Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [140]
The floor was littered with glass, and splintered wood from the window frames. There were little metal rods, too, a few inches long, that had secured the windows closed.
Curdle and the rebrella picked up random broken bits and brought them each to Deeba.
“No, not the glass,” she said. “The rod. Yeah, that’s it.”
The unbrella that held her wrists was bent in the middle of its shaft. It took a lot of effort, but with the help of the rebrella—and the enthusiastic unhelpful participation of Curdle—Deeba held it firmly. The rebrella forced it open, and Deeba held a rod flush with the unbrella’s shaft. Between them they managed to unbend it and wrap sticking-tape around and around her captor and the metal rod, binding them together, bracing the unbrella straight.
And suddenly, fixed like that, it wasn’t an unbrella at all. It sprang away from Deeba’s hands and did a dance of delight, like the first rebrella had.
With her hands and legs free, Deeba was able to get hold of the remaining unbrellas in turn. They didn’t fight—their orders had been to hold still.
Two were so broken Deeba couldn’t fix them. The others she patched up quickly. None of them looked good, but very soon Deeba was surrounded by four delighted rebrellas, jumping with the pleasure of no longer being Brokkenbroll’s to control. They were like animals playing.
Her mind raced. She was painfully conscious of how time was passing, that her friends were waiting, and that she had only one last chance to stop the Smog.
“Will you help me?” she said. She had to say it a few times before the rebrellas lined up, seemingly eager. The exception was the red-and-lizard rebrella, which was quicker. Perhaps because it was mine for ages, she thought, it understands me.
“Here’s what I need you to do,” she said. “When I say ‘Attack!’ do this.” She made exaggerated hitting motions.
She knew the Unstible-thing was very strong, but the rebrellas had been un- brellas, all treated with the chemical goo that rendered them invulnerable to the Smog’s attacks. There was poetic justice, she thought—the props the Smog had made to help it take over the city with Brokkenbroll would now be turned against it.
There was a blue rebrella she had sewed up, a yellow one the shaft of which she had straightened, and a black one that had been the easiest to fix: it had just been inverted, and she had snapped it back the right way around.
“There’s no way we’ll be able to sneak in. There’s one chance. I need you to help me,” she said to the red rebrella.
For a moment, she remembered playing with it in the yards of her estate, twirling it like a sword. She wondered what those memories were like for it—for it, two whole lives ago. Perhaps they were like dreams.
“While these three are attacking,” she said, “I need you to fetch something.”
When she had done explaining, Deeba hesitated. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, she knew things were coming to an end.
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Deeba yanked open the door, and the rebrellas swirled inside.
As she entered, everything went slow. Deeba took everything in, in an instant.
The illumination in the workshop shifted. The room was full of the crawling and sluggishly flying lightbulb insects. A huge fire burnt in the fireplace. The big vat was still there on its swiveling stand. It was full of a vividly glowing, bubbling green liquid. Blue gas jets hissed below it.
Around the room, the benches and stands were the same amazing mess of chemicals in beakers, bubbling test tubes, and coils of glass that she remembered.
On a table in the corner, Deeba saw the UnGun and the book. Mortar sat back on a chair, snoring. His head was encased in a fug of smoke. The cage-door entrance to the elevator was closed, and the lift itself was not there.
The rebrellas went charging and twirling, opening and closing, swinging like swords. They moved more swiftly and impressively even than the unbrellas did. Everyone prefers fighting by choice, Deeba thought.
They