Update

Another couple of chapters almost done. We'll soon meet the shady S. Redact, see what Zzrh and Zzg are up to, and find out about the 'Skeleton God in Oil Paint' itself. Excited?

What, not even a little?!

I've also added a funny graph to the sidebar. I'm still figuring out quite how it works, but generally we want lots of green and not much red. You can also see what my word count is. 15% of the way there! Whoo!

Chapter 4

IV
Breakdown

"Can't say as I've ever picked anyone up from the Nematode Quarter before," the gyrocabby says, turning around to face Cubi and yelling over the sound of the rotors.

Cubi covers his eyes. "Don't look at me! Look where you're going!"

The cabby leans his arm over his seat as he addresses Cubi. A flap of skin joins his arm to his body as far as his elbow. He smiles an enormous smile, the corners of his mouth almost reaching his bulbous eyes. "Not a fan of flying, I take it?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I'm not! Please look where you're going!"

"I was born to fly, my friend. I don't need to look where I'm- OI! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

The winged apian who almost flew into them shouts something back, perhaps not something too flattering.

The cabby makes a series of obscene gestures at him, and he swoops down and away, towards the base of Hive Central. "Fucking apians. Need to look where they're going. Anyway," he turns to Cubi again, "as I was saying, no-one flies like an airphibian. It's, er, in my bones, as a human might put it!"

"I'm not really the religious sort," Cubi says, closing his eyes and resting his face in his hands.

"Oh! Well, it takes all sorts. Here, what do you think about this Mec Ogive business?"

Cubi lifts his head briefly. What has Mec done now? "I happen to consider him a good friend of mine," Cubi says, unenthusiastically, "but, look, my best friend is really ill and I might need to get her to the hospital. I'm not really in the mood to talk about religion."

The cabby's already huge eyes widen. "An emergency? Why didn't you say? I'll get you there in no time!" He grabs the control column with both hands and stares into the heads-up-display intently, then shoves the throttle forward, the rotors beating the air with a new urgency.

"Wait," Cubi says, "that's okay, just fly carefully and-"

"Nonsense!" the cabby yells. He pushes the control column forward and the gyrocopter drops suddenly, leaving Cubi's stomach high in the sky behind it.

*

"I'm fine," Cubi says, as the cabby helps him down. "Just leave the engine running. I'll let you know if we don't need you."

"No worries," the cabby says magnanimously. Always glad to be part of some excitement. Careful!"

Cubi's knees give out as he tries to walk, but he straightens out shakily. "I'm fine. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

This is the industrial district. North of Hive Central, separated from the river by the slimy wasteland of Sludgetown. The buildings here are blocky and grey, the kind of architecture the apians used to use for anywhere intended for their wingless workers. Huge smokestacks stick up into the sky, almost comically narrow. They belch smoke up into the air, adding to the green haze of pollution that is visible over the city after second sunrise.

The gyrocopter is parked in the deserted street outside Perni's lot. There is no-one around, no sign of any living presence except for a few abandoned vehicles. Cubi steps up to the intercom by the gate and presses the buzzer. After a wait of about half a minute, the security camera whirrs around to look at him, and the gate grinds open with a rusty shriek.

He lets himself in through the side door. Perni lives in a little hut inside the warehouse that serves as her workshop. The only identifiable furnishings inside are a bed and a chest of drawers, but Perni's possessions are numerous. Books and unwashed dinner plates are littered over the floor, dirty laundry is piled in the corners. When she's hard at work on a project, Perni cares little for the more mundane aspects of life. Cubi wonders when she last did so much as open a window.

He walks right through, trying hard not to step on anything.

He opens the door leading into the warehouse slowly, knowing fully what to expect. A mass of rubber tubing is heaped in a pile just under the doorstep, waiting to trip him up. He hops over it and into the mess inside.

Perni sits on the ground, cross legged, wrapped in a blanket. Around her are heaped several tonnes of half-constructed machines, spilling their electronic and hydraulic guts onto the concrete floor, plastered with sheets and sheets of precise technical drawings and scribbled notes.

"Are you okay?" Cubi asks her, kneeling by her side.

Her skin is pale and sweaty, her short black hair is lank and uncombed. She shivers visibly. "Who, me?" she says weakly. "I'm just fine, why do you ask?"

Cubi brushes her hair out of the way and lightly presses his palm to her forehead. "You're burning up."

She nods. She shifts the blanket and holds up the screwdriver she's holding in her hand. "I really, really need to work on the project, Cubi. But my hands are shaking too much and I can't think."

"You're shivering. You have a fever."

"No, my hands were shaking first."

"I think you were right. We should get you to hospital."

She shakes her head. "I really have to finish this. If I don't, I'll be in a lot of trouble. I only have a few days before the deadline."

"I'm sure they'll understand."

"They're not the understanding sort."

Cubi puts his hand on her shoulder. "Perni, you're not getting any work done. If you want to get this finished, you need to get well first."

She nods. He helps her to stand up. She staggers giddily, almost falling over into a pile of sharp looking gears. Cubi holds her tight around the waist, and they walk out, slowly.

When they reach the gyrocopter, the cabby offers her a sick bag. She takes it and laughs feebly.

The cabby flies carefully this time, keeping his eyes intently ahead, not chattering at all. Perni leans on Cubi. Her clammy hand finds his and squeezes. He squeezes back.

*

The nearest hospital is in the Human Quarter, although the doctor is a neurop. Her green exoskeleton has been carefully polished and her long, thin feelers tied back. The tips of her fine, lacy wings poke out from the bottom of her long white coat. After the examination, Cubi comes in to sit on the side of Perni's bed and hear the verdict.

Perni sits up, a hospital gown tied to her broad-shouldered, lanky body, a resigned expression on her face.

The doctor sips coffee from a styrofoam cup - insects never seem to get enough of the stuff - and studies a clipboard disinterestedly. "You're in quite a state," she says.

"You're not so bad to look at yourself," Perni says.

"Mostly I think that it's just a garden variety depressive episode - too much stress. But you seem to have a little bit of everything else thrown in for good measure: mental and physical fatigue, malnutrition, anxiety… A fever as well - perhaps a virus that may have added to your episode, or perhaps its just taking advantage of the weak state of your immune system."

"Will she be okay?" Cubi asks, his features feeling leaden, as much he might want to put on a brave face.

"Absolutely," the doctor says. "She'll need to stay here for a few days, on a drip. Get plenty of rest. She'll be fine. She just needs a break."

Perni nods as if acknowledging a terminal diagnosis. "Sure," she says. "Why the hell not?"

"In the long term," the doctor says delicately, "I'm going to recommend that you seek therapy. We need to make sure that whatever caused this is dealt with, and that it doesn't happen again."

"Yeah, sure," Perni says gloomily.

The doctor turns to leave. "Okay?"

"Thank you," Cubi says.

She nods and heads out the door.

Perni pulls on Cubi's sleeve to attract his attention. "You worry too much," she says. "A little stress won't kill me."

He smiles and sighs.

"But, Redact will kill me when I don't meet the deadline."

"Is that your client? I'm sure if you explain…"

Perni fiddles with Cubi's sleeve absently. "No, I mean, he'll really kill me. I can't work. I can't focus. I said that I'd meet the deadline, it was a lot of money. The contract was very tough, and the client is, well, he's a bit dangerous. If I'd known how dangerous, I wouldn't have agreed to do the work, Cubi, but... I'm an idiot. I'm going to die."

Cubi feels sick. "Perni, we have to go to the police-"

"No!" she grabs his arm, her fingers closing around his elbow weakly. "I was working for this guy! I don't want to go to prison."

"I don't want you to go to prison either. But if you're really worried that this guy will really hurt you, then we have to go to the police! Maybe, I don't know, maybe they'll overlook your part in it if you help them and if you're honest. I mean, you were worried for your safety, you helped a criminal, you didn't do anything illegal-"

Perni laughs. "I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"Oh, Perni!" Cubi rests his face in his hands.

Perni pats his arm sympathetically and smiles. "At least it wasn't one of your really good friends. You'll manage without me."

"Don't joke about it. You're my favourite friend, okay? Maybe not the easiest one to like, maybe not the best one, but my favourite one. Okay?"

"I think you're the only real friend I have, Cubi. So best, favourite and easiest to like. I don't want to die. But I can't help it."

"Perni, we have to go to the police."

Perni closes her glassy eyes for a moment and then opens them. A glimmer of her usual light seems to rise to her irises. "Look, is there somewhere I can write something down?"

Cubi looks around. "Um, not… Here, write it on my phone."

"Hang on, my fingers are trembling."

Cubi holds his mobile steady for her as she shakily taps the buttons. When she's finished, he looks at what she's written. "An address?"

"That's my client. You could… maybe, go talk to him, tell him I'm in hospital. Be sweet and friendly, as usual, and see if he'll let me off the hook." She laughs and shrugs. "Maybe I'm making a fuss about nothing. I'm hardly thinking clearly right now. He might not mind."

Cubi tries to act as if he isn't thinking about how dangerous Perni was saying this man was only a short while earlier. "Okay," he says. "I'll see what I can do."

Chapter 3

III
Zzrh

Surprisingly, the coroner has delicate mandibles, and the proverbial legs up to here - both pairs. She's wearing a blood-spattered apron and her feelers are tied back, but she probably looks quite beautiful when she's not standing over the pale, sewn-up corpse of a human.

"Well," she says, "given that he was sitting down when he was shot, I have to say that the angle of the bullet only seems unusual for a few species in the city."

"Such as?" Zzrh asks her.

"It almost certainly wasn't a slime - too tall. Or a nematode - too short. Ultrason is unlikely, their arms don't work like that. Not a cat - too short, again. That's the best I can give you. It could easily have been human, apian, neurop, airphibian, lepido, vespulin… I'm not sure about quivers, there's not exactly much medical literature on them."

"Care to give me an estimate on the weapon?"

"You'll have to wait for the ballistics report."

"A guess?"

"A pistol, not anything too powerful. Fired within a metre or so."

Zzrh looks at the adjacent slabs. "What about these two?"

"Same story for the driver and… the other guy."

"The security guard."

"Really?" She seems to look at the cadaver with new eyes. "I didn't think winged apians did lowly jobs like that."

"This is Honeyjewel Place we're talking about," Zzrh says.

"True. Anything else you want to know?"

"Your phone number?"

She folds her arms. "I'm married."

"You're not wearing a ring."

"I don't want to lose it inside someone's dead body. Are you finished?"

He closes his notebook. "Thank you."

The coroner slides the corpse back into its freezer. "It's my job," she says wearily.

*

Zzg is waiting outside. She hands Zzrh a warm cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup. "Learn anything interesting?" she asks.

"Apparently," Zzrh replies, "they were shot."

She laughs.

They walk out onto the street. Wingless apians bustle hurriedly back and forth, squeezing in and out of the subsidiary tunnels, most of them heading deeper into Hive Central to start the day's work. As they pass Zzrh, many of them sneak peeks at the veined, transparent wings that protrude from the back of his suit jacket. He's used to it, but he does feel a slight urge to ask them what use they think they are with a beeswax ceiling so low over the street.

Zzg walks out into the road and opens the driver's side door of their unmarked police car.

As he gets in the passenger side, careful not to spill his coffee, Zzrh asks her, "Did you find out why he was parked down that alley?"

She fastens her seatbelt. "Apparently it was a security measure. They thought he'd be safer down there than out in the road."

Zzrh taps a lower mandible thoughtfully. He checks that the window is wound all the way up and then says, "Right, we're going to find out who knew that he'd be down that alley. Presumably they must have thought they were keeping it a secret, so there can't be that many. I want a list. We'll interview each of them and find out who was indiscrete and who had a motive and so on. We'll prioritise the humans, of course, but we can't make it look like we're prioritising the humans. We can expect the higher-ups to be keeping a close eye on us, and the media an even closer one. Everyone's just waiting for some racial tensions to boil over somewhere on this one. I don't want it to happen anywhere near either of us."

Zzg starts the car. "You're telling me."

*

Honeyjewel Place is tucked neatly into the second part of the river's double kink, on the north bank. Across the water from the Nematode Quarter, it's too narrow a promontory for Hive Central to have expanded onto it, and too far from the Human Quarter to have been colonised by mammals. Instead, it became a kind of Hive Central tourist's district, where humans and quivers come to absorb some apian culture without actually having to rub shoulders with the workers.

It's posh as nobody's business, and beautiful to look at. Pure apian architecture, beautifully sculpted beeswax, but made to resemble human open-air streets and blocky human buildings. Kind of like the real skyscrapers in the Human Quarter, only much smaller and nicer. Of course, they say that you're never more than three metres from a mammal, even in Hive Central, and a few real human buildings are dotted around, such as the pretentiously historic hotel where Ogive was murdered.

Zzrh thinks it looks pretty ugly really. Ancient stone, cut from the ground and left to fade and crack. No constant reapplication of natural wax; just a big lump of ancient matter left to crumble. So very oppressively mammalian.

They park round the back and speak to the same guy they did the first time, standing half in and half out of the back door, in between two overflowing dumpsters. He's a particularly soft-bodied looking human, rolls of fat almost completely obscuring his internal skeleton, his wet, squidgy eyes taking in wingless Zzg with an insincere regard.

"You're right," he says, directing his comments to Zzrh even though Zzg is more fluent in Umani. "We did hope that it was a secret. Someone must have been indiscrete. I hope that you won't make too big a deal of this…"

"It is a big deal," Zzrh says, pulling out a cigarette. "It got Mec Ogive killed. But we're not interested in it for any reason other than we think that it might help us find his killer. We're not looking to get you in any trouble, so please just be honest with us."

He's hardly got the cigarette between his mandibles before the man has lit it for him. Don't let anyone tell you that humans can't do the service industry, Zzrh thinks to himself.

"Whatever the circumstances," the man says, "we are always happy to co-operate with the police. There were very few people in the hotel staff who knew about Mr Ogive's plans. Myself, my superiors and several of the security guards. Come inside and I'll compile a list. Would you like tea? Coffee? Honey?"

"No, thank you."

They step into a hard-floored, sterile looking hallway and end up in the barren, corporate-postered employee break room. The human already in there quickly shoves her doughnut into her soft mouthparts and scampers off.

The fat human starts scribbling names on a piece of headed notepaper. "The police were in charge of security on the road," he adds cautiously, "and I believe they also knew."

"Add them to the list then," Zzg says with soft sarcasm.

Beneath the dozen or so human and apian names on the paper, the man adds, 'The Police,' then hands it to Zzrh who folds it up and tucks it into his inside jacket pocket.

Zzrh gives the man a nod of thanks. "You've been a great help."

He turns to go, but the man stops him suddenly. "Oh! One other thing! One of our security guards didn't turn up for work today. I thought he might need time off to cope with the stress of the murder, so I was going to mark it as paid sick leave, but it seems that his absence actually began last night, before Mr Ogive was killed. I haven't had a chance to review the security tapes or anything - perhaps it was just a mistake and he really was here. But I thought you should know. I trust all of my staff, of course, but, it just seemed…"

Zzg finishes the sentence for him: "Suspicious."

"Yes," he admits.

"Is he on the list you gave me?" Zzrh asks.

"No."

"But it's not inconceivable that he found out about where Mr Ogive's car was?"

"I wouldn't say inconceivable, no."

"Write down his name and address. A photo would be nice as well, so we can have someone look for him on our copy of your security tapes. We'll let you know if you need to update your records. In the meantime, my partner and I will pay him a visit and see what he has to say."

Chapter 2

II
Worms and Phone Calls

A small, sickly sun rises over the horizon, casting a weak yellow light over the city below. It peers between blocky towers and glass-fronted skyscrapers, summoning weak shadows between the forest of canvas balloons by the river and illuminating the mountainous beeswax tower that lances up into the sky from the city centre.

Metal and living forms are already airborne over the city, flitting and hovering, soaring and gliding. The whisper of a thousand rubber tyres on tarmac rises into the sky like the roar of an ocean. One by one, the streetlights flicker off.

*

Cubi’s alarm buzzes shrilly and he awakes with a jolt. He staggers out of bed, running his fingers through his messy mop of dark blonder hair. The water is cold. He showers hurriedly.

He eats breakfast standing up in the kitchen, looking out of the window at the first sunrise. In between spooning cereal into his mouth he tries to read a paperback novel with one hand, bending the spine out of shape. After a while he turns the television on.

The caption reads, ‘Scrimshaw, Community Leader.’ His silver hair is perfectly styled and his expression is serene. His voice booms, sonorous with authority. “-shame that any work of art into which such time and effort has been poured should be lost. But I feel that it is the moral responsibility of whoever has inherited this painting to ensure that it is completely des-”

Cubi changes the channel. More bad news: police tape and forensic scientists in white coveralls trying not to look at the camera. “-shot dead last night in his limo by an unknown assailant,” the voiceover says, “police are-”

He changes the channel again. An apian cartoon lights up the screen with bright colours and geometrical shapes. Amidst the clamour of sound effects, he almost doesn’t notice when his phone starts to ring.

He mutes the sound and grabs his mobile from the worktop, checking the number before he answers. No one he recognises. “Who are you?” he asks the little liquid crystal screen. “Market research again? Believe me, I don’t fall into any of your demographics. You really wouldn’t like me.”

He silences the phone with the push of a button and slips it into his jeans pocket.

*

Cubi’s apartment building is that strange curved rectangular shape common to Antennaton, south of the river and mostly inhabited by neurops and wingless apian workers. A part of the city built by humans to insect specifications, a strange hybrid that is neither one nor the other, nor both. The streets are curved and cross frequently; blocks of flats cluster together in islands between them.

A pair of wingless apians are standing outside the building as Cubi steps out, both leaning against the faux-beeswax wall. The one facing the door fixes her compound eyes on him rudely, while her friend natters away.

“-only sensible human in the city, and of course, the other humans kill him!” she is saying.

“Do we know it was a human?” the other one says, looking away as Cubi meets her eye.

“Who else would it be?”

“An airphibian perhaps. He’s not exactly been kind to Quip, either.”

“Yeah, but they’re too laid back. You hear airphibians making fun of Quip more than anyone else, for-” She stops suddenly as Cubi walks past with his hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat and she finally sees him. When they apparently think he is out of earshot, he thinks he just hears her say, “You should have told me there was one right behind me!”

Cubi finds that he can’t help but laugh a little when he has rounded the corner, although he is not sure quite why.

The sky is clear, the kind of deep purple common to a first sunrise at the tail end of summer. Some pinkish clouds hover near the horizon near the feeble yellow orb of Lesser Sun. Cubi is heading northwest, past Fernheath Park and the dense forest of airphibian balloon houses tethered to its haggard trees, through Squarebury, the last drab remnants of the old apian worker’s quarters that used to sprawl through the southern half of the city, and to the little, dilapidated part of the city that is squeezed into the southern side of the double kink in the river. The place where Cubi plies his trade, and feels most at home.

The streets are mostly empty. The odd car passes. A few gyrocopters and winged apians buzz overhead. But the city still sleeps. Cubi walks slowly, a folded chair under his arm, a toolbox in his hand. There’s still a while to go before second sunrise.

*

Cubi sets up his chair and places the toolbox at his side. On top of Argon Hill he has a commanding view of the rest of the city. Hive Central shoots up into the sky across the river: the beeswax building at the centre of the city that can’t decide if it’s a skyscraper or a mountain. Its top half is brightly lit. The thing is so tall that its tip experiences second sunrise half an hour before the rest of the city.

Cubi sits in the middle of the street. There will be no traffic here, in the Nematode Quarter. The road surface has been broken into dust over the decades, and now this whole small part of the city is covered in soft soil, weeds and grass. The faded redbrick buildings are collapsing slowly in on themselves, as if part of a slow motion demolition. The rest of the city is stirring, but the sound of air and ground traffic is distant and hushed. Cubi closes his eyes. It’s so peaceful here at any time of the day, but now is the best.

His mobile rings.

He pulls it out of his jeans and looks at the screen. It’s the same number.

He refuses the call and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. “Fuck off already. Most people are just getting up right now and rushing to work. Why would you want to take up their time right now?”

He sighs. Most of Hive Central is lit now. Sunlight is glinting on the glass sides of the human skyscrapers that huddle around its western side. Looking to the east, Cubi thinks he can just make out the edge of Greater Sun’s large blue disc. Things are definitely lighter already. The world seems more azure.

As the first strong rays of sunlight reach the soil in the Nematode Quarter, the ground begins to churn, slowly and lazily, like a million worms rolling over in their sleep. A ridiculous metaphor, naturally. Cubi suspects there are no more than ten thousand worms in the whole Nematode Quarter.

The first of them breaches the soil to Cubi’s left, squirming up in languid thrusts, gradually bringing more of its two metre long, tube-like body into the sunlight. More nematodes start to surface. They have smooth, transparent skin. Their simple insides are visible: a single loop of muscle, a strange and diffuse brain, and several bright green colonies of symbiotic, photosynthesising bacteria. When each of the worms is on the surface, it lies full length in the sun, soaking up air and sunlight. They need nothing else whatsoever to live. Cubi envies them this immensely.

Many of them have widgets with them - silver ovoids larger than a rugby ball and covered in weird pads and rubber buttons. No-one knows what they do, not even Cubi. But somehow he has a knack for realigning them when they start to lose their proper settings. In fact, he seems to do it better than any nematode does. He is quite in demand. The nematodes don’t fully participate in the city economy, but they seem to have all the money they need. Cubi earns enough to get by. Like the nematodes, he doesn’t really want any more.

Several nematodes begin to push their widgets in his direction. He opens his toolbox and smiles, although he doesn’t know if they can perceive his expression.

His mobile rings.

Growling through his teeth, Cubi fumbles it out of his jeans and addresses it sternly. “Okay, I’m going to answer this and swear at you now.”

He looks at the number and his expression softens. It’s one he knows, he presses the phone to his ear. “Phew. Perni, how are you? I almost swore at you, I thought you were market research!”

Her voice is weak, almost a whisper. “Cubi, I’m not well.”

“Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“Can you come round? I might be making a fuss about nothing, but on the other hand I might need to go to hospital.”

Cubi stands. He can feel a little bit of panic rising. “Hospital? Okay. Um, okay. I’ll be right over.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay.”

He hangs up.

Then he looks around. “Oh shit.”

The entire Nematode Quarter is tied up with giant, sunbathing worms, with barely room to place a foot between them. The road leading down from the hill is almost a solid mass of intertwined, tubular bodies.

“Okay,” Cubi says. “Get to Perni…”

Chapter 1

I
Mec Ogive

The ice moon is high in the sky, its white light almost outshining the floodlights and camera flashes. At the front of the hotel - an ornate and gothic building half as old as the city itself - the protestors seem eerie and unreal in the mixture of natural and artificial light.

Mec Ogive walks with a cane, stooped and physically weak. But his eyes are bright; he holds his head high, even as the crowds around him bay for his blood and wave their hateful placards. Apian police officers cordon off the mob, tinted visors down low over their compound eyes, riot shields held high. Their black and yellow striped abdomens are raised in a stern but non-threatening pose.

A woman almost breaks through, riot shields rapidly squeezing her back into the crowd. "You dishonour your bones!" she screams.

If only she knew how ridiculous she sounded to him. He smiles at her, tries to show he genuinely holds no grudge, but he sees the way she glares back, taking his gesture as patronising or sarcastic. He sighs and follows the path around to the side of the building, where his car and driver wait.

This is where they stick him, down a dingy alley, safely tucked away, distanced from the hotel that housed the conference. Stagnant puddles splash beneath his patent leather shoes. A smell of rotting garbage wafts from the mildewed brick walls. He opens the limo door and slides into the backseat.

"Driver," he begins, and then stops, his mouth still open.

"Mec Ogive?" the stranger asks.

He nods.

There is a gunshot.

Here We Go...

If you want to read the story novel without these interruptions, click on Chapters under the label header on the sidebar.

I've written three chapters for 3000 words so far. Actually the second chapter is the 'short introductory chapter' that I mentioned earlier. I added another very short chapter before it, just so it has an exciting start.

A Brief History

For comparison:

Longest completed story I've ever written: 23,000 words.

Longest unfinished story I've ever written: 35,000 words.