Perdido Street Station Part 3

A frenetic snapping and clatter sifted into the corridor. Lin's cactacae escort pushed open one dark door among the many, and stood aside.

Lin's eyes adjusted to the light. She was looking into a typing pool. It was a large room with a high ceiling, painted black like everything in this troglodytic place, well-lit with gaslamps, and filled with perhaps forty desks; on each was a bulky typewriter, at each a secretary copying from reams of notes by their sides. Mostly human and mostly women, Lin also caught smell and sight of men and cactacae, even a pair of khepri, and a vodyanoi working at a typewriter with keys adapted for her huge hands.

Around the room Remade were stationed, mostly human, again, but of other races too, rare as xenian Remade were. Some were organically Remade, with claws and antlers and slabs of grafted muscle, but most were mech, and the heat from their boilers made the room close.

At the end of the room was a closed office.

"Ms. Lin, finally," boomed a speaking-trumpet above its door as soon as she entered. None of the secretaries looked up. "Please make your way across the room to my office."

Lin picked her way between the desks. She looked closely at what was being typed, hard though it was, and harder in the odd light of the black-walled room. The secretaries all typed expertly, reading the scribbled notes and transferring them without looking at their keyboards or their work.

Further to our conversation of the thirteenth of this month, read one, read one, please consider your franchise operation under our jurisdiction, terms to be arranged. please consider your franchise operation under our jurisdiction, terms to be arranged. Lin moved on. Lin moved on.

You die tomorrow, you f.u.c.k, you worms.h.i.+t. You're going to envy the Remade, you cowardly c.u.n.t, you're going to scream till your mouth bleeds, said the next. said the next.

Oh . . . thought Lin. thought Lin. Oh . . . help. Oh . . . help.

The door to the office opened.

"Come in, Ms. Lin, come in!" The voice boomed from the trumpet.

Lin did not hesitate. She entered.

Filing cabinets and bookshelves filled most of the small room. There was a small, traditional oil painting of Iron Bay on one wall. Behind a large darkwood desk was a folding screen ill.u.s.trated with silhouettes of fish, a large version of the screens behind which artists' models changed. In the centre of the screen, one fish was rendered in mirrored gla.s.s, giving Lin a view of herself.

Lin hovered uncertainly in front of the screen.

"Sit, sit," said a quiet voice from behind it. Lin pulled up the chair in front of the desk.

"I can see you, Ms. Lin. The mirrored carp is a window on my side. I think it's polite to let people know that."

The speaker seemed to expect a response, so Lin nodded.

"You're late, you know, Ms. Lin."

Devil's Tail! Of all the appointments to be late to! Lin thought frantically. She began to scribble an apology on her pad when the voice interrupted her. Lin thought frantically. She began to scribble an apology on her pad when the voice interrupted her.

"I can sign, Ms. Lin."

Lin put down her pad and apologized profusely with her hands.

"Don't worry," said her host disingenuously. "It happens. The Bonetown is unforgiving to visitors. Next time you'll know to leave earlier, won't you?"

Lin agreed that she would, that that was exactly what she would know to do.

"I like your work a great deal, Ms. Lin. I have all the heliotypes that made their way from Lucky Gazid. He is a sad, pathetic, broken cretin, that man-addiction is very sad in most of its forms-but he does, strangely enough, have something of a nose for art. That woman Alexandrine Nevgets was one of his, wasn't she? Pedestrian, unlike your own work, but pleasant. I'm always prepared to indulge Lucky Gazid. It will be a shame when he dies. It'll doubtless be a sordid affair, some dirty stubby knife gutting him slowly for the sake of small change; or a venereal disease involving vile emissions and sweat caught from an underage wh.o.r.e; or perhaps his bones will be broken for snitching-the militia, after all, do pay well, and junkies can't be choosers when it comes to income."

The voice that floated over the screen was melodious, and what the speaker said scanned hypnotically: he spoke everything into a poem. His sentences lilted on gently. His words were brutal. Lin was very afraid. She could not think of anything to say. Her hands were still.

"So having decided that I like your art I want to talk to you to discover whether you would be right for a commission. Your work is unusual for a khepri. Would you agree?"

Yes.

"Talk to me about your statues, Ms. Lin, and don't worry, were you about to, that you might sound precious. I have no prejudices against taking art seriously, and don't forget that I started this conversation. The key words to bear in mind when thinking how to answer my question are 'themes,' 'technique' and 'aesthetics.' "

Lin hesitated, but her fear drove her on. She wanted to keep this man happy, and if that meant talking about her work, then that was what she would do.

I work alone, she signed, she signed, which is part of my . . . rebellion. I left Creekside and then Kinken, left my moiety and my hive. People were miserable, so communal art got stupidly heroic. Like Plaza of Statues. I wanted to spit out something . . . nasty. Tried to make some of the grand figures we all made together a little less perfect . . . p.i.s.sed off my sisters. So turned to my own work. Nasty work. Creekside nasty. which is part of my . . . rebellion. I left Creekside and then Kinken, left my moiety and my hive. People were miserable, so communal art got stupidly heroic. Like Plaza of Statues. I wanted to spit out something . . . nasty. Tried to make some of the grand figures we all made together a little less perfect . . . p.i.s.sed off my sisters. So turned to my own work. Nasty work. Creekside nasty.

"That is exactly as I had expected. It is even-forgive me-somewhat hackneyed. However, that doesn't detract from the power of the work itself. Khepri spit is a wonderful substance. Its l.u.s.tre is quite unique, and its strength and lightness make it convenient, which I know is not the sort of word one is supposed to think of in connection with art, but I am pragmatic. Anyhow, to have such a lovely substance used for the drab wish-fulfilment of depressed khepri is a terrible waste. I was so very relieved to see someone using the substance for interesting, unsettling ends. The angularity you achieve is extraordinary, by the way."

Thank you. I have powerful gland technique. Lin was enjoying the licence to boast. Lin was enjoying the licence to boast. Originally I was a member of the Outnow school which forbids working on a piece after spat out. Gives you excellent control. Even though I have . . . reneged. I now go back while the spit is soft, work it more. More freedom, can do overhangs and the like. Originally I was a member of the Outnow school which forbids working on a piece after spat out. Gives you excellent control. Even though I have . . . reneged. I now go back while the spit is soft, work it more. More freedom, can do overhangs and the like.

"Do you use a great deal of colour variation?" Lin nodded. "I saw only the sepia of the heliotypes. That is good to know. That is technique and aesthetics. I'm very interested to hear your thoughts on themes, Ms. Lin."

Lin was taken aback. Suddenly she could not think what her themes were.

"Let me put you in an easier position. I'd like to tell you what themes I am interested in. And then we can see if you'd be right for the commission I have in mind."

The voice waited until Lin nodded a.s.sent.

"Please tilt your head up, Ms. Lin." Startled, she did so. The motion made her nervous, exposing as it did the soft underbelly of her beetle head, inviting harm. She held her head still as eyes behind the mirror-fish watched her.

"You have the same cords in your neck as a human woman. You share the hollow at the base of your throat beloved by poets. Your skin is a shade of red that would mark you out as unusual, that's true, but it could still pa.s.s as human. I follow that beautiful human neck up-I have no doubt you won't accept the description 'human,' but indulge me a minute-and then there is . . . there is a moment . . . there is a thin zone where that soft human skin merges with the pale segmented cream underneath your head."

For the first time since Lin had entered the room, the speaker seemed to be searching for words.

"Have you ever created a statue of a cactus?" Lin shook her head. "Nonetheless you have seen them up close? My a.s.sociate who led you here, for example. Did you happen to notice his feet, or his fingers, or his neck? There is a moment when the skin, the skin of the sentient creature, becomes mindless plant. Cut the fat round base of a cactus's foot, he can't feel a thing. Poke him in the thigh where he's a bit softer, he'll squeal. But there in that zone . . . it's an altogether different thing . . . the nerves are intertwining, learning to be succulent plant, and pain is distant, blunt, diffuse, worrying rather than agonizing.

"You can think of others. The torso of the Cray or the Inchmen, the sudden transition of a Remade limb, many other races and species in this city, and countless more in the world, who live with a mongrel physiognomy. You will perhaps say that you do not recognize any transition, that the khepri are complete and whole in themselves, that to see 'human' features is anthropocentric of me. But leaving aside the irony of that accusation-an irony you can't yet appreciate-you would surely recognize the transition in other races from your own. And perhaps in the human.

"And what of the city itself? Perched where two rivers strive to become the sea, where mountains become a plateau, where the clumps of trees coagulate to the south and-quant.i.ty becomes quality-are suddenly a forest. New Crobuzon's architecture moves from the industrial to the residential to the opulent to the slum to the underground to the airborne to the modern to the ancient to the colourful to the drab to the fecund to the barren . . . You take my point. I won't go on.

"This is what makes the world, Ms. Lin. I believe this to be the fundamental dynamic. Transition. The point where one thing becomes another. It is what makes you, the city, the world, what they are. And that is the theme I'm interested in. The zone where the disparate become part of the whole. The hybrid zone.

"Could this theme interest you, d'you think? And if the answer is yes . . . then I am going to ask you to work for me. Before you answer, please understand what this will mean.

"I will ask you to work from life, to produce a model-life-size, I fancy-of me.

"Very few people see my face, Ms. Lin. A man in my position has to be careful. I'm sure you can understand. If you take this commission I will make you rich, but I will also own a part of your mind. The part that pertains to me. That is mine. I do not give you permission to share it with any. If you do, you will suffer greatly before you die.

"So . . ." Something creaked. Lin realized that he had sat back in his chair. "So, Ms. Lin. Are you interested in the hybrid zone? Are you interested in this job?"

I cannot . . . cannot turn this down, thought Lin helplessly. thought Lin helplessly. I cannot. For money, for art . . . G.o.ds help me. I cannot turn this down. Oh . . . please, please let me not regret this. I cannot. For money, for art . . . G.o.ds help me. I cannot turn this down. Oh . . . please, please let me not regret this.

She paused, and signed her acceptance of his terms.

"Oh, I am so glad," he breathed. Lin's heart raced. "I really am glad. Well . . ."

There was a shuffling sound behind the screen. Lin sat very still. Her antennae moved tremulously.

"The blinds are down in the office, aren't they?" said Mr. Motley. "Because I think you should see what you will be working with. Your mind is mine, Lin. You work for me now."

Mr. Motley stood and pushed the screen to the floor.

Lin got half to her feet, her headlegs bristling with astonishment and terror. She gazed at him.

Sc.r.a.ps of skin and fur and feathers swung as he moved; tiny limbs clutched; eyes rolled from obscure niches; antlers and protrusions of bone jutted precariously; feelers twitched and mouths glistened. Many-coloured skeins of skin collided. A cloven hoof thumped gently against the wood floor. Tides of flesh washed against each other in violent currents. Muscles tethered by alien tendons to alien bones worked together in uneasy truce, in slow, tense motion. Scales gleamed. Fins quivered. Wings fluttered brokenly. Insect claws folded and unfolded.

Lin backed away, stumbling, feeling her terrified way away from his slow advance. Her chitinous headbody was twitching neurotically. She shook.

Mr. Motley paced towards her like a hunter.

"So," he said, from one of the grinning human mouths. "Which do you think is my best side?"

CHAPTER FIVE.

Isaac waited, facing his guest. The garuda stood silent. Isaac could see it was concentrating. It was preparing to speak.

The garuda's voice, when it came, was harsh and monotone.

"You are the scientist. You are...Grimnebulin."

It had difficulty with his name. Like a parrot trained to speak, the shaping of consonants and vowels came from within the throat, without the aid of versatile lips. Isaac had only ever conversed with two garuda in his life. One was a traveller who had long-practised the formation of human sounds; the other was a student, one of the tiny garuda community born and raised in New Crobuzon, which grew up shouting the city slang. Neither had sounded human, but neither had sounded half so animal as this great birdman struggling with an alien tongue. It took Isaac a moment to understand what had been said.

"I am." He held out his hand, spoke slowly. "What is your name?"

The garuda looked imperiously at his hand, then shook it with a strangely fragile grip.

"Yagharek..." There was a shrieking stress on the first syllable. The great creature paused, and s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably, before continuing. It repeated its name, but this time added an intricate suffix.

Isaac shook his head.

"Is that all your name?"

"Name...and t.i.tle."

Isaac raised an eyebrow.

"Am I, then, in the presence of n.o.bility?"

The garuda stared at him blankly. Eventually it spoke slowly without breaking his gaze.

"I am Too Too Abstract Individual Yagharek Not To Be Respected."

Isaac blinked. He rubbed his face.

"Um...right. You have to forgive me, Yagharek, I'm not familiar with...uh...garuda honorifics."

Yagharek shook his great head slowly.

"You will understand."

Isaac asked Yagharek to come upstairs, which he did, slowly and carefully, leaving gouges in the wooden stairs where he gripped with his great claws. But Isaac could not persuade him to sit down, or to eat, or to drink.

The garuda stood by Isaac's desk, while his host sat and stared up at him.

"So," said Isaac, "why are you here?"

Again, Yagharek gathered himself for a moment before he spoke.

"I came to New Crobuzon days ago. Because this is where the scientists are."

"Where are you from?"

"Cymek."

Isaac whistled quietly. He had been right. That was a huge journey. At least a thousand miles, through that hard, burning land, through dry veldt, across sea, swamp, steppe. Yagharek must have been driven by some strong, strong pa.s.sion.

"What do you know about New Crobuzon's scientists?" asked Isaac.

"We have read of the university. Of the science and industry that moves and moves here like nowhere else. Of Brock Marsh."

"But where do you hear all this stuff?"

"From our library."

Isaac was astonished. He gaped, then recovered.

"Forgive me," he said. "I thought you were nomads."

"Yes. Our library travels."

And Yagharek told Isaac, to Isaac's growing amazement, of the Cymek library. The great librarian clan who strapped the thousands of volumes into their trunks and carried them between them as they flew, following the food and the water in the perpetual, punis.h.i.+ng Cymek summer. The enormous tent village that sprung up where they landed, and the garuda bands that congregated on the vast, sprawling centre of learning whenever it was in their reach.

The library was hundreds of years old, with ma.n.u.scripts in uncountable languages, dead and alive: Ragamoll, of which the language of New Crobuzon was a dialect; hotchi; Fellid vodyanoi and Southern vodyanoi; high khepri; and a host of others. It even contained a codex, Yagharek claimed with discernible pride, written in the secret dialect of the handlingers.

Isaac said nothing. He was ashamed at his ignorance. His view of the garuda was being torn up. This was more than a dignified savage. Time to get me down Time to get me down my my library and learn about the garuda. Pig ignorant b.a.s.t.a.r.d, library and learn about the garuda. Pig ignorant b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he reproached himself. he reproached himself.

"Our language has no written form, but we learn to write and read in several others as we grow," said Yagharek. "We trade for more books from travellers and merchants, of whom many have pa.s.sed through New Crobuzon. Some are native to this city. It is a place we know well. I have read the histories, the stories."