared much of the din but, as they made south, the screeching, crashing, cacophonous tumult of the Blistered Quarter in collaboration with the sweltering heat reduced Subadwan to tears. ‘Give me earmuffs!’ she yelled.
Casually, as if humouring a lesser or humiliating an outer, one of the enforcers produced a pair of greasy earmuffs, which he then offered to Subadwan upon the point of his scimitar. The gesture was not lost on Subadwan. With poor grace she snatched the covers and put them on.
Entering Ficus Street they passed the Water Purification House, crossed the river into Eastcity, then made up Deciduo Street, a bright alley sparkling red and gold on to which Enforcer House abutted. Here they stopped. A tall figure wrapped in orange approached from the gloomy building, steel boot heels clacking on the perspex street, a fish mask covering the upper half of her face. Subadwan knew this to be a pyuton fellow of the enforcers. ‘What have you got there?’ said a whirring voice.
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