Jack thought of Andrea’s music. It was a focus for her memories, giving them a shape and narrative, pulling her back to a single, self-defined version of herself. His mother had no such resource to draw on.
‘How can you speak to me so clearly? Why aren’t you like – this one?’
Jack waved towards the shimmering figure. It seemed to be aware of his presence. A thousand ages of the same head turned towards him. Compound eyes tried to focus.
‘Your father’s never rolled me back, so I’m more structured than most. And the attention of all the rest of us is on me, holding me together. We’ve never had a visitor like you. If you can escape, you can tell them about all this.’
Fist had let go of Mrs Forster’s hand, and leapt on to the windowsill. While she’d been talking, he’d been scanning the city. Now, he turned back.
‘You mean – they’re all like this one? None of them ever resolving?’ he asked.
‘None of us ever can.’
‘Motherfucker.’ He turned to Jack. ‘It’s bad enough being yourself and then getting reprogrammed. This lot don’t even get that far. I wish I could give them all a feather like Andrea’s, without getting fried by the fucking Pantheon. I wish they could all become more than just puppets. The living really are a shower of cunts.’
‘But – nobody ever knew,’ said Jack. ‘The Pantheon never show us any of this.’
‘They wouldn’t,’ Fist shot back angrily.
Suddenly they were at the lakeside. There were maybe fifty metres of black, muddy earth between the city of the dead and the silent lake. Streams running out of the city and into the depths had carved soft lines in the mud. A richly stagnant smell hung in the air.
‘So many don’t even get to exist as fetches,’ said Jack’s mother. She gestured towards the great pile of dark blocks at the heart of the lake. They had a hard, rough texture to them, tumbled together as if by a child bored of its building blocks.
‘What is that?’ Jack asked her.
‘It’s the prison. Some come to the bridge, but are snatched away and enclosed before they can even find a word to speak.’
‘That’s where Penderville is,’ said Jack. ‘And Grey’s peace protesters.’
‘We met some of their children,’ Fist explained. ‘They’re locked away, too. Just not quite as finally as this.’
‘Each of those blocks holds a weave presence?’ continued Jack.
‘Yes,’ his mother confirmed sadly. ‘Each one’s labelled with name, date of decease – everything.’
‘So all we need to do is open them up. Fist?’
‘Fuck yes. It’s not a god, but it’ll do for now.’
‘And that’ll set alarm bells ringing. The Coffin Drive admins will run diagnostics, and they’ll need a two-way link for that. They’ll see us, and we’ll be able to talk to them. I think we’ve found our ticket out of here.’ Jack turned back to his mother. ‘Can you take us to the prison?’ he said.
Before she could reply, there was a dazzling shock. Light burned out of the sky and exploded around them, catching Jack within it. He felt that he’d been lifted out of himself. A shape that could have been a face hovered before him. It resolved and became deeply familiar. It was his father. He was crying. Jack had never seen him looking this vulnerable. He wanted to reach out to him, but there was nothing to reach with. He’d lost his body in the white light.
‘Get out!’ yelled his mother. ‘Quickly! Before it’s too late!’
Jack felt a huge strong push, and then heard Fist shout ‘Fuck!’ He stumbled backwards. A white pillar blazed in front of him. His mother’s rags lay scattered just by it, fading under the hard light. She’d been called away.
‘That was pretty fucking Oedipal,’ said Fist, picking himself up off the ground. ‘Knocked me over, too. No damage, though!’
‘I’m fine too,’ Jack replied. ‘Thanks for asking.’
‘Well, that’s all we’re going to get from her,’ Fist continued obliviously. ‘At least for the moment. And who knows what sort of state she’ll be in when she gets back!’
Joy and grief pulsed together in Jack. He’d found his mother and then lost her again so quickly. He so wanted to see her again, but to do that he had to escape the Coffin Drives and then best Kingdom. He pushed emotion to one side, forcing himself to focus on the practicalities of the situation.
‘We need to get to that island.’
‘But how do we get there now your mum can’t zap us over?’
‘We swim.’
‘For fuck’s sake Jack, I’m made of wood. I’ll swell right up!’
‘Fist, we’re in a simulation.’
‘That simulates real physics.’
‘Then you’ll float and you’ll be fine. Now, will the files be OK?’
‘More worried about them than me?’
‘Fist,’ warned Jack.
‘The rucksack’s completely waterproof. Unlike certain people I could mention.’
Fist clung to Jack as they squelched towards the black, oily lake, grumbling all the way. By the time they reached it they were covered in mud. Its cold, still waters stank of decay.
‘Can’t we find a boat?’
‘Can you see one anywhere?’
Fist sighed and wrapped his arms tightly round Jack’s neck. As Jack swam, ripples rolled away from him, the only movement on the lake’s dark surface. Fist’s head and upper body were above the water. Jack distracted him by asking about strategies for hacking into the prison cubes. ‘It’s going to take a bit of creativity,’ he said thoughtfully, then went quiet, fascinated by the problem.
Jack worked hard to keep his own head above water, but couldn’t help letting it dip below the surface. Bitter water slipped into his mouth. A confusion of memories assaulted his mind. None, he realised, were his own. He lifted his head up and spat. Other people’s lives receded. ‘This isn’t water,’ he said, his voice full of realisation. ‘It’s memory. It’s what happens to fetches when nobody comes looking for them.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Fist replied disparagingly. ‘It’s like the sea round the outside of this place – low bandwidth simulation. It’s cheap servers and lazy programmers. It’s not very nice, but that’s the Coffin Drives for you.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Bless you, Jack, you’re not used to being virtual. It’s easy to let your imagination run away with you in a place like this.’
‘Really?’ said Jack, and dived down.
For a moment Jack and Fist inhabited a thousand fragments of mind, individual life shards that had gleamed and then spun away from them with all the beauty of a shattering stained-glass window. It was impossible to pick out overall patterns, but here there was a soft kiss, there the touch of a raindrop, a sudden note of music or a glimpse of Station when it had been so much smaller. All these broken notes combined into a cacophony of consciousness that had its own dying beauty. The moment stretched out, because every individual memory was unanchored from time. And then they burst spluttering out of the water, and the riot of memory left them.
‘God’s shit!’ shrieked Fist. ‘You’re right. This lake is where fetches die.’
‘The Pantheon always said our memories were a resource too precious to lose. But if this is where they end up – so much white noise, and then I suppose they just fade away.’
‘Wow. More bullshit from the gods. Whodathunkit, eh?’
They reached the island and clambered on to the lower blocks. ‘Rucksack’s OK?’ checked Jack.
‘Files untouched. I’m rather good at luggage. Maybe I should do it professionally when all this is over.’
The blocks’ hard edges were decaying. The stone of each was soft, falling away where the water touched it. As Jack and Fist slithered over them, chunks slid off.
‘Fresh minds, melting away,’ said Jack. ‘They’re like sugar cubes in tea. I can’t believe they’d do this. They’re editing anyone who disagrees with them out of Station’s memory. Can you open the blocks?’