A Princess of The Linear Jungle (8 page)

“Probe to Base Camp, come in.”

The voice of the charabanc chauffeur, hired to remain behind, emerged from the transceiver. “Base Camp here. Any orders?”

“No, just testing. Over and out.”

Ransome called out, “Arturo, can I see you?”

Scoria attended to the summons, and Merrit accompanied him.

Ransome had one of their pneumatic rifles disassembled. Operating on compressed air caplets, the weapons fired darts tipped with a fast-acting toxin.

“Decided to test them all one more time. I’m afraid this one’s useless. Gasket seems to have gone bad overnight.”

“No matter, we’ll still have enough. Nice foresight, though. Well done!”

Ransome beamed, and Merritt considered that he already looked happier and healthier than he had back in Wharton. She felt glad for his recovery from the vivisectionist tragedy.

Captain Canebrake called out, “Prepare to put ashore!”

Peart ordered his charges into action. Designated to provide defensive coverage, the bike boys scrambled to grab their rifles. Bearing packs four times as large as anyone else’s, they moved a bit clumsily.

The
Samuel Smallhorne
ground noisily against the crumbling concrete Slip remnant, and a crewmember vaulted the taff rail to secure the vessel with a rope wrapped around a tree trunk thick as one of the columns on the NikThek portico.

A lush carpet of blue-green moss speckled with white florets completely covered the surface of the Slip. It provided solid footing, Merritt was pleased to learn.

Soon the whole party, twelve souls all told, had disembarked. Captain Canebrake gave the order to cast off.

“If you don’t radio for pickup sooner, I’ll be back every ten days, as we arranged!”

All twelve ashore silently watched their link to civilization dwindle. Even though the River was full of other traffic, Merritt felt isolated and bereft.

Slinging his rifle on one shoulder, Scoria said, “I’ll call Base Camp, and tell them we’ve landed.”

But the radio had died, and no amount of amateur tinkering could get it to work again.

Professor Vinnagar offered a hypothesis and a practical assessment of their situation. “The Wall could be creating interference. Or perhaps whatever caused the transformation of these three Boroughs initially is responsible. In either case, contact with Base Camp, while a pleasantly homey link, was always of little real utility.”

“Agreed,” Scoria said. “Let’s move inland.”

The plan, already discussed, involved reaching Broadway, where, presumably, the going would be easier.

Ransome, Scoria, Vinnagar and Merritt took up their machetes to cut a path through the dense vegetation. Cady Rachis had the duties of mission photographer, and had already accumulated half a roll of photos—many of which, however, featured Cady herself striking glamorous poses, as taken by Pivot. Peart marshalled the gun-toting bearers in a line. He looked up at the Daysun and Seasonsun, as if to cannily remind everyone of his earlier speculation about the heat.

Merritt thought the two orbs indeed burned more vigrouslyvigorously here than in Hakelight. Sweat had sprung from her brow, and her armpits were drenched. And she had not yet even swung her machete.

Their first tentative whacks at the Jungle soon disclosed the former Cross Street leading from the Slip. On either side of the Cross Street, the rampant, towering vegetation had pulled down whatever buildings had once stood there, leaving behind a mere jumble of bricks and metal. All wooden components were long gone to rot. Three centuries of organic strangulation seemed to have evaporated even the window-glass.

Merritt hacked left and right, severing lianas, shrubs and saplings alike. Their progress down the Cross Street was diverted in zigzag fashion by every large, insurmountable bole. And despite the shade, the heat was unrelenting. Soon Merritt’s shirt was plastered to her body.

Scoria called a halt for water, and canteens came out.

“Are we at Broadway yet?” asked Cady Rachis.

Professor Vinnagar consulted a pedometer. “Halfway.”

“Manasa be damned! And how far are we planning to go in this gruesome salad bowl?”

“Until we contact the natives,” Scoria replied irritably. “They could be around the next tree, or fifty miles onward. Now, take your photos and keep quiet.”

Cady Rachis looked as if she’d like to say something fierce. But the grim surroundings deterred her from alienating her protector.

Resuming their trek, the party beat on through the fantastical, colorful growths. Strangely shaped and textured leaves and bark, fruits and nuts, predominated over any species that Merrit could recognize, no common trees of Wharton or Stagwitz. The Jungle seemed composed of a thousand strange cultivars unique to this district.

After what seemed forever, Vinnagar announced that they had reached Broadway. The twelve explorers paused in a small, humidly respirating, polychromatic pocket they had hacked out. It was as if they stood in the dead-end, claustrophobia-inducing toe of a sock whose narrow tube-like length stretched back to the River. Looking around, Merritt could discern no difference in their surroundings from their Cross Street passage.

Without the omnipresent human noises of the Linear City, no voices or traffic, music or construction sounds, their environment seemed somehow sterile, despite the profuse foliage.

Peart broke the tense and awkward silence. “Anyone seen a rat yet. Pigeon? Roach?”

Those three named creatures shared with humanity every niche of the Linear City. Yet here they made no appearance.

“Could there be something that eats all three in this cursed Jungle?” asked Cady.

No one felt capable of answering her highly pertinent query.

8.

VAYAVIRGUNGIANS ATTACK!

PITCHING THE TENTS THAT EVENING PROVED IMPOSSIBLE— or rather, inhumanly taxing. Clearing enough growth down to the bare ground to allow erection of all four shelters would have involved hours of labor, coming hard upon all the previous muscle-sapping exertions necessary just to reach this nameless, trackless spot within the ex-Borough of Coconino, some twenty Blocks down a buried Broadway.

So merely enough space was hollowed out of the grasping Jungle to allow the unrolling of twelve mattresses in close proximity. Then, under Scoria’s instructions, the tents, still flattened, were strung with ropes from the remaining trees, like tarps slightly above head level, to provide a minimum of protection from any possible rain or dropping of debris. And the canopy conferred a semblance, however tenuous, of home and security as well: psychologically important, Merritt realized, after pondering Arturo’s intentions. As his protégé, she felt obligated to fathom and learn from his experienced reasoning.

No cheery campfire was possible. The living vegetation was too succulent, and any dead matter seemed to decompose into rich humus practically as soon as it hit the ground. So the explorers supped on cold rations, and when darkness fell they clustered for a time around a single battery-powered lantern. The expedition boasted four such, but Scoria declared that they had to conserve the precious batteries for unforeseen eventualities.

The bike boys sought to cheer up their companions by offering an
a capella
version of that hit song from the musical stage version of Diego Patchen’s
Broken Rainbows
, “Dreams are Dangerous Fun.” The harmony-rich interlude lifted Merritt’s spirits, and seemed to help the others too. But when the singing ended, the preternatural silence of the Jungle Blocks surged back with dramatic force into the little green cavern they had so precariously and laboriously carved out.

“Only five miles from the Wall and all those happy people on the far side!” said Cady Rachis. “But it feels as if we’re trapped at Broad way’s End!”

The naming of that mythical cul-de-sac disheartened everyone.

“What will it feel like when we’ve penetrated even further?” Rachis continued to lament.

Durian Vinnagar offered analytical comfort. “You can only go as deep as the middle, Miss Rachis. And then you’re on the way out.”

Scoria sought to provoke intellectual curiosity rather than fear. “Do you believe, Durian, that the center of Vayavirunga will indeed differ materially from the rest of the Jungle Blocks? In other words, what of the original contagion? Is it still present? Has it left its mark, after all these centuries?”

“I hope some traces do remain, so that we can learn the cause of this unique transformation. But let us also hope that any malign influence has dwindled.”

Ransome Pivot spoke up. “Professor Scoria, where exactly was that photo of the redskinned native taken?”

“Excellent question! The Trainman who sold it to me could not offer a precise location, since he had idly snapped so many useless panoramas so often before, prior to turning up that one significant shot. But we can hope that these crimson fellows dwell not too much farther from here. I can hardly believe that if they are human, they have not filled every available niche of this—this ‘biozome,’ if I can introduce a useful new term I’ve been ruminating. In fact, I’m surprised not to have encountered them, or signs of them, even this close to the Wall.”

Peart interrupted the scientific theorizing with practical details. “I suspect we’ll all be wanting to turn in soon. Me and the boys will mount a watch in rotation.” Peart hoisted his dart rifle with mute import.

Soon Merritt had peeled down to her skivvies and reclined on her mattress. The humid heat slicked her skin.

Peart, his rifle, and the attenuated lamp had migrated to the perimeter of the campsite, leaving everyone else in darkness.

Merritt took advantage of the privacy to mold herself spoonwise to Arturo. She thought to conduct an intimate whispered dialogue, but he was already asleep as a stone.

Merritt found herself missing the subliminal thunder of the Subway most of all. Her basement flat back in Wharton had accustomed her to its mechanical lullaby. She mused idly on the nature of the Discontinuity that detoured the City-spanning Subway through regions of Manasa-knew-where, before she too was deeply unconscious.

Around noon on the Expedition’s third day in Vayavirunga, when they had by dint of great effort attained a distance of some sixty Blocks from the Hakelight Wall, out of a total possible distance of some three hundred enclosed between the borders of the Jungle Blocks, all without encountering any living thing save plant life, the lead men on machete duty—Ransome and Scoria—called out, “A trail! We’ve hit the head of a trail!”

The electric effect on the rest of the morose party was instant. Merritt felt her own spirits soar. The unvarying uniformity of their trek, combined with the brute exertions involved in hacking a path, had dulled all their initial anticipation and thrill at being the first civilized visitors to this fabled land. Every hour, Merritt mentally reviled the name of primitivist artist Rosalba Lucerne.

Those trailing behind the point men rushed through the sap-redolent tunnel to see what had been found.

Ransome Pivot and Arturo Scoria stood in a spot that, anywhere else, would have been the center of bustling Broadway. Here, however, occurred merely a deep channel in the surrounding vegetation that allowed four people to stand abreast with some generous elbow room. Floored smoothly with a tough fescue, the empty green-walled trough extended down Broadway as far as the eye could see: in effect, a narrow grassy street.

Cady Rachis laughed with a touch of hysteria. “The sky! Look at the sky! It’s still there!”

Indeed, the blue sky, dotted with a sparsity of Pompatics, appeared grander than any magnificent work of art.

Ransome and Arturo were resheathing their machetes. Bare-chested, their skins flecked with spatters and chips of vegetation, they resembled, Merritt thought, some kind of fantastical vegetable deities. She felt a stirring in her loins, for the first time since her arrival in Vayavirunga.

Donning his dirty shirt and wiping his brow with a bandanna, Scoria said, “All right, people, it’s no time to slack off. We have to maintain our discipline. Plainly, this artificial passage is maintained by the inhabitants of Vayavirunga, and we must be ready to meet them. Although we come in peace and assume a reciprocal friendly welcome, we must likewise anticipate other types of reception.

“Peart—I want three of your men up front, guns at the ready, and three covering us from the rear. The rest of us will keep our weapons stashed, but at the ready. Is this understood? Fine! Now, if we all—Durian! What in Manasa’s name are you up to?”

Professor Vinnagar was on his hands and knees, studying the turf with a magnifying glass. Ignoring Scoria until he had finished, Vinnagar got to his feet with some measure of agility.

“I immediately questioned how this boulevard was maintained. By rudimentary scything, perhaps? Or was the grass a self-limiting variety? But close inspection reveals, in my best estimation, that neither is the case.”

Vinnagar paused for dramatic effect, but Scoria would not give his rival the satisfaction of a prompt, and so the savant eventually came forth unaided with his revelation.

“It’s been chewed. The marks of tearing and mastication are unmistakable.”

Merritt studied the wide long trail. Peart spoke her thoughts for her.

“Mighty lot of chewing, Professor. If you’re right.”

The party soon assembled in the defensive order denominated by Scoria and moved down the green street, warily but with some relief at the easier passage.

Merritt noted right away that narrower side trails forked left and right off the main branch, toward Tracks and River. Not every Cross Street featured such, but only random ones. She directed Art’s attention to this fact, and received an “attagirl” that caused Cady Rachis to sniff in exaggerated fashion.

When the Daysun was directly overhead, Scoria called a stop for lunch.

One of the bike boys, a wiry blond chap, spotted a novel-looking fruit tree showing boldly along the alley’s perimeter. Before he could be cautioned otherwise, he had scrambled up its bole and had his hand upon a globular crimson pod.