Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [299]
It licked out and its antennae trembled. There were a handful of minds below it, but before it could attack the moth sensed the chaotic bubbling consciousness of the Weaver, and it remembered its agonizing battles and it screeched in fear and rage, stretching its neck back and baring its monstrous teeth.
And then the unmistakable taste of its own kind wafted up to it. It spun in shock as it tasted one, two, three dead siblings, all its siblings, every one of them, insides out, dead and crushed, spent.
The slake-moth was mad with grief. It keened in ultra-high frequencies and spun aerobatically, sending out little calls of sociality, echo-locating for other moths, fumbling through unclear layers of perception with its antennae and clutching empathically for any trace of an answer.
It was quite alone.
It rolled away from the roof of Perdido Street Station, away from that charnel-ground where its brothersisters lay burst, away from the memory of that impossible flavour, veering in terror away from The Crow and the Weaver’s claws and the fat dirigibles that stalked it, out of the shadow of the Spike towards the junction of the rivers.
The slake-moth fled in misery, searching for a place to rest.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
As the battered militia gathered themselves and began to peer, once more, over the edge of the roof at Isaac’s and Derkhan’s and Yagharek’s feet. They were wary now.
Three rapid bullets came flying down at them. One sent an officer flying without a word into the dark air beside the roof, to shatter a window four floors below with his weight. The other two buried themselves deep in the fabric of the bricks and stones, sending out wicked sprays of chips.
Isaac looked up. A dim figure was leaning out from a ledge twenty feet above them.
“It’s Half-a-Prayer again!” shouted Isaac. “How did he get there? What’s he doing?”
“Come on,” said Derkhan brusquely. “We have to go.”
The militia were still cowering just below them. Whenever an officer straightened up carefully and looked over the edge, Half-a-Prayer would send another bullet straight at him. He kept them caged in. One or two of them shot at him, but they were desultory, demoralized efforts.
Just beyond the rise of roofs and windows, unclear shapes were descending smoothly from the dirigible, sliding onto the slick surface below. They dangled loosely as they slipped through the air, attached by some hook on their armour. The ropes that held them uncoiled on smooth motors.
“He’s buying us some time, gods know why,” hissed Derkhan, stumbling over to Isaac and clutching at him. “He’s going to run out of bullets soon. These sods—” she waved vaguely at the half-hidden militia below them “—these are just the local flatfoots on roof-duty. Those bastards coming from the airships are going to be hardcore troops. We have to go.”
Isaac looked down and faltered towards the edge, but there were cowering militia visible on all sides. Bullets smacked down around Isaac as he moved. He yelled in fear, then realized that Half-a-Prayer was trying to clear the path before him.
It was no good, though. The militia were hunkering down and waiting.
“Fuck damn,” spat Isaac. He bent down and pulled a plug from Andrej’s helmet, disconnecting the Construct Council, which was still concertedly attempting to bypass the circuit-valve and gain control of the crisis engine. Isaac yanked the wire free, sending a damaging spasm of feedback and rerouted energy bolting down the line into the Council’s brain.
“Get this shit!” he hissed at Yagharek, and pointed at the engines that littered the roof, fouled with ichor and acid rain. The garuda dropped to one knee and scooped up the sack. “Weaver!” said Isaac urgently, and stumbled over to the enormous figure.
He kept looking back, over his shoulder, fearful of seeing some gung-ho militiaman reaching up to take a potshot. Over the rain, the sound of metallic crunching steps drew nearer on the roof below them in a pounding jog.
“Weaver!” Isaac clapped his hands