The Glass Republic: The Skyscraper Throne: Book II by Tom Pollock Page B

ssubsstansse that might ssserve you, a compound fit to change
sseeing
into
doing
, a tincture to transsform a window to a door: a portal primer, if you will, or a doorway drug. It might even get you sssomewhere ass issolated as the mirrorsstocracy’s republic. Our price for ssuch a prize is sssimple—’
    He flourished his empty oil-soaked hand. ‘A complete ssset of memoriess of a child, rendered from the mindss of her parentsss – not copiesss, you undersstand, but originalss.’ He snorted. ‘Even true memoriess degrade, copiess of them wassste like they’re diseassssed.’
    For a long moment Pen didn’t understand, then something hot and painful sank slowly towards the bottom of her stomach as she realised what he was asking her for.
    ‘You want my folks’ memories … of me?’ she whispered. ‘You want them to forget me.’
    ‘Mosst assssuredly no.’ Johnny’s tone didn’t change. ‘We do not
want
them to forget you. That iss an irrelevant ssside effect.’
    Pen gave a little tight shake of head. ‘Something else,’ she said. ‘Not them – not my parents. Something of mine—’
    ‘Nothing you posssesss iss sso potent ass a parent’ss memoriess of thosse they have born. Ssuch thingsss kindle conflictss and are the ssseeds of sscience. They are the well-springss of hope and obssesssions of even the sssanest of men,’ Johnny said gently. ‘We want nothing of yourss.’
    ‘I told you I wouldn’t hurt anyone!’ Pen’s cry echoed off the bricks. She stared back down the tunnel, but all she saw was a maze.
    The flame from Johnny’s lighter danced in his liquid eyes, and his voice was sonorous in her ears. ‘Sssilly little pilgrim, that’sss precissely why we asssk thiss. We know your ssstory. You musst know, ass we know, that your mother and father blame themsselves for your pressent, parodic appearance. “If we’d only watched her better, or taught her better, or loved her better or fed her better”.’ He spoke with a calm viciousness, eyeing the sharp jut of her cheeks. ‘“If only we” – that’ss the ssentiment that sstrangless your parentss’ sssleep. Would you like to know how poorly they sssleep now? How tenuousssly they are ssstitched to their happinesss? If you are sserious about not hurting them, your choice iss ssimple. Either sstay by their sside and ssacrifice whatever urgent quesst hass made you sseek uss out, or accept our price, and make ssure they won’t missss you when you’re gone.’
    Pen felt the bricks of the wall in her back like the supporting hand of a friend, but rather than collapse against them she stayed stiffly upright.
    Ssacrifice whatever urgent quessst …
    She tried to imagine it. She tried to picture herself turning around and going home and hiding under the duvet. She tried really, really hard.
    But she couldn’t. She didn’t recognise the girl in that picture. She wasn’t her, and she didn’t want to be. A strange kind of calm settled over her as she realised this wasn’t really a choice after all: it looked like one, but it wasn’t. She pictured the future where her folks had forgotten her, and it came clearly: her dad reading the paper, her mum engaged in her endless second-floor ballet with the Hoover. They’d be okay, they wouldn’t miss her. They
couldn’t
miss her. It was appalling, but it was true. That was the point. She wetted her lips to accept the inevitable. There wasn’t another option here …
    Unless she made one.
    ‘You said you didn’t go behind the mirror.’ Pen’s voice came out hoarse, a little crackly, but strong. ‘Isn’t there something better behind there than a few sentimental memories of my first steps? You’re collectors, aren’t you? There must be something. What if I could bring it to you?’
    Each of the five members of the synod took a step forward, hemming her behind a wall of petrol-soaked suit. They looked even more predatory when they were intrigued.
    ‘Interessting. Sssomething ssingular,’