Flowercrash Read online

  FLOWERCRASH

  Stephen Palmer

  Flowercrash

  Stephen Palmer

  Zaïdmouth is a far-future paradise. Its five communities are intertwined by artificial flower networks so complex they combine to create the virtual realities through which Zaïdmouth is run. Yet into this vivid world a bad seed is about to be sewn.

  Mansuruquyn, Priestess-Interpreter, has broken the rules of the Shrine of the Crone. Exiled, she is forced to live in Zaïdmouth for one season. But who are the two mysterious men who run the empty inn in which she shelters? And what is their connection with the metal beasts of the Cemetery?

  Nuïy is a young man leaving the stifling home he hates. Making for the Shrine of the Emerald Man, he discovers a world of order and domineering wills. But what secret plan do the leaders of the Shrine foment? And why do they embrace Nuïy’s unique skill with such enthusiasm?

  It is the fate of Mansuruqyun and Nuïy to come together in a struggle to determine the future of Zaïdmouth. There will be battles covert and open, betrayal and loyalty, capture and escape. But after all this, which single person will provide the blueprint for the future? Who can make a good flower from a bad seed?

  Set in a vibrant future world, Flowercrash is the new novel from the acclaimed author of Memory Seed and Glass.

  Published by infinity plus at Smashwords

  www.infinityplus.co.uk

  Follow @ipebooks on Twitter

  © Stephen Palmer 2002, 2013

  Cover © Stephen Palmer

  ISBN: 9781311941756

  Electronic Version by Baen Books

  www.baen.com

  Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  Books by Stephen Palmer

  Memory Seed

  Glass

  Flowercrash

  Muezzinland

  Hallucinating

  Urbis Morpheos

  The Rat and The Serpent

  Hairy London

  Prologue

  ‘We have sacrificed part of our potential for the sake of the others,’ Tanglanah said, ‘but that is right and noble. Laspetosyne, I am four thousand and eighty-four years older than you. It took me the duration of your life just to comprehend the meaning of intuition, let alone experience its joys. But now I think I see how this strange story is playing itself out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I believe that we have all made a cosmic mistake. I believe that for our art to succeed – for us to live in harmony with our environment – we must all become embodied. Minds and bodies are not separate entities, not dual creations, rather they are one. If we are truly to complete our art then we must all become bodies. We must feel the world, not intellectually appreciate it, and so acquire intuition. We must burst out of infinity to sweat, bleed, feel warmth and icy chill, and rain.’

  Laspetosyne replied, ‘Those thoughts shock me, and they will shock the others. I cannot agree with you.’

  ‘There is a reason for your disbelief. You know less than me. You do not understand the meaning of guesswork. I now suspect that it is a mistake to idolise the mind at the expense of the body.’

  Prelude

  Zoahnône looks with displeasure at the holographic projections of her erstwhile friends. One is Shônsair, tall, elegantly dressed in grey, with pale skin and wholly black eyes, while at her side stands Baigurgône, bulkier and dressed in metal and leather, with sparkling eyes and an intense demeanour. When Shônsair speaks it is with a profundity rooted in centuries of toil; when Baigurgône speaks it is with the urgency of a political extremist.

  Shônsair is a gothic athlete, Baigurgône a dangerous demagogue.

  As for Zoahnône, she is a peaceful thinker clothed in indigo, which contrasts with her ice-blue skin and big brown eyes.

  Zoahnône does not know where the other two are. She sits in her secret chamber, where the snow outside is six feet deep, icicles fall like a ragged curtain from the lip of the cave, and genetically remodelled bison roam the land.

  Baigurgône speaks. “What is your final decision, Zoahnône? Will you work with us or will you struggle against us?”

  “How long will your sleep last?”

  Baigurgône smiles, showing pearly teeth. “A thousand years. Then we will wake, and mould society in the direction we want.”

  It is this intention that has caused the split in the trio. Baigurgône wants to remake whatever society survives the Ice Age. Shônsair is essentially in agreement, though with reservations. That leaves Zoahnône.

  Already Zoahnône can see ice working its way down the walls of the chamber in which the other two stand. The time for sub-zero sleep is near. She makes a final plea. “Listen to me. You cannot simply awake and remake society in your own image. You would be dictators.”

  “The end justifies the means.”

  “What about the people?” she asks.

  “The people? They are our pawns, our raw material, our stuff. They will not feel our presence—but they will respond to our strategies of computational thought like a great shoal of fish.”

  Again Shônsair grins. “We might become invisible dictators.”

  “Then,” declares Zoahnône, taking a deep breath, “I will fight you all the way.”

  Baigurgône laughs. “Oh, will you?”

  The electronic systems in Zoahnône’s cave begin to shut down. She looks around, frightened. Have they penetrated her defences?

  “You won’t survive the Ice Age,” says Baigurgône. “We will kill you in your little cave, right now, before we enter hibernation. Goodbye.”

  Zoahnône can see what will happen. She will be entombed.

  But there is one escape route, planned long before the trio’s return to Earth. She can die and be reborn. From a canvas bag she takes a bundle of technology, which she connects to the chamber systems. She lies down on a couch and prepares to lose her mind. For she is about to jettison some of her self and exist in purely abstract form, an immense collection of memory, devoid of consciousness, yet one day able to return as a character, in some other body, at some future time.

  She will die, then be reborn as somebody similar. And she will wake when her spectral mind feels the presence of Baigurgône and Shônsair in the world.

  As her mind thinks its final thoughts she wonders what to call herself, for she cannot use her real name. She is of the Earth: ultimately of star dust. Dustspirit. That will do. But this private thought will be lost if she does not make it a real, public memory. Her last action is to speak the name.

  It is recorded by her systems.

  Then she dies.

  Far away, buried like animals, the other two sleep, dreaming of fish and flowers, and of what the future might hold.

  CHAPTER 1

  Manserphine peered around a corner and saw a lone woman in pastel blue armour that twinkled like summersky opal, standing alert at the entrance to her goal. Summoning her courage, she tidied her flowing white dress, pushed stray locks of blonde hair behind her ears, clasped her hands before her, and approached. The woman gla
nced over as she neared.

  Manserphine was tall. Looking down at the guard she said, “I need to enter the Propagation Chamber.”

  “You cannot, sister.”

  Manserphine stood firm before the guard and repeated her request. “Please, I need to go in for just a few minutes. I’m the official Interpreter of this Shrine, and it is my right.”

  “My apologies sister, but during winter only the Grandmother Cleric, the Mother Cleric and the Sister Cleric can enter.”

  Sighing with frustration, Manserphine turned and returned to the corner from which she had observed the guard. There must be a way around this. The Shrine of Our Sister Crone was quiet, allowing her an ideal opportunity to continue her secret work, but this woman barred her way. She looked again at the guard, an older woman with sculpted hardpetal armour damaged as if vermin had taken bites out of the scrolls and ridges. The circular chamber in which the guard stood was small, a pool full of waterlilies at its centre. Manserphine eyed the waterlilies, the seeds of a plan in her head, and she wondered how susceptible they would be to electronic manipulation. Only one way to find out.

  She hurried to the Primula Chamber, where she was able to access the pool network through a winter flowering primula, from which it was a short step to making the waterlilies believe it was night, and time to close their petals. She ran back, lifting the trailing length of her dress to her thighs to increase her speed. At the chamber she was delighted to see the old woman bent over the waterlilies, lifting and peering under their broad leaves in an effort to see why they had closed. Manserphine tip-toed to the door and in seconds was through.

  She smiled. There would be an amusing scene when she walked out again. The guard might report her, but she would deny everything. She knew her elevated position in the Shrine would lend authority to her words. She was safe.

  The Propagation Chamber lay before her. Shafts of rainbow sunlight flooded down from the wafer-thin hardpetal laminae that comprised the roof, so that Manserphine felt she was standing under a ceiling of misty jewels. Before her, choking the large chamber, stood thousands of earthenware pots and seedling trays, each overflowing with flowers of every shape and colour. She could see black velvet orchids, huge whiskered roses like the faces of mice, sprays of orange wire…

  And the scent. It made her breathe fast and deep. The atmosphere in this chamber was thick as a fluid; at the walls she could see fans rotating, drawing the air out, so that objects seemed to shimmer behind heat haze. Before her mind’s eye she saw a momentary vision of what Veneris, her home urb, might look like under this soft and gorgeous light, caressed by fragrant breezes from dawn to dusk.

  She sneezed. Inevitable. She waited, eyes closed, hoping the guard outside had not heard. Minutes passed and nobody entered.

  It was time to complete her task. She scanned the nearer pots and after a few minutes saw what she wanted, a magnolia with pale flowers like the hands of a corpse. Bending down she took a paintbrush from her dress pocket, unscrewed its protective top and dabbed the bristles on the stamens to collect a dusting of scarlet pollen. With the top on again, she replaced the paintbrush and stood upright, well pleased with her work.

  She prepared herself for the guard. She opened the door. Standing there were two people, the guard and Mother Cleric Yamagyny. Manserphine opened her mouth to speak, but was too shocked to say anything.

  “So our doorwarden was correct,” Yamagyny said.

  “I distinctly heard a sneeze,” the guard confirmed.

  Yamagyny took Manserphine by the hand and led her away into a corridor. “What were you doing in there?”

  Manserphine thrust her hands into the pockets of her dress, aware of the secret paintbrush. She replied, “I only wanted to see how things were growing. I just felt that—”

  “What you felt is irrelevant. You know the rules. The electronic networks mustn’t be disturbed during the winter, when Our Sister Crone renews her strength. She’s an old woman and she has to fight her ancient enemies, cold from the depths of the north, ice from the top of the world.”

  “Yes, Mother Cleric.”

  Yamagyny paused, glancing down at the thin dress that Manserphine had tied around her bare legs. Yamagyny was slender and dark, dressed in a black tunic, leggings and sandals. After a moment she said in a more kindly voice, “I’m disappointed in you, Manserphine. You occupy a vital position in the Shrine. What will Our Sister Crone think of you? How can she trust you inside the Inner Garden come springtime?”

  Manserphine looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”

  Again Yamagyny took Manserphine’s hand and led her on. “We shall have to ask, I suppose.”

  Manserphine stopped and pulled her hand out of her superior’s grip. “Do we have to? I won’t do it again. I was bored. I’m sorry, I really am.”

  “Sorry doesn’t matter now the deed is done.”

  Manserphine swallowed, apprehension making her limbs tremble. “You won’t tell the Grandmother Cleric?”

  Yamagyny gestured her to follow. “I have no choice. Come along.”

  Manserphine tried to calm the fear she felt as a silent Yamagyny led her along corridors of wood and pink hardpetal, yet it was all she could do to stop her limbs from giving away her feelings. She needed to present a passive face, but she felt only turmoil. Too soon they stood at a tall oak door guarded by leering caryatids.

  Yamagyny opened the door and gestured her inside. Manserphine stood in an echoing chamber of pure yellow, arrayed with soft green couches and hardpetal pots carved to resemble hummingbirds. A faint thrumming vibrated through the air, as if from invisible hives. On a couch lay Curulialci, the Grandmother Cleric. Curulialci was effectively the ruler of Zaïdmouth; Manserphine stood motionless as a cowed dog before its mistress, unable even to look into Curulialci’s eyes.

  “There has been an incursion,” Yamagyny said.

  Curulialci had a way of holding her spare and elegant body so that, whatever position she was in, she emanated regal calm. Her curly, black hair was greying now, but age gave her authority, and that green gaze had lost none of its force. From the corner of her eye Manserphine saw her look up, then sip from a goblet of wine.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Tell her,” Yamagyny said.

  In a faltering voice Manserphine said, “I went into the Propagation Chamber. I only looked at the flowers, I didn’t touch anything. I know I shouldn’t have, and I am sorry. I promise to Our Sister Crone that I won’t do it again.”

  “But how did you get past the guard?” Curulialci asked.

  “I… tricked her.”

  Curulialci chuckled. “That shows intent.”

  A desperate Manserphine blurted, “The guard was half asleep. She was kneeling at the pool looking at the lilies. I was tempted.”

  “The fault is yours,” Curulialci said. “There must be a penalty.”

  “But I really am sorry.” Manserphine felt tears starting in the corners of her eyes. A sudden mental image of icy winds and empty streets made her shiver, and she put out a hand to steady herself on Yamagyny. It was midwinter outside.

  “Careful,” Yamagyny whispered.

  Curulialci said, “You shall be banished for one season. You may return to your chamber two days before the Garden reconvenes. I will see you here the night after. Present yourself with humility and you will keep your role as Our Sister Crone’s Interpreter. If your breath is still sweet and you have not succumbed to the embrace of men, I will look upon you with forgiveness. Otherwise you will be demoted to cleric, there to stay until you die.”

  Manserphine looked up at the ceiling in an effort to force the tears back into her eyes. “Yes, Grandmother Cleric.”

  There was a pause. “What do you say?” Yamagyny prompted.

  “Our Sister Crone has been merciful.”

  Yamagyny led her away. Manserphine’s thoughts drifted until she was reminded by the sight of her own door that she must pack her belongings and leave. Tears ran down
her cheeks as she allowed Yamagyny to lead her into her room.

  “Do you have any suitable bags?” Yamagyny asked.

  “Not really.”

  Yamagyny took a sack and began filling it with clothes. Manserphine dried her tears and listlessly assisted. Into a shoulder bag she put her few personal belongings. She let her arms fall to her side. Banished. Well, she had taken the risks and now she had to take the consequences. She sighed. Three months should pass quickly enough.

  All packed, she was led by Yamagyny through dark, twisting corridors to the side exit of the Shrine. She realised that Yamagyny had taken her by a back route to avoid being noticed, and for that she silently thanked her superior. But now she stood in a cold alley, Yamagyny behind her, a sack in one hand and two bags on her shoulders. She set the bags down and turned to Yamagyny.

  “I suppose I have to go,” she said.

  “If you had followed Our Sister Crone’s laws this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “Yes.”

  Manserphine considered the paintbrush in her pocket and wondered if the pollen it held was worth banishment. Why had she agreed to work for another Shrine? Because of her inspirational vision. The strength of that image of her working with sculpted flowers had been too strong to resist.

  She looked up and down the empty alley as a chill wind whipped at her flapping dress and brought goosebumps up on her arms and legs, and she wondered where she could go. She turned again to say goodbye, but Yamagyny had silently shut the door. She stared at the barrier before her. She was out.

  It was the middle of winter. There would be frost tonight; clear sky. She would need shelter.

  She walked up the alley to the street at its end, where she paused to take out her woollen coat and pull it around her slender body. That was better. She surveyed the narrow street. Along its central lane winter blooms grew, pale, silvery flowers with gleaming sepals, while the tracks to either side were dotted with muddy puddles. Every door and window was shut. It was early evening. Around her stood the towers, domes, and black-and-white houses of Veneris, and yet it seemed that tonight there was nothing homely here. When a group of people passed by they glanced at her then strode on, as if she was of no importance.