“What of climbing in through a window?” Nuïy suggested.
“Too tricky,” Zehosaïtra replied. “We need speed and force. Deomouvadaïn, get the autodogs. There are three large blue ones. Bring them here with handlers. Once you’re at the Inner Sanctum, dismiss the handlers and activate the autodogs, then let them follow you. Don’t let on why.”
Deomouvadaïn nodded and ran out of the chamber. Zehosaïtra eyed Nuïy and Sargyshyva then said, “We’ll return to the chamber.”
At the gold-plated door, Zehosaïtra paced up and down for a few minutes, before hammering on the door and shouting, “Give yourself up, Kamnaïsheva! The Green Man will shine mercy upon you.”
No answer.
He tried again. “Give yourself up! We know you’re in there. You’re trapped. If we beseige this chamber, you’ll die. Come out!”
Still nothing. Cursing, Zehosaïtra continued pacing, leaving Nuïy to glance apprehensively at the crushed face of Sargyshyva. “It is a bad thing, First Cleric,” he said in an attempt at conversation.
Sargyshyva scowled, then said, “Our attempt t’change the Garden has failed. Missing the Analyst-Drummer we’re missing the guide.”
“Not so,” Nuïy said. “I have all his knowledge. I am the force behind the Drum Houses. He taught me all he knew, but then I taught myself more. Trust me, First Cleric.”
Sargyshyva looked speculatively upon Nuïy, but said nothing more.
After five minutes Nuïy heard a slobbering, coughing noise, and then from the stairs Deomouvadaïn emerged leading three azure-coated dogs, whose heads reached to Nuïy’s waist. Their great barrel chests heaved with their desire for action.
Zehosaïtra spoke to them like young initiates. “Autodogs! Smash this door! Quickly! Our lives depend on it!”
With deafening howls the autodogs flung themselves at the door, their eyes burning crimson with the intensity of their efforts. The volume of the din and the sheer ferocity of the attack caused Nuïy to shrink against the opposite wall, yet despite their strength the great oaken door remained firm, though dented.
Then they heard a voice over the howling. “Stop! Stop at once!”
“It’s him,” Sargyshyva said. “Talk to him, Zehosaïtra.”
Zehosaïtra called off the autodogs, then shouted, “Analyst-Drummer, open this door at once. The Green Man will treat you mercifully.”
Kamnaïsheva’s voice came through, muffled by the door. “I will treat only with Nuïy. Fetch Nuïy.”
Zehosaïtra stared at Nuïy, then gestured at him with one finger. Nuïy approached. Zehosaïtra whispered, “Do as he says. We must have this door opened. At all costs keep him speaking. Leave the rest to us.”
Nuïy, terrified, nodded and tried to keep his feelings under control. He wanted only to run away.
“Very well,” Zehosaïtra called out, “Nuïy is here. Open the door.”
“Let him shout out,” Kamnaïsheva replied. “And call off the autodogs.”
Zehosaitra stamped and shouted at the autodogs, until, cringing, they backed off a few yards. He nodded in silence at Nuïy. Nuïy called out, “I am here, Analyst-Drummer. Open the door as has been requested.”
Silence. A minute passed. At last they heard the sound of wooden bars being pulled out of their brackets, and then door opened a fraction. Against a line of yellow they saw a silhouette.
Suddenly all was light. A beam blinded Nuïy. He heard Zehosaïtra shout, then Deomouvadaïn urge the autodogs to attack. He felt a grip of metal on his left wrist, and he was pulled off his feet into Sargyshyva’s chambers, to fly through the air and crash head first into a wall, where he lay dazed. The door slammed shut. The dogs launched themselves into it, but too late. Down went the bars.
Nuïy opened his eyes and struggled to his feet.
Kamnaïsheva confronted him. “So, Nuïy Pinkeye,” he said. He stood a few inches taller than Nuïy, but seemed to loom over him like a giant.
“What are you doing, traitor?” Nuïy retorted.
Kamnaïsheva’s face betrayed no hint of an emotion. “Remember what damage Raïtasha and Deomouvadaïn did to you, Nuïy Pinkeye. I can do a hundred times worse. I can torture you while the puny humans outside try to punch their way in. Do you understand? So do not stand up to me. You will do precisely as I say. If not, the bruised, punctured, slashed, and considerably shorter remains of your body will regret this hour for the rest of its life.”
Nuïy swallowed. He had never before encountered such brute force. He saw now that Kamnaïsheva was an animal, inhuman despite his human looks. He had no option but to listen to these appalling threats.
“Well?” said Kamnaïsheva. His green eyes flickered with the power of his threat.
“I will do as you say,” Nuïy said.
“Follow me.”
To the sound of autodogs pounding the door, Kamnaïsheva led Nuïy to the statue of the Green Man in the centre of the chamber. He kicked furniture out of the way. Open-mouthed, Nuïy watched as couches hardly liftable by two men flew through the air. Yet Kamnaïsheva launched into it as if it was all made of matchwood. Nuïy took several steps back, cowering, until Kamnaïsheva saw him, and with a single look of his demented eyes called him back.
“This is what we are to do,” Nuïy was informed. “I am about to enter the networks. You will drum precise patterns that I will list according to their numbers. One mistake and you will suffer the fate just outlined. You will not be put off by anything I do or say once the process is in operation. You will drum—nothing else. You will say nothing. You will follow no instructions other than mine. Your attention will focus only on the patterns you are to drum. Is all clear so far?”
“Yes,” Nuïy mumbled.
Kamnaïsheva pulled the statue’s drum from its hand and passed it over to Nuïy, saying, “Sit comfortably as you have before, on one of these stools. Prepare yourself.”
“Yes.”
Kamnaïsheva then proceeded to list a sequence of pattern numbers that Nuïy recognised as those referring to metaphor expansion. Now he understood something of what Kamnaïsheva intended. Metaphor expansion allowed huge systems of data to grow into alternative environments. This was how they had introduced tree root data into jungle soil. But surely memories and thought patterns could not be so transferred? The process would be unimaginably complex.
Nuïy then realised that he was here to facilitate the transfer. Perhaps it was not possible by normal means. Only with the power and perfection of his own drumming could it be done. Despite the terror he felt at Kamnaïsheva’s domineering will, he felt awe at what the man had set out to achieve.
“Are you ready, Nuïy Pinkeye?”
“I am ready.”
Then Kamnaïsheva lay beside the statue, turned to Nuïy and said, “We will meet again, in another medium. Do not forget me!”
A great shiver took Nuïy. He closed his eyes, breathed deep. He sat still on his stool, drum between his knees.
Kamnaïsheva took a thick cable from the pool of papyrus and held it in his right hand. To Nuïy, the hundreds of bare ends looked like the centres of flowers. Then Kamnaïsheva tore open his robe and the metal shirt that lay underneath to expose pale skin. From under the shirt he pulled out leather stiffeners, and Nuïy watched, disgusted, as his podgy flesh settled into a new shape.
“Drum!”
And Nuïy drummed. Kamnaïsheva lay still, his right arm vertical, holding the cable. For a minute nothing happened. Dimly, Nuïy was aware of hammering on the door.
Then he saw Kamnaïsheva’s forehead puckering. In ten seconds a mass of flowers had grown out of it, budding, then opening to reveal multi-coloured petals. Nuïy felt panic at the sight. He still had fifty seven patterns to drum. He set his memory to the task of controlling his hands and arms.
The flowers grew to a height of a foot. Forty nine patterns to go. They swayed, as if in a breeze, and then insects appeared—he supposed they must have flown in through the open windows of the chamber—and began frantic flights between head flowers and cable. Soon the air was alive with insects.
Thirty patterns left. Now the air was dark with crazed insects. They flew so fast Nuïy was not able to see them, except as dark, blurred lines which ended as insect shapes, then became blurs again.
Seventeen patterns.
More insects. Now they were hitting Nuïy’s body in their sheer numbers. Nuïy could see neither flowers nor cable through the heaving mass of insects, just Kamnaïsheva’s feet emerging at the end of the chaotic pile. The space between cable and forehead was a brown blur.
Ten patterns. Nuïy felt insects on his skin, in his mouth, in his hair. Suddenly he felt his memory lose something, as if he had forgotten the number of a particular compartment. He guessed. He was right. For a moment he had almost lost it.
Seven patterns. Another guess.
His hand missed the drum skin and grazed the side, causing an error. Insects were crawling over his eye.
Five.
He missed a pattern.
He threw down the drum and, screaming, crawled for the door. He shook his head to throw off the insects, spat them out of his mouth.
“Help!”
The walls of the chamber burst apart. Plaster and wood flew into the centre of the room to reveal panels of hardpetal, red, yellow and green, from which great flowerheads grew with frenetic motions, twisting and spiralling in an effort to reach the enormous potential between the cable and the head flowers. Nuïy, cowering by the door, watched as these hardpetal symbols crossed the room and lunged into the writhing insects, there to vanish.
More panels exploded, their debris hitting Nuïy. He saw blood on the floor and on his clothes. Insects lay scattered everywhere. Then the ceiling caved in, and a plaster board hit him on the head, crushing him to the floor. He crawled free and began to lift the bars of the door. With the bars free, he twisted the lock and pulled open the door. Zehosaïtra made to jump in, but immediately stopped and backed out again. Nuïy crawled free.
“Is he in there?” Deomouvadaïn shouted.
“Yes!”
He stared into the room.
“It is too late!” Nuïy cried. “Too late.”
They all stared into the room. Nuïy saw that swarms of insects were now flying out through those windows open to the night air. In seconds, peace descended. No insects. The flower monstrosities that had exploded from behind the walls decayed, their stems disintegrating, their petals falling to the ground, merging like droplets becoming puddles, then sinking into the floor. Besides the ruins of the golden statue they saw a body, clothes shredded, naked beneath a layer of debris and deactivated insects.
Zehosaïtra stumbled into the room, Nuïy and Deomouvadaïn following and a mumbling Sargyshyva bringing up the rear. They picked their way across the debris to Kamnaïsheva’s body.
“Oh, Our Lord In Green!” Zehosaïtra shouted. He screamed out an oath.
Deomouvadaïn swept away debris from Kamnaïsheva’s body. He gnashed his teeth, crouched down, his body seemingly in spasm.
Nuïy looked down at the body. He saw breasts. No cock lay between the legs. It was a woman machine. Was this a gynoid? What
was
it? And who…
He cursed the fate which had brought him here, caring nothing for the exalted clerics who heard him—if they did. They were in shock.
“It’s an un-man,” Zehosaïtra wailed. “We’ve been confounded and beaten by an un-man!”
INTERLUDE 3
Shônsair and Zoahnône sat beside one another in a cobbled alley filled with flowers. Hoverflies swarmed around them. It was evening, above them a purple sky set with a few twinkling stars. Shônsair pulled the flowerhead of a large rose towards her, opening the petals a little to get a better view of the screen inside. “I don’t like what I see,” she remarked.
Zoahnône pulled over a similar flower, batting away a few early moths. “The Garden seems to be falling into the sea.”
“There is something awry.”
“But what?”
“Baigurgône is behind all this chaos. Zaïdmouth’s networks are becoming a monoculture, with hoverflies now forcing away even the bees from their autohives. Everything is becoming roseate. Data is corrupting. Databases are becoming inaccessible.”
“All this is true,” agreed Zoahnône. “We must find Baigurgône. If she succeeds in crashing the flower networks she will dominate what remains—or what takes over. And then humanity can look forward to a very grim future.”
Shônsair considered what she knew. The Garden was the only political forum of the area, ignoring such aberrations as the Woods Debating Society, for men only, and the Bliss League, for hedonistic political activists. If the Garden were to dissolve into treachery and intrigue Zaïdmouth would become unstable and everyone would suffer. That must not happen. On these flower networks the future of a humane culture rested.
“What shall we do?” Zoahnône asked.
“If only Manserphine had not vanished. I feel certain that her visions would have described something like this, and from such visions we could have gleaned clues.”
“But she is not with us, and the flower crash may happen soon. And still my work on the embodied gynoid is unfinished. I had relied on Manserphine to offer visionary assistance.”
Shônsair said, “For now we shall have to forget her. The question is, what do we do?” Again she looked at the views of the Garden afforded by the rose screen. Sand lay everywhere. Voices were indistinct over the noise of surf and gulls.
“We must go in,” said Zoahnône.
Shônsair hesitated, then said, “If we must reveal ourselves, we must. Long ago I would have observed from the sidelines, but now I know I must participate. This is my land.”
“Shall we, then?”
“We risk much by exposing our stature as artificial.”
Zoahnône replied, “We risk more by standing to one side.”
Shônsair stood. “I know a quiet place where we can lie amidst the flowers.”
They walked to the western border of the Venereal Garden, then into half an acre of waste ground owned by the Shrine of Root Sculpture, where they found wild flowers growing everywhere. Shônsair looked around the glade and saw how beautiful it was, illuminated by distant lamps set on the roof of the Shrine. They pushed through thickets of wild rose and lavender to find a depression in the soil where once a root cache had lain. Here, they lay, amidst nodding rose briars and flapping moths.
They accessed the matted webs of the Garden and allowed the networks to flood into their minds.
Shônsair found herself standing at the edge of the Outer Garden. In the distance she saw the two clerics of Our Sister Crone, and by their side Alquazonan. She muttered to Zoahnône, “There stands the image of what we desire—a pregnant gynoid. Let us hope your plan manages such a result.”
“Would that she were our result,” Zoahnône replied. “But it is said that she has suffered from a technological cancer since the days of the Gang of Three. Now, follow me into the Inner Garden. It is a separate reality. Just leap over the boundary.”
This they did, shedding blue and yellow sparks of conceptual data as their self-images crossed the metaphoric boundaries. The ground was sandy, flowers were wilting, and salt-tolerant species were growing; ocean-thistles, coarse grass and dune-tea. On the air came the smell of the sea, and its sounds too, echoing around on a gusty wind. Much of the diversity of the reality had been lost, to be replaced by the tough simplicity of shoreline species. Then Curulialci saw them, and with a shocked face she ran towards them.
“Who are you?” she cried. “Get out!”
“Halt, sister!” Zoahnône called, raising one hand, palm out.
“Who
are
you?”
“We are independent friends of Interpreter Manserphine. We are here to help save the Garden.”
This flood of information flustered Curulialci, but then Yamagyny piped up, “How can you help us?”
“We are not ordinary women,” Zoahnône said. “We have observed many situations in which realities have struggled for dominance. We believe the Garden is being metamorphosed by a semi-reality based in the Shrine of the Sea. We can stop it, if you will allow us, and then we can restore the Garden to its true state.”
“But how?” Curulialci asked.
“We have access to an arsenal of mental techniques that you do not, because you merely observe the Garden through audio-visual means. Watch as I call a hoe.”
A hoe appeared in Zoahnône’s right hand. “How…?” Yamagyny stuttered.
“It is possible for human beings to experience the totality of a reality, but more usually they do not. We, on the other hand, have a natural physical means of interfacing. Thus our minds can effect the substance of the Garden. I called a hoe, and now I can use it.” With that, Zoahnône began attacking a growth of ocean-thistle, until every stem was severed from its roots.
“But one hoe could not repair the damage we have suffered,” Curulialci said, gesturing at the sandy Outer Garden, with its dunes, gulls, and sea-fog upon the horizon.
Zoahnône replied, “This is a minute fraction of what we can do.”
Curulialci seemed unsure, so to persuade her, Shônsair asked, “What have you been doing to defend the Garden?”
“Not much. All we can do is alter procedures and databases from our network chambers. We have had clerics at the Shrine of Root Sculpture make nodules to entrap the metaphoric salt and so return our environment to one based on fresh water, but it is a slow business.”
“Exactly,” said Shônsair. “We can do all that just by thinking of it. Will you let us work here?”
The two clerics looked at one another, hopelessness in their eyes. Yamagyny shrugged, and then Curulialci said, “All right.”
“You’d better start right away,” Yamagyny added.
“We will.”
Shônsair and Zoahnône walked away, until they were out of earshot. “This will be a difficult task,” Shônsair said, “since even ones such as ourselves stand small against an entire reality.”
“We will manage,” Zoahnône replied. “Our future depends on it.”