After thirty minutes of scrambling over debris, we finally arrived at the Perpetulite. It was a four-lane roadway of perfect grey-black compound, and the bronze pins had been driven in closer together than at Bleak Point, so the spalling was less severe.
“Thank Munsell for that,” breathed Courtland, emptying a bootful of earth and sitting on the glossy black central barrier. The roadway even had Perpetulite lampposts of a much more modern design than the iron posts I was used to, and the lightglobes, where still present, were alight.
We walked down the road, which seemed somehow more incongruous here in the depopulated wasteland than at home. There, at least, there was someone to use the road or even see it; here it existed purely for its own sake.
There Shall Be Spoons
2.3.06.56.027: Flowers are not to be picked; they are to be enjoyed by everyone.
As we walked toward the town, the scattered broadleaf forest was replaced by the curved, whiplike branches of the yateveos, and since they always kept the ground beneath them meticulously clear of any brush or vegetation, the verges, side roads and collapsed buildings had a creepy well-manicured look to them. Not that our path was totally maintenance-free and perfection; the Perpetulite’s ability to remove debris worked only as far as the curb, so the edges of the road were marked by low banks of grass-covered detritus, a little like piecrusts.
Courtland saw his first spoon ten minutes later. It was by the side of the road, but he didn’t pick it up.
There was a yateveo looming above, and Jane told him there would be more spoons farther on. Even though the canopy of the carnivorous trees extended almost completely across the roadway and the barbed spines were at tensioned readiness, as long as we kept from yelling and didn’t smell of blood, they wouldn’t be able to sense us. The root sensors of the yateveo could not break through the tough layer of Perpetulite.
The road entered a circular junction, and we took the route that led to a bridge across the river. The tide was out, and by looking seaward along the silted-in tidal reaches, we could clearly see the large, flat-decked ship that dominated the mouth of the estuary. Even from this distance it was gargantuan; the gulls that wheeled above its superstructure looked like little more than specks.
Fifty yards beyond the bridge we came across a railway track. To the left it continued on toward the coast but looked unused; the way was impeded by trees and thick shrubbery. To the right the tracks curved off into the trees and headed north. We were standing at some kind of station, made entirely of Perpetulite. There were platforms, benches and light stands, but no ticket hall or canteen. It was quiet, too, and as we stood there, a bird fell from the sky and landed at our feet, quite dead.
“Spoons!” exclaimed Courtland, and he was right. Dotted along the side of the road were more of them, in great abundance. There were no yateveos here, so he scooped them up by the handful and poured them into his satchel with a satisfying jangle. But as we moved on he discovered more and, unable to carry them all, he became more selective. By the time we had walked the short distance to the twice-lifesize bronze of Munsell, he was nonchalantly tossing aside spoons that were not perfect and started collecting only the ones that were pristine or had unusual postcodes on the back, or those he described as yellow.
Beyond Munsell’s bronze was what looked like an open-air meeting place. It was a flat, circular piazza perhaps a hundred yards in diameter, with a series of ionic columns set about the periphery at fifteen-foot intervals. On top of these was a continuous and gently curved architrave, and decorating this in a long unbroken frieze were animals, human figures and Leapbacked technology, some familiar, some not. We passed slowly through the processional entrance arch and noticed that the columns, floor, panels and even benches and classically styled lamp stands were made entirely of a reddish veined Perpetulite, as though attempting to emulate the more transient marble.
It was, perhaps, the most awe-inspiring construction I had ever laid eyes on. Not just because of the scale or the symmetrical perfection, but the craftsmanship. The capitals were finely sculpted with a dramatic flourish, and the delicate sinews of the horses’ bodies within the frieze were as finely detailed now as they had been since construction, and would remain so as long as there was oxygen in the air and there were nutrients in the soil.
It was between the columns that the rain-tarnished spoons had gathered. There must have been hundreds of thousands of them—perhaps more. They were heaped right where the swirly-patterned Perpetulite ended and the lawns began, and they lay in a long jumbled mass that was so high I could barely step over them. But oddly, while most were already covered in moss, leaf mold and lichen, the ones facing the piazza were still shiny and new. I walked across to the simple stone monolith that stood in the center of the piazza. It was slender and tall, and it bore a familiar inscription. I sat on one of the benches to look at it: Apart We Are Together.
“What do you think?” asked Jane, sitting down beside me.
“It’s certainly impressive, if not a bit disturbing,” I replied. “The centerpiece of some long-abandoned town?”
“Actually, this is just the beginning of High Saffron,” she said as Courtland whooped with joy over some particularly fine spoon he’d just discovered. “The rest of the town carries on toward the coast. But it’s not deserted. Not always. Far from it.”
The sun went behind a cloud, and I shivered. The atmosphere in the piazza seemed suddenly oppressive, and I noticed for the first time that there was no wildlife of any sort, not even so much as a butterfly. I lifted my hand from the bench. There was a sharp pain as I left some skin behind, and a droplet of bright red blood splashed on the bench; a second later it began to bubble.
“It’s best to keep on the move,” said Jane, and we stood up. My foot knocked against a spoon that I hadn’t seen, and as I bent to pick it up, I yelled. Lying beneath the surface of the Perpetulite, like a drowned man under ice, was a blank face staring back up at me. His mouth was wide open and his hands palms up. His bones were all perfectly visible within the gentle overlay of soft tissue, and even the herringbone pattern of his jacket was discernible. Like the giraffe I had seen outside East Carmine, the indiscriminate organoplastoid had simply absorbed him as if he were nothing more than rainwater or leaf litter. But as I stared at the apparition in the smooth surface, I noticed that another, more fully digested body was just discernible to his left. And beyond that there was another. And another. As I looked around, I saw that the swirling pattern I had assumed was as random as that in linoleum was actually a jumble of semi-digested people, lying in haphazard profusion. The Perpetulite had consumed their tissue, bones, teeth, clothes—and left behind only the indigestible parts, which were simply moved tidily to the side. You didn’t take much to Reboot, but tradition dictated that you always took a spoon. And it wasn’t just spoons at the curbside. It was buttons, buckles, shoe nails, coins, all stained rust-red from the hemoglobin.
“The Night Train from Cobalt junction,” I murmured. “It doesn’t go to Emerald City at all, does it?”
“No,” said Jane, “it comes right here.”
I looked around at the piles of spoons. All those people who had been sent to Reboot because of sedition, unruliness, bad manners or disrespect, or by deceit or accident. They said you were reallocated to another sector once you had been educated. They lied. All the Rebootees ended their days here, except perhaps the few who got away—the woman in the flak tower and Thomas Emerald’s remains under the purple tree. Little wonder they had been dressed in Standard Casuals.