Part 6 (1/2)
The slots in the turfy ground which had been pa.s.sed off by the Authorities as stretched-mouth golf-holes gave some substance to the theory that history is bunk. But also gave substance to the possibility that under-flights took place from this erstwhile airport. At least, for me, they did.
I often saw with my own eyes grey shapes skimming above my head, leaving for the other side of the city. But I also saw similar shapes entering the ground as if taking advantage of inverse vents.
Those days are now long over. I'm not sure even if I exist any more, let alone the two of us that were once the 'me' I can now only vaguely recall, if at all.
The Drill's corporate lounge windows-like the other windows where Beth, Edith and Clare had been left to have their mud baths and generally to while away the journey in feminine yellow-wallpapered cabins-revealed at first only just the same boring panoplies of pa.s.sing slabs of earth, glistening with the suppurations of oil from the Drill's gills. However, eventually, at the leading-edge of the Drill, where the lounge windows were situated, the vista became clearer as if the vanes were now managing better in clearing the forward (downward) thrust's waste further back towards the tail-fins.
There is no description that can do justice to what wonderful, awe-inspiring and sometimes scary sights they saw-but the inference is that the words of the Captain conjured more than he actually said.
Captain Nemo: Now what do you think of that?
Greg: Wow!
CN: Follow my finger-there are some of the things that exist down here. They are not what they seem-they are modelled on aircraft you've seen before, but these are their equivalents, better to call them earthcraft. They are crewed by some who've never been to the surface.
G: It's just like a real sky. There's even a sun.
CN: That's the Core itself, of course. You must have guessed that. But there's no real heat coming from it-as some have believed for centuries. That's simply its colour you can see, not a symptom of a heat source. Scatter-orange I call it. And that, my friend, is the brightest scatter-orange you are ever likely to see. That's why I made you wear those gla.s.ses. They've got a tint that makes the scatter-orange just about bearable. Makes it look more yellow or even beige, than orange doesn't it?
G: Well, it looks just like the real sun when you use smoked gla.s.s to look at an eclipse coming up.
CN: Yup yup. The gla.s.ses also protect you from its jagged iciness, although that iciness is in fact an optical illusion, but one can't be too careful.
G: The earthcraft seem to be wheeling around each other-oh, look, I'm sure they're using the blazing Corelight as a means of cover... sort of hiding from each other...
CN: Yup yup. Not exactly friendly with each other, it has to be said. They sometimes fight or feint a fight more like and we have to be careful ourselves but up to now they've left us alone on each trip. But that won't last forever, I fear.
G: It's all gone again. Back to the slabs.
CN: That often happens when our vanes get clogged up with our off-detritus. We'll probably see more later. You haven't seen half of it yet! (Laughs.) Greg sipped at his c.o.c.ktail thoughtfully. This was turning out to be a wonderful holiday. But, like all holidays, it had its moments of stress, no doubt.
Dognahnyi gasped when he saw who was behind the veil.
Apparently, his new recruit had turned out to be none other than Amy herself, the woman who regularly cleaned his flat.
Dognahnyi: I thought you were with your brother on holiday... and those others from the pub you use.
Amy: How do you know Arthur is my brother? Everyone a.s.sumes that. I thought you were Beth's husband...
D: I am!
A: I've been pretending to be a domestic cleaner and Arthur's brother. I am really what you call a 'brainwright'. Heard of that? Anyway, one of the reasons was to get closer to you and clinch an interview. I've managed to shoot the rapids. I'm here .... and I'm there. (Laughs.) D: You can't be in two places at once.
A: Can't I?
D: Well, if anybody can, you can, I suppose. I was very impressed how you just conducted the interview with me. You must be someone very special. Beautiful, too, if I may say so. Never realised before-in your cleaning overalls-quite how beautiful!
A: Thank you. I bet, before tonight, you wouldn't have been able to describe me at all. You always seemed to ignore me. Now this context, this setting, only proves what I am capable of. I am sick to the teeth of that Sudra taking the s.e.xy role in all this. I am going to show how a real female ticks. Just let me show you what I can do. We'll have all Angel Wine going through your processors and no other processors. Just trust me.
D: You don't like Sudra?
A: (Chuckles.) I've got her favourite shoes. She's not missed them yet.
D: Well, enough of that. I do trust you. But how do we deal with the Megazanthus?
A: Well, when I arrive at the Core, along with Mike & Co.... oh yes, he thinks he's going to be the hawler (laughs)-they'll all be like putty in my hands. It's easier now that the genealogical strictures are in place. It was all rather gimmicky when everyone wanted to trace their family trees. But it put a lot of spanners in the works, when folk realised they weren't who they thought they were! Now that sort of thing's gone out the window, it leaves so many loopholes for someone like me to exploit. And what's that? The Megazanthus? It is only an a.s.sumption that there is any Corekeeper at all, even if that is its name. Let's address problems as they arise. Amy will be able to deal with them. Rest a.s.sured.
D: I'm impressed.
Dognahnyi opened the curtains upon their silent runners and watched the gulls flopping from the sky like body snow.
It is difficult to imagine the world being better or worse than it actually is. However, without humanity to stain its pages, who knows what will then become imaginable or even real? There is a theory-to which I subscribe-that humanity ”strobes” in and out of existence, selective collective-memory then forcing the 'alight' stage to forget the previous 'switched-off' one... time and time again. Ma.s.s consciousness flickering in and out of existence like a faulty lighthouse... or, indeed, a fully working lighthouse.
The Drill's corporate lounge is empty and silent, except for the odd eerie shaking of the wall maps as its relentless path-through the ribbons of reality that is Inner Earth-continues towards the Core. There is now n.o.body, even Nemo, to watch the vista through the windows, as the vanes once more struggle to clear the Drill's off-detritus to the rear from the leading-edge. There is what seems to be an old-style caravan stuck on a crag-above a deceptively real sea-and (in the Core's scatter-orange light), a sign can just be discerned saying 'The Angerfin Public House' planted clumsily on its roof-but then it is gone. Must be a crazy dream. But whose?
The jolt has finally finished, if one can actually imagine a jolt (by definition) that endures for more than just a few seconds. The rearward cabin is empty-as can be seen when the light slowly wells back into it. The window still simply shows the pa.s.sing crazy-paved slabs of earth. So, at least, that vista was not just the inhabitant's imagination. A tortoisesh.e.l.l hairbrush falls to the carpet, having sat as an object ill-becalmed for a while on the edge of the dressing-table following the initial jolt. Then silence again. And a mirror merely reflecting yellow wallpaper.
The city pub was empty. Merely that. The optics of the shorts gleamed as time threatened to begin another diurnal round with unforgiving dawnlight. The city started to thrum, but thrummed with what? It may never be known. A barstool clattered to the pub carpet (clattered, despite the carpet) and remained there, unlifted and artistically sacrosanct like a Turner prize. What caused it to topple was a short sharp jolt that n.o.body felt.
The top flat still retained its open curtain policy on silent runners. The empty Dry Dock could be seen, even in the dark. A tall tower-block in the distance winked like a gigantically based but underwhelming lighthouse light. A computer screen in the room blinked blankly in curious yellow. An empty veil fluttered on the carpet like a b.u.t.terfly.
The covered market was at rest, no commuters changing for even the wrong routes, let alone the right ones. A route exchange, a root filling... and the container lorries neatly parked alongside-perhaps forever, until they dropped an inch or two upon tired wheels.
In the service tunnel-where the hawler and his party (now unknown, unnamed, forgotten or even nemonymous people) had been training for further encroachment towards the Core itself-there was still the rattle of buckets as if in automatic fire-drill climbing towards the surface on pulleys. There were a few discarded carpet coats and yellow clogs. One pair of clogs had spurs and silver toecaps, the spurs still slightly jingle-jangling as if someone had just taken them off in a pique of feminine tantrum.
The city zoo echoed with snorting squawks. After all, it was only humanity gone missing for the nonce. And a few (very few) residual clockwork toys in the insect enclosure were still pitifully trying to bury themselves.
”Dreams leak, books leak...”
Rachel Mildeyes.