Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [171]
“And then,” he continued, “when the mind is nice and juicy . . . they suck it dry. The subconscious is their nectar, Isaac, don’t you see? That is why they only feed on the sentient. No cats or dogs for them. They drink the peculiar brew that results from self-reflexive thought, when the instincts and needs and desires and intuitions are folded in on themselves and we reflect on our thoughts and then reflect on the reflection, endlessly . . .” Vermishank’s voice was hushed. “Our thoughts ferment like the purest liquor. That is what the slake-moths drink, Isaac. Not the meat-calories slopping about in the brainpan, but the fine wine of sapience and sentience itself, the subconscious.
“Dreams.”
The room was silent. The idea was stunning. Everyone seemed to reel at the notion. Vermishank seemed almost to be revelling in the effect his revelations were having.
Everyone started at a clanging sound. It was just the construct, busy vacuuming the rubbish beside David’s desk. It had tried to empty the bin into its receptacle, had slightly missed and spilled the contents. It was busy trying to clear up the pieces of crumpled paper that surrounded it.
“And . . . Dammit, of course!” Isaac breathed. “That’s what the nightmares are! They . . . it’s like fertilizer! Like, I don’t know, rabbit-shit, that feeds the plants that feed the rabbits . . . It’s a little chain, a little ecosystem . . .”
“Hah. Quite,” said Vermishank. “You are thinking at last. You can’t see slake-moth faeces, or smell it, but you can sense it. In your dreams. It feeds them, makes them boil. And then the slake-moth feeds on them. A perfect loop.”
“How do you know all this, you swine?” breathed Derkhan. “How long have you been working on these monsters?”
“Slake-moths are very rare. And a state secret. That is why we were so excited about our little clutch of the things. We had one old, dying specimen, then received four new grubs. Isaac had one, of course. The original, that had fed our little caterpillars, died. We were debating whether to open the cocoon of another during its change, killing it but gleaning invaluable knowledge of its metamorphic state, but before we had decided, regrettably,” he sighed, “we had to sell all four. They were an excessive risk. The word came that our research was taking too long, that our failure to control the specimens was making the . . . ah . . . paymasters nervous. Funding was withdrawn, and our department had to pay its debts quickly, given the failure of our project.”
“Which was what?” hissed Isaac. “Weapons? Torture?”
“Oh, really, Isaac,” said Vermishank calmly. “Look at you, stiff with moral outrage. If you hadn’t stolen one of them in the first place, it would never have escaped, and it would never have freed its fellows—which is what must have happened, you realize—and think how many innocent people would have lived.”
Isaac stared at him aghast.
“Fuck you!” he screamed. He rose and would have leapt at Vermishank had Lemuel not spoken.
“Isaac,” he said curtly, and Isaac saw that Lemuel’s gun was trained on him. “Vermishank is being very co-operative and there’s more we need to know. Right?”
Isaac stared at him, nodded and sat.
“Why are you being so helpful, Vermishank?” asked Lemuel, returning his gaze to the older man.
Vermishank shrugged.
“I do not relish the idea of pain,” he said with a little simper. “In addition to which, although you