« Four more, » says Ailann. « At least they didn’t run away. It seems like one of them – Stavros – specifically prevented the others from leaving. »
« That’s the dragon-boy, » I reply. Makes sense, given his personality. The others are Faulkner – the roc – and a pair named Lakeland and Durant, the ones we saw becoming a Cu’enashti.
« With Jesse, Palmer, Selby and Simon, that’s a total of eight unrecognized ones here at home, » says Tarlach. « And then the missing… »
As if on cue:
“Lennox Elmwood, High Commissioner of the Dolparessan Planetary Police. 90th to emanate, 74 in the color scale, resonates to 373. 1.754 meters tall, cock size 15.94 cm when erect, apparent age 29. Forensic Alchemist. Totem is Ulmus laevis, spreading elm, fixed star is Albali, the swallower, also called Lucida Fortunæ Dissipantis, the brightest luck of the swallower. Esoteric symbol is the Minchiate trump La Morte, decomposition. Dessert is nau’gsholi panellets filled with nau’gsh preserves. Function is analytic attainment, proto-conscious tendency is certainty, designated Elm. Blazon is grapheny mantis, a branch of three elm leaves, vert.”
Dozens of people are piling into his branch – it’s a wonder the poor kid isn’t knocked off his roots. Finally, he gets a minute to get his head together and tell us what happened.
I have the seven planetary metals, he says. The machine produced a commemorative set, and I felt an overwhelming impulse to pick it up.
Well, there goes the easy, in-case-of-emergency achievement.
« What machine? Are you at some kind of mining facility? » asks Owen.
I’m at the Recycling Plant in the State of Change.
Normally, I don’t like poking into someone’s branch without permission, but we know nothing about the State of Change, and right now, I need all the intelligence I can gather. Lennox is looking straight at a metal panel, so I can see his reflection: short, brown hair with a touch of autumn gold, full lips and a turned-up nose. He seems to be looking at me, behind the metal. No, he’s looking behind me? Maybe beneath the surface of everything?
When he pulls back, I can see that he’s standing in front of a huge contraption with all these gears and tubes and wires which make no sense at all and probably don’t do anything more than appear impressive. Wrapped around the machine are the roots of what appears to be a carnivorous plant. A bulldozer, driven by a Magellanic penguin, lifts an enormous pile of garbage into its maw; below it, a conveyor belt pushes a completed product out of the machinery: a flower, a butterfly, a vial of fairy-dust.
That’s actually a Humboldt penguin, chatburls Dominic.
Somebody’s gonna kill that kid.
« Why would an imaginary space need a recycling plant? » asks Dermot.
« Subconscious processing, » says Tarlach. « It’s a symbolic representation of how the unconscious mind uses and re-integrates old elements. »
« That’s complete compost, » I mutter. « If this were really taken from our subconscious, there would be butt plugs and penile plumbs. »
Do you need some? asks Lennox. I think I saw a case around here somewhere. But mostly, the plant seems to be churning out armaments being shipped to someplace called the State of War. I heard one of the penguins talking about it. He’s getting complaints from the State of Repair that they’re short on raw materials to work with because of some sort of conflict.
I’ve heard about that, says Javor. The supervisor at the silk mill said he couldn’t get the right parts for his droids.
And now there’s something big churning in my gut. Trouble in the State of War – and I don’t know about it? Why do we have to have a State of War anyway? And if Tarlach is right – I hate to admit, but I think he probably is – everything in the pleroma is connected to the mind and body of the grove. If there’s trouble in the State of War, then we’ve got a problem that’s a helluva lot bigger than random sprouts running around. « We need information. Lens, can you see anything? »
« I can see Mickey conducting an interrogation at SSOps headquarters. Otherwise, nothing. »
« Ace, shortest path to victory? »
« Victory over what? The problem is that unless we know the question, I can’t give an answer about the probabilities. All we have is a vague sense that there’s a problem, that the pleroma is reacting to something. And a bunch of stuff happening in Universe Prime which could all be unlucky coincidences. »
« Could this be connected to that last loose spark? Wasn’t it pink? »
« Magenta, » says Driscoll. « Crape myrtle, to be exact. »
« We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, » says Dermot. « The other loose sparks have worked out. »
« But that doesn’t mean this one will. I’m concerned about the security risk of taking sparks more or less at random. »
« I don’t think that there’s anything random about it, », says Cüinn. « Since the, ah, incident with Canopus, I’ve been researching energy levels in nul-beings. As it turns out, our sparks are all above average in rate of spin and pseudo-luminosity, the key energy indicators in proto-Cu’endhari. When you look at something like Ailann or Aran, it’s like a blue hypergiant in a field of red dwarfs. »
« In other words, you’re saying that size matters », I snort, « and Tara likes ‘em big. Ace, how about the shortest path to finding the rogue spark? »
And that’s how I end up on a hovertrain on the way to – get this – the Pretentious Film Festival. I should know better than to open my mouth sometimes.
Ailann wanted to saddle me with all the sprouts, but my gut told me that would be way too damn many to keep safe. « Safe? » he said. « How dangerous can it be? » I could see Mickey putting together a list of every art show, theatrical and musical performance that ended in violence, from Synge to Stravinsky to the Shakespeare Riots. Hell, even Driscoll got egged at the Clover Apollinaire. But Ailann knows that, which means he’s not changing his mind.
At least I could limit the risk. Barnabas agreed to take Palmer – I guess they’re working on a perpetual motion machine – and Seth had an idea for Stavros. I said I’d take half of the ones remaining. I was thinking Durant, Lakeland and Faulkner. Then Roan got out the damn runes, and I get Jesse, Selby and Simon. Just dandy.
I decide to bring Callum – with that crew of lightweights, I’m gonna need to take out my frustrations on someone. At the last minute, Cord hops the train. « Do you think I’d miss a film festival? »
The ride to Pretentious is long and boring, but then again, what did I expect? Once we pass Oakley City, it seems like the color is slowly being drained out of the landscape until we’re rolling monotonously through an endless plain of grayscale reeds.
« It’s a Tarkovsky homage, » says Cord.
« Fucking pretentious, » I mutter.
« Here’s something a little more exciting. I made a new holo. » There’s a gleam in his eye as he hands me a piece of wood.
It’s a recording of Quennel. He’s screwing Evan in a huge, elaborately carved full-tester bed. The multiple layers of very ornate and luxe bedcovers feel good against their skins. Quennel has altered them, perfecting the fabric for tactile experience – and visual experience as well. They’re in one of those Medieval bedchambers big enough to fit all your friends, relatives and business acquaintances while it takes half the day for the servants to lace up your clothing. That’s a good thing because Cord isn’t the only one there – I can sense the presence of Benbow, Nash and Solomon. Quennel is entirely aware that they are being watched, and he loves it. The thought that others are getting off on him getting off makes him hotter. Evan knows too, and is mortified with humiliation, and that only improves his experience.
Not too much surprises me, but…« Evan is hosting a scene? »
« A little inadvertently, » Cord explains. « He discovered that he has very nice accommodations, and Tara gave Quennel a dispensation to fuck him, so they spend a lot of time in bed. Then Solomon found out about it, and he started to go up there to watch – a dispensation to fuck is pretty rare. It got to be a bring a friend kind of thing, and then Quennel talked Evan into putting out dessert so that everyone can experience it for themselves. »
« Why not just use branch memory? »
« Being there is a kind of participation. »
A PA system announcement interrupts our conversation: « We regret the cancellation of our northbound line. All trains to Armageddon station are suspended due to war. We advise against travel in the region, but passengers wishing to continue should check with the consulate in Pretentious to see if ground transport is available. »
« Ain’t that the squirrel’s burls, » I mutter. It’s not like I want to go to war, not like I have the slightest notion that it would be a good idea. But I know the way things work around here. Sooner or later, we’re going to end up in the middle of Armageddon.
I pull out my datapad, sending a message. The reply: if I register with the consulate, they’ll loan me a jeep. Now that’s a blast from the past. Don’t they have something a little more practical, like a series 9x hovertank?
I size up my charges when they pile out on the station platform. Simon and Selby – useless. Jesse maybe better – at least he’s physically fit, but too much like a puppy. A puppy might grow up to be a watch dog, but my gut says he’s too unruly to train, too eager – the kind of eager that gets into trouble. At least Cord seems ready for anything. I wonder if he could drive a jeep. He looks like the kind of guy who could drive a jeep. He looks like the kind of guy who parachutes deep into vampire squirrel infested territory so that he can make a documentary about warring cannibal tribes.
Callum I’d trust with my life.
Simon points at a holographic banner suspended above the street just beyond the train station. It reads “Welcome to the Pretentious Art Festival.” « It looks like it’s more than just film. »
We find an information kiosk. « One of the medals is for a cooking competition, » says Cord. « That’s an achievement. »
« Don’t look at me, » says Simon. « I can’t cook. I’d rather star in a wholo for the film festival. »
« Have you got root rot? » I ask. « There’s no achievement for making a wholo. It’s a waste of time. »
« Art is never a waste of time, » sniffs Cord.
Do everything backwards, says X’khaim.
Huh?
It’s one of the quest achievements. Just make a wholo and play it backwards. We’ve been struggling with that one because it’s physically impossible to unbreathe air and uneat food, but in a recorded medium…
« I get it, » says Cord.
« That’s a pretty clever strategy, » I admit. « So those of us who want to enter the cooking contest can go do that, and the rest of us will work on the wholo. »
« I want to cook, » says Selby. « I really want to cook. »
« I’m up for anything, » says Jesse.
Well, at least that’s a plan, and it doesn’t involve driving a jeep into a war zone.
« The rules are that they give you the ingredients and you have to figure out something good to make from them, » says Cord. « Leg of rambat, assorted herbs and spices, carrots, potatoes and green grapes. »
« Grapes? » says Jesse. « I was thinking maybe rub the rambat leg with the herbs and then roast it with the vegetables, but how could you use the grapes? »
« The rules don’t say you have to use everything, » says Cord.
« Look at the fine print, » I tell them. « The contest is sponsored by the Sultana of Celadon. You’d damn well better use the grapes. »
Jesse shakes his head. « Grape popsicles? Hey, Selby, you got any better ideas? »
« Tataki rambat with a carrot coulis, whipped potatoes with wasabi-flossherb foam, and green wine sorbet in blown-sugar goblets. The equipment list includes a sous vide, thank goodness! It’s the best way to cook carrots, preserving their natural intensity. Oh, look! Sage – my favorite herb. I think I’ll make blown sugar bubbles instead, so that you break them with a light tap of your spoon and the delicate scent of a sage smudge will escape before you eat the sorbet. »
« Um, » says Jesse.
The information about the contest is suddenly interrupted by a newsholo – a major battle has broken out close to the border. The images show a bunch of little blue penguins fleeing in terror as buildings topple. I’ve never seen penguins that small.
Those are little blue penguins, says Dominic.
No shit Sherlock.
No, really, that’s what they’re called. Also, it’s not a bunch, it’s a waddle. That’s the technical term.
Dominic’s not the only one with penguins in his belfry. I can feel a grisly chatburl of mental instability forming in Suibhne’s bark, and I know it’s gonna take Davy and Ailann quite a while to calm him down. But sorry, Suibhne, I’m not risking my men for a few flightless waterfowl.
And then I spot them – two humanoid males taking shelter in the ruins of a train platform. I’ve never seen them before, but they ain’t droids. That means they’ve got to be the two guys Julian felt heading north – Bastien and Diego. They’re unprotected, and I have no idea how well they could handle an emergency. One is thin, strong, focused, moving like he could fight. The other has lively eyes, a dark beard accentuating his serious, intelligent face. I’m guessing he thinks too much to be good in a scuffle. We’re archetypal figures, so most of the time, you can tell a lot about an emanation by how he looks. But they left New Merenis before I caught wind of them, and there’s no way to know the real measure of a man until you smell him good and hard.
My compost bin runneth over. « Cord, take the sprouts and do the festival. Callum, you’re with me. We’re going to see a man about a jeep. »