E A T E R
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By Pinlighter
part 2
The day of rest is past. The great lift bears
Khresten upwards again through the miles, and the
armour of her resolve closes round her like a
nightsuit. This time, she thinks, they will gain
the full understanding. She will pluck it from the
Night. She will not flinch whatever happens. She
is no longer a girl, she is one of the elite of
the Redoubt, one of the few for whom the energy
needed for such rapid travel can be carelessly and
routinely expended, and she will not be coward.
They rise past city after city, up through the
last arcology of man, up through the storied and
decorated labyrinths, to the steady beat of gongs.
Messengers and notables, scientists and governers,
join and leave the lift, and as the great pyramid
narrows towards its top and the Tower that stands
there more and more of them are Monstruwacans,
recognising her and greeting her silently. It is
wine to her spirit. Her chaperone stands behind
her and is forgotten.
She remembers when she was new to this task. She
used to weep with fear when she went up to her
duty. Now the fear still comes, but it is a fear
that thrills her even when it loosens her bowels
and makes her limbs tremble and her heart pound.
Another day of half-life is over. Soon she will
look on the Land again.
*****************
The globe is still there. Nothing has changed.
The length of the cycle the Rainbow undergoes
has been consistent, plus or minus four percent,
for the last seven years. Before the start of the
present set of phenomena there was a long, long,
period of stability when its stream flowed
uninterrupted. There are near-legends of previous
mutation, reaching one hundred and sixty thousand
years back or more, behind the horizon of record,
but these are becoming difficult to understand and
interpret because of the creeping historical
changes in language and writing that even the
customs of the Redoubt can not quite freeze into
stasis. The last explorer to reach that region and
return died ten thousand years ago and had little
to say of the Rainbow except to hint that it was
not malignant. The only sure legacy from the
distant past is the name.
Some time in the next fourteen hours the cycle
will complete.
It is long period of continuous duty for any
observer, but a pause in the survey cannot be
tolerated at this point. The Senior and one of the
other Monstruwacans spell Khresten at the Eye, one
hour each, turn and turn about. The older mens'
time as seers is long past and their sensitivity
has deliberately been trained down so they can
endure months of Watch but they can monitor major
events like this well enough.
Hours pass. At last the call to her comes. A
change is imminent. As the Senior rises and
gestures her to take the chair he hesitates: he
will co-observe using a secondary link to the Eye
and either of them will instantly cut the contact
if they see fit. Take very great care.
The mind-presence of the Senior guards her back,
gazes over her shoulder, like an armoured man
standing there, but the essential vision is still
hers. The picture on the screen comes into the
clear focus only a trained seer's mind can
provide. She sees that superficially the globe is
still the same. But there is a sense of increasing
tension, of thinning. There are movements within
it, refinements of essence. It is coming to a
cumulation of development, moving from one cusp of
stability to another, and some unbearable climax
is approaching. Part of her tries and tries to see
more clearly and part of her simply endures the
constant strain. Slowly, slowly, it changes.
Now the dark sphere seems to swell minutely, a
datum sensed telepathically and translated by her
brain as an intolerable visceral pressure, a sense
of suffocation and confinement. And now, a pause.
More minutes pass while she continues to watch.
She does not think of herself at all, she tries to
be as much as possible a part of the machine, but
the tension grows and grows until the transferred
sensations rack her to the point of actual pain.
And now the waiting is over. Intolerably complex
forces shift and move. Rigidly controlled panic
invades her and she denies to herself that there
is any change, but the changes happen and continue
to happen and now something inside her shrivels
and shrinks away as the black sac of night is
visibly and enormously deformed from within.
Something is moving, something is about to break
free. The vast thing changes with frightening
speed and something is Oh so obviously it is
being born. She cannot watch it and yet she
will not retreat, she is reduced to a stone
trodden underfoot, the fulcrum of intolerable
forces, as the carnivorous Thing emerges, pauses,
and vaults clear of the Land, expanding
malignantly, filling the Night with a web of
sentience.
She cannot coexist with it. Her heart still
beats and the mechanisms of her mind and spirit
still report but there is an instant when she is
not. An Eater, one of the great forces of the
Night, has been born and has gone out into the
seas of darkness.
It flashes away and vanishes. Almost at once the
Rainbow flows again.
Khresten makes her report.
*****************
Observation is suspended while the climactic
events are analysed. The Master is there, all the
most Senior of the Monstruwacans, where Khresten
and her team must come and testify in the high
shielded chambers of the Tower. They question her
endlessly, repeatedly, study the logs, talk and
debate, on and on. They question her, most
particularly. The mechanical recordings are open
to all, but she was the one who received the faint
noisings of Other intelligence that might be
interpreted as intention, desire, planning,
threat, if such words had any meaning at all when
applied to the Eaters. Some fractional essence
filtered through to her, and now she tries to
express it in words, in mind-pictures, thoughts,
movements, not trying to understand but simply to
pass on what came from the Land. They watch her
and listen to her and hier her with absolute
attention.
The consensus, after days of meetings, is that
the recent mutations of the Rainbow are probably
no threat to the Redoubt. To the watchers of the
Land something new must always mean something
terrible, but it seems, it seems, that whatever is
being birthed in the the agonies of that distant
fountain of light will at least ignore humanity.
That is cause for celebration.
Also there is a hint that they have learned
something vital and new about the reproductive
cycle of the Eaters, or at least of one clade of
them. But seers are deliberately kept ignorant of
these things to avoid giving them preconceptions
of what they might sense in the Land, and Khresten
is only allowed to know that perhaps there has
been some increment of knowledge, some tiny real
gain.
Despite her enforced exclusion from the
innermost circle of knowledge there is subtle,
measured, profound, praise for her. It does not
make her proud or joyful but as she listens to it
she knows, at last, that her future is fixed. Not
because they have started to ask her questions
with a real need to hear her answers and her
opinions; not because they defer to her in tiny
measure; not because she has finally been told,
Yes, a place has been readied for her, she will be
welcomed with ceremony and honour; but because she
now understands and shares what makes them
Monstruwacans.
That Thing, rejoicing in the night. That thing
and its myriad peers, who are the true children of
the universe. The coming eternities of Darkness
belong to them, not to humanity. Light and life
only had a brief place during the first beginnings
of the cosmos, and the great Redoubt with all Her
millions is only memory of those days, something
that will soon be forgotten, a transient, fragile,
hive of dust and insects.
The lash has been laid upon her soul. The scar
marks her as a Watcher of Monsters for all her
life, married to the Night. When she looks at her
peers without speaking to them or touching minds
with them she sees the same knowledge in their
eyes.
*****************
She returns home again. Now she walks the busy
streets unafraid. The chatter and shouts of
undisciplined minds are just noise: the covert or
unconscious looks of lust are as meaningless and
automatic as the attraction of the lodestone for a
grain of iron. Of what was I afraid? she
thinks. And she thinks, Soon I must leave
home, leave and live alone.
*****************
But there are problems, when she tells. Her
mother argues and argues and then, amazingly,
weeps and bawls. Then her sisters start. Khresten
submits with a distant patience. She is soon to be
of age: there is nothing improper about the move:
she will still be within the larger House, the
linked series of dwellings where her extended
family have dwelt for millenia.
But of course the argument is not about where
she will live but about the shape that her future
life has now irrevocably taken, as they sense with
sure instinct. It has been decided. It
happened to me: I did not do it she thinks.
She refrains from trying to make them understand
their own true motives. She is quiet, biddable,
patient. She is as kind to them as she possibly
can be. The ghosts of childish anger and annoyance
stir within her and fall to dust.
Sleep-time comes, still called by custom the
night. The argument is still bitter and
theoretically unresolved, but they go to their
room and prepare for bed. And now the girls huddle
and whisper, and now little Mnemmne comes forward,
with jhenna and jhenni perched on her wrists.
Earnest, and serious, grown-up. This is her final
effort.
"See how they love us. You have the
Night-hearing, you know they love you. Stay with
us, please, Khresten. Don't go away to the Tower
forever."
Oh Mnemmne, it is not like that. I have
to go. And yes, I have the Night-hearing, but
the butterflies do not love. We imagine they do,
because they have grown eyes on their wings that
look like funny faces, but they have no minds.
There is nothing there: nothing at all. It is
all just something we make up.
"You are lying", says Mnemmne, and hits her, no
gentle blow. "I hate you".
It does not matter. Khresten is unmoved. She
feels as though she could never be deeply moved or
grieved by anything in the Redoubt again. She
waits while they talk and they cry and they talk
and they cry, and at last it ends. She kisses them
both. No, no; do not talk more. Sleep. This
will pass. Tear-stained, they sleep.
*****************
She sleeps, too. Then half-wakes, then sleeps
again. The night seems endless. The vents flutter.
The gentle moving waves of light on the wall
counterfeit the Rainbow: the darker shapes of the
furniture seem to writhe. She experiences the
ghost or echo of the night-fears she knew as a
child, and half-thinking compares it with
amusement to the real Fear that visits her as she
looks on the Land. But it is bad practice to do
that. Half the fight is to stop your mind running
away, and even a small indulgence may have to be
paid for an hundred times over.
She resettles her thoughts by tallying the night
shapes in the room with their day-time reality.
The table. The chairs. The butterfly-cage. The
long rows of the bookshelves. The tall column of
the lamp, now in nighttime mode.
Mnemmne's small fist has left a dark sweet
bruise on her hip, which she pets, delicately. She
sleeps at last.
She dreams, again, and her mind turns to
familiar paths. She dreams yet again that she
wakes, and she half-recognises that she is in the
same dream-story, yet a third time.
Will she rise now and go out into the City, and
visit the gallery, and look on the Land?
But there is no need for her to go anywhere.
What she was going out to find has come to her,
and a dark shape bends over her, moving.
It is too real to believe. A man? Here? How? She
draws her breath, but before she can cry out,
instantly and without movement or transition, it
is upon her. You? Is it you? She is
pinned, she is unable to move, her mind is somehow
disconnected from her body. Surely it is a dream.
As she is pierced. A touch, a touch, but it is not
as it is when she touches herself, not like
anything she ever anticipated, not the way she
thought it might be at all.
*****************
Fuzzy-headed, Khresten awakens.
She hurts, never mind. It is necessary to hurry
and there are excuses to make. Where is she going?
Up to the Tower of course, but best not to tell
them that. There is some fuss now, some nonsense
which she forgets at once as she dresses and dons
her shoes, walks quickly to the city gate, to the
Liftport, limps up the stairs, routinely greets
the folk from the cities immediately above and
below hers as they gather together.
But modest young Khresten has forgot her veil; a
joke! Never mind, she says? And where is her
chaperone, ha? And there is some more foolish
questioning here too, which she must deflect. But
she will not ever need to be accompanied by a
chaperone from now on, of course.
A moving town, the lift arrives, and slows so
that they may embark. She hastens on board as if
she could speed it up that way, and frets and
paces as it continues to rise, stopping at every
tenth city.
How hungry she is! Starving! She jumps to the
refectory, eats pastry and pulses, sips tea. Her
heart races. Her mind is full of darting thoughts.
She looks around at the moving volumes of the
Redoubt's inward parts, the heart and lungs of the
pyramid, the passages and airways, as if she had
never seen them before.
Her ears pop, the temperature falls slowly, and
she dons her hooded coat at a certain height, as
she always does. Up and up. Stop after stop, and
from time to time need for more foolish words. And
now she needs to go to piss. There is only a
little blood.
*****************
It will not be long now. Yes, soon.
Be patient. I cannot make it go faster by
any means.
Be patient.
Here at last is the top, the last stop.
Above the last city. Now, past the armed men, up
through the long twisting ramps. And here are
the guarded Locks that lead up to the Tower and
the low-pressure areas.
Now I yield up the Master-Word to them. Be
silent. They will let us pass. Silent.
Do you not need a bell. . ? Well, never
mind. Yes, we will go up quickly.
Now here is the chamber at the root of the
Tower, and we call the smaller lift that takes
us up the spine of the Tower. No, I will not be
challenged, I am an Apprentice, trusted, we can
go up safely, there is no rigid schedule for my
attendance.
Ten levels more.
Here we are. This way.
Why should anyone stop me? I will show you
this as well, that is all. You require to look
on the Land. I understand. A brief look will be
enough, yes, I understand.
This way.
Here is the chamber we are using. Through
that doorway. My team will be within.
And who are these people? Senior
Monstruwacans. That one is the Senior of my
group.
What?
What?
*****************
She starts forward in obedience to the clear
instructions. Kill them. Enter the chamber.
She stops. Her confusion is absolute.
*****************
She stands, alone and wild-eyed. The Senior
regards her. She has seen the young mens' hands
move when they fight, and just so, his mind
flashes. She senses his decision to violate
courtesy and an instant later his thoughts have
invaded hers, irresistably. The flame of alert
that detonates in him washes over her. He cries
out words of warning and rushes to sieze her, but
she too is running, towards the doorway.
She is very fast and very strong. He is far
stronger, grappling her with arms like brass,
breaking her to her knee, smashing her temple
against the door frame, extinguishing her
consciousness and blinding what rides it, but he
is not quite fast enough.
Through the door she has managed to take another
glance at the active, telepathic, screen.
Something that had entered her and grown there now
joins with another part of itself, coming from
elsewhere, and, completed, goes about its own busy
purposes.
*****************
There is an interval. Then Khresten comes to
herself again with broken bloody head. She is
lying on the threshold half in and half out of the
chamber. The raised edge is sharp pain beneath
her.
It is dark. Somewhere an alarm thunders
endlessly.
Is this nightmare? Another dream?
If not a dream, then what are these shapes that
surround her as she rises to her feet?
What men are so tall, so slim? What men writhe
so? What men have so many strange arms or such
great dark heads?
The braded columns of darkness rise about her,
dancing. They trace the movement of her arms and
body, gently touch her back and breast. They glide
and dip, kind and gentle towards her alone.
The Master, all the most Senior of her guild,
were utterly wrong, it seems. The Flowers are
here, come to greet their friend and lover.
They plunge no thorn into her, but all around
her is death. The walls have warped and most of
the lights are out. Blood spreads. The Senior lies
nearby, still, and the rest of the team are
scattered among the equipment. Here and there
other dark Flowers stir, tapping the
still-churning mitochriondria of the corpses or
the hot energies of the power lines. Some of them
are perched horribly, on or somehow inside the
heads of the dead men and women, seeming to be
rooted, moving very slowly.
Compared to the monsters in the Land they are
tiny: but mere size, she knows, means little to
these beings. And they are growing. They move
swiftly and easily. They leave smoothed tracks of
altered matter on the floor, where metal and
plastic have been invaded by Other life, forced
temporarily into new structures, and released back
to chaos.
She walks forward and the Flowers permit her to
move. They rear up three times and seven times her
height. And now six surround her, in a familiar
hexagonal pattern. They flutter about her and
brush her face, a numbing not-touch, but they do
not obstruct her in any way. They seem to regard
her as some sort of center to organise themselves
around, as they explore this new resource, this
new kingdom.
She understands now what has been done to her
mind, what has lived inside her since that first
touch out in the Land, and how she has been
deceived in her dreams. Or how she has deceived.
Perhaps the Flowers sense her only as some mobile
part of the Redoubt, some fertile, receptive,
area, some weak spot.
She thinks for an instant of their destruction.
She only thinks, only for an instant, because in
that instant her mind is compelled to alteration.
It is not a threat, but simply the fact, known at
a level below communication, that if she has
emnity towards them she will cease to exist before
she has finished coherently forming the idea. She
must remain their friend.
So, she will be a friend. It is a delicate
balance: her thoughts flow towards hate, fear,
horror, rage, again and again, and each time
flinch back as if from a charged rod. But after a
few seconds some sort of stability is reached. Now
she is able to keep her emotions towards them
those of love only. She recites to herself,
Do not think hatred. Remember, these are guests.
She has survived. Perhaps others can. Perhaps
she will live for a long time here, above a
pyramid of slaves and dancing darkness. And that
will be good, of course.
She comes to the screen, still somehow powered
up. She picks up on the secondary link with her
hands held above the hands of the dead and drained
husk that sits there, and she looks out. She
regards What hovers there in the night. Then she
directs the Eye down and around to observe the
radius of the Land just beyond the Circle.
Without surprise she notes what is growing down
there. What intends, she supposes, to make of the
Redoubt what it has made of the Rainbow, what it
has made of her.
*****************
Her courage, and her silence, and even her
ignorance, are important now.
She knows a little of what is coming. She knows,
but will not by any means tell until she must,
that lightning gathers and thunder rises in the
channels of the ancient machines. Nerved by
electronic synapses a million times faster than
living flesh or stalking ghost, the Tower has gone
into secondary lockdown mode. On the instant of
first warning every passage between it and the
Redoubt was flooded with incandescent plasmas, and
now the corrosive energies that infest its outer
shell are being fired to tenfold power. The major
structural members are lit, and the vibration
spreads from limb to limb. The ancient skeleton is
aflame. The decks rock.
It is not simply power that is being mustered.
These energies are coded, destructive, cunning,
violating, sterilising. Once confined in any way
the pneumavores are surprisingly easy to destroy.
The best tools of all are certain subtle subsets
of electronic vibratory patterns, but many of the
Eaters are delicate enough to be wounded and
disrupted by a strong beam of coherent light, and
if all else fails enough simple heat will do.
The Sharks of the Ether can repattern themselves
onto condensed matter and twist it to their will,
can pluck out a man's soul by the roots streaming
fluid like blood and feast on the delicate,
lovely, patterns, but the stones and fires of the
early universe are not their proper home. They
belong among the seas of electrons, the dust and
gas and decaying protons, the delicate streams of
plasma, the vacuum, the dying microwave echoes.
They belong among the things that are to come, not
among the energies of the world's short Youth.
But those energies linger here, burning hot, and
the beings bred from them linger too. Bred from
those energies and skilled in their use, ten
million years of war have not left them
defenceless, and they do not have to fully
understand their enemies in order to destroy them.
And the Flowers can know nothing of this except
what Khresten knows, and, perhaps, allows to slip
from her mind to them. This is why the wisdom of
the Redoubt selects Khresten and her peers to send
their minds out into the Land: why it choses those
like Khresten, who would very freely confess that
they are only foolish, ignorant, young men and
women.
*****************
Now, swiftly, war is declared. The walls of the
chamber purl with fire. The floors shake. The
doors spark. From every point and edge blooms a
ghastly nimbus of light. Khresten's white-ash hair
rises with the static charge, where it is not
glued down with blood.
The Eye, kept open by some unknowable pressure,
is fused, as whatever cunning the Eater was using
to keep the path available is checkmated by the
ancient simplicity of a six thousand percent
overvoltage and a failsafe incendiary. Hissing
metal scalds Khresten, and the Flowers dance
madly.
She touches the nearest dark web and kisses it,
with her mind.
Let me explain, she spieks. It is
very sad for us. But I will tell you what I
know.
The fire is the Tower responding. The
cybernetics are fast. The Eye-terminal fused
because the alarms have destroyed it. And the
shields are up, not only round the Tower, but
between the levels as well.
The Tower, the machines, are fighting us. Not
the men, not yet. It is only the machines we
fight.
Can you kill the machines? Can you Eat
their souls?
We are confined to this level and soon this
level will be split up into tiny parts. Then
each part will be burned clean and everything in
it will be destroyed.
But I will try to help you. I will do
everything I can. I am trying to warn you now.
It was so brave of you, to change yourselves, to
make yourselves tiny and explore here, in this
inferno. You only wish to live and grow, as all
things do. I understand. I do not blame you. How
you must hunger, out in the Land.
But there, at the door. . .
You see it turn silver-white? You do not like
that fire, do you? I see you too can die. Oh,
that is sad. That is sad. What can be done? How
can we save ourselves?
Be very still. Perhaps the fire will not
destroy us all. Retreat to me. I will do
everything I can to help you. I understand.
I will protect you.
It is only the machines we face. It is not
the men yet.
Yes, the machines are terrible. But when the
men come, you will know Fear.
*****************
Her left hand, unregarded, has been writing
something over and over again on the surfaces
around her, dipping back to the side of her head
to pick up its red ink and then fluttering out
again. It
is writing over and over again in the darting
strokes of the set-speech BEWARE DREAMS SEERS
BEWARE YOUR DREAMS, she is right-handed, it is in
reversed mirror script . She will not think about
her left hand and anyway she cannot see well to
that side any more since she struck her head so
hard.
She has left her message. Now there is only one
other thing to do.
*****************
Far below, the bowels of the Redoubt shunt more
and more energy to the defence. Mechanism after
mechanism goes offline. The ventilators, the fans,
the air and water pumps, are temporarily shut down
as valves seat against reflux, and floods of power
become available. The lifts cease to move. All
industry stills. Throughout the pyramid and the
Underground Country the lights dim.
The whole Redoubt braces for combat. In the
cities, everywhere, there is the racing of armed
men, but the Air Clog is unbreached, the temporary
pneumavore activity at ground level outside it
fading, and it will not be that kind of fight.
Instead, the Earth-current, normally diverted into
a hundred quiet streams, is being shaped to flow
upward for one single purpose, to be forged and
barbed by the instrumentalities of the Tower into
a sword of defence.
The outer shell of the Tower is totally sealed.
The sensors that were acting as paths have been
destroyed, internal barriers have successfully
prevented any spread of corruption within the
structure, and the passages between it and the
Redoubt are incandescent, triply impassable. The
defence has held firm, above and below. The
surviving Monstruwacans turn to counterattack. It
is time to harrow the heart of the invasion.
The energies of the Tower are concentrated on
the single infected level, and each segment is
sterilised and cleared off in turn. Platoons of
shielded and nightsuited Watchmen advance through
secured areas in the practiced and ordered
succession, setting the touchpoints, channelling
and guiding the rivers of light. Before them,
plastic burns, flesh burns, metal burns. Planes of
lightning criss-cross the open spaces as the air
burns and then submits to its duty, conducting the
patterns of hatred and defence which web the
structure, tighter and tighter.
If need be, the entire Tower can be melted like
a candle. But that will not be necessary.
*****************
Khresten stands amid a shrinking crowd of
otherness and weeps to see each of them die and
vanish. Ozone and nitrous oxides scorch her lungs.
She bleeds, she staggers. Not long, now.
The walls belly and drip fire. The hammering
pulses invade the raised metal overfloor to a
chorus of lightnings, and half the remaining
Flowers wink out of existence. Others cling on to
dead flesh, to the few remaining insulated
structures, or to Khresten herself, protected by
the console. They do not take revenge and do not
attempt to communicate with her again. We do
not understand them either, she thinks. So
must it always be.
The last of them vanishes. Did they ever really
spiek to her? Did her mind translate the
unknowable into some sort of likeness of humanity?
Was what she rendered to herself as dream speech
and touch no more a communication than are the
tropisms of a plant's root seeking nourishment?
Than the butterfly-lures on her wrists?
It does not matter.
Like a swimmer clawing up out of murdering black
water, she is herself again, her mind her own. She
can see the armoured men approaching between the
overlapping curtains of brilliance, but there is
no rescue for her there, no touch, no warm
community of life ever again. She is the enemy.
All that remains of the invasion is the thing
inside her, the thing that she now she feels,
again, somehow interfering with her thoughts.
But you have not behaved well. She
thinks. Not at all in the way that is proper
for a guest.
I would be quit of you.
And now.
What is the proper, the graceful, way to go
about this?
*****************
The room is a hell of light and power, brighter
and brighter.
She kneels down, lies down, embraces the fire,
opens herself to it.
Does one of the watching warriors salute her?
The fire is not hot, but it erases all
complexity in matter or energy, reducing it
identically to molecular and electronic
uniformity, be it flesh or cyber or ghost. There
is no pain, only numbness as the nerves are
destroyed. It burns through her seeking Otherness.
It unpicks each cell. It illuminates, from inside,
the delicate bones of her skull and the flakes of
her back.
*****************
They will seal this level, and when they have
examined it they will burn every particle of
matter in it to ash and gas, and name it
Forbidden. They will read her message in burnt
blood on the burnt metal and they will burn it and
burn her, too.
But they will learn from her words and they will
praise her; for she was faithful, she made a good
end.
© pinlighter
9 Sept 2001
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