Feersum Endjinn

Iain M. Banks FEERSUM ENDJINN

ONE

1

Then, it was as though everything was stripped away: sensation, memory, self, even the notion of existence that underlies reality — all seemed to have vanished utterly, their passing marked only by the realisation that they had disappeared, before that too ceased to have any meaning, and for an indefinite, infinite instant, there was only the awareness of something; something that possessed no mind, no purpose and no thought, except the knowledge that it was.

After that came a rebuilding, a surfacing through layers of thought and development, learning and shape- taking, until something that was an individual, possessing a shape and capable of being named, woke.

Buzz.  Buzzing noise.  Lying on something soft.  Dark.  Try to open eyes.  Something sticking.  Try again.  Light flash shaped 00.  Eyes feel open, un-ark.  Smells; at once vital and decadent, lush with death-life, stirring some memory, recent and forever-far at the same time.  Light comes; a small… searching for the name of the colour… a small redness hanging in air.  Move arm, hand coming up; right arm; noise of skin on skin, feeling coming with it.

Arm, hand, finger: rising, positioning, eyes focusing.  Red patch of soft light disappears.  Press on it.  Arm shaking, feeling weak; falls back to side.  Skin on skin.

Click.

Noise of buzzing, something sliding again but not skin on skin; harder.  Then light from behind/above.  The small red light has disappeared.  Then movement; darkness above/around sliding back, face neck shoulders chest/arms trunk/hands in light now; eyes blinking in light.  Light grey-pink, shining down; blue-brightness through hole in curved cliff above/around.

Wait.  Rest.  Let eyes adjust.  Songs around, wall around/above (not cliff; wall), curving round, curving over (ceiling; roof).  Hole in wall where the brightness is called a window.

Lie there, turning head to one side; another hole, glimpsed over shoulder; goes down to ground, and called doorway.  Daylight there beyond, and the green of trees and grass.  Floor beneath where lying; pressed earth, light brown with a few small stones set in it.  The song is birdsong.

Get up slowly, arms back, resting on elbows, looking down towards feet; woman, naked, colour of the ground.

Ground is quite near; might as well stand up.  Sit up further, swivel (dizzy for a moment, then steady), then feet/legs over side of… of… tray thing that has appeared out of hole in wall of building, tray thing lying on, and then… stand.

Hold onto tray, legs feeling funny, then stand properly, unaided, and stretch.  Stretch feels good.  Tray slides back into wall; watch it go, and watch part of wall slide down to cover hole that was there, hole came out of.  Feel… sadness, but feel… good, too.  Deep breath.

Breath makes noise, then cough makes noise, and… voice is there.  Clear throat, then say:

'Speak.'

Slight startle.  Voice makes a feeling in throat and face.  Touch face, feel… smile. 'Smile.' Feel something building up inside. 'Face.' Still building. 'Face smile.' And still. 'Face smile good alive hole red wall me look door doorway sun garden, ME!'

Then the laughter comes, bursting out, filling the little stone rotunda and spilling out into the garden; a small bird hurtles into the air in a commotion of leaves and flies away upon a wake of song.

Laughter stops.  Sit on floor in the building.  Feeling empty inside; hunger. 'Laughter.  Hunger.  Me hungry.  I am hungry.  I laugh; I was laughing, I am hungry.' Get up. 'Up.' Giggle. 'Giggle.  Get up and giggle, me.  I learn.  I go now.'

But turn and look at inside of building; the curved walls, stamped-earth floor, the polished rectangular stones with let­tering on them which are set into the walls, some of them with little cups/baskets/holders.  Not sure which one was the one with the tray and the little red light now; not sure which one came from, now.  Sadness, a little.

Turn again and go to door and look out over shallow valley; trees and shrubs and grass, a few flowers, stream in bottom of valley.

'Water.  I thirst.  I have thirst, I am thirsty; I will drink.  Go for drink now.  Good.'

Leave the birth-place vault.

'Sky.  Blue.  Clouds.  Walk.  Path.  Trees.  Bush.  Path.  Other path.  Sky again.  Hills.  Oh!  Oh; shadow.  Fright.  Laugh!  Bigger bush.  Flat grass.  Thirsty; mouth dry; think stop talk now.  Ha-ha!'

2

On the morning of the one hundred and forty-third day of the year which by the new reckoning was called second-last, Hortis Gadfium III, the chief scientist to the pan-alignment clan Accounts/Privileges, sat on a steel girder and looked up at the almost-finished bulk of the new Great Hall oxygen plant number-two liquifier unit, and shook her head.

She watched a crane swing a palleted load of steel-plate towards the workers waiting on the summit of the structure, while above the crane's delicate web-work the ponderous mass of a lufter drifted, engines droning, delivering a new batch of supplies.  She looked around at the swarm of human-scale toil that was the new oxygen works, where engines laboured and variously puffed, grumbled and hummed, where machines crawled, floated, rolled or just sat, where chimerics sweated, strained, lifted and pulled, and where humans too laboured, shouted or simply stood scratching their heads.

Gadfium drew one finger through the layer of dust on the girder beneath her, then held the begrimed finger up to her face and wondered if in that smudge there lay a nano-machine capable of creating within the day machines which would create machines which would create machines that would give them all the oxygen they would ever need, and by the end of the season, not by the end of next year.  She wiped her finger on her tunic and looked up again at the number-two liquifier unit, worrying whether it would ever work properly, and, if it did, whether there would be any workable rockets for it to supply.

She gazed towards the Hall's three vast windows, where — beneath high, rainless ceiling-cloud — sunlight shone slanting down in great broad bands of dust-struck radiance, illuminating a swathe of landscape a few kilometres away and sparkling on the towers and domes of Hall City, two thousand metres beneath the pendulously extravagant architecture of the Lantern Palace.

It was bright outside, and on such days you could deceive yourself that all was still well with the world, that there was no threat, no shadow on the face of the night, no remorseless, system-wide, approaching catastrophe.  On such days one might persuade oneself that it was all a huge mistake or mass halluci­nation, and that the view last night, when she had stood outside the observatory dome above the darkened Palace, had been a figment of her imagination, a dream that had not vanished or been properly sorted by her waking mind, and so which lived on, as nightmare.

She stood up and walked back to where her junior aide and research assistant were waiting, conversing quietly in the midst of the oxygen works' constructive chaos and looking about occasionally with a kind of