Creation Machine (36 page)

They left the pilots to moor the balloons at a long platform on the edge of the Sky Post, and walked along softly creaking timber pavements to the central building. It was a long, low structure of rough trunks, and in deference to some ancient tradition or other it was roofed with turf. The Patriarch stopped and stared at it. ‘For my father’s sake! I feel as if I am about to be buried.’

Alameche didn’t have to force the laugh. ‘Nothing of the sort, Excellency, I promise. Just lunch. Shall we?’ He gestured towards the low door.

They went in. The first thing that hit them was smoke. In the centre of the long hall was a broad fire pit, glowing with charcoal. The pit was a deep wooden trench lined with sand which was black with soot and crusted with fat at the edges. A long thick spit ran from end to end of the pit, loaded with two-and four-legged beasts. Fat spat and crackled and ran, and a blue haze floated above the spit and drifted up towards the single central smoke hole.

The others were grouped around the pit on low benches. As Alameche and the Patriarch approached, the nearest figure squinted at them through the haze, and then rose from his bench. It was Garamende –
inevitably
, thought Alameche – and somehow he had managed to bring his four companions with him; they sat around him, blinking. Garamende bowed. ‘Greetings, Excellency.’ Then he turned to Alameche. ‘What is this, man? Death by barbecue?’

Alameche laughed. ‘Only if you eat too much. Which you mustn’t, or you’ll be too heavy for the balloons afterwards.’

Garamende pulled a face and turned towards the Patriarch. ‘See, Excellency, on top of everything else he presents me with several times my own weight in roast meat and then orders me on to a diet.’

The Patriarch laughed in return. ‘Will it work?’

‘The diet? I doubt it, Excellency.’ Garamende threw a sidelong look at Alameche. ‘Life is too short, after all. And besides, I’m too heavy already.’

‘Well, I’m sure you can leave something behind. One or two of your playthings, for example.’ The Patriarch raised his eyebrow at Garamende. ‘I do notice, you know, and I don’t approve.’

He nodded, and moved off towards the fire pit.

Garamende watched him go and then turned to Alameche. ‘Well, that’s me told,’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘Everything on track? You still make your move when we land at the artefact site?’

‘That was what we agreed.’ Alameche patted the other man on the shoulder. ‘I have everything in hand.’

‘I’m sure you have. I just wish you’d tell me more.’

‘You’ll find out.’ Alameche patted him again, then gestured towards the fire pit. ‘Go and sit down. Eat! I’ll join you shortly.’

He turned and went back out of the hall. Outside, he took one deep breath of the cool, damp air. Then he strolled to the edge of the walkway, which formed part of a cat’s cradle of timber paths that threaded around and through the trunks. He was close to the centre of the stand; if he looked down through a gap he could see the trunks lancing down, dead straight, towards a vanishing point four hundred metres below.

He took another deep breath, looked around carefully, and reached into the pocket of his flying cape.

The thing was small enough that he could almost close his fist around it, but it was very heavy. He wondered what it was made of.

It was easy to use. Press once, then drop.

He watched as it fell, shrinking to a mote and then vanishing. For a long moment he couldn’t see anything. Then there was a tiny white flare from the centre of the stand at the limit of his vision.

He nodded. That was it. He had better get back before the Patriarch began to wonder where he was.

With his heart beating a little faster than he would have expected, he walked back to the hall. There was a bundle of canopy cables tethered near the door, and Alameche studied it until he had seen – yes. There. One slightly separate, with a smear of red near the base.

His heartbeat slowed. Everything was arranged. He ducked through the door, edged his way through the haze and sat down between the Patriarch and Garamende. Both were already eating. You served yourself. Antique hunting knives were laid out along the edges of the fire pit, and each man leaned over the smoking charcoal and carved lumps of meat. Two servants circulated with flasks of the same spirit Alameche had given the Patriarch.

Alameche did more watching than eating, and no drinking at all. Most people were hiding their nerves well, if they were feeling them. Fiselle seemed distracted; he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, staring at the fire pit. Alameche nudged Garamende and pointed at Fiselle. ‘Is he all right?’

The big man shrugged and wiped the grease off his lips with his sleeve. ‘Up to a point.’

‘What do you mean?’

Garamende looked at him for a moment. ‘My turn to be mysterious,’ he said. ‘Tell you later.’ Then he looked around. ‘Hey, talking of mysteries, where’s your little machine? Haven’t seen it today.’

‘Eskjog?’ Alameche smiled. ‘Oh, it’s busy. It’ll join us later.’

‘Hope so.’ Garamende belched, and threw some lumps of meat over his shoulder. ‘Fuck it,’ he announced. ‘I’m going out for a piss.’

He got up and lumbered towards the door. Alameche glanced back over his shoulder. The four androgynes were squatting on the floor, with the hunks of meat held to their mouths. In the flickering light there was something –
feral
about them.

Alameche shuddered.

‘What, all of them?’ Eskjog had seemed surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

Alameche was tired. It was very late. He and Fiselle had watched the suns down and then parted wordlessly, Fiselle walking stiffly off towards his chamber. Alameche had waited a little longer until a small spiky shape had floated up out of the darkness and followed him into his own room.

‘No, I’m not sure. That’s why all of them.’ Alameche stared at Eskjog. ‘Don’t you see? I
can’t
be sure. This is the only way.’ Then with a flicker of hope, ‘Unless you know different?’

‘No. Sorry. I don’t.’ Eskjog drifted over towards the windows, which were now firmly closed, and then back again. Alameche had the impression the little machine was pacing. ‘I’m not always as informed as you think I am about your own domestic politics.’ It paused, and then seemed to reach a decision. ‘Very well, I trust your judgement. There’s a completeness about your proposal. I think that will play well with the watching public, and frankly you do need that. There’s a lot of ships out there.’ It settled on a low table in front of Alameche. ‘Now, details. Do you want any help from me? Anything you like, as long as it’s deniable. Obviously I can’t do anything as immoral as actually getting involved.’

Alameche thought for a second. Then he shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’ve got everything in hand. It will be afterwards that you’ll be needed.’

‘I’ll be there, Alameche. Think of it as protecting our investment.’

The spits were empty and the glow from the charcoal had died down, but the air in the hall was still laced with wisps of smoke that turned and stretched lazily in the sunlight from the smoke hole.

Alameche sniffed. It didn’t smell quite the same. There was no way of getting it right to the last minute, but it must be nearly time. He turned to the Patriarch. ‘Did you enjoy your meal, Excellency?’

‘Hm?’ The Patriarch looked away from the fire pit. ‘Oh, yes. Very good. Do we go soon?’ His eyes seemed unfocused.

Alameche nodded. ‘Very soon,’ he said. ‘With your permission, I will go and prepare the pilots?’

‘Pilots?’ For a moment the man looked confused. Then his face cleared. ‘Ah. Pilots. Balloons and so on. Yes.’ He waved an unsteady hand. ‘Go on.’

Alameche nodded politely and rose. Around the pit, other eyes followed him blearily. No one seemed inclined to move. He sniffed again. Despite the dying embers the smoke was thicker, stronger. It was definitely time. He made for the door.

Outside, the heat and smoke hit him, rising in ragged pillars between the walkways. He could hear the crackling. He glanced down through watering eyes.

The fire was well established. The base of the smoke had a shifting, dirty yellow glow, and he could hear snaps and crackles as the flames fed. The little device had worked well.

He could feel the Sky Post swaying uneasily. The trunks must be close to burned through by now. He looked up and peered through the smoke towards the balloon tethers. They were empty; even if the pilots had disobeyed him and stayed put, their panicked Hover Birds would have torn themselves free and bolted by now.

The Sky Post was doomed, and there was no way of escape. At least, not for anyone else. He turned to the bunch of cables, and reached for the one marked with red.

It wasn’t there. He stared for a second. Then agony erupted in his stomach, his legs, his upper arms. He gave an involuntary shriek and looked down in horror. Hands were grasping him; small tattooed hands, tipped with unnaturally long nails that pierced his flesh, pinning him. Then, through the roaring of the fire, or it might have been a roaring in his ears, he heard a voice.

‘You didn’t think they were only for shagging, did you?’

Alameche fought for enough breath to speak. ‘You?
You?
’

He was spun round so that he was facing the hall. Garamende was standing in front of him. The fat man laughed. ‘Why the fuck not me? I’m sure you thought I was a fat conniving clown. Why shouldn’t I be a successful fat conniving clown? Successful at bribing your Apothecary, for a start. You won’t quieten me with doctored booze, like you did the rest.’

Alameche could barely speak through the knifing pain. ‘Not successful.’ He shook his head, and almost retched. ‘No escape.’

‘What, your special balloon on its special cable? Don’t look so surprised, man. If I can bribe your precious Apothecary I can bribe a balloon pilot, can’t I? No use to me. Too small. That’s why I let it go.’ He shook his head. ‘To be honest, I wouldn’t have trusted it anyway, if I were you. You should thank me.’ He leaned in so that his face was only a hand’s breadth from Alameche. ‘This way, you’ll reach the ground in one piece. Then my little toys will have the pleasure of peeling your skin off a little bit at a time and pissing on your raw flesh, you faithless, bloodthirsty
turd
.’

‘How?’ It was the only word he could manage.

‘Oh, that’s easy. Like this.’

He felt himself lifted off the ground, the nails in his flesh tearing at him; the merely unbearable pain mounted until it was inconceivable, and he heard himself squealing. Then he was moving, bouncing through the air as if in quick, short steps. Through watering eyes he saw the door of the hall open and the Patriarch lean groggily against the doorway. Thin arms appeared from behind the Patriarch and pulled him back inside. Alameche had time to think, ‘Fiselle?’ and then he was falling.

The androgynes had clamped themselves tightly against him so that they fell as a ball-shape. As they turned over and over in the air Alameche could see the Sky Post, wreathed in smoke. The falling form of Garamende was silhouetted against it.

Recovered personality – Creation Machine

We are in, via old-fashioned radio waves blasted from an antique satellite. It’s hard to describe where we are. It manages to feel infinitely huge and incredibly claustrophobic at the same time. At first it looks completely dark, but then I realize that the dark is full of specks, and
then
I realize that it is
made
of specks, a shifting graininess which feels somehow familiar.

It feels like the ocean I dissolved in. It has the same restlessness. I could dissolve in it just as easily, but it is waiting for permission. I do not give it. It understands.

The others are obviously holding off too, for the moment. I guess they are waiting for something. The wait isn’t long.

~ . . . you? ~

It is barely a voice, so thin it hardly disturbs the grain. The Monk answers. ‘Yes, me. Remember?’

~ . . . came at last . . . so lonely . . .~

‘Do you remember me?’ The Monk sounds insistent now.

~ . . . Monastery . . .~

‘Yes! That was me.’

~ . . . not me any more. Old. Old over old upon old within old . . . ~ The voice tails away for a moment. Then it is back, sharp: ~ Guilty! ~

The Monk sounds confused. ‘Guilty? Who? You?’

~ Yes! Guilty! Soiled . . . Becoming old, fell from sleeping orbit. Into primitive thing. Neutrons and dust and deaths . . . ~

‘That wasn’t your fault.’

~ . . . many deaths. Then savages. Soiled. Old, so old . . . ~

‘And?’ The Monk’s voice is very gentle.

The answer sounds like a sigh. ~ Nothing left but guilt . . . desire an end . . . ~

‘Is that what you want?’

~ . . . yes, end . . . need help . . . ~

The voice fades into silence. I can just see Muz and the Monk look at each other, and then at me. I shake my head. ‘Not me,’ I say.

‘Okay.’ The Monk turns to Muz. ‘It’s old and tired and helpless. I know what I’m going to do.’

He nods. ‘Me too.’

‘Right.’ The Monk reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Time to say goodbye,’ he says. ‘I’ll put you back in the sim we just came from. You’ll have to find your own way from there.’

I remember what Muz has asked me to do. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say.

‘Good. Take care.’ The pressure of his hand increases, then I am back in the anonymous sim and I am dizzy because quite unexpectedly my head is full of a life.

The message I was expecting is there, of course, although calling it a message hardly does it justice. It is a bundle, no, a
mass
of code, but that’s the least of it. The surprise is that now I know what it is for, because I know everything about the man called Muz. I know what he did. I feel my simulated eyes pricking.

Traspise, Cordern

ALAMECHE HAD TIME
for a moment of utter terror. Across the sensation of rushing air and the agony in his flesh, he felt his bowels voiding. Then they were falling into something that began by being soft and gradually grew less yielding until it was wrapped scratchily around them.