Un Lun Dun

78. Night Eyes

Deeba and her companions traveled through strange quarters in the orange illumination of streetlights and the glow of the fat loon.

They took backstreets, climbing over walls, and through holes in fences, and empty houses. They stayed out of sight, avoiding the few night-walking UnLondoners. To Deeba’s frustration, they had to pause periodically, to let Skool catch up, heavy boots swinging with impressive quiet, but that was made up for by the times Skool pushed away some ridiculously heavy thing blocking their path. Once Jones led Deeba through what she thought for a moment were tree trunks, then realized were enormous skinny legs that supported houses, jostling each other gently.

“Come on!” whispered Jones. “Before any of them sit down.”

When the first loop of the UnSun appeared over the horizon like a sea serpent’s hump, Deeba had to admit even she needed to stop, and they found a building full of nothing but door lintels, and slept.

When they emerged that evening, the loon was a perfect circle.

“Look at it,” said Hemi.

“Let’s not go,” said Obaday.

“Are you mad?” said Deeba. “Come on!”

“We’ve no choice, Fing,” said Jones. “We’ll just be careful. Shouldn’t really travel when the loon’s full,” he explained to Deeba.

“Why not?”

“Things come out.”

They passed a moil building made entirely of vinyl records. There was a glass tank the size of a house, full of earth tunneled by rodents. At the top of a steep rise they looked over the abcity, which was speckled with glimmering colors. Deeba could see for miles, to the lights of the November Tree and the UnLondon-I, the high towers of Manifest Station.

Here and there, miles apart, the night was broken with the lights of houses on fire.

“The Smog,” said Jones.

“You reckon the Smog’s setting all of them?” Deeba said. “Some are them aren’t even near smogmires.”

“Could be the Concern,” said Jones. “Smog’s allies.”

“It’s growing itself,” Deeba said. “Setting fires to suck up smoke. It’s trying to get stronger, ’cause it knows it’s time for war.”

Even where the conflagrations were extinguished, the remains poured off black smoke for a long time.

“They have to put them out,” Deeb said, “but then they feed the Smog.”

Something flitted above them. They tensed, but the sky was clear. The sound came again.

“What is that?” said the book. Jones drew his copper club.

“I don’t see any Smog,” Hemi whispered. “But something’s after us.”

They ran down a narrow avenue of house-things. It was an empty zone of UnLondon, and their footsteps rang hollowly in unlit streets. The strange noises kept coming.

They bolted down a side street, hurrying Skool along between them, twisting as fast as they could into narrow, convoluted roads. Flitting, hunting presences gusted overhead. They beeped and whirred faintly behind them, but suddenly seemed to circle confusingly, and sound ahead.

Deeba turned a corner, and stopped in astonishment. Above her in the night sky, a flock of winking green lights approached. They eddied and swirled like fish.

“Back! Back!” she said to her companions, but more of the lights turned the corner behind them.

As they neared her, Deeba could see what they were. CCTV cameras, racing through the air like little planes. They surrounded the travelers, every dark lens turned towards them. Deeba heard the faint mechanical wheeze of them adjusting.

The travelers turned down a tiny alley. The cameras stared mercilessly at the little group of explorers. Especially at Deeba.

Deeba and her friends ran hard, but it was too late. The cameras had locked onto them, and couldn’t be shaken off.

“Who are they?” Deeba shouted as they ran.

“Might be Propheseers,” said Jones. He swore. They had reached an empty space between warehouses, with only one way in or out, and too open to hide in. He stared up at the sky for airships or gyrocopters.

“I don’t reckon so,” said Hemi.

There was a rumbling. The ground shook. Everyone cried out, and stumbled.

In the corner of the empty yard, the concrete vibrated and cracked, then exploded up, sending huge chunks and shards flying. Something massive and pointed burst from beneath it, whining.

It was a spinning corkscrew drill, the size of a steeple. Behind it was a big cylindrical craft, sliding out of the tunnel it had carved.

It flashed with blue lights. It rose out of the earth with a familiar nee-naw-nee-naw sound, and emblazoned on its side Deeba saw the symbol of the Metropolitan Police.

The burrowing thing cut off the way out. A hatch banged open. Two men stuck their heads out, wearing the distinctive domed helmets of the London police.

“Deeba Resham,” one shouted. “You’re under arrest.”