Authors: Stephen Palmer
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Post-Apocalyptic, #Cyberpunk
Zinina looked up the street. ‘Do you feel sorry for them?’
He considered this for some minutes. When he answered they were well into Gur-Lossom Street. ‘We live in a hierarchical society because of the extremity of our condition. It was not always so, I should have you know.’
Zinina nodded. ‘I feel sorry for them. The Portreeve should help them, instead of eating cakes and drinking wine up the damn tumulus.’
‘Indeed. A most valid point.’
Walking on, into areas she had never explored, Zinina noticed that pale grass shoots were pushing up between the flagstones. From the shattered windows of ruined houses – and there were many in this sparsely populated quarter – she saw hanging vines, lianas, and the globular flowers of the poison chrysanthemum, which here, by the sea, was a common cause of death. A few bodies lay in gutters. Most were greened and partially decomposed, but one was not, and Zinina stopped to see if the clothes contained anything useful. Seeing what she was doing, deKray took hold of her arm and pointed to the streaks of vomit, the empty syringe, and the red stain of uz, all signs indicating that revellers had already stripped the corpse of useful oddments. They walked on.
At last, with the cliffs in sight and the sound of waves audible, deKray indicated a white house. He said he lived alone in the upper floor, the ground floor being empty.
As he pointed to it a reveller staggered into the street; an aggressive one, armed with a circular saw on a bamboo pole. They decided not to fight, so deKray hurried Zinina into his house. The reveller hammered on the locked door, but, weakened by the effort, departed, screaming curses. Watching deKray, Zinina loosened her knife in its scabbard, wary, though curious.
His house was remarkable. Its ceilings were very high, indicating that it was old, and from each hung long wires dangling photoplankton spheres on their ends. In every room there were shelves and shelves of books. Zinina had never seen so many. Even in the shower room and the kitchen books stood on shelves. Thousands of them.
‘This is the third largest library in all of the city,’ deKray said with joy in his voice. His eyes, which he had wiped with a medicated tissue, were shining.
‘Third?’
‘I refer to paper, not electronic, books. The second largest belongs to a woman residing northwards, adjacent to the Gardens.’
‘Who?’
He did not want to answer. Zinina frowned at him, distrust uppermost in her thoughts. ‘One Oquayan,’ he eventually admitted. ‘Her works cover botany, mostly. And of course the largest library in Kray belongs to whoever happens to be Portreeve.’
Zinina nodded.
‘What beverage would you prefer, Zinina?’
‘I better go,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Doesn’t do to be alone in a man’s house. But I’ll be seeing you. Yeah?’
It was half an offer. Zinina felt attracted, yet nervous. He was an unchained man, after all.
DeKray said, ‘I should appreciate that.’
In the hall’s green zone Zinina checked her suit and hood, then repositioned the elastics around her boot tops. ‘Don’t want nothing falling in,’ she said. ‘Um...’
‘Yes?’ He seemed anxious to prolong the farewell.
But Zinina said nothing, and departed.
She had never felt like this. Anticipation: that was what it was. Happy, she hurried back to the Old Quarter.
CHAPTER 13
It was often said that a sunny morning in Kray was as common as a Portreeve with a smile on her face – an aphorism that became increasingly true as years went by. But two mornings after Beltayn, Zinina awoke to see blue sky and the sun behind streamers of red cloud. Unaccustomed to the brightness, she shaded her eyes behind one hand as she looked over the city. It seemed stark and green, everything clear instead of hazy, although she noticed that already great clouds of flies and greater clouds of midges were swarming over stagnant water. Spring and especially summer were the seasons of plague, when whole species could be wiped out by sudden immune system failures, or by total male infertility. Soon, every Krayan would be troubled by sweat, insects, insomnia, and the suffocating, damp heat that could send people mad.
Outside, human torment continued. Throughout the night there had been frenzied shooting and the crash of detonations from some nearby square. Too near for comfort. When she tuned into the Citadel networks she understood what had occurred. Three reveller gangs had attacked the Dispensary and, although two had been destroyed or scattered, the third had taken over the building and injected everyone inside with meat preservative. Now revellers from all across the city were heading for the treasure trove that lay undefended. And yet the Citadel seemed to be doing nothing about it. Zinina knew that the Portreeve had given up the Dispensary as a lost cause; and because it supplied the Infirmary, that place too had been offered only a stay of execution.
The Citadel was withdrawing into itself, leaving Kray to die as it saw fit.
Zinina decided to visit deKray. Graaff-lin tried to dissuade her, but she wanted to go, and so she would go. ‘You stay and keep talking to them serpents,’ she told Graaff-lin. ‘We’ve got to find out if they know the plan.’
It was not an easy journey, since she had to avoid the now unsafe main streets – blocked by defenders at work, by rolls of barbed wire, by gangs of revellers encamped in tents made from old clothes and bedlinen – but she persevered. Back alleys, although also dangerous, were less populated by madwomen and militant drunkards. In some places pink and sodden red blossom fallen in great quantities forced Zinina to wade as if through marshes of perfumed blood.
Zinina primed her needle gun before entering the maisonette, just in case. She felt unsure of him. They talked awhile, then Zinina suggested they return to the Cemetery, where she might show him southerly areas he was unfamiliar with. He muttered a few doubts, but for Zinina the Cemetery held little of dread, and so she had her way. Now she could test him.
They reached the Cemetery at noon, by which time clouds had billowed in off the sea and a light drizzle was falling. Only one brief skirmish troubled them. They had approached the Cemetery by its most northerly gate, off Morte Street, which was succumbing to root damage and which in places consisted only of mud. Two revellers, a motley pair dressed in sackcloth and brimmed hats, stepped out of a doorway, blocking their path. They were ill, or drunk.
‘Hah, what we got then, huh, nice meat?’ said one, drawing a rusty knife from her belt.
Zinina felt more anger than fear. ‘Calm it, shousters,’ she sneered. This was the only way to deal with them. ‘Down on y’luckies?’
The revellers looked at one another. ‘Hoy, calm it y’self, sharpy,’ said one. ‘We’s only after the meats. Nice meats only.’
‘Y’get none here, no-blooms. Y’see two proper blooms with brains an’ hard muscle to match, so fizzle off, eh?’
‘Calm it, calm it,’ the revellers muttered, running off.
‘Yeah,’ Zinina said, anticipating deKray’s next question. ‘I was brought up a reveller.’
But he said nothing, leaving Zinina slightly embarrassed by his apparent lack of interest.
She led him through the Cemetery gate, now rusting, its football-eyes scratched and unfocused – the whole edifice had died some years ago – and so entered the periphery of the northern graveyards, where Kray’s poorest residents lay buried. Here, revellers rarely dug. They only exhumed the bodies of those buried with their worldly goods. The expanse of the Cemetery and the ingenuity of the revellers meant that they had not yet exhausted this supply of wealth.
Yew and ivy traced out the remains of paths. As far as Zinina’s eye could see, crumbling gravestones at odd angles poked out from sheaves of grass and giant crocuses, except where groves of silver birch stood, or where paths made of glass and metal gravel allowed visitors access.
Zinina followed a southward path. After half an hour or so she found herself looking down steep slopes, but ancient steps engraved with astronomical symbols allowed them to descend easily. Ahead, she saw the alabaster roofs of mausoleums, and clusters of tents in reveller encampments.
‘We’d better pull our hoods up and wear masks,’ she told deKray. She did not want to be recognised by anybody.
‘Very well,’ deKray replied, following her instruction.
They left the path and took advantage of cover provided by the yews. These trees were ancient, many supported by iron poles or by green plastic scaffolding, others standing askew, like wounded soldiers. The ground below them emitted the smell of a deadly humus. There was no grass; only mush and mud and rotting red berries. To their right the milky quartz blocks of the Cemetery wall stood tall, washed dirty by the rain.
Soon the Cemetery became tangled. There were many trees, not just yew but laburnam, birch and sycamore, and between these stood tombs, ruined mausoleums, the remains of old walls and rusting signposts with their signs missing. ‘Careful where you tread,’ Zinina warned, ‘there’s hundreds of open graves around here. You could easy fall in one.’
DeKray seemed to be examining one particular grave. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, rejoining Zinina. ‘I shall exercise caution.’
‘See that mausoleum over there?’ Zinina said, pointing to a violet and yellow mosaic roof just visible through the yews. ‘That’s something I’d like to show you.’
The mausoleum’s one door stood open. Zinina peered inside. ‘Nobody here.’ No encampments lay nearby; they should be safe.
Zinina motioned him in before her, following on when he was well inside. She watched him study the place. It presented a crowded interior, piles of smashed rubble and metal contrasting with pristine statues, a central domed tomb with three carved figures on top, some smaller tombs, and a series of peculiar stone ottomans around the edges. All in all there was not much of the floor left unoccupied. Zinina waited.
‘Interesting,’ he said, obviously at a loss.
She wondered if he could act well enough to fool her. ‘You mean you don’t recognise all these statues? Them murals on the wall?’ She looked up to the groined ceiling. ‘Them fighting women up there?’
‘No. Should I recognise them?’
So, unless he was lying – and Zinina did not think he was – deKray had never been a reveller: he was not an agent of her family out to recapture her for the tribe. He was genuine. ‘You been an independent all your life?’ she asked.
‘Why, indeed. All other opinions are nugatory, Zinina. There is no doubt of my status.’
Zinina sat him down on one of the marble ottomans and said, ‘But it’s so
odd.
Who are your parents?’
‘As with many Krayans their precise identity is unrecorded.’
‘But who brought you up when you were a kid?’
‘An unrelated independent. She was scratched by a cat when I was eleven, twenty-nine years ago that would be, and died that same day. I have lived alone ever since, accepting those modest offerings of liquids and comestibles from the Citadel. The life of an independent is difficult.’
Zinina considered this story. He said he had lived at Cochineal Mews, the lane running off Sphagnum Street just opposite the path to the Cowhorn Tower. ‘Haven’t you ever gone back to your old home to hunt around for clues?’
‘Clues, Zinina? To what?’
‘Your real parent. You must have had one. Maybe even two.’
‘I care not. I am myself. My genetic heritage is of no interest to any woman of Kray, presuming I follow the masculine norm of infertility. No, what is important is the quality of my future life, not my past life. What interests me now is the Portreeve’s plan, and our broader options for surviving this final year.’
‘You reckons it
is
the final year?’
He nodded. ‘But there must be a way out.’
‘Must there?’
‘Oh, indeed. The question is, what path are we all missing?’
As he said this Zinina caught the sound of voices outside, shouting from some distance; and she also thought she heard a reveller bugle, the signal for danger. ‘We better go,’ she said. ‘Back to my place. We’ve got lots to talk about.’
‘We have.’
Zinina stood, then gazed around at the mausoleum. ‘I used to come here a lot. Silly nostalgia–’
There was a detonation outside the mausoleum door. Zinina jumped, automatically reaching down for the needle rifle at her belt. DeKray also stood.
‘What was–’ he began.
A group of revellers ran into the mausoleum, armed with projectile throwers, slings and poisoned darts, but they did not see Zinina and deKray.
‘Hack ’em off at the pass,’ hissed one.
‘No. They know we’re prockin’ here. Dyquoll will speed over the mackers. Jaybrinn’ll flock their meat. We’ll ambush the rest here, oiks an’ all.’
‘Meat! Flock their meat roight off!’
Zinina was noticed. ‘Hoy, who’re you–’
No time to answer. Five women – five girls – appeared outside the mausoleum door, saw the revellers, then disappeared behind cover.
‘Youthmeat!’ cried Zinina. The revellers, hearing her speak, also took cover, and began firing out of the mausoleum door.
Zinina pushed deKray behind the ottoman. ‘Them revellers are being attacked by Youth priestesses. We’re in trouble. Arm yourself.’
Incoming fire, mostly needles and stones, but also energy from a laser pistol, began to knock chunks from surrounding masonry. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’
Zinina breathed. ‘If that youthmeat beats them blooms, we’re bathing in old water.'
‘Are we attacked only by those five girls?’ deKray asked.
‘No. If this Dyquoll woman is speeding over the mackers – over to the big encampments down by the posh tombs – then there’s bound to be more.’
DeKray began to fumble inside his greatcoat. ‘I really
must
roll a cigarette,’ he said.
The noise began to deafen Zinina. Spent needles plinked onto the ottoman in front of her. She peered over the edge, saw movement behind a bush, and fired, but the narrow range, limited by the mausoleum door, meant that she stood little chance of hitting.
‘Why do these Youth girls so hate revellers?’ deKray asked.
‘Cemetery revellers live old,’ Zinina replied. ‘Youthmeat is young. Now shut up and concentrate on shooting.’
Explosions sounded nearby. A major battle was beginning. Zinina cursed to herself, reloading her needle rifle and trying to think of an alternative way out.
‘You creep around the back and see if you can see any vents in the ceiling,’ she said.
‘Vents?’ he said, puffing away.
‘Yes,
vents.
Some mausoleums have vents to allow people’s souls in and out.’
He took a final drag of the cigarette and went.
Zinina shouted to the revellers. ‘Hoy, blooms! Splick them slings and chuck out some needles. It’s only youthmeat! Poison their blood then speed down the mackers fast as green gob, yeah?’
‘Back off, shouster!’
‘You can’t ambush ’em from the inside!’
But they ignored her, although they did fire more needles out into the bushes where the Youth girls sheltered. The laser beam hacked off more statue masonry and the dust began making everybody cough.
Crawling out from the ottoman adjacent to Zinina, deKray said, ‘I have located an array of these vent things.’
‘Well take us there,’ Zinina said.
She followed him to the rear of the mausoleum. In the roof three vents had been made, one for each of the people buried here, but they were only a yard or so wide.
‘We’ll climb up that,’ Zinina said, pointing to a wall with crumbling brickwork, ‘then crawl along to the vents.’
DeKray hesitated. More explosions outside, and then automatic gunfire. ‘What if there is no exit route?’ he asked.
‘Just go.’
He climbed first and Zinina followed. The ascent was easy, but crawling along the upper ledge was difficult. The mausoleum vents had been designed for spiritual presences, not corporeal escapees. But eventually they were sitting on the mausoleum roof.
‘Shimmy down that guttering,’ Zinina instructed deKray. He did as she said.
Halfway down, the front of the mausoleum collapsed as a bomb detonated. The boom deafened Zinina and the wall shook. Masonry thunked to the ground. Automatic gunfire increased to a crescendo, and she heard triumphant, screaming voices.
As the rest of the mausoleum fell, they fell with it. Landing in rhododendron bushes, dust flying everywhere, Zinina crawled over to the prone deKray and urged him to his feet. They fought their way out of the tangled branches and into a grove of weeping willow.
Zinina heard pursuit. ‘Shush,’ she hissed, as deKray opened his mouth to say something. She looked around; there, another mausoleum, a smaller one. Better hide up awhile.
They ran through the trees at the edge of the grove, through thickets of ivy, then along a path to the mausoleum. It was little more than a ruin, with no roof and no door.
‘Hide in here,’ Zinina said. ‘If anyone’s after us, they’ll not see us. They’ll go back to the main battle.’
Far off, there were many rumbles and sounds of clattering. Flickering lines, perfectly straight and spectral red, appeared and disappeared in the distance, and although cloud was low Zinina could see black smoke billowing over the Cemetery.
Old tombs, many with open lids, lay within the mausoleum. DeKray, who seemed frightened, perhaps shocked, tripped over rubbish on the floor and accidentally knocked off a tomb lid.
‘We better go,’ Zinina muttered, as the noise of gunfire and detonations intensified.