Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [264]
They must be careful now. The sun had gained its strength, the light was full. Anyone might be militia, and every officer would have seen their heliotype. They drew their cloaks around them. Isaac hesitated, then borrowed Yagharek’s knife and shaved bloodily with it. The sharp blade skittered painfully on the nodules and bumps on his skin that were the reason he had first grown a beard. He was ruthless and quick, and soon stood before Yagharek with a pasty chin, inexpertly shorn of whiskers, bleeding and patched with copses of stubble.
He looked ghastly, but he looked different. Isaac dabbed at his bleeding skin as they set out into the morning.
By nine, after minutes of skulking, striding nonchalantly past shops and arguing pedestrians, finding backstreet routes wherever they existed, the companions were in the Griss Twist dump. The heat was unforgiving, and seemed greater in these canyons of discarded metal. Isaac’s chin stung and tingled.
They picked their way over the wasteground towards the heart of the maze, towards the Construct Council’s lair.
“Nothing.” Bentham Rudgutter clenched his fists on his desk.
“Two nights we’ve had the airships up and searching. Nothing at all. Another crop of bodies every morning, and not a godsdamn thing all night. Rescue dead, no sign of Grimnebulin, no sign of Blueday . . .” He raised bloodshot eyes and looked across the table at Stem-Fulcher, who sucked gently at the pungent smoke of her pipe. “This is not going well,” he concluded.
Stem-Fulcher nodded slowly. She considered.
“Two things,” she said slowly. “It’s clear that what we need is specially trained troops. I told you about Motley’s officers.” Rudgutter nodded. He rubbed and rubbed at his eyes. “We can easily match those. We could easily tell the punishment factories to run us off a squadron of specialist Remade, with mirrors and backwards weapons and all, but what we need is time. We need to train them up. That’s three, four months at the least. And while we’re biding our time the slake-moths are just going to keep picking off citizens. Getting stronger.
“So we have to think about strategies for keeping the city under control. A curfew, for example. We know the moths can get into houses, but there’s no doubt that most of the victims are picked off the streets.
“Then we need to dampen speculation in the press about what’s going on. Barbile wasn’t the only scientist working on that project. We need to be able to stamp out any dangerous kind of sedition, we need to detain all the other scientists involved.
“And with half the militia engaged in slake-moth duties, we can’t risk another dock strike, or anything similar. It could cripple us quickly. We owe it to the city to put an end to any unreasonable demands. Basically, Mayor, this is a crisis bigger than any since the Pirate Wars. I think it’s time to declare a state of emergency. We need extraordinary powers.
“We need martial law.”
Rudgutter pursed his lips mildly, and considered.
“Grimnebulin,” said the avatar. The Council itself remained hidden. It did not sit up. It was indistinguishable from the mountains of filth and garbage around it.
The cable that entered the avatar’s head emerged from the floor of metal shavings and stone debris. The avatar stank. His skin was patched with mould.
“Grimnebulin,” he repeated in his uncomfortable, wavering voice. “You did not return. The crisis engine you left with me is incomplete. Where are the Is that went with you to the Glasshouse? The slake-moths flew again last night. Did you fail?”
Isaac held his hands up to slow the questioning.
“Stop,” he said peremptorily. “I’ll explain.”
Isaac knew that it was misleading to think of the Construct Council having emotions. As he told the avatar the story of that appalling night in the cactus Glasshouse—that night of so-partial victory at such horrendous price—he knew that it was not anger or sadness that caused the man’s body to shake, his face to spasm in random grotesqueries.
The Construct Council had sentience, but no feelings. It was