Exurbia: A Novel About Caterpillars (An Infinite Triptych Book 1) (12 page)

‘Perfect, perfect.’

‘You’re going to assassinate the tersh tomorrow at the Pergrin celebrations,’ said 261 without any variation in his tone.

Fortmann stared, his mouth open a little. ‘Well -’

‘Unless you have Ixenite agents working inside the tershal tower, you will need to perform the assassination publicly. It’s unlikely you have any Ixenites that far inside Governance since they’re usually neuro-imaged for their allegiances. There are only two days in the year when the tersh makes a public appearance: the last day of Pergrin Week and the Imp’s Tribute. Since I have been removed from the cave, it’s unlikely the Imp’s Tribute will go ahead, leaving only Pergrin's last day, either tomorrow, or next year. You intend to take the syndicate female hostage. Since she probably won’t be remaining on Exurbia for more than a week, you will do it tomorrow. One of three outcomes is possible here. Your plan may well go ahead in the fashion you imagine it. The tersh will be killed, and the syndicate visitor will be taken hostage. You may be able to gain Governance control in this event, but there will be a huge outcry from the public. Pergrin supporters are tantamount to sexual offenders and perpetrators of infanticide on Exurbia, as you know.’

‘Alternately, your plan may well go awry with the tersh only injured and the visitor managing to evade capture. In this event, the syndicate will dispatch a warfleet and storm the planet. Exurbia will be annexed due to concerns about the growing volatile Ixenite presence. Anything short of the total success of your plan will result in total failure. This is an extremely risky venture.’

‘You’re right,’ Fortmann said. ‘It is extremely risky. But we have something gamechanging in our current stock: the moralizing imp himself. You’re going to plan the affair for us.’

261 was silent.

‘And you're going to do it of your own volition.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’

Fortmann took a skript from his pocket and handed it to the imp. 261 checked it twice and gave the device back.

‘That's the
full
transcript of Miss Butterworth's speech?’ the imp asked finally.

‘It is. You see what we're dealing with, then? They've been using implant technology at the hub for who knows how long. And you've been sentencing innocent Exurbians to death for doing just that.’

A knot formed in the imp's stomach. ‘I was instructed to make judgements based on the Pergrin Decree.’

‘And men and women are dead as a result.’

‘It was the only information I was privy to.’

‘Still, at any moment you could've spared their lives.’

Where does accountability lie in this instance?
 ‘The situation will require some consideration,’ said 261 then.

Fortmann crossed to the window and admired Exurbia.
Obviously a conceited affectation designed to communicate aloofness.

‘Yet we both know what you're going to decide,’ said Fortmann finally. ‘Exurbia and the hub have been compromised. The very bedrock of Exurbian law has been undermined by none other than the syndicate itself. We're being treated as children; one rule for the adults, another for us.’ 

‘The Pergrin Decree serves a vital function.’

‘And what's that?’

‘Intelligence which is able to exponentially enhance itself leads to fatal instabilities in a power structure. There is no choice but to limit a population's access to such technologies, whether it be mental implant devices, intellectual augmentation, or wiremind construction.’

‘Spoken like a true tool of Governance.’

‘The histories confirm the hypothesis.’

Fortmann chuckled. 

‘Which histories? Those provided by the syndicate, you mean?’

‘Correct.’

‘I won't insult you by pointing out the flaw in your reasoning then. I am certain that on some level, there in that byzantine brain of yours, you know the histories to be a lie. They are perpetuated to keep us stifled, to stop us reaching too far, or too high, or too keenly. We're kept as a neglected runt in the backwaters, ignored by the empire, not even deemed worthy of plunderation by marauders or barbarians. Who are we to dance to some stupid tune sung by the syndicate? Who is to say there was even a Pergrin? I suspect he's little more than a myth, concocted to prop up the Decree.’

‘If what you say is true,’ said the imp, ‘then you must have some faith in the good these technologies will do once they're distributed.’

‘Of course.’

‘And that is based on what, exactly?’

‘Not to cross into your territory Imp, but
pure logic.
All malevolence and evil is the result of scarcity. Scarcity of resources, scarcity of affection, scarcity of communication, scarcity of status. Elevate creatures to a sufficient standing that they have all they need, and these scarcities evaporate. Merge a man's thoughts with those of his brothers and he will see that he is no more than a miniature drop in an impossibly vast ocean. He will no longer want for war or barbarism.’

‘And how do you intend to do this?’

‘By delivering the entirety of Exurbia to the Up, of course.’

16

“Now off to the stars with you, and don't come back until you've had a good, long gaze at the Big Everything.”

- Carlos Boncheva of Old Erde, creator of the weld drive

Jura -

‘Is he in his chambers?'

The secretary nodded.

Breath tight in his throat, palms moist. He hadn’t dressed for the occasion.
What would be the point?
he’d thought.
If he wants to have me arrested, duffed up, or glitzed, he won’t hold back because I’m wearing ceremonial visiting robes.
The lower level was empty. He looked up through the stairwell. The roof door was closed.
Where are the gungovs?

‘Your Eminence,’ he called out.

‘Is absent,’ came the reply, female. He held his breath.
What is she doing here, for Gnesha’s sake? 
‘Come up, Professor. And bring that enormous brain of yours, won’t you?’

He took the staircase to the upper level. She was sat in one of the comically enormous observation chairs by the window. ‘Need I insist? Sit down, please.’

He took a seat at her side, the cushions inflating and deflating about his buttocks to make for an ideal fit.

‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ she said in a child’s voice. He surveyed the view beyond the transparency.

‘It is, Your Esteemed -’

‘The tersh might like to play that game, but I’m not one for titles. “The beginning of wisdom lies in calling things by their proper names.” Your first name is Stefan, correct?’

‘It is. And…yours, if I might ask?’

‘Miss Butterworth,’ she said. 

Jura suppressed a nervous laugh.

‘Pardon me, but is the tersh not here today?’

‘The tersh,’ she said, ‘is out on other business. He was kind enough to lend me the use of his modest abode
.
Such are the privileges of being a guest. Say, what do you think of the redecoration?’

‘Pardon me?’

She pointed behind them. Jura turned his head slowly. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the tapestries and canvases, all neon red now, the chandeliers too.

‘Some kind of stereopticon?’ Jura said weakly.

The syndicate woman laughed. One of her accompanying spyles pulled up between them bearing glasses of yellow fluid. ‘Have a drink while you think about it, Professor.’

‘Oh, I…’

‘It’s not zapoei, you know. I’m not a sadist, unlike
His Regal Righteousness.’

Is she being sincere, or is this just another attempt to lure me into showing my anti-Governance colours? It’s just the kind of superficial ruse the tersh would organise. All brute force and posturing.

‘He didn’t ask me to arrange this, you know,’ she said then.

Jura stared.

‘The tersh, I mean. He doesn’t even know you’re here. This isn’t part of some elaborate scheme.’

He took a glass and downed half of the contents in a gulp.
Gnesha’s nethers.

‘I had the privilege of reading your file before I landed.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’ve done some sterling work in your time at the faculty, your wiremind detectors in particular.’

‘Many thanks.’

‘You would be an excellent addition to the syndicate hub, you know. We could certainly use your kind of ingenuity.’

‘You’re too kind, Your Eminence.’

He took another sip of the mystery drink and wheezed. ‘What is this beverage, exactly?’

‘Yes, I thought you’d like it. Galdstian opal water. I brought several bottles of the stuff with me. Curious species, the Galdstians. They've modified themselves so heavily there's almost no humanity left.’

The flavour had dimension somehow, gentle sweetness, and a sanguine sour after taste that lingered just long enough on the tongue.

‘I must say, I haven’t been very impressed with your planet’s liquor so far,’ said the syndicate woman.

‘No,’ Jura said. ‘I think most of it tastes like piss, myself.’ He gasped. ‘I…apologies. That was rather unlike me.’

She smiled mischievously and took a healthy sip from her glass.

‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘The Galdstians have a special kind of biology. They can drink their opal water by the litre and it has only the lightest of effects on their mental condition. Humans, however, well, it’s quite a different story. Do you feel more honest, Professor?’

He introspected for a moment. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘You will. Opal water debilitates the brain in the usual style of alcohol, but it attacks the strabilum conglorium first, almost immediately after contact with the tongue. The strabilum conglorium. Do you know that part of the brain?’

Jura shook his head.

‘The seat of deception. Everybody has one. I suspect yours is
particularly
enlarged. Even as we speak, it's being saturated in a deluge of sugar molecules, isolating it from the rest of your mind. Do you feel differently
now
, Professor? I could’ve just asked you to speak freely, but I know it wouldn’t have done much good, would it? This way is easier.’

Again, he shook his head.
I will give up liquor for good,
he thought with weighty resolve.

‘I’m still fairly certain this is some dumb snare,’ he said and closed his eyes, ashamed. It had simply fallen out of his mouth; there had been no time to process it.

‘A snare? No, I don't play games like that,’ she said. ‘And you can tell that’s the truth, I’ve been drinking this stuff with you, after all.’

‘You said it only works on human biology, and there’s every reason to suspect that you’re anything but.’

He cringed again, standing this time to leave. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I am truly, truly, sorry. I simply don’t seem to have control of my faculties.’

‘Sit down, Professor. We haven’t even started yet. Can you imagine what the leaders of Old Erde could have done with opal water in their arsenal? Bloody campaigns could have been avoided outright, nuclear payloads kept in their silos, left collecting dust for the duration of history. Deception is the pustulous head at tip of all conflict.’

‘Deception is the quality which gave us civilisation,’ said Jura, and meant it.

What a relief this all is, somehow.
He had no choice now, no choice to resist or subvert the truth.
Well fine. If this is how I have to go out, if this is how it has to happen, I think I can bear that. It’s better than A.H., rotting quietly at the Bureau of Substatiation. Better than all those Ixenites. Better than that wiremind yesterday, taken apart in the dark bit by bit, bolt by bolt. Better than being a damned Old Erde weasel and dying an Old Erde weasel’s death.

‘What do you mean by that, Professor?’

‘Deception is the basic currency of every human transaction: love, politics, and trade. Advertising is a form of lying. Love requires heavy omission of the truth when the rot sets in later. And politics is deception at an artisanal level of mastery. We lie to protect those around us as much as we lie to exploit them. The truth is too bright to stare at directly. Even now, you’ve come here and lied unabashedly to the whole of Exurbia.’

She forced her expression to one of mock-affront. ‘Lied?’

‘Without a doubt. You refuse to let our engineers go near your craft, you’ve come alone, and you have neglected to tell us news of the syndicate, over and over. Either you’re here on behalf of a renegade faction, or the hub is getting ready to annex us and you’ve come to do the scout work. Whatever the intentions of your visit are, you’re a harbinger.’

‘I would tell you of the syndicate,’ she said, ‘if I could only find the words.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It is not something that lends itself easily to speech.’

‘I would think more of you for at least trying.’ 
Oh Plovda, let me go will you?

‘Well,’ she said, ‘do you know those few seconds after waking? When life hasn’t found its context yet?’

‘I think so.’

‘That’s the hub in its entirety.’

‘Everybody…has
amnesia
at the syndicate hub?’

‘No. But let's say that it is not quite what you imagine.’

‘What do I imagine?’

‘A gleaming galactic civilisation. Trade routes. Gentility. Forums where the men wear togas and speak at length about the importance of courtesy and good manners.’

‘That's the last thing I had in mind.’

‘Were you always this pessimistic, Stefan?’ she said with a sudden playful alacrity.

‘No,’ he said. ‘My wife did this to me, kiss by kiss.’ 
What are you saying, you mad radge?

‘What did your wife do to you?’

‘Gave too much of herself to me,’ he said and reeled at his own honesty.

‘You only want the unobtainable,’ said Miss Butterworth.

‘I would hesitate to comment on that.’

‘You only want the unobtainable, and when your wife became obtainable, when the veneer came down and she gave herself to you in full, you lost all interest. That night on the Nufeeja lake, the promises she made as you both fell asleep on the bank. If there was a point when it died for you, that was it, wasn’t it?’