Chaos Space - Marianne de Pierres [106]
On the outside, a long uuli escort draped in a scent-and-colour translator waited in the docking tube for them. Without turning, it undulated back along the tunnel and out into Bell Six, stopping next to a taxi.
As they followed, Jo-Jo noticed flakes of dried uuli excreta, like dry snow, swirling in the air. His skin started to itch and his throat thickened. What if he lost his voice? No voice, no God-lecture, no distraction for the idiot Berniere.
‘Convocation convenes in the Orb Chamber in Bell Four,’ said the translator in pompous Gal. Its lofty tone seemed ridiculous in contrast to the uuli’s soft, quivering movements.
Jo-Jo got into the taxi and peeled off one of the complimentary filter masks from the back of the headrest.
Catchut climbed in next to him. ‘Stink, don’t they? Why do they have to shit everywhere?’
‘It’s not shit,’ said Jo-Jo. He coughed. His eyes were beginning to water. “S mucus. Reduces friction when they move. Ever seen a mollusc?’
‘Eaten plenty,’ Catchut conceded.
‘Think of molluscs.’
Catchut laughed and licked his lips as the uuli slid onto the front seat of the taxi. ‘Probably best not.’
The trip to Bell Four nearly had Jo-Jo forgetting why they were there. Where Edo had been almost colourless in its meld of grey and silver parasite-polished metal refuse, Rho Junction was a riot of colour and movement and scents that forced their way past Jo-Jo’s mask and fizzed in the back of his throat like a scoop of sour sherbet.
While his mind tried to sort out the assaults on his senses, the taxi veered from the designated road and drove straight up the nearest wall. With a loud click it ejected a slide from a side panel which magnetised to the silver tracks snaking along the walls. Suspended there above the melee of foot traffic, Jo-Jo and Catchut were free to gape.
Jo-Jo had travelled more than most, first as scout and then as God-Discoverer, but nothing compared to the Arrivals Bell at Rho Junction.
‘What the shit is that?’ said Catchut.
He pointed to a group of transparent fluid-filled figures with large oval heads from which odd flaps protruded. The flaps resembled ears but seemed to be used for propulsion.
‘Extras, I’d guess,’ said Jo-Jo. ‘Heard they like to hang out in different bodies.’
The uuli translator spoke. ‘Msr Rasterovich is correct. Those are Extropists who have adapted siphonophores as their means of transport. The corporeal part of the Extropist takes many different forms. The forms designate rank and intelligence. It is a complex society that is difficult to decipher from the outside.’
‘Whassat mean?’ said Catchut.
The uuli paused as if retranslating the question. ‘Many of their forays into the post-humanesque form are neither successful nor aesthetic. We see many variations here, and each is a product of a particular faction or trend within Extropy culture.’
‘So they aren’t all super-brains swimming around in lumps of jelly like these,’ said Jo-Jo. Immediately the words came out he regretted them. The uuli’s skin flared crimson as if the creature was blushing. Or angry.
‘The siphonophore is one of their more common and successful forms. It is modelled on my own species.’
Fortunately the taxi swerved under an archway and then took a fierce upward trajectory to enter the Bell proper—bringing their conversation to a halt.
The pedestrians were now far enough away to seem insect-like in size. Above them, however, the Bell’s dome was busy with traffic: lightweight fragile flyers and butterflies, creatures without abdomens.
‘The wings you can see are another of their more successful forms,’ it said.
‘But they’re just flappers,’ said Catchut. ‘Can’t see no body.’
The uuli’s body twisted its elongated torso into a knot as if it had suddenly been tied by an invisible hand. Jo-Jo got the impression that it was laughing. ‘Their post-human mind is impregnated into the large spots on each wing,’ it said.
Jo-Jo was intrigued. ‘How do they land, then? There’s nothing to attach their legs to.’
‘They don’t require legs,’ said the