Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [210]
Yagharek was scrabbling heroically with the construct’s clamps, but it was quite ineffectual. The construct simply ignored him. One of its fellows moved in behind Yagharek.
“Yag, dammit!” shouted Isaac. “Run!” But he spoke too late. The newcomer was a similarly enormous industrial construct, and the wire-mesh that looped down and ensnared Yagharek was much too hard to break.
Out of the fray, the bloody man, that flesh-extension of the Construct Council, raised his voice.
“You are not being attacked,” he said. “You will not be harmed. We start here. We lay bait. Please do not be alarmed.”
“Are you out of your godsdamned mind?” shouted Isaac. “What the fuck d’you mean? What are you doing?”
The constructs in the heart of the rubbish-maze were moving back to the edges of the empty space, the Construct Council’s throne room. The cable that had ensnared Derkhan tugged her across the shattered ground. She fought it, shouting and gritting her teeth, but she had to rise and stumble with it to stop the laceration of her flesh. The construct holding Yagharek lifted him effortlessly and stalked away from Isaac. Yagharek thrashed violently, his hood falling from his face, his fierce avian eyes sending cold looks of utter rage in all directions. But he was powerless before that ineluctable artificial force.
Isaac’s captor pulled him into the centre of the widening space. The avatar danced around him.
“Try to relax,” he said. “This will not hurt.”
“What?” roared Isaac. From the opposite side of the little amphitheatre, a little construct made its jerky, childish way across the rubble. It carried a weird-looking piece of apparatus, a rude helmet with what looked like a funnel expanding up out of it, the whole connected to some portable engine. It leapt up to Isaac’s shoulders, gripping painfully with its toes, and shoved the helmet on his head.
Isaac struggled, and shouted, but pinioned as he was by those mighty arms he could not possibly break free. It was not long before the helmet was fastened to him tightly, yanking his hair and bruising his scalp.
“I am the machine,” said the naked dead man, dancing nimbly from rock to engine debris to broken glass. “What is discarded here is my flesh. I fix it more quickly than your body mends bruises or broken bones. Everything is left here for dead. What is not here now will be brought here soon, or my worshippers will bring for me, or I can build. The equipment on your head is a piece like those used by channellers and seers, communicators and psychonauts of all kinds. It is a transformer. It can channel and redirect and amplify psychic discharge. At the moment, it is set to augment and radiate.
“I have adjusted it. It is much stronger than those at use in the city.
“You remember the Weaver warned you that the slake-moth you raised is hunting you? It is a crippled one, a stunted outcast. It cannot track you without help.”
The man looked at Isaac. Derkhan was shouting something in the background, but Isaac was not listening, could not take his eyes from the looming eyes of the avatar.
“You will see what we can do,” said the man. “We are going to help it.”
Isaac did not hear his own howl of outrage and fear. A construct reached forward and turned on the engine. The helmet vibrated and hummed so hard and loud that Isaac’s ears hurt.
Waves of Isaac’s mental print went pulsing out into the city night. They passed through the malign fur of bad dreams that clogged up the city’s pores, and beamed out into the atmosphere.
Blood trickled from Isaac’s nose. His head began to ache.
A thousand feet above the city, the handlingers congregated in Ludmead. The sinistrals tentatively investigated the psychic wake of the slake-moths.
on fast attack before suspicion, urged one pugnaciously.
urge caution, intimated another. track with care and follow, find nest.
They quarrelled quickly and silently. They were motionless as they hung in the