Perdido Street Station Part 63

The rich trough of food, that unthinkable gush, was gone. The frenzy that had overtaken the moth, the terrible, uncompromising hunger, had gone.

It licked out and its antennae trembled. There were a handful of minds below it, but before it could attack the moth sensed the chaotic bubbling consciousness of the Weaver, and it remembered its agonizing battles and it screeched in fear and rage, stretching its neck back and baring its monstrous teeth.

And then the unmistakable taste of its own kind wafted up to it. It spun in shock as it tasted one, two, three dead siblings, all its siblings, every one of them, insides out, dead and crushed, spent.

The slake-moth was mad with grief. It keened in ultra-high frequencies and spun aerobatically, sending out little calls of sociality, echo-locating for other moths, fumbling through unclear layers of perception with its antennae and clutching empathically for any trace of an answer.

It was quite alone.

It rolled away from the roof of Perdido Street Station, away from that charnel-ground where its brothersisters lay burst, away from the memory of that impossible flavour, veering in terror away from The Crow and the Weaver's claws and the fat dirigibles that stalked it, out of the shadow of the Spike towards the junction of the rivers.

The slake-moth fled in misery, searching for a place to rest.

CHAPTER F FIFTY-ONE.

As the battered militia gathered themselves and began to peer, once more, over the edge of the roof at Isaac's and Derkhan's and Yagharek's feet. They were wary now.

Three rapid bullets came flying down at them. One sent an officer flying without a word into the dark air beside the roof, to shatter a window four floors below with his weight. The other two buried themselves deep in the fabric of the bricks and stones, sending out wicked sprays of chips.

Isaac looked up. A dim figure was leaning out from a ledge twenty feet above them.

"It's Half-a-Prayer again!" shouted Isaac. "How did he get there there? What's he doing doing?"

"Come on," said Derkhan brusquely. "We have to go."

The militia were still cowering just below them. Whenever an officer straightened up carefully and looked over the edge, Half-a-Prayer would send another bullet straight at him. He kept them caged in. One or two of them shot at him, but they were desultory, demoralized efforts.

Just beyond the rise of roofs and windows, unclear shapes were descending smoothly from the dirigible, sliding onto the slick surface below. They dangled loosely as they slipped through the air, attached by some hook on their armour. The ropes that held them uncoiled on smooth motors.

"He's buying us some time, G.o.ds know why," hissed Derkhan, stumbling over to Isaac and clutching at him. "He's going to run out of bullets soon. These sods-" she waved vaguely at the half-hidden militia below them "-these are just the local flatfoots on roof-duty. Those Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds coming from the airships are going to be hardcore troops. We have to b.a.s.t.a.r.ds coming from the airships are going to be hardcore troops. We have to go go."

Isaac looked down and faltered towards the edge, but there were cowering militia visible on all sides. Bullets smacked down around Isaac as he moved. He yelled in fear, then realized that Half-a-Prayer was trying to clear the path before him.

It was no good, though. The militia were hunkering down and waiting.

"f.u.c.k d.a.m.n d.a.m.n," spat Isaac. He bent down and pulled a plug from Andrej's helmet, disconnecting the Construct Council, which was still concertedly attempting to bypa.s.s the circuit-valve and gain control of the crisis engine. Isaac yanked the wire free, sending a damaging spasm of feedback and rerouted energy bolting down the line into the Council's brain.

"Get this s.h.i.t!" he hissed at Yagharek, and pointed at the engines that littered the roof, fouled with ichor and acid rain. The garuda dropped to one knee and scooped up the sack. "Weaver!" said Isaac urgently, and stumbled over to the enormous figure.

He kept looking back, over his shoulder, fearful of seeing some gung-ho militiaman reaching up to take a potshot. Over the rain, the sound of metallic crunching steps drew nearer on the roof below them in a pounding jog.

"Weaver!" Isaac clapped his hands in front of the extraordinary spider. The Weaver's multifarious eyes slid up to meet him. The Weaver still wore the helmet that linked it to Andrej's corpse. It was rubbing its hands in slake-moth viscera. Isaac looked down briefly at the pile of huge corpses. Their wings had faded to a pale, drab dun, without pattern or variation.

"Weaver, we need to go," he whispered. The Weaver interrupted him.

. . . I TIRE AND GROW OLD AND COLD GRIMY LITTLING TIRE AND GROW OLD AND COLD GRIMY LITTLING . . . the Weaver said quietly . . . . . . the Weaver said quietly . . . YOU WORK WITH FINESSE YOU WORK WITH FINESSE I I GRANT AND GIVE YOU BUT THIS SIPHONING OF PHANTASMS FROM MY SOLE SOUL LEAVES ME MELANCHOLIC SEE PATTERNS INHERE EVEN IN THESE THE VORACIOUS ONES PERHAPS GRANT AND GIVE YOU BUT THIS SIPHONING OF PHANTASMS FROM MY SOLE SOUL LEAVES ME MELANCHOLIC SEE PATTERNS INHERE EVEN IN THESE THE VORACIOUS ONES PERHAPS I I JUDGE QUICK AND SLICK TASTES FALTER AND ALTER AND JUDGE QUICK AND SLICK TASTES FALTER AND ALTER AND I I AM UNSURE AM UNSURE . . . It raised a handful of glistening guts to Isaac's eyes and began to pull them gently apart. . . . It raised a handful of glistening guts to Isaac's eyes and began to pull them gently apart.

"Believe me, Weaver," said Isaac urgently, "this was the right thing right thing, we saved the city for you to . . . to judge, to weave . . . now that we've done this. But we need to go now now, we need you to help us. Please . . . get us away from here . . ."

"Isaac," hissed Derkhan, "I don't know who these swine are that are coming but . . . but they're not militia."

Isaac stole a glance out over the roofs. His eyes widened incredulously.

Stomping purposefully towards them was a battery of extraordinary metal soldiers. The light slid from them, illuminating their edges in cold flashes. They were sculpted in astonishing and frightening detail. Their arms and legs swung with great bursts of hydraulic power, pistons hissing as they stormed closer. Little glimmers of reflected light came from somewhere a little behind their heads.

"Who the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k are those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?" said Isaac in a strangled voice. are those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?" said Isaac in a strangled voice.

The Weaver interrupted him. Its voice was suddenly loud again, purposeful.

. . . BY GOODNESS ME YOU CONVINCE BY GOODNESS ME YOU CONVINCE . . . it said . . . . . . it said . . . LOOK AT THE INTRICATE SKEINS AND THREADLINES WE CORRECT WHERE THE DEADLINGS REAVED WE CAN RESHUFFLE AND SPIN AND FIX IT UP NICE LOOK AT THE INTRICATE SKEINS AND THREADLINES WE CORRECT WHERE THE DEADLINGS REAVED WE CAN RESHUFFLE AND SPIN AND FIX IT UP NICE . . . The Weaver bobbed excitedly up and down and stared at the dark sky. It plucked the helmet from its head in a smooth motion and threw it casually out into the night. Isaac did not hear it land. . . . . . . The Weaver bobbed excitedly up and down and stared at the dark sky. It plucked the helmet from its head in a smooth motion and threw it casually out into the night. Isaac did not hear it land. . . . IT RUNS AND HIDES ITS HIDE IT RUNS AND HIDES ITS HIDE . . . it said . . . . . . it said . . . IT IS ROOTING FOR A NEST POOR FRIGHTENED MONSTER WE MUST CRUSH IT LIKE ITS BROTHERS BEFORE IT GNAWS HOLES IN THE SKY AND THE CITYWIDE COLOURFLOW COME AND LET US SLIDE DOWN LONG FISSURES IN THE WORLDWEB WHERE THE RENDER RUNS AND FIND ITS LAIR IT IS ROOTING FOR A NEST POOR FRIGHTENED MONSTER WE MUST CRUSH IT LIKE ITS BROTHERS BEFORE IT GNAWS HOLES IN THE SKY AND THE CITYWIDE COLOURFLOW COME AND LET US SLIDE DOWN LONG FISSURES IN THE WORLDWEB WHERE THE RENDER RUNS AND FIND ITS LAIR . . . . . .

It staggered forward, always seeming to teeter on the edge of collapse. It opened its arms to Isaac like a loving parent, swept him quickly and effortlessly up. Isaac grimaced in fear as he was taken into its weird, cool embrace. Don't cut me, Don't cut me, he thought fervently, he thought fervently, don't slice me up! don't slice me up!

The militia peered furtive and aghast over the roof at the sight. The enormous, towering spider stalked edgily this way and that, Isaac tucked lolling like some absurd, vast baby under its arm.

It moved with sure, fleeting motions across the sodden tar and clay. It could not be followed. It moved in and out of conventional s.p.a.ce with motions too fast to see.

It stood before Yagharek. The garuda swung the sack of mechanical components that he had hastily gathered over onto his back. Yagharek delivered himself thankfully to the dancing mad G.o.d, throwing up his arms and clutching at the smooth waist between the Weaver's head and abdomen . . . GRAB TIGHT LITTLE ONE WE MUST FIND A WAY AWAY GRAB TIGHT LITTLE ONE WE MUST FIND A WAY AWAY . . . sang the Weaver. . . . sang the Weaver.

The weird metallic troops were approaching the little elevation of flat land, their mechanical anatomy hissing with efficient energy. They swept past the lower militia, terrified junior officers who gazed up in astonishment at the human faces peering intently from the back of the iron warriors' heads.

Derkhan looked round at the encroaching figures, then swallowed and walked quickly over to the Weaver, which stood with humanoid arms wide. Isaac and Yagharek were perched on its weapon arms, their legs scrabbling for purchase across its broad back.

"Don't hurt me again," whispered Derkhan, her hand flickering over the scabbed wound on the side of her face. She holstered her guns and raced across into the Weaver's terrifying, cradling arms.

The second dirigible arrived at the roof of Perdido Street Station and threw out ropes for its troops to descend. Motley's Remade squadron had reached the top of the rise of architecture and was vaulting over without pause. The militia gazed up at them, cowed. They did not understand what they were seeing.

The Remade breached the low rise of bricks without hesitation, only faltering when they saw the Weaver's huge and skulking form scampering to and fro across the bricks, three figures jouncing like dolls on its back.

Motley's troops stepped back towards the edge slowly, rain varnishing their impa.s.sive steel faces. Their heavy feet crushed the remnants of the engines that still lay split across the roof.

As they watched, the Weaver reached down and grasped hold of a quailing militiaman, who wailed in terror as he was dragged up by his head. The man flailed, but the Weaver pushed his arms away and cuddled him like a baby.

. . . OFF AND ON TO GO HUNTING WE WILL TAKE OUR LEAVE OFF AND ON TO GO HUNTING WE WILL TAKE OUR LEAVE . . . whispered the Weaver to all present. It walked sideways off the edge of the roof, seemingly unenc.u.mbered, and disappeared. . . . whispered the Weaver to all present. It walked sideways off the edge of the roof, seemingly unenc.u.mbered, and disappeared.

For two or three seconds, only the rain sounded fitful and depressing on the roof. Then Half-a-Prayer let off a last volley of shots from above, sending the a.s.sembled men and Remade scattering. When they emerged carefully, there were no more attacks. Jack Half-a-Prayer had gone.

The Weaver and its companions had left no trail, and no trace.

The slake-moth tore through currents of air. It was frantic and afraid.

It sounded every so often, letting out a cry in a variety of sonic registers, but it was unanswered. It was miserable and confused.

And yet beneath it all, its infernal hunger was growing again. It was not free of its appet.i.te.

Below it the Canker flowed through the city, its barges and pleasure boats little grubs of dirty light on the blackness. The slake-moth slowed and spiralled.

A line of filthy smoke was drawn slowly across the face of New Crobuzon, marking it like a stub of pencil, as a late train went east on the Dexter Line, through Gidd and Barguest Bridge, on over the water towards Lud Fallow and Sedim Junction.

The moth swept on over Ludmead, ducking low above the roofs of the university faculty, alighting briefly on the roof of the Magpie Cathedral in Saltbur, flitting away in a pang of hunger and lonely fear. It could not rest. It could not channel its rapacity to feed.

As it flew, the slake-moth recognized the configuration of light and darkness below it. It felt a sudden pull.

Behind the railway lines, rising from the shabby and decrepit architecture of Bonetown, the Ribs rose out into the night air in a colossal sweep and curve of ivory. They made memories eddy in the slake-moth's head. It recalled the dubious influence of those old bones that had made Bonetown a fearful place, somewhere to be escaped, where air currents were unpredictable and noxious tides could pollute the aether. Distant images of days clamped still, being milked lasciviously, its glands sucked clean, a hazy sense of a suckling grub at its teat, but nothing being there . . . memories caught it up.

The moth was utterly cowed. It sought relief. It hankered for a nest, somewhere to lie still, recuperate. Somewhere familiar, where it could tend itself and be tended. In its misery, it remembered its captivity in a selective, twisted light. It had been fed and cleaned by careful tenders there in Bonetown. It had been a sanctuary.

Frightened and hungry and eager for relief, it conquered its fear of the Bonetown Ribs.

It set off southwards, licking its way through half-forgotten routes in the air, skirting the blistered bones, seeking out a dark building in a little alley, a bitumened terrace of unclear purpose, from where it had crawled weeks ago.

The slake-moth wheeled nervously over the dangerous city and headed for home.

Isaac felt as if he had been asleep for several days, and he stretched luxuriously, feeling his body slide uncomfortably forward and back.

He heard an appalling scream.

Isaac froze as memories came back to him in torrents, let him know how he had come to be there, held tight in the Weaver's arms (he jerked and spasmed as he recalled it all).

The Weaver was stepping lightly over the worldweb, scuttling across metareal filaments connecting every moment to every other.

Isaac remembered the vertiginous pitch of his soul when he had seen the worldweb. He remembered a nausea that had wracked his existential being at the sight of that impossible vista. He struggled not to open his eyes.

He could hear the jabbering of Yagharek and Derkhan's whispered curses. They came to him not as sounds but as intimations, floating fragments of silk that slipped into his skull and became clear to him. There was another voice, a jagged cacophony of bright fabric shrieking in terror.

He wondered who that might be.

The Weaver moved quickly across pitching threads alongside the damage and potentiality of damage that the slake-moth had wreaked, and might again. The Weaver disappeared into a hole, a dim funnel of connections that wound through the material of that complex dimension and

emerged again into the city.

Isaac felt air against his cheek, wood below him. He woke and opened his eyes.

His head hurt. He looked up. His neck wobbled as he adjusted to the weight of his helmet, still perched tight on his head, its mirrors miraculously unbroken.

He was lying in a shaft of moonlight in some dusty little attic. Sounds filtered into the s.p.a.ce through the wooden floors and walls.

Derkhan and Yagharek were raising themselves slowly and carefully onto their elbows, shaking their heads. As Isaac watched, Derkhan reached up quickly and gently felt the sides of her head. Her remaining ear-and his, he quickly ascertained-was untouched.

The Weaver loomed in the corner of the room. It stepped forward slightly, and behind it, Isaac saw a militiaman. The officer seemed paralysed. He sat with his back against the wall, shaking quietly, his smooth faceplate skewwhiff and falling from his head. His rifle lay across his lap. Isaac's eyes widened when he saw it.

It was gla.s.s. A perfect and useless model of a flintlock rifle rendered in gla.s.s.

. . . THIS WOULD BE HOMESTEAD FOR THE FLEETING WINGED ONE THIS WOULD BE HOMESTEAD FOR THE FLEETING WINGED ONE . . . crooned the Weaver. It sounded subdued again, as if its energy had ebbed from it during the journey through the planes of the web . . . . . . crooned the Weaver. It sounded subdued again, as if its energy had ebbed from it during the journey through the planes of the web . . . SEE MY LOOKING SEE MY LOOKING-GLa.s.s MAN MY PLAYMATE MY FRIENDLING . . . it whispered . . . . . . it whispered . . . HE AND ME SHALL WHILE TIME AWAY THIS IS THE RESTING PLACE OF THE VAMPIR MOTH THIS IS WHERE IT FOLDS ITS WINGS AND HIDES TO EAT AGAIN HE AND ME SHALL WHILE TIME AWAY THIS IS THE RESTING PLACE OF THE VAMPIR MOTH THIS IS WHERE IT FOLDS ITS WINGS AND HIDES TO EAT AGAIN I I WILL PLAY TIC WILL PLAY TIC-TAC-TOE AND BOXES WITH MY GLa.s.s-GUNNER . . . . . .

It stepped back into the corner of the room and set itself down suddenly with a jerk of its legs. One of its knife-hands flashed like elyctricity, moving with extraordinary speed, scoring a three-by-three grid onto the boards before the comatose officer's lap.

The Weaver etched a cross into a corner square, then sat back and waited, whispering to itself.

Isaac, Derkhan and Yagharek shuffled into the centre of the room.

"I thought it was going to get us away," mumbled Isaac. "It's followed the f.u.c.king moth . . . It's here, somewhere . . ."

"We have to take it," whispered Derkhan, her face set. "We've almost got them all. Let's finish it."

"With what what?" hissed Isaac. "We've got our f.u.c.king helmets and that's it it. We've not got any weapons to face the likes of that thing . . . we don't even know where we d.a.m.n-well are . . ."

"We have to get the Weaver to help us," said Derkhan.

But their attempts were quite fruitless. The gigantic spider ignored them utterly, wittering quietly to itself and waiting intently, as if waiting for the frozen militia officer to complete his move in tic-tac-toe. Isaac and the others entreated with the Weaver, begged it to help them, but they seemed suddenly invisible to it. They turned away in frustration.

"We have to go out there," said Derkhan suddenly. Isaac met her eyes. Slowly, he nodded. He strode across to the window and peered out.

"I can't tell where we are," he said eventually. "It's just streets." He moved his head exaggeratedly from side to side, seeking some landmark. He re-entered the room eventually, shaking his head. "You're right, Dee," he said. "Maybe we'll . . . find something . . . maybe we can get out of here."

Yagharek moved without sound, stalking from the little room into a dimly lit corridor. He looked up and down its length, carefully.