Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [125]
“We don’t ask for much,” she said at last. “Only to live in our abcity. Un Lun Dun!”
It wasn’t much of a speech. But somehow spoken in a night so apocalyptic, beside the lapping river, under a sky crossed with the lights of flying machines and stars and Smog-feeding fires, it inspired.
“Un Lun Dun!” The crowd knew they couldn’t risk shouting it, but they whispered enthusiastically, and it was almost a chant.
Deeba didn’t realize for several seconds that she had said our abcity, and meant it.
“Does this thing have a name?” Deeba said as she settled onto a bench set between what had once been car doors, now upside down and sealed shut.
“It ought to,” said Hemi. “Bad luck otherwise.”
Her companions paused and considered, and all started making suggestions at once.
“Feather-I-Say?”
“Silver Belle Flower?”
“QV-66?”
“No,” said Deeba. “This is the Diss&Rosa.”
82
The Tangle
As Jones and Skool tugged on the oars, Deeba saw that the sky was darker, more stained with Smog than ever. Deeba was sure that those shreds would be mostly gathered over Unstible’s factory, where they were heading.
One by one the s began to cross the river, with faint splashes. Lectern and three binja huddled with Deeba and her companions in the Diss&Rosa. A widening wedge of vessels followed. The ghosts walked and drifted like thread over the river’s surface, appearing and disappearing.
What had been the car’s windshield and windows were below water level, and Deeba watched the brown swirl. She thought she could hear the noises of fighting in the wind.
“Sounds like trouble,” Hemi said.
From the shore they had left, Deeba heard the song of a bird.
She looked back sharply. Jones stopped rowing, and looked through his telescope. He swore excitedly.
Running around the corner of a warehouse was a familiar figure, in an old-fashioned khaki jerkin, trousers, and big boots. In place of a head, he had a birdcage, within which a little bird sang.
“Mr. Cavea!” said Deeba, and jumped up, swaying the dangerously. She waved her hands excitedly over her head, and Yorick Cavea waved back, desperately, without breaking stride. “But we saw him get et!”
“That was just his vehicle,” the book said. “He must’ve got a new one.”
“What’s he singing? What’s he singing?”
Cavea had reached the s that had not yet cast off, and was shoving them towards the river hurriedly.
“He’s saying…‘Quick,’” the book said. “He says: ‘They’re coming.’”
No one on the shore seemed to understand Cavea. One or two even shoved him back.
“Too late,” said Hemi. Lectern let out a cry.
Masked figures were emerging into the docks, following in Cavea’s footsteps, stepping in time. The nightlights reflected in their goggles. Pipes clanked and rattled from their helmets and the sacks over their heads. Deeba heard the hissing of gas sluiced through tubes.
“Stink-junkies,” she said. “Hundreds.”
The UnLondoners still at the river’s edge stared a moment in horror at the oncoming army, then tried to race onto the water.
“Too slow, too slow,” said Jones. “They won’t make it!”
They could not all launch onto the Smeath before the Smog’s slaves reached them. The front line of stink-junkies was already raising hoses, preparing to spray their enemies with flame or poison. Deeba’s army was way outnumbered.
Flumen and a few others stepped forward, swinging spanners and planks. The Slaterunners somersaulted to the edges of the roofs, blowpipes at the ready. But these brave efforts could only slow the remorseless march by a few seconds.
“They’re doomed!” said Jones, stricken.
“No they’re not,” said Deeba. Her voice was suddenly hard. “Everyone who’s not a stink-junkie!” she shouted as loud as she could. “Get down right now! Jones, catch me.”
Every Slaterunner, librarian, marketeer, utterling, nomad, adventurer, and birdcage-headed explorer hit the pavement, leaving Deeba a clear line of sight to the horde