Glass

by Stephen Palmer

  Dwllis, tempering his anger with the small measure of apprehension he felt, replied with some dignity. ‘If you must know every little fact about me, I am being blackmailed by that damnable pyuton. Damn them all! The old Etwe managed to hijack my original pyuter for her own purposes. That is the truth and no lies. Now, that store room?’

  ‘You’re not sleeping in the store room,’ Cuensheley said in surprised tones. ‘You’re sleeping–’

  ‘In the store room.’

  ‘In my room, on the floor. That suit you?’

  ‘You are exploiting me,’ Dwllis said, exasperated. ‘I come to you for aid and you take advantage of me. You have not one good reason for disallowing me the use of the store room.’

  ‘I have.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s damp and cold.’

  Dwllis laughed.

  Firmly – very firmly – Cuensheley said, ‘You either take it or leave it. Ilquisrey and I can kick you out if you make trouble.’

  Dwllis, wanting to rant, but unable to, pondered the unfairness of his predicament under the flashing eyes of his tormentor. Of course, he had no choice. He had no other friends in Cray, nor any Archive to plead with.

  CHAPTER 18

  When Dwllis awoke, Cuensheley was gone from her bed. He could hear her clattering pots and pans downstairs while she talked with Ilquisrey, the two voices interspersed with laughter, as if they were telling one another the night’s tales. It was not without displeasure that Dwllis heard them, for he envied the ease with which Ilquisrey spoke to her mother.

  Cutting a slice of qe’lib’we from the lump on Cuensheley’s bedside table, he got up. Best to start the day with a shot of confidence.

  He dressed with care, as usual. First washing and powdering his body, he stepped into pure white underwear, then spent half an hour choosing the day’s clothes. For some minutes he gauged the effect in a mirror, trying his fuzzlocks on and off the shoulder, before tying them up with a ribbon and going downstairs.

  ‘What a pity you have no shaving facilities,’ he told Cuensheley.

  Ilquisrey remarked, ‘Why, do your legs need doing?’

  Dwllis ignored the jibe. ‘What is all that light on the ceiling?’

  They looked up to where he pointed. ‘Something outside,’ Cuensheley said, shrugging.

  Dwllis thought it must be reflecting in through the high windows from outside. He unlocked and opened the side door, to be greeted by an unusually cold breeze.

  The alley, and the small portion of Sphagnum Street beyond, were brighter than he had ever seen before. Light-mote storms raced up and down like flooding rapids, sending out coloured froth up dead-end passages. Sphagnum Street itself was almost too bright to view. Dwllis walked down the alley. A few locals stood as bemused as he. ‘What has happened?’ Dwllis asked them.

  ‘You be careful,’ he was told. ‘City’s going mad, I tell you. It happened just now, streets flashing like the sun itself was underground.’

  Another voice came. ‘People saying there’s four aeromorphs flying about streets, attacking people.’

  Dwllis looked up at the sky but it was too dark to see much, though he did notice that the Spacefish, now four times as big as the moon it had replaced, had turned so that its head was turning away from Cray. This sight worried him. He ran back to the Copper Courtyard and told Cuensheley what he had learned.

  ‘Umia’s doing, I’ll be bound,’ Ilquisrey said.

  Dwllis nodded in agreement. ‘It is some foul means of populace control,’ he said, ‘or perhaps of frightening the gnosticians left in Cray into submission. I must do something.’

  ‘What can you do?’ Cuensheley asked.

  Suspicious of the new Etwe to the point of paranoia, Dwllis found himself wondering if she would leave the tower and seek him out. He put the ghastly thought out of his mind. ‘I must decide what to do about the gnosticians,’ he declared, popping a fresh lump of qe’lib’we into his mouth. ‘Umia has pushed things too far. I must show the public that gnosticians are sentient, conscious just like them. There will be an outcry and the purges will cease.’

  Cuensheley shook her head. ‘Far too dangerous. You’ll be arrested by the Triad.’

  ‘I must do it,’ Dwllis said, ‘but there is one way of avoiding Triaders. I will speak as the guest of an Archive. If I can persuade somebody – Subadwan, let us say – that this task must be done, then I can take shelter inside the Archive if trouble should arise.’

  ‘But not even Subadwan is safe in her own Archive.’

  ‘She is a special case. If I speak in the Archive of Gaya, or any other–’

  ‘Not Noct, of course,’ Cuensheley interrupted.

  ‘Not Noct. It is a simple matter of declaring the truth, then fading into the background. With the city in its current state, all will go well.’

  Cuensheley disagreed, but Dwllis was not to be stopped. She tried to pull him away from the side door as he made to leave, but he tugged himself free, saying, ‘It must be done. I will not stand idly by.’

  ‘You’ll be arrested for sedition, you idiot.’

  Dwllis ignored her. But his forthright mood was dampened when the speech amplifiers in his earmuffs caught shouts and screams close behind, and he turned to see people running, falling and struggling through cables and pipes, smashing panes of vitrescent wall in their haste.

  An aeromorph was in pursuit. It had descended from the sky and changed into a more compact shape. It sailed through the street on a tide of smoke like a gliding aerician, catching and crushing people, then wriggling through street debris to the next victims. Dwllis managed to hide behind a steaming duct as it roared by. He coughed as the stink of ozone enveloped him.

  Now travelling with caution, he hurried along the painfully bright Feverfew Street before following alleys and passages east, past the Archive of Safekeeping, and then along Peppermint Street into Eastcity. At the bridge he saw, far off to the south, the sparkling shape of another aeromorph, bigger perhaps than the one he had just seen, flicking itself up and down through the air as if trouncing some band of hapless Crayans. At his feet, the bodies of two gnosticians lay.

  The Baths were empty. Dwllis was not surprised by this, given Cray’s circumstances. He convinced Calminthan that he must see Subadwan, and was led into an ante-chamber close to the main entrance, where he waited.

  Presently she arrived. She looked paler than ever, tired, exhausted even, her eyes lustreless and surrounded by dark circles. ‘Keeper,’ she said, taking his left hand in greeting.

  ‘Good morning, Lord Archivist,’ he responded. ‘I trust you are well?’

  ‘I’m rather tired. I hear the city streets are glowing bright?’

  ‘They most certainly are. It is damned curious. But more extraordinary are the aeromorphs–’

  Now her face was blanched. ‘I know what they are.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, Keeper. I need your help.’

  ‘Madam,’ Dwllis politely replied, ‘I require assistance also.’

  They both sat on the chamber’s only couch. ‘Electronic beings from the abstract realm of Gwmru are sustaining Cray,’ said Subadwan. ‘I tried to stop these electronic beings regaining their powers. The bright streets indicate the hyperactivity brought on by my failure. They’re going to leave the Earth.’

  Dwllis sat back. ‘Is that not a good thing?’

  Subadwan recoiled. ‘They hold the key to Cray! The gnosticians hold another. But if those beings leave, humanity is doomed, and the gnosticians will take over everything.’ Her voice became a wail as she cried. ‘These electronic beings aren’t even from Earth. They’re aliens from another star!’

  Dwllis coughed and leaned forward. ‘Madam, I must ask you to keep an immense secret. I look after a gnostician at the Cowhorn Tower, one mentally augmented by Archivists of Selene. He can speak. He told me what happened when Cray was founded.’

  ‘The gnostician can speak?’

  ‘Most assuredly. This is why I require your aid. The peo
ple of Cray must understand that our Reeve’s purges are murderous. I have to speak out.’

  Subadwan, her face expressing surprise and distaste, said, ‘Won’t that be dangerous?’

  ‘Could I speak in your Archive?’

  Subadwan breathed in deeply, then sighed a long sigh. It seemed to Dwllis that she was wrestling with her conscience. ‘You’re inviting trouble,’ she said, glancing up at him.

  ‘It must be done, Lord Archivist. I have no choice.’

  Subadwan moved closer, and said, ‘Dwllis, we’ve got more important things to do, far more important things. Tanglanah and her kin want to leave the Earth. If they do, the software of Cray will die, and then everybody in the city too. Except the gnosticians, that is, who seem to prosper here.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Listen to me! I killed three of these electronic creatures. Four others have now manifested in the real world – they are aeromorphs – in order to escape death. Tanglanah and Laspetosyne manifested earlier. That leaves six still inside Gwmru. We’ve got to stop them leaving.’

  ‘Madam, how?’

  Subadwan exclaimed, ‘I don’t know. We have to pool our resources, our knowledge. Tanglanah and her kin support the city networks, maybe they even created them. We’re on the verge of being made extinct, don’t you see?’

  ‘I do see, damnably well, but I have no answers.’ Dwllis glanced up at the ceiling of the ante-chamber. ‘The head of the Spacefish, I would wager, now points directly to these beings’ home star.’

  Subadwan began fretting and fidgeting. ‘I need your help, Dwllis.’

  ‘Lord Archivist, listen. I will go away and consider our options. You are correct, we must pool our resources. But I have my own difficulties, for I am not, at the moment, what you might term a free man. Is there a private line upon which I can call you at need?’

  Subadwan told him the code of her line, then Dwllis, with a polite bow, departed. Taking great care, he journeyed west across the city, returning to the Copper Courtyard. The streets were almost empty: word of danger had spread. Dwllis felt alone and vulnerable, glancing back every few seconds, trying to pierce flashing green and yellow street after-images.

  It was in Hemp Street that he noticed a curious thing. A vitrescent house stood covered by a sickly yellow substance, a substance attacking both plastic and glass. The darkened aura of the house was negated, vitrescence reduced. He was tempted to touch the substance, to analyse it, but decided not to. Small, translucent ochre blobs in the street gutters he realised were dead vermin, apparently victims of the same substance attacking the house. Worried, he hurried on.

  There was a call awaiting him. ‘From Pikeface,’ Cuensheley said, fearfully.

  Complete silence.

  ‘P-Pikeface?’ Dwllis eventually said.

  At the network screen in Cuensheley’s study he took the call. The ghastly fish face stared at him. ‘This is Dwllis, Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower. Can I be of assistance?’

  Pikeface said, ‘You must speak with me.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Selene’s time is come,’ Pikeface continued. ‘You must be part of the transformation of Crayan society. Noct is to be overthrown. You know that. Come join us, before it is too late.’

  Dwllis had no idea what this mutant man was saying, but he suddenly remembered the size of the crowds commanded by Archivists of Selene, and a thought came to him. ‘If I were to join you,’ he said, ‘I must be allowed to address your congregations.’

  ‘On what subject?’

  ‘Gnosticians. With particular reference to the purges.’

  Pikeface considered. ‘That can be done.’

  Dwllis cheered inwardly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I shall attend tonight’s lecture. You will allow me to address the people, and then we shall converse further.’

  The link was severed after farewells. Dwllis immediately called Subadwan. ‘Hello?’ she said, face fuzzy on a poor line.

  ‘I no longer require your assistance,’ he announced. ‘I shall be speaking tonight from a podium at the Archive of Selene.’

  Subadwan’s face fell. Visibly upset, she said, ‘Very well, go lunar. But don’t reveal our secrets.’

  ‘Have no fear, madam, I am confidentiality personified. I was brought up with manners, you know.’

  With that, the link was broken, and Dwllis sat back to consider what he had done; and what he would do. He knew little of Gwmru and almost nothing of the Archive of Safekeeping, but that did not matter, for at the moment he was more concerned about Crimson Boney, Etwe, and tonight’s speech. Rousing himself from reverie, he sat on a chair and began to jot down ideas.

  ~

  That evening the Archive was all a hubbub. A congregation of some thousands had packed into the central hall to hear Pikeface. Dwllis sidled in just before the lecture was due to begin.

  Standing stern upon the podium, arms folded across his massive chest, Pikeface waited until every voice was silenced and every pair of eyes stared up at him. Then in a voice so quiet Dwllis had to put one hand to his ear, he began to talk, and an atmosphere of mesmeric attention overcame the hall, as Pikeface slowly worked his way to almost apoplectic grandeur.

  ‘For who am I, other than Pikeface?’ he demanded of his rapt audience. ‘The Moon is no more! The Spacefish is upon us. Oh, ecstasy! Lose your terrestrial bonds and follow me, for I can take you away from this city, from vitrifying Cray, to a better place. We are doomed to approach our destiny in space!

  ‘It is I, only I, who was born to approach destiny with a stern heart and an unblinking eye. I, a fish, the ancient symbol of authority, can lead you away from the fragmenting hulk you call a city! For there is no other. Listen to me, and listen to what you already know in your hearts. For if there is one thing that is true, it is this. There are two paths to take: one right, one wrong. All of you have a duty to make the right choice. And follow me!’

  Rapturous applause. Dwllis shivered as the spell was broken. Pikeface walked down, ignoring the tumult. Dwllis had witnessed a true demagogue tonight, and he did not like what he had heard.

  At the end of Pikeface’s speech various people were due to speak. Dwllis was second on the list, and as his moment approached he walked to the lectern. Nerves overcame him. Serried ranks of round faces stared up at him, and he dropped his page of notes, which caused some merriment amongst the congregation. Pikeface sat to one side, the doddery figure of Tierquthay next to him. Dwllis glanced across at them before speaking.

  ‘I am Dwllis, noble Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower,’ he announced. His voice seemed to have deserted him. He coughed. ‘I am here tonight–’

  ‘Take that biscuit out yer mouth,’ someone shouted. He had forgotten the small lump of qe’lib’we that he had been chewing during the service. For a moment he smelled the yeasty odour of the drug, on his breath, his hands, his clothes. The stuff was beginning to rule his life.

  ‘Plug yer mouth in!’ came another call.

  General laughter. Dwllis looked at his boots to spit the drained qe’lib’we out, then coughed again. ‘People of Selene,’ he said, ‘Crayans all. Ahem.’ He noticed that a man in the audience had a streak of ochre splashed across his forehead.

  ‘Gerron wiv it, yer fat dandy!’ somebody yelled.

  ‘Fop features!’ called another.

  Much laughter. Dwllis took a deep breath and began to speak loudly. ‘My good Crayans, I am here to speak about gnosticians. In particular, I wish to impress upon you all how murderously appalling these purges are. Why, they must be stopped.’ He was warming to his subject now, forgetting his debilitating nerves. ‘I am here to tell you all that gnosticians, although they do not speak our tongue, and indeed seem so different to us, are in fact sentient folk just like ourselves.’

  At this, the congregation began to murmur. Dark glances and silent looks of antagonism were sent up to him on waves of lunar fervour. ‘My good people,’ he continued, ‘it is a damnable shame that these purges should continue. Why, when
you see a dead gnostician in the street, do you not wonder if it is capable of feeling, even of proper thought?’

  They did not like this. Pikeface was on his feet. A baying had been set up at the back of the crowd. Dwllis, with horror, realised that he might have made a mistake.

  ‘I can prove that they are conscious,’ he shouted. ‘It is the truth, I say!’

  Boos and catcalls now, and from the back a hand-thrusting mass salute of mob aggression.

  Dwllis made one final stand. ‘Do not let ordinary thought rule your lives. The gnosticians are like us, and may not be killed with impunity, for such is murder! Defy the purges!’

  Glowing yellow crescents began to hit him, thrown by jeering lunar acolytes. Pikeface roared, ‘Begone, wretch! Leave or feel my wrath.’

  Dwllis ran down the aisle. A few in the crowd tried to trip him, but he moved too quickly, dodging the yellow crescents. A man tried to throw a punch at him, luckily missing.

  Dwllis staggered out of the Archive, a crowd of twenty on his tail. Two dark-cloaked figures sprang upon him. He could not hear what they said over the din of the city. Then a smoke bomb was thrown. Fumes everywhere. He tried to resist, but the two attackers dragged him down an alley. Coughing too much to oppose them, he wriggled, but could not get free.

  A woman’s voice in his ear: ‘Stop twisting, you idiot.’

  Cuensheley. Dwllis got to his feet, to be tugged along the passage.

  The other woman shouted, ‘Fop features!’ That was Ilquisrey.

  They ran to the end of the alley. Dwllis turned, seeing no pursuit. They hurried on, up the glittering Broom Street, up Marjoram Street, along Peppermint Street, then made at a more sedate pace back up to the Rusty Quarter, pausing only to cower amongst piles of glass shards when an aeromorph swept by on clouds of ozone.

  Cuensheley had handed him earmuffs. Idiot, she signed.

  Fop features, Ilquisrey added, an expression of fury on her face. Can’t you get anything right?

  Dwllis refrained from signing an answer. At the Copper Courtyard he left them without a word, throwing only an expression of distaste in Ilquisrey’s direction. He wanted nothing more to do with them.