Context (14 page)

The
one who is gone

(Now
she’s no longer here)

Her
dark memories torn

Leave
dry tunnels sere.

You
see it, don’t you?

How
the void lingers through?

...
Now Elva is gone.

Cold
ice, solid stone

And
maha
pervades
all:

Now
we are alone

Thin
illusion must pall.

Only
twists, superstrings –

Mathematical
things –

Since
Elva is gone.

Fluorofungal
shine

And
glowcluster shimmer

Flood
entropic time:

Die
Zeit tot uns immer.

Just
interstices –

Empty
space, if you please –

For
Elva is gone.

Shadows,
pale shade

(Empty
core, surface hard)

By
consensus made

Our
atomic facade.

It’s
reductio

Ad
vacuum,
I know –

But
Elva is gone.

Emergent
conceit
–

Warmth,
love: obsolete

Now
Elva is gone.

She
would have wanted a funnier epitaph. But every attempt at whimsy seemed odd and
painful, incongruous in a world drained of colour and warmth, left hard and
brittle in the aftermath of her passing.

Tom hugged his cape about
himself. The time for tears was past: death was too enormous, too implacable,
for such fragile shows of emotion.

Icy mist, black lake. Above, the
shadowed ceiling, the half-glimpsed edelaces.

A blink of time, and our cosmos
ends.

And now, and forever: a universe
without Elva.

We never even kissed, until the
end.

Yet he was her liege Lord: a
position he had seen abused so often that... But the thought brought no
comfort.

Tom shivered.

And heard: ‘They come.’

The priestess prayed.

Eight
russet-liveried vassals slid the white cocoon out onto the water. The black
lake was flat and silent, and there was no draught in the chill air, as though
the cavern itself held its breath.

Beside Tom, Xyenquil formed a
prayer-mudra with his fingers, accompanying the priestess. Rows of vassals
stood to attention. Nirilya remained well back, near an exit. Her hood was
black; her dark robes fluttered, in a breeze which did not exist.

Tom watched the cocoon drift
towards the lake’s centre. Inside, teloworms would already be at work,
digesting the flesh that had once borne Elva’s spirit.

‘...
our daughter, that was
instantiated, is now complete. Solved and demonstrated: the algorithm of her
life is worked out, and honours thereby the greater whole…’

Above, among frost-rimed
stalactites, edelaces fluttered. Others glided in from shadowed tunnels.

‘...
the nöomatrix, whence the
Omega Singularity comes, to collapse the holy cosmic function, observed by Its
omniscient love ...’

A fragile edelace drifted down,
and draped itself across the white cocoon. Tom shivered, but could not look
away.

Another edelace dropped.

‘...
to the depths, conjoining
her remains..
.’

More descended, fragile and
fluttering, blanketing the cocoon with their lacy forms.

Elva. Please come back...

It began to sink beneath the dark
waters.

The edelaces would digest the
cocoon and absorb the teloworms which had fed upon Elva’s body and broken down
the bones; the teloworms themselves, as parasites, would live on inside the
edelaces, to catalyse their hosts’ reproduction, bringing forth new life in
white fragile forms whose beauty was legendary and whose toxins were deadly.

Elva.

The cocoon sank, disappeared.
Recitation over, the priestess bowed.

Elva, my only love.

The lake was black and still.

Suddenly
it moved
and he sat bolt upright in his sweat-soaked bed, surrounded by
gloomy darkness, breathing hard as though sprinting for a long race’s finish
line.

When he looked down at his stump
it was shrouded in shadows and then
it moved again
and he jerked back in
fear. It was a tiny motion. The bud-hand, centimetres longer than yesterday,
had only twitched, but the sensation was massive and electric.

A gift from Elva?

He lay back down, head turned to
the right, away from the new growth, and wondered what kind of world it was
when even his body and his dreams were not his own. And prepared for a
gritty-eyed, sleepless wait for the morningshift to come.

Walking,
at random. He carried the cane, but as precaution, not necessity.

Floor hatch revolving, slats
falling into place.

Tom followed the spiral stairs
down to the Secundum Stratum. Checking his travel-tag—making sure he could
return—he walked to the nearest hatch and descended again, down to Tertium.

It was like a scene from
childhood, though richer: an Aqua Hall, silvery streams tinkling, a ceramic
sculpture fountain. Queuing vassals, empty containers in hand, ration-spikes
tucked into their belts. In the corridor beyond, two white-haired women were
struggling with filled containers.

‘Please,’ said Tom. ‘Allow me.’

He used his cane as a yoke,
slinging it through the carry ropes. Then he laid it across his shoulders and
stood upright.

‘Ladies?’

‘I’m Eta,’ said one of the women.
And, ‘I’m Ara,’ said the other.

Sloshing water made the burden
awkward.

‘My name’s Tom. Er ... Which way?’

Terracotta-walled
corridor. He deposited the containers just inside the indicated alcove: a
plain, clean dwelling.

‘Thank you, Tom.’

‘Would you stay, Tom, for some
daistral?’

Tom wiped his forehead. His thigh
was beginning to throb.

‘I must go. But thank you.’

As he left, pulling the curtain
closed behind, he saw the two women clasp hands, and wondered at their
relationship. Tom had lost too much not to recognize love when he saw it, and
he smiled wistfully, just for a second, before walking on.

‘Spare
a sliver, noble giver?’ An urchin, cap in hand. ‘Grant a mil for our thespian
thrill?’

Tom stopped, leaning on his cane.

A troupe of mummers, amid a ring
of spectators up ahead, was giving a performance. One holomasked player, with
two faces staring in opposite directions, represented an Oracle.