Stone Clock

by Andrew Bannister

  The Bird met his eyes. ‘A bit extreme, you think? Possibly. Sorry. Channelling the inner raptor.’

  Skarbo nodded. ‘Don’t restrain yourself on my behalf. I didn’t like him.’

  ‘I could tell. You raised a claw. Never did that to me, no matter how I pushed … but take some advice? If what I look like bothers you, don’t look at him.’

  Skarbo held the gaze for a moment. Then, deliberately, he turned away and looked at the shape that had been Gorrif.

  The body was quite still. The remains of the face were angled upwards. The skin had been peeled away in raking gashes. The mouth was open, and a section of what Skarbo realized was severed tongue lay across the lips. The eyes were red-blue holes. A cold, detached little part of Skarbo looked for any evidence of eyeballs, and found none.

  He turned back to The Bird and drew a breath. Then he let it go.

  It tilted its head. ‘Decided not to ask something?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Wise. Ha! Rhymes with eyes. Shall we go?’

  He nodded again. ‘Yes. How?’

  ‘Good question. Think things are in hand. Just not sure which hand.’

  Then there was a distant bang and a high, moaning hiss. The floor quivered under him and he felt his carapace flex.

  ‘Bird? I think there’s a puncture …’

  ‘Yes. Explain later. Think things are going to get busy. Remind me whether you can survive vacuum?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  It swivelled its head and glanced up at him. ‘Better hope busy means quick …’

  The pressure was definitely falling. He took a breath that seemed hard-won. ‘Can you exist in vacuum?’

  It didn’t answer. Then there was a pop and they were surrounded by a hazy violet bubble. His shell stopped flexing.

  Someone had generated a field. He looked round. At first he saw no one. Then The Bird said, ‘Ah-ha,’ and he looked again.

  A few centimetres outside the field, and joined to it by a fine violet tendril, floated the beaconer.

  The Bird gave a hop. ‘Talented little thing … sorts us for the moment.’

  Skarbo nodded. ‘Do you know what happens next?’

  ‘No.’

  Skarbo looked from The Bird to the beaconer. It was just – hovering. He shrugged. It was worth a try. ‘Um, beaconer? Can you extract us from this place?’

  It didn’t move.

  He tried again. ‘Have you signalled the Orbiter?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Are you waiting for something?’

  The little thing twitched.

  The Bird clicked its beak. ‘Better not wait long. Place is falling apart.’

  Skarbo looked around. The Bird was right. Gadaps was not dealing with the reducing pressure. Nasty-looking bulges and blisters were swelling on the inside of its hull. The floor was rippling, and the opening to the outside was quivering and clenching as if in a battle with itself. Through it, Floaters, tangled in their own fibres, bounced off each other like executive toys.

  Then the opening snapped shut. The Bird yawked. ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Defence, I suppose.’

  ‘And trapped! Didn’t you notice? Your turn to think of something. Come on!’ The voice was higher-pitched than usual.

  Skarbo sat on one of the more stable floor projections. ‘What do you want me to think?’ he asked.

  ‘Anything! Get on with it.’

  ‘All right.’ He looked at the creature for a moment. ‘I think I can’t imagine any way out of this that lies within my power. I also think that not only are you not what you seem to be, you are not even what you claim not to be. As I may die here, and you may do whatever it is that whatever you are does, it would be courteous of you to be honest with me.’ He shrugged. ‘You did say, anything.’

  The Bird stared at him for a while, switching its head from side to side as if seeing which eye gave the best view. Finally it said, ‘You choose unusual times for your confessional moments.’

  ‘I’m not confessing. I was hoping you would.’

  ‘I’m sure you were.’ It went on staring at him for a while. Then it looked away and shook its head, the most human gesture Skarbo had ever seen it perform. ‘I’m not a bird. I’ve been telling you that for hundreds of years. As for the rest? Some secrets are secret, and some secrets are other people’s secrets, and many secrets aren’t as interesting as you think. Take your pick.’

  Skarbo nodded. ‘That was as much as I was expecting,’ he said. ‘So, what do I call you now?’

  ‘Stick with bird. I’m used to it.’

  ‘And how do we get out?’

  ‘I still don’t know. It was your turn to think of something. Remember?’

  The floor rocked. They looked at each other. Then the end wall dilated abruptly, as if the edges had been forced apart by something.

  They had. The Bird stared, then turned away. ‘Oh, shit. Again?’

  Skarbo nodded. ‘Again,’ he said. ‘Hello, Son of Zephyr.’

  ‘Greetings! Sorrowful that civilization falls short. At your disposal!’

  The Bird muttered, ‘Disposal sounds about right …’

  Skarbo prodded it with a foot, and it fell silent. To the shuttle he said, ‘Can you get us out of this compartment?’

  ‘Certainly. The hole will allow exit as well as entrance. Please: board.’

  They boarded. The field bubble and the beaconer moved with them. As the beak thing squeaked closed, Skarbo said, ‘Ship? May I ask something of you?’

  ‘Anything! It is my pleasure.’ And the voice sounded genuinely enthusiastic.

  ‘Well, would you mind accelerating very gently this time?’

  There was a tiny pause. Then the ship said slowly, ‘Not go fast?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  Another pause. Then, ‘Very well. Slow. Uninteresting.’

  Something struck Skarbo. ‘Can we see out?’

  The voice perked up. ‘Certainly! I have full screen-through capabilities. Look!’

  The walls blurred and vanished, and they were standing on nothing.

  The little shuttle was shouldering its way through a throng of Floaters. The things didn’t seem to be making any attempt to get out of the way, and he could see their skins stretching and grazing against the invisible hull as the ship pushed them aside. Smears of thick mucus with snapped fibres stuck to them fogged the view.

  He wished he had allowed speed, now. Any acceleration would have been better than this slow-motion slaughter. He shook his head. ‘Son of Zephyr? Are these organisms common?’

  ‘No. Dirigible Fungi are rare. One planet only.’ It still sounded enthusiastic. ‘Those in this compartment are unique! Genetically altered. There are none others. Son of Zephyr is glad to give you sight-seeing tour.’

  ‘Or genocide, as we call it.’ It was The Bird, and for once Skarbo found himself agreeing. ‘Ship,’ he said, ‘can you disable the view, please?’

  ‘Disable? But it is unique …’

  Skarbo said nothing, and after a moment the view faded and turned back into wall. Now he could see the bench seats again he sat slowly down on one, and The Bird hopped up next to him.

  ‘Don’t think those things had much of a life,’ it said quietly. ‘Might be a relief.’

  Skarbo stared at it. ‘Are you developing sympathy for other creatures, bird?’

  It yarked. ‘Only some of them. Don’t assume it’s universal, insect.’

  Skarbo nodded. He was about to reply when the shuttle shuddered and then seemed to leap forward.

  ‘We are out!’ The ship sounded pleased with itself. ‘Do you want to see now? It will be instructive.’

  It didn’t wait for an answer; the hull cleared, and they were looking back at the ring. The shuttle must have speeded up because there were already three segments in the field of view. It was easy to tell which one they had just left – there was a neat round hole punched in it. A cloud of ice crystals was dispersing, and if
he looked closely Skarbo could see dots and blobs. Floaters, or what was left of them.

  He shook his head. ‘Ship? Did you make that hole?’

  ‘No! Son of Zephyr has no capabilities of this nature.’

  ‘Then what did?’

  ‘The small device you carried.’

  Skarbo blinked. ‘Really?’

  ‘Indeed! Many capabilities. Ah – there is a message.’

  It stopped speaking, and after a moment there was a warmly human voice.

  ‘Attention, shipping. In view of recent events, the Left Hand Stewardship of the Handshake has gained approval for the ninety-first segment to be excised immediately. The operation commences. To avoid field effects, withdraw to a distance of ten kilometres and stand by.’

  The ship lurched violently, and suddenly the ring was much further away. The movement stopped, and just as suddenly the view zoomed back in, grainier now as if heavily magnified.

  For a moment, nothing seemed to be happening. Then Skarbo saw a bright, fierce dot at either end of the segment, at the point where it joined its neighbours. The dots grew bigger, swelling into lurid magenta globes.

  Then an arc jumped between them – a wavering red line that began to spread itself round the segment until the whole thing was surrounded. The intensity climbed to a peak, and then, so suddenly it made Skarbo’s eyes flicker, the segment was gone.

  He stared at the image. ‘Is that it?’

  The ship sounded edgy. ‘For the present! The Stewardship will now be seeking bids from more suitable tenants to fill the vacancy. Meanwhile, fields maintain the integrity. See?’

  At first Skarbo didn’t see, but then his abused optics adjusted and he could make out a faint purple thread, joining the severed ring.

  Next to him, The Bird said, ‘Hm. Bit summary. Ha. No need for Gorrif to worry about his contract now.’

  Skarbo looked at it, made to say something, and stopped.

  He was sure The Bird hadn’t been in the room when Gorrif had mentioned that. He nodded to himself. ‘Where do we go now?’

  ‘Alas, Son of Zephyr does not know. I am despondent.’

  Skarbo looked down at The Bird. It shook its head. ‘Despondent, fat lot of use.’

  ‘Contrition. War reaches us. All things become unknowable.’

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Wherever safety …’

  Then the ship lurched. Skarbo grabbed at the back of a seat. ‘Please go to safety gently!’

  ‘No … that was not Son of Zephyr.’ The voice managed to sound nervous.

  The Bird jumped into the air. ‘If not you, then who? Son of Imbecile!’

  There was another lurch. Then the ship said, in a flat tone, ‘The insult is unmerited. Son of Zephyr has been arrested. We are held in a restrainer field. Apologies.’

  Skarbo looked up. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘The field is not visible. Please be seated and await information.’

  Now the tone was dully mechanical. Skarbo thought about this. Then he gave in to instinct. ‘Ship? Are you afraid?’

  The ship didn’t reply. The Bird dropped neatly to the back of the seat and made a pantomime of shielding its head under a wing. At some point, Skarbo noticed, it had managed to clean off the blood.

  Then they both looked up sharply. Another voice had spoken – also mechanical, but harshly so, like buzzing metal components.

  ‘Attention. Life-form indicated. Life-form respond.’

  Skarbo looked down at The Bird, which had uncovered its head. ‘Life-form, singular?’ he whispered.

  It shrugged.

  Skarbo smiled to himself. In his normal voice he said, ‘Life-form responds. Who are you?’

  ‘Attend.’ There was a pause, then a different, human-sounding voice. ‘Hello? This is Left Hand Patrol, External. It seems there’s someone alive in there. Is that right?’

  Skarbo carefully didn’t look at The Bird. ‘At least,’ he said.

  ‘In that case, you’re under arrest. We always check, when we take on a crusher. We’ll bring you in gently. Stand by.’

  ‘Crusher?’ The Bird swivelled its head to glare up at Skarbo. ‘Thought this was a shuttle.’

  Skarbo waved it away. ‘Arrest?’

  There was a pause. Then the voice was back. ‘Let me explain. A punctured segment counts as criminal damage, and your ship caused it. It will be taken away and crushed. You are under arrest, as of now. We’ll formalize it when you dock. You are liable for the disposal cost of your ship, plus the cost of your transport, cell, rental, air and rations, from now until the end of your sentence. If you don’t pay, the sentence doesn’t end.’

  ‘Wait!’ Skarbo was on his feet. ‘It’s not my ship!’

  The voice sighed. ‘You are the life-form on board, correct?’

  ‘Well, yes … but …’

  ‘Then you’re legally in charge of what the ship does within a kilometre of Handshake. The Left Hand doesn’t recognize ship AIs as being responsible, see?’

  ‘I don’t see! No one told me that.’ Skarbo wanted to jab a claw at something. ‘I was kidnapped!’

  Now there was a hint of amusement. ‘Records say you willingly entered a commercial arrangement. You knew about the lottery, didn’t you?’

  ‘No! Not at first …’

  ‘Sure you did. You can’t smash your way out of a segment just because you don’t like the bargain. Sit tight. You’re coming in. You and whatever you’ve got in there with you.’

  There was a faint click. The ship moved again, but more gently this time.

  Skarbo thumped the floor. ‘Ship! Son of Zephyr! Talk to me.’

  There was a long pause. Then the ship said slowly, ‘Nothing to add but apologies. Son of Zephyr will be crushed … end.’ It fell silent, and nothing they tried changed that.

  There was only waiting, as the ship closed with the segmented rings.

  When they docked, Skarbo was met in the airlock by a polite but insistent floating machine that arrested him. It seemed bemused by The Bird, which thought it was funny to perch on top of it, and summoned human help. The human help declared The Bird to be an unlicensed weaponized entity and added possession of it to Skarbo’s charges.

  He looked round for the beaconer, but couldn’t see it. He hoped it was somewhere, doing something useful.

  He felt a little sorry about Son of Zephyr. But on the plus side, they took The Bird away with them.

  Wiits Range (vreality)

  HE LET GO of sleep unwillingly – more unwillingly every day – and looked up towards the leaf canopy. Bright light above it; he had slept long, and his luck had held. No rain today.

  He reached out a hand. The bundle was still next to him. More luck – no one had stolen it. Perhaps after all he still had enough reputation to be left alone.

  He turned on to his side, pushed down with an elbow and hauled himself upright. The bundle was tied with a looped leather thong. He reached down, hooked it up with a finger and let the loop fall round his neck and one shoulder. It dropped into its natural place just above the indent of his waist, and he felt it and then forgot it.

  It contained everything he owned, and he had been carrying it for (and his mind advanced the number almost as if it had been a mechanical counter, with a click) three hundred thousand days.

  The round number made him blink.

  Onwards. Yesterday, before he had slept, he had decided to move on down to the coast. It was autumn, and there should be good catches of fish, and the women would be too busy fishing to repair the small ailments that came upon boats and tackle late in the season, so there would be things for him to do, and reward to be had, and possibly warm places to sleep, better than a carpet of leaves when the rains came on and turned it into a sodden mat.

  His feet knew the way. He had followed this route (click) eight hundred and eight times. For the first few hundred years there had been no settlement. Then it had gradually accumulated, like a callus on a tree growing round some tiny
burrowing creature. Now there were hundreds of houses. Most of their inhabitants were just far enough above the poverty line that they could be sure of still being around to suffer next year.

  He remembered numbers. He had died (click) nineteen hundred times, although not recently. He had forgotten many other things.

  People called him whatever they liked. Now-and-Then was one name and Passthrough another. There were more. It didn’t matter to him.

  He left the trees behind and loped easily down the shallow hills towards the coast. He couldn’t see the water yet – that wouldn’t be in sight for a couple of days – but the bank of cloud that always built above the shore was visible at the horizon.

  At midday he stopped to drink some water from one of the small streams that rose on the lower ground. He ate little – was rarely hungry, couldn’t really remember being so, not properly – but thirst was never far away.

  Something in his head was trying to catch his attention. He stopped for a moment and focused his attention inwards, searching for it. It happened occasionally, but only at very long intervals. The last time, within a few days he had found himself at war. Not part of a war, but actually, singly, all on his own, at war with a civilizational group called (click) the Zamphr.

  The time before that, there had been about to be a plague. Plagues were frequent. The weather patterns of the planet were still disrupted by the updraught from the Peace Rift – although no one was calling it that yet. But then, it was only a thousand years old. The other him would be getting ready to make his first regular visit round about now.

  The time before that … didn’t matter.

  Never mind. He would find out what it was when it became.

  The land flattened out as it neared the Sea. The ocean had no name he had ever heard other than Sea; the people who had colonized the shore over the last few hundred years were literal-minded. By the second day the forests thinned and gave way to grassland, which itself gave way to a tough, wiry mat of bluish-green Sandcreep. The blades flicked and sprang under his feet, threatening to slice his ankles, and he remembered (click) to stop and pick a couple of the long, tough leaves from a Palmsallow bush to bind round his legs.

  He was among the first houses sooner than he had expected. In the (click) eighty-one years since he had last been here, the town had grown – again. Back then, it had stopped at the Back Banks, a peaked arc of warehouses and slopshops and flophouses and smoking little workshops that stretched up towards the hills – and therefore away from expensive property owned by sensitive people – like the pulled-back cord of a catapult.