The Book of the Dead

by Carriger, Gail

  My Lady was keen to meet with Father General Nineveh that afternoon, to check progress on the final stages of the Abbey’s extension. But although she was on her feet, she did not yet seem well enough to be working. She had been insistent, however, batting aside the grave, grey-faced medicians and lurching from the operating theatre.

  The weight of her husband’s body seemed to do nothing to slow her usual sharp pace. (But then, I wondered precisely how much he could weigh now. It had been explained to me that his organs – all except his heart, anyway – had been removed, along with much of his musculature. All this flesh was stored in a phylactery pod in the Lady’s personal laboratory.) The medicians, Brother Ares and I had to scamper to keep up with her long-legged gait, and not for the first time, I admired her geneplan.

  “Ares,” she snapped, not even looking back as she walked. Brother Ares jiggled forward a few steps to enter her field of view, sliding around the medicians.

  “Yes, my Lady.”

  “When was the last time the abbey visited Moniaive Station?”

  “My Lady?”

  Ares glanced back at me. This was an unexpected line of questioning.

  “Come now, Brother Ares. How long since the abbey last docked at Moniaive?”

  “Two weeks, my Lady.”

  “And it was a full supply run.” That wasn’t a question – our Lady knew that we always replenished our food, life support and fuel supplies on every visit to the station. “Hmm. Good. Contact the chantry. Tell them to spin up the hymnal drives.”

  The shock of the order made Brother Ares’ feet stick to the floor. After three long steps, Lady Dervorguilla slowed herself to a stop. She turned her body at the waist, twisting to glare down at Brother Ares. Panic jolted across the medicians’ faces: they scurried around our Lady, leaning in, peering at the gap between her and her husband, desperate to make sure the graft remained stable.

  I stopped too, hanging back from the tangle of alarmed people around the towering form of our Lady. Her eyes were wide and black and fixed on Ares, who was now taking a nervous step backwards. My own eyes were fixed on my Lady, and her husband; I shuddered and hoped no one noticed.

  At her shoulder, resting on his own leathered arm and tilted at an angle meant to suggest repose and contentment, there was the blackened head of John Balliol. The tattered remains of the hair on the top of his head tickled my Lady’s cheek like a worn-out shaving brush. His mouth was sewn shut; the lips had dried away to black, cracked lines. His cheeks were nothing more than coffee-brown stretches of skin. And his eyes were sucking circles of darkness. Shortly after John Balliol’s death, my Lady had modelled the plan of her own eyes thus, as a reminder to all onlookers of her grief. It was said that, without her beloved John Balliol, the Lady Dervorguilla saw nought in the world but gloom.

  Brother Ares now basked in the full burn of that same gloom.

  “Is there a problem, Brother Ares?”

  “No,” he stammered, “no, my Lady, of course not. It’s just… I just…” Brother Ares licked his lips as he desperately tried to summon the words to him. But his terror was absolute, and before I knew what I was doing, I felt myself take a step forward. I cleared my throat.

  The Lady Dervorguilla raised her head and shone her black glare in my direction. Not a muscle twitched in her face, perfect, powdered and bloodlessly white. She took a long, silent step towards me, scattering Brother Ares and the medicians. And, Lord God help me, I wanted to run too.

  She was in front of me now, towering over me, staring down at me. She gazed at me as a man might gaze at an unfamiliar species of slug: with passing interest but an air of disgust.

  “My Lady,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady but mostly failing, “I think what Brother Ares might be trying to point out is that, given the Abbey’s current state, it might be unwise to accelerate to the full speed of prayer.”

  “Might it?”

  I knew I should have stopped. Every muscle in my jaw tried to clamp me into silence. But I answered – oh Lord, why did I answer?

  “Until the extension is complete, the chantry simply cannot operate at full capacity.” Why did I say “simply” like that? Who did I think I was talking to? Someone else, obviously. Someone else, not this void-eyed genewitch carrying the ghost of her husband round her neck. Not my Lady. And yet, my mouth – perhaps too scared now to stop – ran on. “The final stages of the extension have involved extensive work on the Abbey’s hull. Operating the drives while the external shell is compromised, and while the chantry is unable to route the correct amounts of power, you risk… My Lady risks a hymnic regression.”

  Oh, now her face moved: an eyebrow shot up like a cobra ready to strike. I saw the bone-white make-up on that stretch of thin, papery skin – the pale gap beneath the eyebrow and above the eyelid – crack with the sudden movement. I glimpsed pink beneath the powder. The forbidden sight of my Lady’s flesh. The scorching heat of transgression rushed to my cheeks, while the shock of my own impudence flooded my mind, pushing out the rest of my senses.

  When my Lady’s blow came, I didn’t feel it until I was lying on the floor, winded, mouth gaping and chest heaving for breath.

  “Brother Ares!” she screeched as she resumed her march to the Father General’s chambers. “Contact the chantry and carry out my orders at once!”

  Brother Ares nodded and scurried away to the right. He glanced at me, just once, before he disappeared around the corner. I couldn’t quite read his expression through the tears of pain still swimming in my eyes, but there was disapproval there, tempered with gratitude and yes, I like to think, love too.

  When Brother Ares returned from the chantry, he found me in our quarters, packing my things.

  My suitcase was on the bed and I was scooping in piles of clothes on top of my other possessions: the Holy Chips, my scribex, the rosary capsules…

  “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Seth, not again.” He walked straight over and started to pull everything out again.

  “Leave it, please.” I said and just scooped it all back in again.

  “Seth.” More things came out of the bag.

  “Brother Ares. Please don’t.” More things went back in.

  We had a little tug of war over a t-shirt.

  “I’ve asked Father General Nineveh for a transfer,” I told him as I tugged at the annoyingly stretchy fabric. There was too much give in it for me to make my point. “I think it’s for the best, don’t you?” I pulled even harder at the shirt.

  “Great,” he said and let go. I nearly lost my balance. I looked at the t-shirt – ruined, stretched all out of shape – and threw it into the case. “Great.” He stepped over to the window, laying his hands on the sandstone frame and staring at the stars gliding by outside.

  I scooped the last of my clothes into the case and flipped the lid shut. “I can still see you. I’ve asked to join the routers at Moniaive. I’ll see you every month.”

  “You know it won’t be the same.”

  My voice went quiet. “You know I can’t stay here now, though. Our Lady would not tolerate my presence.”

  He shook his head. “They’ll couple me with someone else. Jesus, I bet it’ll be Nicholas. Nicholas. Can you imagine, Seth?” He looked at me now, and I thought I saw love again. “Nicholas, and he’ll never shut up. You know what he’s like. He hates everything and everyone, and he won’t ever stop telling you so. God, I couldn’t cope with that. Please don’t go, Seth. Please don’t leave me with Nicholas.”

  I just shrugged. “How was the chantry?”

  He sighed. “Fucked off, but they’re going to try.”

  “Of course they are.” The alternative was unthinkable. My chest throbbed where my Lady punched me. “Has our Lady picked a destination?”

  “Glasgow today, then on to the Far Systems. John Balliol is to see his homelands one last time, apparently.”

  “Glasgow.” I smiled. “You know, if my request is accepted – that’s where I’ll get off. It’ll b
e nice,” I add. “I can catch up with Leanne and Ngozi, and then maybe –”

  “Will you miss me?”

  My smile faltered. “You know I will.”

  He stepped towards me, put an open hand on the back of my head. He didn’t stroke my hair or caress my neck. He just held it there, and he stared at me. “Say it, Seth. Will you miss me?”

  “Yes. I’ll miss you.”

  He pulled my head towards his and kissed me, hard and tight and suffocating.

  “Let me speak to the father,” he said. “Let me see if I can find a way for you to stay here.”

  I zipped up the bag. “I really don’t think that’ll make any difference.”

  “Let me try.”

  “If the Lady Dervorguilla lays eyes on me once more, I think she might eviscerate me.”

  “I have to try.” He gripped my forearm.

  “Then you try.”

  You wouldn’t have called it a smooth ride, but New Abbey’s maiden voyage was a success. We spent a few hours docked at New Glasgow later that day, and shortly after arriving, I returned to my room to check my messages, collect my bag and prepare for my final goodbyes.

  As I nudged open the wooden door, I saw Father General Nineveh waiting inside, seated on my bed. He looked up as I entered, his eyes shining beneath his scrappy mop of grey hair.

  “Father.” I bowed. “This is a surprise. I had just been expecting an email.”

  He smiled broadly, warmly, and the skin around his eyes fell into a pattern of familiar wrinkles. He patted the bed next to him. “Come. Join me. We have a lot to discuss.”

  “My transfer request?” I sat next to him, eager to hear what he had in store for me.

  “Not exactly.” Thinking back, I was surprised his smile didn’t falter at this point, or that I didn’t straight away see the coldness in it. “I have discussed your request with SeeNet.” And then he paused a pause so long. “And with our Lady. We all feel your talents would be better spent elsewhere.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “And, of course, Brother Ares’ impassioned plea did not fall on deaf ears. What kind of man would I be to ignore a bond so strong?” Something in my stomach tugged at me, like a rope, trying to drag me away, trying to pull me somewhere safer. Father General Nineveh’s hand fell upon my thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I remember my first coupling,” he said, his voice little more than a sigh. “How strong it was. How I thought it would never end.”

  “It is sad that I can no longer be with Brother Ares,” I said, “but as I explained in my letter, a transfer away from the Abbey seems sensible.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Oh, hang sensible.” He laughed. “Damn sensible to Hell. Our Lady wants to offer you a promotion.”

  Something about that sentence made the hair on the back of my neck stand up so quickly I thought I heard it hiss. “I beg your pardon?”

  The father stood up and stepped over to the stone arch surrounding the door. He touched the communication panel set into the arch and there was an answering bleep. A tinny voice crackled out of the speaker: “Is Brother Seth ready, Father General?” It was Brother-Medician Bradley, the surgeon in charge of the operation I watched over at the start of this terrible day.

  “He will be in a moment, darling.” Closing the channel, Father Nineveh winked at me. “The first coupling always seem the strongest, yes, but have you seen Brother Bradley in the showers?” He made a little “o” shape with his mouth and puffed out a salacious breath.

  “What’s happening? What do I need to be ready for?”

  Father General Nineveh grinned. “Your promotion, silly.” He slipped a hand inside his robe and pulled out a small injector filled with a pale orange liquid. “Coupling’s one thing, but our Lady has something much better in mind for you. She sees all, remember. Nothing happens in this Abbey that she doesn’t know about.” The father lost his smile for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of that other emotion I always saw in Brother Ares’ eyes whenever he pushed me around or shoved me down or pulled me along or put me in my place. “A coupling’s not good enough for you and Ares. No, no. Our Lady wants you to know what it’s like to be bonded with the man you love so much.”

  And it was the way he said those last words, as he leaned over me and stabbed the injector into my neck, that made me wish I was suddenly somewhere else, somewhere I could see the love in Ares’ eyes.

  I woke up on the bridge of New Abbey. I was sat in the First Lieutenant’s chair, just to the right of my Lady’s throne. It was not a comfortable chair – but no, that wasn’t it.

  I blinked the grogginess away, leaning forward awkwardly. I was naked and uncomfortable. My Lady turned her head to look at me as I groaned sleepily. “Thank you for joining us, Commander Seth.”

  Commander?

  Her black eyes, and John Balliol’s, bored into me. They were all I could really see for a moment, in the gloom of the bridge. I looked about me. Dark stone arches loomed above, their curves outlined by flickering light. For a moment, I thought it was the soft gold of candlelight, but I quickly realised the light came from the opto-psalmic relays piping energy from the chantry to the bridge’s altar and back again. In the shadowy transepts all around, my brothers whispered prayers to keep the Abbey in motion.

  “My Lady.” It was all I could say. My throat was dry, my voice a painful scrape.

  Her dark eyes were focused on the holographic chart hanging in the apse, this entire region of space mapped out in seventeen dimensions. She had one wiry finger extended and she was using it to track a path from star to star to star.

  “Onward,” she whispered to herself.

  With the same claw-like finger, she pressed a button hidden in the golden filigree of her throne, activating the Abbey-wide communication system. Her voice, a croaking crow’s call, echoed through the sandstone chamber of the bridge and the corridors beyond.

  “Onward we go!” she screamed. Her eyes were still fixed on the starmap. “My brothers, you have worked tirelessly on the upgrade to this Abbey – and for that I thank you. But now, it is time to reap the reward for your toil. Now, we take our good work out into the galaxy, to convert and teach and bring to the light all those who might hide in darkness. It is my wish, and it was that of my late husband, John Balliol.

  “And so it is that, from this day forward, this Abbey will be known by a new name, in honour of John Balliol. My sweetheart. For what we do, we do for him.”

  She reached up with her other hand and stroked her dead husband’s cheek. Brother Ares was cold at my back, his fingers clamped forever on my upper arms.

  Then, with a grin – no, it was more like a determined grimace – my Lady spoke again.

  “Sweetheart Abbey shall fly forever in his memory. Onward we go, into the darkness. Onward!”

  All is Dust

  Den Patrick

  “I always thought the DLR was hateful,” she says. From anyone else I’d call this pretentious, but one does not describe Amunet Kebechet in those terms. At least, not if you’ve been trying to get into her pants for the past decade. It’s fair to say I practically worship her, despite all the differences between us.

  The DLR, or Docklands Light Railway, is a train service that runs through the east part of London, through districts poor, rich, and insanely wealthy, including the small banking empire of Canary Wharf. The trains themselves always run on time, even when the rest of London’s underground trains have gone tits up.

  “Why’s it so hateful, Moon?” That’s what we call her. Moon. She despises her real name, but she’ll always be Amunet Kebechet to me. I used to sit in the row behind her in physics class, whispering her name like a mantra.

  “It doesn’t have a fucking driver.” She turns the unlit cigarette over in her petite hands. “A dead train going to dead parts of London.”

  She smokes as much as she swears, wears eyeliner as if it might suddenly go out of fashion, and dresses in a style that’s neither Goth nor punk. Bangles i
n a riot of colours add a light touch to clothes that start at slate grey and get progressively darker. She has been, is currently, and quite possibly will always be, an art student. You can afford those sorts of life choices when your dad is the Egyptian Ambassador in London.

  My own background is far more modest.

  Throw a stone in Erith, Kent and you’ll likely hit someone called Darren. That’s the name I got lumbered with. She breezes through life on a cloud of Marlboro smoke, rejoicing under “Amunet”. I get Darren, or the inevitable shortening, “Daz”. Which is a fucking washing powder.

  “I said there’s no driver,” she’s leaning forward now, and I find myself blinking, as I take in the sight of her. Olive skin and green eyes, hair falling in wisps of bleach blonde and purple and green. She is a firework of a woman.

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” She purses her lips. “That we’re just being carried through the city by a machine.”

  “Never really thought about it,” I hear myself say. A second later I curse myself. The blokes Amunet dates have opinions about everything. They have opinions about their opinions. I have no idea why she still meets me.

  Which is not strictly true.

  We are a gang of four, separated by the twelve years it has been since we were thick as thieves. A more unlikely band of friends you’d struggle to find in any sixth form college. And yet that’s how we met. Amunet and I meet every few months or so, when I take her to the cinema or the Hayward Gallery. She is perpetually skint.

  Member number three of our happy band is waiting for us on the platform when we step off the DLR at Greenwich. Yvonne is the matter to Amunet’s antimatter. Tall, blonde, gym-hardened body with obligatory breast enhancement, dressed to the nines in a pinstripe pencil skirt and heels. She looks like the sort of replicant the Tyrell Corporation would make if it were based in Sweden. She is pretty and generic in the way of TV presenters the world over. Yvonne grins, yet there is no humour in her eyes.