Stone Clock

by Andrew Bannister

  So was he. His quarters were odd, but in ways that pleased him – a series of rough chambers connected by sinuous tunnels, just big enough for him to walk upright. They were made of some stuff that looked like coarse grey concrete, but that was slightly warm to the touch. The Orbiter had said they were modelled on giant ant-hills. For a while he wondered if the ship was trying clumsily to make him feel at home, but he suspected it was much subtler than that. Or possibly it was just having a laugh.

  Things settled into a routine. Skarbo found it at the same time healing and boring. He spent some time exploring. The old ship had told him there were other models of the Spin, but not how many. He was beginning to wonder if its reticence had more than one purpose, and that one of the purposes might be fun.

  He had found six so far. A couple were nearly as big as the one he had seen first but one, hidden away in a damp forest glade, was small enough that he could almost embrace it. None were as elaborate as the ones he had made, but the Orbiter had plenty of other opportunities for elaboration – there seemed no limit to the variety of habitats it had managed to squeeze in, and he suspected it had other hobbies as well. One of which was reticence.

  Grapf followed him around. He began to like the little machine, which seemed to know the Orbiter very well.

  At least the old ship had relented from its original plan to keep him and The Bird in the model bowl. As well as his personal ant-hill, he had the use of a little hut in the corner of an evergreen area. It smelled good, and as a benefit it had a viewing screen which showed current affairs and, he discovered, entertainments.

  In a moment of aimless fiddling about, he had discovered that the screen could be made to display ‘time to destination’. Right now the figure shown was just over two hundred hours – ten days – but that, he had found, was not ten days to the Spin. Even at this unimaginable speed, getting there would apparently take longer than that.

  We cannot approach the Spin like this, the Orbiter had said.

  ‘Why not?’

  The Bird had answered first. ‘Because we’d look like a missile! Probably get shot out of the sky. Bang! Pieces.’

  The creature is right. We could be taken to be a Dispersable Invasive Force. The Spin may have defences against such things. It used to.

  The plan, then, was to pause and regroup about a light-week from where the Orbiter believed the Spin’s sphere of influence probably ended. From that distance, the Orbiter could make it to the Spin under its own steam in about another thirty days, with some of the old warships riding cover at a discreet distance. Good enough.

  But there was something else.

  You will probably have to disembark for a few days.

  Skarbo had paused at that. ‘Really?’

  I advise it.

  ‘Why?’

  I intend to reconnoitre. Spin space appears silent at present, but that does not mean that it really is so, or that it will certainly remain so.

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought the Warfront was behind us.’

  It is. But is it only behind us?

  The Bird hovered, canting its body up and down in a gesture Skarbo had decided was an avian nod. ‘Who fights a war with only one front? Eh?’

  Yes.

  Skarbo frowned. ‘Can’t one of the warships go?’

  It would be too noticeable. If I go alone I might still pass for an amiable geriatric.

  Skarbo avoided The Bird’s gaze. ‘I see. Where will we wait for you?’

  But the old ship said nothing.

  This did not impress The Bird. Later it barged into Skarbo’s quarters, already talking as it came through the door.

  ‘It said where we’re going yet? Eh?’

  It meant the Orbiter. Skarbo sighed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I expect it will.’

  ‘Expect? Ha. Know what I expect, do you? I expect it’s senile. Or stupid. Both. Spent too long plotting in dark corners and remembering the good old days. Know how old the thing is?’

  Skarbo shrugged. ‘Old.’

  ‘Damn right. Tens and tens and tens of thousands of years. AIs don’t last for ever.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Then something occurred to Skarbo. He looked sharply at The Bird. ‘How old are you?’

  It had been dragging a claw restlessly along the ground. Now it paused for a moment and looked up, twisting its neck to stare at him with one eye. ‘Told me all your secrets, have you?’

  Skarbo said nothing. It seemed to take that as confirmation. ‘Course not. Why shouldn’t I save a few?’

  ‘As you please.’

  ‘Please has nothing to do with it. Nothing please about what’s going on now. Or what’s going to happen. Senile.’

  ‘You called me that, once.’

  ‘Might have been right. Maybe you and it deserve each other.’ It shook its wings and flew off.

  Skarbo watched it go. Maybe we do, he thought. As for you and I? He shook his head.

  The screen in his hut had been showing ‘one day to destination’ for a couple of hours when something pinged softly. He looked up from the old movie he was watching. ‘Yes?’

  We are decelerating – about to dock. It will take a few hours. Would you like to watch?

  A few hours seemed rather a long time, but Skarbo didn’t have anything else to do. He nodded. ‘Yes please.’

  Please come back to the model bowl.

  He sighed. ‘Can I see it from here?’

  Not so well.

  ‘All right.’ He levered himself up on to legs that seemed stiffer each day, and walked slowly back through the forests to where they had seen the model of the Spin on the first day.

  The model was still there, but the bowl had changed. The misty walled edges had gone, and now it seemed he was standing in space with the Spin below him and the network of warships all around. There was a fluttering behind him, and he half smiled to himself.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, without turning round.

  ‘Hello yourself. Been having a good time, have you?’

  ‘Good enough. You?’

  The Bird flew past to hover in front of him. ‘No.’

  He was about to ask why when the old ship spoke.

  Now.

  And the lines of colour between the ships began to strobe fiercely.

  Skarbo fought off the impulse to duck. ‘Is that supposed to happen?’

  Yes. Wait. You will see.

  He waited – and then the lines vanished. He drew a breath. Above him The Bird made a clicking noise.

  He was looking at two interlocking rings, slender and rough-textured. There was nothing to give away their size, but some sense told him they were very big indeed. ‘Ah, ship?’

  Two hundred kilometres.

  He blinked. ‘I hadn’t—’

  You were going to ask how big they were.

  He heard The Bird muttering ‘smartarse’ under its breath, and ignored it. ‘Yes, I was.’

  Each ring is presently two hundred kilometres in diameter. This may change soon.

  ‘How?’

  The Left Hand Stewardship has authorized extensions. There is population pressure.

  The old ship explained things.

  It was called Handshake, which apparently referred to some arcane form of greeting from when everyone that mattered had hands. The galaxy was full of things rather like it, except for the shape.

  It was a pattern which had been repeated uncountable times through history. If you had run out of space, or food, or money, or luck wherever you came from, you climbed into the least busted old ship you could find and headed out. When you ran out of fuel, you either bought some more, if you were lucky enough to have the means, or stopped if you were everyone else. Handshake was what happened to the kinds of people who stopped.

  Ring-shaped structures weren’t new, in space. You could make an airtight tube out of almost anything, and a circle was the most logical shape. The rings of Handshake were sectional – each ring was made of roughly six hundred sections, each about a kilomet
re long. The sections were isolated from each other: infectious diseases were common among refugees, but this way they could only spread so far. The same could be said of other passing issues, like insurrection or accidental vacuum.

  Interlocking rings were more unusual. Skarbo watched them for a while. Then he said, simply, ‘Why are they like that?’

  As usual the ship didn’t answer. He shook his head and turned to The Bird. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Not know. But surmise. Peacekeeping.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Peacekeeping. Obvious. Two rings, two governments. Redundancy, see? But they’ve got to cooperate. Got to keep the rings aligned, otherwise,’ and it shrugged expressively.

  ‘Oh. Does it work?’

  ‘Suppose. The ship says they’re at war with each other. Still seem to be floating around nicely.’

  They were closer now. The space around the rings looked hazy; Skarbo realized it wasn’t haze, but ships. ‘There must be millions,’ he said out loud.

  ‘Maybe. Bad times everywhere. People running.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Told you. Everywhere.’

  Skarbo stared at it. ‘From the Spin?’

  ‘Maybe. Close enough. From the Warfront. From whatever the Warfront ends up fighting. Ask the ship.’

  For once, the old ship didn’t wait for further prompting. Remember that Handshake sits at the point where several spheres of influence just fail to meet. It is, fundamentally, outside almost everywhere, so it is a natural point of exit for everyone.

  Skarbo thought about that. ‘And afterwards?’

  There is no afterwards. Handshake space is small.

  ‘And therefore crowded.’

  Indeed.

  They watched Handshake growing larger until the whole of both rings no longer fitted within the hemisphere of display above them. The network of warships around them had disengaged and dispersed – less threatening, said the Orbiter – and they were creeping forward at a gentle thousand klicks through a cloud of local craft and space junk.

  Then the Orbiter spoke.

  I have accepted the hospitality of the Left Hand Stewardship.

  Skarbo looked at The Bird, which shook its head. ‘Meaning?’

  As you look at it, the right-hand of the two rings has agreed to host us. They outbid the Higher Closed Loop.

  Skarbo sighed. ‘Which is the left-hand ring, yes?’

  Of course.

  The Bird hopped. ‘I like outbid. Makes us sound valuable.’

  They think we are. You have been invited on board. I will need a few days to do my exploring.

  Skarbo watched the image. ‘They’re at war with each other. Is it safe?’

  Everywhere is at war with everywhere else. I am reasonably confident that you will be safe here. I am not confident that you will be safe with me, which is why I am exploring. Besides, you may find it interesting.

  The Bird leapt noisily into the air. ‘May? Not in doubt! Bored, bored, bored. When do we go?’

  They didn’t mention you. But you can try.

  Skarbo managed not to smile. And, with a corner of his mind, reflected that he had never heard the old ship make such a qualified statement. Reasonably. Well, well.

  The Orbiter came to a local stop just under two tenths of a second from the Left Hand Stewardship, neatly aligned with its axis. One of the old warships was hanging around a second further out, just in case, and the others had made themselves scarce.

  The Orbiter had given Skarbo something it called a beaconer – a flattened dull metal ovoid small enough to lodge under a corner of his outer shell. Once there it seemed to stick. The old ship had assured him it wouldn’t fall out. A sharp tap, and it would call for help.

  He wondered if it did other things, but the ship didn’t say. It itched a bit.

  He tried to ignore it while they watched the little shuttle creeping towards them. The Bird clicked its beak.

  ‘Skarbo’ll be dead by the time that thing gets here. If it ever does. Nervous, or slow?’

  Probably neither.

  It wasn’t impressive, whatever else it might have been. There was something improvised about it – an unfinished-looking lumpiness and asymmetry which screamed home-made.

  Then it had arrived, and docked with a series of scraping thumps.

  Skarbo looked at The Bird. ‘Still sure you want to come?’

  It made a contemptuous whistling sound. ‘Still sure. Anything’s better. Come on.’

  The inside of the shuttle was roughly functional – a stubby metal tube with rows of bench seats which seemed to be made of wood. There was nowhere for a pilot, so presumably the thing was automated. It felt somehow nautical, thought Skarbo, and it smelled of oil.

  The Bird made a loud sniffing noise. ‘Phaugh!’

  Skarbo looked down at it. ‘You don’t have a nose,’ he pointed out.

  ‘So what? Still stinks.’

  There was a mechanical clank and the shuttle jolted. Skarbo staggered a little and grabbed the back of a bench. ‘We seem to be off …’

  Then there was a hoarse buzz, and an electronic-sounding voice said, ‘Welcome aboard. This is the charter shuttle Son of Zephyr. Our journey time to civilization will be ten minutes, Left Hand local. In the event of depressurization, air-breathing creatures will die. Please be ready for acceleration.’

  Skarbo looked around, but apart from the benches he couldn’t see any way of being ready for acceleration, or anything else. He shrugged and sat down. The Bird arranged itself on the seat beside him in what looked like a crash position, wings couched and head lowered.

  For once it hadn’t said anything. Skarbo found himself wondering if it was air-breathing.

  Then, with no more warning, force slammed him back against the bench. It lasted about ten seconds and then stopped as fast as it had started.

  He looked round, and saw The Bird extracting itself from the angle formed by the back and the seat of the bench. It stretched its wings. ‘Acceleration? Don’t think it did that on the way here.’

  Skarbo was about to say something, but the electronic voice got there first. ‘It didn’t. But Son of Zephyr was learning the route on the way out. It knows the way back to civilization, now. We can go fast! Prepare for more.’

  They prepared.

  There were three more fierce jolts of acceleration, and then a nauseous series of blasts and skews as the shuttle matched velocity with the huge ring. Then there was another grating mechanical clang and they were docked.

  The journey had taken less than ten minutes. It had felt like an hour.

  ‘We arrive! Son of Zephyr is proud to deliver you to civilization and will be proud to return you when you are dismissed. Equalizing pressure …’

  There was a hiss and a soft air current that smelled of something muskily organic. Then the front section of the craft split along a line that hadn’t been visible before, and opened itself like a beak.

  ‘Please! Step forwards. A Floater will be here shortly.’

  ‘A what?’ Skarbo looked out through the opening. It was poorly lit. He could just make out several big, vague shapes. ‘Why is it so dark?’

  ‘Sir, Floaters do not enjoy bright outside. Inside can be different. Here is yours …’

  One of the shapes had drifted closer. It was bigger than he had thought – much bigger, at least fifty metres across and roughly spherical. As it closed with the entrance, a patch on its surface wrinkled and peeled open, starting as a dot and quickly growing to an orifice big enough to walk through.

  The Bird hissed. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Floater. This is the Dirigible Fungus Fillpsps. For onward journey within!’

  Skarbo stepped forwards. The musky smell was stronger, and there was a faint warm, slightly humid air current against him. It came and went, very slowly. He looked down to The Bird, which was standing next to him with its neck thrust forwards as if it was studying something. ‘Is it breathing, do you think?’

  It sh
ook its head. ‘Don’t think anything. Dirigible Fungus? Nothing to think.’

  Behind them the shuttle’s voice said, ‘Enter. Onward journey to greater things. I must go.’

  The Floater had come close enough that there was almost no gap. A short step took Skarbo into the thing, and a rattle behind him told him The Bird had followed. The beak-doors of the shuttle shut behind them with a brisk clank, and the opening of the Floater wobbled closed in an uneasy pastiche of lips contracting.

  The inside smelled of rot. It wasn’t quite dark – the walls gave off a dim phosphorescence that made Skarbo think of small things squirming. It was enough to see that the space wasn’t a simple sphere: there were lumpy protuberances and mounds sticking out at random. Skarbo sat on one of them. It gave a little under him, as if it was full of liquid. It was more comfortable than he had expected. He patted it, and looked at The Bird. ‘Join me?’

  The Bird shook its head. ‘Not touching anything I don’t have to. Might catch something. Pissed off with stupid games. You seem resigned. Can’t think why.’

  Skarbo watched it for a while. ‘Maybe I just look resigned,’ he said eventually.

  The Bird said nothing.

  Skarbo closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself.

  Not all Floaters were alike. Some were bigger than others, for a start. This one was three hundred metres across, and nearly five hundred long.

  ‘They’re all connected.’ The small elderly-looking human male called Gorrif waved an arm in a circle. ‘Hundreds of kilometres of micro-myco-fibres. The ones near here can’t move about much, of course. The fibres are in the way. And this one’s basically immobile. Right in the middle, you see? But the outer ones, like your friend Fillpsps and so on, can range quite widely if they’re careful not to get tangled.’

  Skarbo nodded. ‘How long have you been collecting them?’

  ‘Collecting?’ Gorrif gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t really collect them. They wouldn’t like that idea, I’m sure. I host them, I suppose. Peculiar things, aren’t they?’

  Skarbo nodded again, but said nothing. He wasn’t sure what position Gorrif was in to call anything peculiar.