Watson, Ian - Black Current 03 (24 page)

 
          
A few other huge native vegetables
break the uniformity of the plain. Some look like leeks carved of wood. Others
resemble artichoke heads. But no other plant-person is in sight. That's why it
took a while to work out Hovarzu's own design—a topic of little interest to
her.

 
          
She resembles a very tough pear.
Below her waist she's skirted by leaf-plates which she can open and close.
She's rooted by a trifork of toothed spade-roots, and a retractable tap-pipe
runs down to the water table. (How you had to nag to gamer this item!) It's
upon those spades that she can waddle away, if she ever wishes to. A stalk
rising from her head is her radio antenna. Her inner workings are a mystery.

 
          
So
the universe is composed of electons, which are infinitesimal circles of Ka-
space rolled up very compactly. That's so, Yaleen?

 
          
That's
how it seemed.

 
          
And
electons usually choose to be what they have always been. So reality recreates
itself from moment to moment, from amidst a flux of options. This process is
the breath of
Being
. But the world doesn V wink in and
out of existence all together, on-off like a signal lamp. No! All of reality is
forever winking in and out simultaneously. Thus reality sustains itself.
There's always a familiar neighbourhood

 
          
Makes
sense!

 
          
Yet
I believe that there are minor cycles within the breath of
Being
.
By breathing in tune with these, the wizards of old Earth must have worked
their temporary alterations of reality—if legend can be trusted. In addition
there is also a Grand Rhythm, a Climacteric Rhythm—whereby large zones of reality
eclipse in and out, restoring themselves exactly as before, unconsciously.

 
          
Could be.
So where do Kas come into this?

 
          
Ka5,
Yaleen, must be dimension-fields of electons where the field itself is
conscious. What happens, then, when true death arrives? Supposing that a Ka is
not bound by a worm? Supposing that it is not drawn back into flesh by the
Godmind?

 
          
This
is the great mystery. Perhaps the Kas of all those who are truly dead diffuse
into the infinitude ofKd-space—where each contributes one more iota of will and
awareness. Then one day in the distant future Kd-space will become fully
conscious. It will be able consciously to project forth the universe that it
chooses; not just the universe which happens to exist already.

 
          
Unless the Godmind gets there first.

 
          
The
Godmind is a creation. It is not the Creating. Nevertheless its schemes are
clever. If it succeeds in marshalling this cosmic lens of electons, it may
discover how to control reality; how to become the guiding overseer. It may achieve
this feat long before Kd-space evolves the capacity on its own account—from out
of the stored will and awareness of all the dead. Then the Godmind will be a
God indeed.
Perhaps only the God of a single galaxy out of
many million; but a God, even so.

 
          
But
it'll have killed off everyone. What's the point in ruling a graveyard?

 
          
It
may gain the power to recreate people! To restore their Kas to the flesh! As
well as the power to twist the black currents back through time as destroyers
of potential rivals! Consider the proposed act of mass murder further, Yaleen.
The transfer of so many dimension-fields will send a shock through Ka -space
and through the universe which it projects.
Locally, at
least, in this galaxy of ours.
The breath of
Being
will break rhythm. Minor cycles will culminate. A Grand Climacteric will quake
forth. This will—

 
          
Hovarzu?

 
          
The dazzling inner light! The deadly
radiance!

 
          
Shift out! Shift out!

 
          
When you all shift at once, you all
collide.

 
          
You, overlooking
Omphalos, belly-button of Lordevil’s Dark.

 
          
You,
planted
on a plain that's flat as a platter.

 
          
You, who've probed the secrets of the
heartwood
porter
.

 
          
You, on another worm-world: one of
volcanoes, rivers of fire, pools of liquid tin.

 
          
You, you, and you.

 
          
You, probably at
Verrino.

 
          
You, potentially
aboard the Worm's gob out in the wild ocean.

 
          
You,
possibly engaged in the synchronous rite during timestop in the palace of
enchantment.

 
          
You, you.

 
          
Cabins tumble into one another.
Tapestries interweave. You

 
          
U-nite!

 
          
I.
. . .

 
          
I span the ghosts of stars. I grasp
the rose. . . .

 
          
...
as
the
souls of the colonies, and of Earth and Luna too, are all sucked into
Ka-
space, shaking the ever-never fabric
of the void. . . .

 
          
... as the Godmind turns its lens of
death upon Deeptime, upon distances so great that they aren't to be measured in
millions of millions of leagues but only in aeons of aeons. . . .

 
          
...
all
at
once.

 
          
Ineffably swift, the lightflood
pulses. Oh let me timestop it. Let me catch it on the hop. Oh yes.

 
          
The heart and lungs of
Being
beat and bellow. Let me lay my finger on that
heart,
let me collapse those lungs then kiss life into them
again. Yes, oh!

 
          
I am here, I am everywhere,
I
am never-ever. I am the raven and the writing desk. I am
she who was bom and bom again. I am she who twisted time. The radiance shines
through me. I've captured the rose dynamic. I am the lens; I am the rose.

 
          
The Grand Climacteric is here, my
darlings. The college of electons is in session, all of one accord at once.

 
          
Down there in the worlds of death,
reality crackles like ice. It melts, it flows. So many streams, so many
branches!
So infinite a pool of possibles.
So many actuals, woven in my memories.
Taught in timestop
(thanks, Peepy!), taught in farsee (thanks, Pod!), taught in the mastery of
illusions (thanks, Dino!), taught in the record of memory and in the shapes of
power (thanks, Worm!), taught in the guile of shifting cabins (thanks,
Credence!), taught in cognizing (thanks, Hovarzu!), taught many other precious things
(thanks, whoever you are!); even so I cannot choose by thought and will. I can
only let myself be chosen. I can only let my heartself, my wish- self, be the
new pattern. Melting, flowing; and in the moment of /
am,
refreezing. . . .

 
          
... I am drawn down, descending with
the rose.

           
BLOOD
streamed through the sky over Manhome South. Scarlet gore flowed above
Brotherhood Donjon and Kirque and prayerhouse, where proclaimers would rant
every Firstday.

 
          
Peli examined the sunset critically.
The fussy second storey window, with its many tiny panes of thick glass, was
wide open; this window at least had hinges!

 
          
"Must be a ton of dust up
there," she said.

           
"Dust?"
Yaleen looked up from her packing, which
was almost done.

 
          
"Why, to make such sunsets as
we've seen! It isn't at all cloudy. So the reason must be dust."

 
          
Yaleen joined her friend at the
window. True enough, only the faintest muslin brushstrokes of cloud hung aloft.
Yet most of the sky-dome was dyed garishly.

 
          
Peli waved a hand westward.
"I'll warrant there's been a huge sandstorm in the desert. What price this
madcap scheme of yours if the balloon runs into a sandstorm? That's if it ever
gets off the ground!"

 
          
"Balloons generally get off the
ground, Peli dear."

           
"Ah,
but will the scheme? What will the river temple say? You need their
blessing."

 
          
"Hmm," said Yaleen.
"We'll see."

 
          
"So what
do
you do, supposing there's a sandstorm?"

           
"We'll
be floating high, Peli. That's where the winds are that'll take us
eastward."

 
          
"Eastward
forever, never to return."

 
          
"You old
doom-monger!"
Yaleen ran a fingertip along the windowsill, held it
up stained grey. "It's just ordinary dirt, not desert dust." By way
of cleaning her finger she printed the tip on the cracked tawdry plaster of the
wall.

 
          
"How I hate this dump,"
growled Peli. "Just look at that street down there. Hounds nuzzling
turds—human, I'll be bound. And this is the posh part of town.
Can't wait to get back to civilization!"

 
          
"Bit grimy in Guineamoy,
too."

 
          
"That's for a
reason—industry!—not from sheer sluttishness. At least in Guineamoy men never
look daggers at a girl for going about
her own
business."

 
          
Yaleen chuckled. "Should we give
the Sons a lesson in spit 'n' polish? Scrub the building from stem to stem?
Spend all night at it, leaving it gleaming in the morn? You'll be a boatswain
yet, Peli."

 
          
"Not likely. When a permanent
mission gets here,
they
can set to
with their scrubbing brushes." She still stared at the sky. "Superstitious
dogs, these Sons! I wonder if they're taking all that blood up there as an
omen?
Started when we arrived here, fortnight ago; been the
same ever since. Let's hope our
team have
been able to
scare them with the slyblaze. Or the Sons might just think it's a sign to take
knives to our throats on the way home."

 
          
"Hey, you're kidding."

 
          
"I dunno. We aren't in on the
negotiations."

 
          
"Oh come on: Tamath and Marti
have told us a fair bit."

 
          
"Yes, to wise us up to the local
taboos. I do hope our bosses aren't contemplating
us
as future embassy cooks and bottlewashers."

 
          
"They'd better not be. I have my
own plans."

 
          
"Of sailing upon a sandstorm;
don't I know
it.
Let's hope the local shitheads see
all that red stuff as the blood of birth." And Peli mimicked Tamath's
stance and style.
"The birth of a new and productive
relationship between our two great riverbanks, blah blah.
Rather than the blood of death.
Been
enough of that."

 
          
"Birthblood?
Looks more like a massive haemorrhage to me."

 
          
"So it's a big birth. Of a new
way of life: west and east seeing eye to eye, sort of.
Them
treating their women a bit more decent.
Less of them
imposing their riverphobia on the ladies.
Their women might even take up
boating."

 
          
"I don't believe," said
Yaleen suddenly, "that these sunsets have anything to do with the desert.
I think something else shook up all that dust." She shivered as she spoke.
"I think it was the Pause, Peli."

 
          
Peli was silent for a while. Then she
snorted.

 
          
"Of course, don't blame the
desert for anything!"

 
          
"It was the Pause," Yaleen
repeated.

 
          
"Just you shut up about that.
There was no Pause, or whatever you call it. That's all in your imagination. I
don't know what gives you such ideas."

 
          
"You felt it, too—when the whole
world paused for a moment. Why not admit it?"

 
          
"Okay, maybe there was an
earthquake.
A little one."

 
          
"Was there? Everyone skipped a
heartbeat, all at once? That wasn't any earthquake."

 
          
"Was.
It stirred up stacks of dust out in the desert; because that's where it happened.
What do you know about earthquakes? They don't happen once in a blue sun.
Stands to reason, everyone's heart would skip a beat."

 
          
"The sun
is
blue, Peli."

 
          
"Clever you.
You won't fluster me that way. 'Once in a blue sun' is just a word-fossil.
Obviously we all once hailed from a world where the sun wasn't even a bit
blue."

 
          
Yaleen inspected her fingerprint upon
the wall. "Something else happened. I'm sure!"

 
          
"Didn't."

 
          
"Oh have it your own way. At
least you'll agree we don't have to bother about sandstorms."

 
          
"We?
Who's
we?"

 
          
"Tam.
Hasso.
Me. Anyone else who's coming with us."

 
          
"Tam and
Hasso, indeed!
You'll have your work cut out."

 
          
"I can balance them. I can
handle it."

 
          
"Now get this straight:
I'm
not coming along.
Specially
not to occupy Hasso while you're busy with Tam, and vice versa. That's why you
really want me along, isn't it? Come on, confess."

 
          
"Oh,
you."

 
          
"Hey, here come our
diplomats." Peli hauled the window shut.

 
          
The sun had sunk by now. The blood
was draining from the sky. From the Kirque a bell tolled lugubriously; and it
occurred to Yaleen that during that strange moment a fortnight ago the whole
world had seemed to ring like a bell. She fingered up more dust from the inside
sill and placed the tip of her finger back upon the print on the plaster. When
she took her hand away she could detect no smudging, no overlapping of the
intricate whorls of skin-lines. She'd achieved a perfect fit. For some reason
she found the lack of change in the print both gratifying and alarming.

 
          
"What are you playing at
now?" said Peli. "They'll be famished and parched!"

 
          
As indeed they were.
They, being senior Guildmistress Marti, her junior Tamath,
Truthseeker Stamno, and Captain Martan of the 'jack army.
The four 'jack
soldiers who acted as escort and porters (and perhaps as a covert jungleguild
caucus?) took themselves off to their own quarters.

 
          
In the dining room, Peli poured local
mild ale for the diplomats while Yaleen unwrapped the buffet dinner of cold
mutton and pickles.

 
          
"Do join us," invited
Marti.

 
          
"Honoured, I'm sure," said
Peli. "Thanks, 'Mistress." She poured ale for herself and Yaleen, but
ignored plates; the two of them had eaten earlier.

 
          
"Though first, you might light
something."

 
          
The dining room, with its stained saggy
ceiling, its great creaky floorboards which old varnish and the dirt of years
conspired to blacken, and its single window which didn't open, was growing
gloomier by the moment. This was a lunky old house which the western
Brotherhood had assigned to the mission from the recently victorious east;
though at least it was close to the other governmental edifices, and spacious.
Maybe for Manhome South it was the height of elegance. Peli hastened to flame
an oil lamp.

 
          
"Reason why I asked you to
stop," said Marti a while later, as she battled a slice of boiled sheep,
"is that a couple of Sons are joining us after dinner. This pair'll be
sent as ambassadors to us, so I want as many eyes as possible to look them
over. They aren't true bigwigs yet, but they
were
close associates of a certain Doctor Edrick who died in the
war. He was one of the biggest wigs of all."

 
          
"Do the most important Sons
really wear wigs when they're in council?" asked Yaleen.

 
          
Marti smiled.
"Of
course.
That's to hide the horns on their heads."

 
          
Peli cleared her throat
circumspectly. "But 'Mistress, I thought the idea was for them to send
women representatives? You know, to improve the status and dignity of women
over here?"

           
Tamath
laughed sourly. "Oh yes. We wanted their best women sent. There's a
remarkable lack of candidates."

 
          
"Are the Sons putting obstacles
in the way?"

 
          
"Not exactly, Peli," said
Marti. "There just
aren
't
any best women —as yet. I'm sure there will be, after a few years
of witnessing our embassy at work in Manhome. Things will change. But not
overnight! Meanwhile, these two particular Sons seem the best of a bad bunch.
At least they're comparatively sympathetic. And they're bright; more flexible
than the prime bigwigs. We need to know this pair, um, informally. Maybe get
them drunk. That's why I asked you to stay, Peli."

 
          
"Oh thank you, 'Mistress. Glad
to hear that this old tosspot has her uses."

 
          
Marti laughed. "Okay,
unfortunately phrased!" Noticing Yaleen staring at her, she added,
"Oh yes, and you too, Yaleen. You're only a
gairl,
as they say over here. But you've won your ticket. You
risked death by stingers to save Marrialla from drowning, that time she fell
from the main yard; didn't you? You're already a good boatwoman, if wayward and
flighty. You're proof of our way of life. So if those two Sons have a few
drinks with us, they'll see—"

 
          
"How can I hold my tipple?"

 
          
The guildmistress sighed. "I was
going to say, that we can all relax on equal terms."

 
          
"Pardon me, 'Mistress,"
said the 'jack Captain, Martan. "I'm not planning to relax too much. I
want to winkle out of these two fellows how they're set up regarding the
fungus drug. We never got very satisfactory answers to
that,
did we?"

 
          
"While for my part,"
declared Stamno, that unprepossessing Truthseeker with the mincing turn of
phrase, "I should dearly like to explore the possible relationship between
their
drug, which suppresses
riverphobia—and
our
drug, which
allows us to glimpse the ineffable.
Thus, to pierce those
veils of obfuscation with which the world, and the people in it, wrap
themselves!"

 
          
Peli hoisted an eyebrow. "He's
obfusced me, all right," she murmured at Yaleen.

 
          
"You be a good Seeker and don't
get too soaked," said Tamath. "See if you can detect when they're
telling the truth."