Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [170]
“You can’t torture me, you bastard . . .” hissed Vermishank in a strangulated wheeze.
“Fuck you,” breathed Isaac. “You’re the Remaker. Now . . . answer the questions or die.”
“Possibly both,” added Lemuel coldly.
“See, you’re wrong, Monty,” continued Isaac. “We can torture you. That’s exactly what we can do. So best to co-operate. Answer quickly, and convince me you ain’t lying. Here’s what we know. Correct me if I’m wrong, by the way, won’t you?” He sneered at Vermishank.
There was a pause as Isaac ran through the facts in his head. Then he spoke them, ticking each item off on his fingers.
“You’re in charge of biohazardous stuff for the government. That means the slake-moth programme.” He looked up for a reaction, some surprise that the secret of the project was out. Vermishank was motionless. “The slake-moths have escaped—the slake-moths that you sold to some fucking criminal. They have something to do with dreamshit, and with the . . . with the nightmares that everyone’s having. Rudgutter thought they were something to do with Benjamin Flex—wrongly, incidentally.
“Now, what we need to know is the following. What are they? What’s the connection with the drug? How do we catch them?”
There was a pause as Vermishank sighed lengthily. His lips were trembling wetly, slick with blood and saliva, but he gave a little smile. Lemuel wagged the gun to chivvy him along.
“Hah. Slake-moths,” breathed Vermishank eventually. He swallowed and massaged his neck. “Well. Aren’t they fascinating? Amazing species.”
“What are they?” said Isaac.
“What do you mean? You’ve clearly found out that much. They are predators. Efficient, brilliant predators.”
“Where are they from?”
“Hah.” Vermishank pondered a moment. He glanced up as Lemuel lazily and ostentatiously began to aim his gun at Vermishank’s knee. Vermishank continued quickly. “We got the grubs from a merchant on one of the southernmost of the Shards—it must have been on their arrival that you stole one—but they aren’t native to there.” He looked up at Isaac with what looked like amusement. “If you really want to know, the current favourite theory is that they come from the Fractured Land.”
“Don’t fuck about . . .” shouted Isaac in rage, but Vermishank interrupted him.
“I am not, you fool. That is the favoured hypothesis. Fractured Land theory has been given a powerful boost in some circles by the discovery of the slake-moths.”
“How do they hypnotize people?”
“Wings—of unstable dimensions and shapes, beating as they do in various planes—stuffed with oneirochromatophores. Colour-cells like those in an octopus’s skin, sensitive to and affecting psychic resonances and subconscious patterns. They tap the frequencies of the dreams that are . . . ah . . . bubbling under the surface of the sentient mind. They focus them, draw them out into the surface. Hold them still.”
“How does a mirror protect you?”
“Good question, Isaac.” Vermishank’s manner was changing. He sounded more and more as if he was giving a seminar. Even in a situation like this, realized Isaac, the didactic instinct was strong in the old bureaucrat. “We simply don’t know. We’ve done all manner of experiments, with double-mirrors, treble-mirrors and so on. We don’t know why, but seeing them reflected negates the effect, even though it is formally an identical sight, as their wings are already mirrored in each other. But, and this is very interesting, reflect it again—look at them through two mirrors, I mean, like a periscope—and they can hypnotize you again. Isn’t that extraordinary?” He smiled.
Isaac paused. There was, he realized, something almost urgent about Vermishank’s manner. He seemed anxious to leave nothing out. It must have been Lemuel’s unwavering pistol.
“I’ve . . . seen one of these things feeding . . .” said Isaac. “I saw it . . . eat someone’s brain.”
“Hah.” Vermishank shook his head appreciatively. “Astonishing.