Feersum Endjinn

Sessine folded the sheet of paper and tore it into little strips, slowly and carefully, thinking.

He was in the level of the crypt just above the chaotic regions, where — apparently perversely — things worked much more according to the rules of the real world than they did elsewhere in the corpus.  Throw yourself off a roof here and you wouldn't be able to decide suddenly to fly; you'd hit the ground and die.  Here, knowing how literally things worked, it was difficult to make the kind of mistake that might lead one to enter the crypt's chaotic regions accidentally; it was the last safeguard the system provided.

He wasn't sure what to do with the sheet of paper he'd just read, so he shrugged to himself and imagined it gone, but of course it didn't go.  He ate one of the strips but it tasted bitter and he felt foolish.  He shook his head and put the paper scraps in one pocket of his jacket.

He looked at himself in the bedroom mirror.  He was wearing… he tried to instigate a search but that, too, didn't work, so he had to resort to a laborious shuffle through his own memory.  Grief, what did you call this stuff?  And this stuff?  A lifeless, ill-fitting, creased blue shirt, a jacket of… tartan? plaid? and the trous… Nimes, de Nimes… neams?  Geams?  Something like that.

Awful stuff; the shirt felt scratchy, the jacket had great hairy Ms of fabric sticking out from it like mussed hair and the seams had enormous, crude, visible stitches.  Late twentieth-century corporate dress would have been his choice, but then maybe that was what people would be looking for, if they were still looking for him.

He inspected the bedside cabinet.  The items his note to himself had listed were indeed there.  He hefted the pistol; an ancient automatic projectile weapon.  It wasn't supposed to work outside the room.  He put it down the back of his trousers anyway.  He took the little glass phial, too.

He went to the screen.  He thought of calling his wife but she was probably still busy fornicating.  He was reasonably certain she had started seeing some courtier recently and round about now had always been her favourite time of day for sex.  He hadn't bothered trying to find out who the fellow was; it was her business.

He smiled regretfully, thinking of his own latest affair.  A girl in the air corps, keen on skiing and ancient flying machines; long red hair and a wicked laugh.

Never again, he thought.  Never again.

Well, he could be her incubus, of course, but it would never be quite the same.

Perhaps if he appeared to her in the guise of an antique airman…

… Anyway, he would call Nifel, the clan Security chief; the man was ferociously efficient and he felt they had become friends over the years.  Probably never have got into this mess if Nifel had been in charge; trust the Army.  Nifel; just the man, Sessine thought.  He turned the screen on, sound only.

'Nifel, Mika; officer clan Aerospace, Serehfa.'

'Nifel's agent-construct.'

'Sessine.'

'Count.  We have heard.  Commander Nifel is shocked and saddened.  He —'

'Really?  How unoriginal of him.'

'Indeed, sir.  He wishes to know why you did not want the in-crypt support systems instigated around your data-set.'

'But I do,' Sessine told the construct, and felt fear. 'I always did.  Kindly institute them immediately and tell Nifel the Army may be behind all this; Army intelligence, especially.  I am down to my last life in here and whoever killed me the other seven times comes very well-equipped, very well-informed and with the ability to intercept calls from the crypt to specific Army high staff.'

'I shall inform Commander Nifel —'

'Never mind informing him; first get those support systems running and give me some back-up down here.'

'It is being done.' There was a pause. 'What is your loca­tion, sir?'

'I'm in…' Sessine hesitated, then smiled.  He had died eight times today; seven of them in the space of about a tenth of a second, real time.  He was becoming cagey at last.

'First,' he said, 'complete this phrase, if you will: Aequitas sequitur…'

'Legem, sir.'

'Thank you,' Sessine said.

'… your location, sir?'

'I beg your pardon.  Of course.  I am near the representation of a place called Kittyhawk, North Carolina, North America.'

'Thank you, sir.  Commander Nifel, on your instructions —'

'Would you excuse me for a moment?'

'Sir.'

He switched the machine off and sat on the bed for a moment, his head in his hands.

So there was nowhere in the real world to turn.

Aequitas sequitur funera had been the more mordant version of the saying he and Nifel had settled on.

He stood, looked once around the room, then opened the door and left.  The gun's bulk simply vanished from the small of his back as soon as he crossed the threshold.  He paused.

Well now, he thought, for the duration of these real days I am like the ancients used to be; restricted to one careful life in a time of danger.  Every instant might be his last, and the only memories he could access were those in his own mind.

Nevertheless, he told himself, he was still better off than those of purely mortal ages; he could hope that he would wake up again after his funeral, and rejoin the universe of the crypt for at least a little of eternity.  Somehow, though, given the ferocity and apparent profundity of the forces ranged against him, he doubted that was really likely, and suspected he was indeed on his own, with one slim chance of survival. Desperado, he thought, and smiled, amused at his fall from power and grace.

He wondered anew how the ancients had endured such fragility and ignorance, then shrugged, closed the door and walked down the dim, deserted corridor.

Aequitas sequitur funera. Justice follows the grave, not the law.

It had not occurred to him he would ever employ that mutated phrase in circumstances that might give him the chance to verify it.

Or refute it, of course.

4

1nce thi sky woz ful ov birdz; used 2 go blak wif birds it did & birdz roold thi air (wel, apart from thi insectz) but thas all changed now; hoomins came along & startd shootin & trappin & killin them & evin if they've mostly stoppd doin that sort ov fing now theyr stil top ov thi roost partly coz they kild off so meny speesheez & partly coz they make stuf fly, witch when u fink about it duz kind ov spoil it 4 thi birdz on account they had 2 spend milyons ov yeers jumpin off clifs & out ov treez & crashin 2 thi groun & dyin & then doin it ol ovir agen & 1 time miby not crashin qwite so hard but glidin a bit & then a bit moar & a bit moar stil & so on & so on etc & juss jenerily paynstakinly evolvin in this incredibly complicatd way (I meen, lizird-scales in2 fevvirs! & holo bones, 4 goonis sakes!) & then theez bleedin hoomins theez ridicolos-lookin bald munkys cum along whot ? nevir showd thi slitest inarest in flyin nor sine ov adaptayshin 2 thi air whot-so-bleedin-evir & they start buzzin aroun in flyin masheens juss 4 a laf!

Makes u sik.  Din evin ? thi decincy 2 do it slo; one minit theyr flyin mashines is made from paper & spit, then 1 evilushinary blink ov thi i & thi bastirds is playin golf on thi moon!

O, thers stil birdz around olrite but thers a dam site fewr ov them & a lot ov what u wood fink is birds iznt; itz chimerics, or machines, & even if it is thi case that whot looks like a bird is a bird if its a big one its probably not evin got its hed 2 itself but its been taken over by a ded persin.  Can't evin ? peece in yoor own bonce.  Birdz av coped wiv tics & flees & lice ol ther evilushinary life but theez dam hoomins r wurse