Feersum Endjinn (29 page)
Authors: Iain M. Banks
He found, as his time in the crypt extended, that his dreams attained a vividity that sometimes made them seem more real than his waking hours. In those oneiric passages, when he felt that he sank beneath the surface of the land and entered a deeper underworld, he played the hero, often as not, in a landscape filled with people, cities, commotion and event: he was a dashing captain thrust by circumstance to unsought glory and fame, a poet prince compelled to take up arms, a philosopher king forced to defend his realm.
He commanded a squadron of cavalry, of ships, of tanks, of aircraft, of spacecraft; he wielded clubs, swords, pistols, lasers; he climbed to surprise an enemy cave, besieged walled cities, charged across river shallows to fall upon a vulnerable flank, planned the mining of lines zig-zagging across the swell of countryside, rode the leading missile-carrier to the smoking rubble of rail-heads, threaded a corkscrew course between black bursting clouds towards enemy capitals, slid unseen through the folds of sable space to wheel against unwarned convoys lumbering between the stars.
Gradually though, as if some part of him — the realist, the cynic, the ironist — could not accept the improbable serial triumphs of his exhausting martial adventures, the furniture of each of these aspirant dreams began to include the Encroachment, and in the midst of the bright clamour of some clash upon a dusty plain, he would find himself looking up above the joined havoc of the contesting armies to see the moon in a cloudless sky, whole face half dimmed by some fearful agent beyond precedent; or on some night mission, below radar across the darkened enemy coast, he would look up to see the stars had disappeared from half the sky; or, sling-shotting through the well of a gas-giant, the planet’s ringed bulk would fall away to reveal no welcoming spatter of familiar constellations, but a dark void, glowing beyond sight with the inflamed exhalations of long-drowned stars.
Increasingly, he woke from such dreams with a sense of gnawing frustration and abject failure no amount of subsequent rationalisation could assuage.
‘Let me see, let me see,’ the woman said. She looked perhaps ten years younger than he, though she sported an unflatteringly tonsured scalp and had no eyebrows. Black-clad, she sat in the centre of a circle of seven travellers, on a bare floor in a bare room in a large, square-planned house which stood, stark and alone, on a dark plateau.
He sat a little way off with his back to a wall where earlier callers had left strange curlicued designs and patterns carved into the plaster. Light came from a bulb hanging above the centre of the group. He had been reading while the others had told their own stories, taking turns in the centre of the circle.
It was the seven thousand, two hundred and thirty-fifth day of his time within the crypt. He had been here for nearly twenty years. Outside, in base-reality, somewhat more than seventeen hours had passed.
‘Let me see,’ the woman in the centre of the circle said again, tapping her finger on her lips. She had completed her own tale and was supposed to choose the next story-teller. He had been half listening while he’d read, finding this group’s compended histories more absorbing than most. ‘You, sir,’ the woman said, raising her voice, and he knew she was addressing him.
He looked up. The others were turned towards him.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Will you tell us your story?’ the woman asked.
‘I think not. Forgive me.’ He smiled a little then went back to his book.
‘Sir, please,’ she said, pleasantly enough. ‘We would count ourselves fortunate if you’d join our group. Will you not share your wisdom with us?’
‘I have no wisdom,’ he told her.
‘Your experiences, then?’
‘They have been trivial, uninteresting, and full of error.’
‘So you protest,’ she said evenly. She looked at one of the others in the circle. ‘Great souls suffer in silence,’ she said quietly, amidst laughter.
He frowned, hiding his face with the book.
He slept that night in a high bare room looking over the dark plain.
The woman came to him in the night, her presence signalled by a creak on the stairs even before the rucksack - balanced against the door - fell over.
Called from a dream — in which he heaved a cutlass, knee deep in a fly-blown salt marsh - he sat with his cloak drawn around him up to his eyes, the sword concealed beneath.
She stood in the doorway, a pale ghostly head seeming to float above her black gown. She saw his eyes, and nodded.
He swept the cloak aside to let her see the sword.
‘I did not come for a duel, sir,’ she said quietly.
‘Then I regret there is no field in which I can give you satisfaction.’
‘Nor for that,’ she said, shutting the door and sitting down beside it. They sat looking at each other for a moment.
‘Why, then?’ he asked.
‘Absens haeres non erit,’
she told him.
she told him.
He took a while to reply. ‘Plainly,’ he said without inflection, and waited to see which way that would be taken.
He saw the whiteness of her teeth as she smiled. ‘I was told it might not be possible to tell if you are the one. That might be a further sign in itself.’
‘Nonsense.’
She nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘What “one”, may I ask?’
‘You may. Choose from the many rumours, myths and legends. I don’t know.’
‘You have disturbed your own sleep and mine merely to tell me what you don’t know?’
‘No; to tell you this: seek the transformation of the enemy.’ She rose. ‘Good night.’
Then she opened the door and left, more silently than she had arrived.
He sat, thinking.
It took him a while to work it out.
4
Am in thi lammergeiers roost, ma bref soundin loud in ma eers & mixd in wif theez hissy clikky noyses coz am wearin this mask on ma fais & a breevin botil on me bak boath ov witch I got off thi ded spier.
This is a spooki ole playce & no mistake. Thers nobodi aroun & its very coald indeed & thi lite is very wyt & intens & washd out lookin. Bein in thi lammergeiers roost is like bein insyd a jiant holy cheez; sorta interconectid bubbilz & stretchd punkchird membrains ov stoan & metil evrywheare & hi up on thi wols in plaises whare thi bubbilz mak cup & boals juttin out thers theez nests lynd wif babil plant & fevirs onli thers no birdz in them nor eggs nor nufin. Thi floar of thi roost is lyk a hoal lot ov littil craters eech ov them holdin loadsa brokin, splintird boans. Ma feet go cruntch cruntch as I wok, lookin up & aroun & tryin 2 c if thers enybodi else heer Ithir hoomin or creetch but thi plais seems 2 b dessertid.
Ther r hooj sirkils in thi outer wols lyk porthoals whare thi winds cumin whistlin thru & soundin hi & reedy & weerd; I clime up 2 1 ov thi bigir holez & luke out. Its hazy whyt clowd out thare like a lair ov fog whot extends 2 thi horyzon; u can juss about c thi lowir levils ov thi cassil showin undirneef, like sumfin trapt inside a transparint glaysier. Thers a cupil ov towrs stikin up froo thi cloud but they luke very small & far away. No sine ov no birds out thare neevir, but then thats thi fing; this is 2 far up 4 birdz 2 fly, so how cum thi lammergeiers wer evir here?
I slide doun a curv ov bubil & cruntch in2 sum boans, then hed 2wards thi centir ov thi towir, in2 thi shados whare thers a faint breez cumin from.
Thi nests fin out & disapeer as I go deeper, stil cruntchin ovir thi occaysinal boan while it gets darkir & darkir & I can hardly c whare am puttin ma feet. Av got this torch whot thi ded spyer had on him so I turn it on & juss as wel; thers a dirty grate hoal rite in front ov me. I edje closir & hold on2 thi wol & stik ma hed out ovir thi hooj sirkulir hoal. Muss b 50 metirs or moar acros. Blak deep. Goze strate up in2 thi darkniss, 2. Thers a jentil draft ov air cumin up thi shaft. Iss warm, @ leest in comparison wif thi freezin air up heer. No sine ov eny uthir entrinses aroun thi shaft, juss this 1.
Am stil not enywhare neer thi centir ov thi towir; thass way, way furthir deep, probly a cupil ov klometirs away. Am in thi fass towr, stil on thi lam & serchin 4 litl Ergates.
I leen bak from thi hoal.
Then thers a cruntchin noyse sumwhare in thi darknis bhind me. I whirl roun.
I foun Gaston thi slof peekin out ovir a stoan ledj on thi inside wol ov thi slofs’ towr, neer thi sloped tunnil whot led 2 thi ole lift shafts. Accordin 2 thi glimpse Id had ov thi locality when Id cripted erlier these shafts wer abandind & unyoosd but Id fot wif eny luk theyd b thi tipe ov shaft whot has stares goan roun thi inside ov thi shaft 4 merjencies, & mayb they wooden b garded by thi bods whot wer attakin thi slofs.
Wel, that woz thi feery. In fact thi scoop ov thi tunil on thi levil blow whare Gaston woz hidin woz fool ov Security geezirs wif guns. O grate, I fot.
I’d climed along btween thi dank blak wol ov thi towr & thi framework ov scaffoldin whot woz thi slofs’ hoam neyburhood, hedin 4 heer, whare thi floar dropt away in steps & thi aksess tunil woz. Lookt like old Gaston had had thi saim idear.
I didn fink Id maid a noyse but he turnd roun sloly & saw me & pushed himself bak from thi edj ov thi ledj & climed up thi scafoldin 2wards me, poyntin bhind me.
We retreetid a bit, bhind sum ov thi canvas-hung scafoldin.
... yung Bashkule, he sed, u r shafe; gude.
Yeh & u, I sed. But it lukes like thi Security boyz ½ this playce strung up gude & tite. U no eny uthir waze out ov heer?
. . . ash it happinsh, Gaston sez, I do actchirly. If yule jusht folo me ...
Gaston set off bak froo thi scaffoldin hedin upwards @ whot woz probly a extreme sprint 4 a slof. I ambild aftir him.
We climed up about 7 floars ov thi slof scaffoldin; ther woz qwite a lot ov smoak up here & I cude c flaims in thi distins, deepir inside thi struktyir.
... Heer, Gaston sed, stopin @ a pritti ordnari lookin bit ov wol. He gript thi top ov a drippin blak stoan; it hinjed down 2 riveel a roun blak hoal. He moashind me in.
I muss ½ lookt doobeyus.
... I’ll go firsht, then, he sed, & clambird in2 thi hoal.
I shuden ½ luked doobeyus bcoz I cuden lift thi stoan bak up aftir us & so Gaston had 2 sqweez past me 2 do it. I doan no if u ½ evir had a larj swety slof wif kopeyis qwantities ov fungis on itz pelt sqweez past u in a confined spaice ... Cum 2 fink ov it probly u ½nt, but asoomin thass thi case fink uself luky thass ol I can say.
½in Gaston sqweez past me agen didn seem like sutch a gude idear.
Al juss leed off then if itz ol thi same 2 u Gaston ole sun, I sed.
... By ol meenz, yung Bashcule.
Thi tunil woz crampt & only fit 4 crollin in. Thi dam fing wen up, doun & roun this way & that way; it woz like climein around in thi intestinez ov sum hooj stoan jiant. Wif Gaston’s pelt-fungis stil smeerd ol ovir me, it didn smel dissimilir neevir.
Lissin Gaston, I sed @ 1 point while he woz givin me a punt up a partikerly steep bit ov thi jiant intestin, am reely sorry if that woz me whot brot ol that thare shit down on u gies. I reely presiate whot u did, rescuin me & takin me in etc & Id hate 2 fink I woz responsibil 4 ol this.
... I qwite undirshtand yoor angwish, yung Bashcule, Gaston sed. But itsh not yoor folt shertin pershinsh r tryin 2 pershicute u.
U reely fink they woz aftir me? I askd.
... Zhat woz zhe impreshin I formed from what I overherd, Gaston sed. Zhey did not sheem 2 b intereshtid in eny ov ush. Zhey were lukin 4 shumbody elsh zhey shuspected ush ov harberin.
Blimey.
... In eny event, Gaston sed, Zhi reshponshibility ish thersh, not yoorsh. Whot happind ish just 1 ov thoshe thingsh I shupoashe.
Wel, fanks, Gaston, I sed.
. . . U didn ...
kript
, did u? Gaston sed. Ish jusht that mite ½ led them 2 ush. But u didn, did u?
kript
, did u? Gaston sed. Ish jusht that mite ½ led them 2 ush. But u didn, did u?
O no, I sed. No, not me; I didn. Nope. Not gilty. No sirree. Uh-uh. Wooden catch me doing a fing like that. O no.
... Zhare u r then, Gaston sed. & so we wound on fru thi guts ov thi towr, me feelin lowir than a tapewurm.
Eventyooly we came 2 a bit whare thi tunil wideind out & thi floar turnd from stoan 2 wood; I moar or less fel in2 this woodin bowl whare a faint lite shon. I didn qwite get out ov thi way in time so Gaston slid down on top ov me.
Moar pelt fungis.
... ther shude b a trap heer shumwhare, Gaston sed, feelin aroun on thi floar ... A, heer it is. Ther woz a sorta holo clunkin noyse & in thi ½-lite I cude c Gaston pullin whot lookt like a hooj plug up out ov thi floar.
... Itsh a holod out babil shtem, Gaston explained, settin thi plug 2 1 side. I’ll go firsht, I shink.
Thi holo babil trunk heded down in a serees ov long, stretchd Ss. Ther wer rungs on thi wols; Gaston wen down them prity qwikli 4 a slof. Now & agen we passd whot mite ½ been doars in thi trunk whare thi okayshinal crak ov lite showd, but moastli it woz toatily dark. We seemd 2 go on doun 4evir & I neerli fel off a cupil ov tyms. Juss as wel Gaston woz beneef me; thi thot ov anuthir cloas encountir wif his pelt fungis qwikly consintraitid my mynd, I can tel u.
Other books
Prize Problems by Janet Rising
Les particules élémentaires by Michel Houellebecq
The Viscount's Vendetta (Siren Publishing Everlasting Classic) by Paige Cameron
Take Me Forever by Sellers, Julie
An Apocalyptic Need by Sam Cheever
Reached by Ally Condie
Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers by Diane Kelly
Doctor On The Job by Richard Gordon
Crime Time: Australians Behaving Badly by Sue Bursztynski