Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [150]
“I like your clothes,” Deeba said to Hemi.
“Oh yeah,” he said, embarrassed. “I haven’t often worn ghost togs. Too busy trying not to have that side of me noticed. Extreme shopping.” He grinned. “But the good thing is with these things I don’t end up in the nude if I go through something—they come with me.”
“It’s all going well,” Deeba said, looking around. “Be good to see what happens.”
“The first thing,” said the book, “is that I’m making this lot change their name. Now that we know things don’t go as written at all.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Deeba. “You’re talking to the Unchosen One.”
“Yeah, but where’s the skill in being a hero if you were always destined to do it?” said Hemi. He hesitated, and said, “You impress me a lot more.”
“Destiny’s bunk,” said the book. “That’s why this lot aren’t the Propheseers anymore.”
“From here on in,” said Mortar, “we’re the Order of Suggesters.”
“And what about all those prophecies?” said Deeba. She poked the book gently. “In you.”
“Oh…who knows? Who cares what’s in me, frankly,” it said loftily. “Maybe in a few years we’ll open me up and read out what was supposed to happen and we can all have a good laugh. What Zanna was supposed to be doing. Whether you’re even mentioned. Yes, maybe I’ll end up a comedy. A joke book. There are worse things.”
“You never know,” Deeba said. “One or two of them might be true.”
“Well,” said the book. “Coincidence is an amazing thing.”
“After all,” Deeba said. “The only thing in your pages you thought definitely was wrong turned out to be right. Nothing and the UnGun?” There was a moment’s silence.
“That,” said the book with cautious pleasure, “is true.”
Curdle and the rebrella bounded towards Deeba, as she approached them.
“Have you decided what to do with the UnGun, yet?” said Deeba.
“Well, we’re ready for the first step at least,” Mortar said. “If you’d do the honors?”
In the middle of the bridge was a huge mold, a cube five or more feet on each side, into which mixers were pouring liquid concrete. Jones, Obaday, and the others were gathered around it.
“Ready?” said Hemi.
Skool stood beside him. They’d rescued the little colony before the patch of seawater in the canal had ebbed away. The fish were still mourning the loss of several of their companions, but they’d come to say good-bye to Deeba. They were poured into a new suit. This one was smaller, and more up-to-date: a little wetsuit, complete with ungainly flippers. This time the mask was clear, and Deeba smiled at the seahorse and clown fish staring at her from the brine inside.
“I’m not making a big thing of this,” Deeba said. “No speech.” She chucked the UnGun, the Smog’s prison, into the cement.
It splashed thickly and disappeared. They watched brief, thick ripples.
“When it’s set, what then?” she said. “Got to make sure no one can open it.”
“Opinion’s divided,” Mortar said. “Some people want to put it back among the Black Windows. It must have been one of our predecessors did that, yonks ago, so there’s history. Some want to bury it. Some want to tip it in the river. Or the sea. We haven’t decided yet.”
“We might put it to a vote,” said Jones.
“We’ll see,” said Deeba.
“Well,” said Mortar, “you might not.
“You’re talking as if you’ll be back again, Deeba,” he said gently. “But it isn’t easy to cross between the worlds. Every time you breach the Odd, the membrane between two whole universes is strained. Think what that means.
“You have,” he said, “to make a choice. You know we want you here. You…well, you saved UnLondon. We owe you our abcity and our lives. You’re a Suggester, whether you join us officially or not. It would be an honor if you’d stay.
“But your family. Your life. All of these things…we understand. We’ll miss you if you go, Deeba. But you have to choose.”
There was a long silence.
“I can’t stay,” Deeba said at last. “I can’t let my family forget me. Forget I even exist. Can you imagine? I