Stone Clock

by Andrew Bannister

  She didn’t move until he was almost on her. Even then she didn’t seem to move much – but there was a wet-sounding thud, and Shitmeat was on the ground, curled around himself. His eyes were closed, and he was making a keening noise.

  The woman walked up to him and leaned down. ‘It’s still my patch,’ she said.

  Then she kicked, twice, hard enough for the effort to lift her a little off the ground.

  At the first kick, Shitmeat screamed. At the second he vomited.

  The woman stood back and took a breath. ‘Grow up,’ she said. ‘And clean up your puke. I don’t want to slip over in that, either.’

  The group dispersed. Skarbo gulped. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I owe you.’

  She was turning away as she spoke. ‘Fine. Maybe in another world you’ll pay me. Now, you fuck off too.’ And then she was gone.

  Behind him he heard someone say, ‘Roach’, and another voice sniggered.

  After that he preferred to keep to corners. And managed not to tell himself that that was what roaches did.

  Someone now tapped him on the shell, and a hoarse voice said, ‘Space for another?’

  Skarbo blinked. Courtesy was rare here, and when it did happen it wasn’t always what it seemed. He gave himself a moment to get ready for whatever reaction might be needed, then half turned.

  He blinked again. The tapper was an elderly human-looking male, and old age was as unusual in here as politeness. He squeezed himself to one side and the old man slipped in next to him.

  ‘I’m grateful.’

  Skarbo nodded, and turned back to the fight. The two were circling; the Cutter still had his nailblade, but he was looking warier now. The other looked relaxed.

  ‘I’ll take fifty each way …’

  ‘Fifty? Where’d you get that much? Suck someone off for it, did you?’

  Laughter.

  A tap on his shell again. He turned fully this time and looked at the old man. ‘Can I help you?’

  The mouth split in a grin. ‘I doubt it. I don’t suppose I can help you either, ’cept perhaps we can talk to each other? It’s not a tradition hereabouts but you never know, we might start something.’

  Skarbo shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I have much to say.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll talk.’ The old man stared past him at the fight. ‘If I had money I’d bet on the little one. You?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’ The man narrowed his eyes. ‘I heard some things about you.’

  Skarbo waited.

  ‘I heard you know when you’re going to die. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Uh-huh. When is that, then?’

  Skarbo hadn’t been thinking about that. How long had he been here? He had to count in his head. ‘Thirteen days from now.’

  The eyes widened. ‘As precise as that? And as soon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I should call you the deathroach.’

  There was a crash, and shouts. The old man’s eyes widened. Skarbo turned his attention to the fight.

  The two men had closed. The Cutter was still upright but staggering, with the short man’s head buried in his midriff and his arms wrapped tightly around his opponent, locking the tall man’s arms to his side. The nailblade swivelled uselessly in a pinned hand.

  ‘Ten on Rask …’

  ‘And ten …’

  ‘Twenty here …’

  The old man nudged Skarbo. ‘Sure you won’t?’

  ‘Bet?’ Skarbo shook his head again. ‘Won’t, and can’t.’

  ‘Fine. I would, but can’t. Listen, deathroach, we have something in common. I know when I’m going to die, too.’

  There were more shouts. The pair had separated. A broad gash ran down Rask’s shoulder, but he looked poised and watchful. The other man was clutching his ribs with one hand, and his breathing was short.

  ‘A hundred on the little Rask!’

  ‘Fuck your money …’

  And then someone was pushing through the crowd to the front – a slim female with clothes that were actually intact and almost clean. She held up a hand, filled her lungs and shouted, ‘Five hundred on Rask to kill the next time they close. Who’ll take?’

  There was a breathless silence. The old man leaned towards Skarbo and whispered, ‘Be impressed, deathroach. In here, people are bought and sold for less than that.’

  For a moment he thought no one was going to take up the bet, but then a voice from the crowd said, ‘Taken.’

  The woman craned to see. ‘Who’s that? Are you solo?’

  ‘I am so. Lift me, you.’

  Bodies moved around, and then someone was raised on to a shoulder – a squat humanoid creature with huge eyes set in a flat, pale face. It raised an arm. ‘I’m taking your bet, you fucking termagant. You still good for it?’

  ‘I’ll take your money, if it’s there to be taken.’ She laughed. ‘If not, I’ll take you.’

  The creature raised a finger and twisted it from side to side. ‘Like fuck will you. Let them fight!’

  The crowd roared.

  The Cutter licked his lips and took a half-pace forward. Rask watched him. Then, too fast for Skarbo to follow the movement, he charged forward and leapt, landing with his arms and legs around the tall man’s torso. They crashed and rolled and Skarbo saw the nailblade flailing and slashing, and when the two stopped rolling the Cutter was on top, but something was wrong – he was howling, a high, sharp sound, and the nailblade was held out at an unnatural angle.

  He was still held by Rask’s legs and arms, and the short man’s head was buried in his armpit, working and twisting.

  Then the Cutter’s howl changed note. Rask pulled his head back, and there was something in his mouth – something that stretched out from the ends of a ragged, bleeding hole in the Cutter’s arm.

  Sinews. No, wait. Tendons. That was the word.

  Rask growled, his jaws working, and suddenly the tendons snapped and the Cutter’s arm was hanging, the fingers of the hand now limp around the handle of the useless nailblade.

  And then Rask’s head dipped in again, but this time to the throat.

  There was an audible crunch. The howling stopped. Rask rolled over and climbed off the limp body. He stood and bowed, once.

  Then he swallowed.

  There was a moment’s dead silence. Then the crowd roared.

  Skarbo felt the old man’s hand on his shell. Very close to him, the old voice said, ‘Let’s go. Unless you’re bidding for meat?’

  ‘Meat?’

  ‘Of course. Why waste the body?’

  Skarbo shuddered.

  The old man didn’t seem to have a patch of his own. They ambled across several notional boundaries and stopped in a clear space close to the outer walkway, where the old man squatted down. ‘Here’ll do,’ he said, patting the floor next to him. ‘Join me?’

  Skarbo folded his legs beneath him.

  From this close he could smell … something … on the old man’s breath. It was sweetly sour. A smell of corruption.

  He decided to ask the question. ‘When will you die?’

  The old man smiled. ‘Sniff it, can you? You got good senses, deathroach. Humans can’t. It’ll kill me in three months, if I let it. I’m not going to let it.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How will you stop—Oh.’ He fell silent, and shook his head.

  The smile broadened. ‘I see you worked it out.’ The old man took a breath, and Skarbo heard bubbling. ‘I got a dose of Flakeworm. You know what that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s parasites. Little eggs, so small you can breathe ’em in, and they grow to worms and the worms grow to bigger worms, and then one day they all bust out and turn into Flakeflies and you breathe ’em out again.’ He paused. ‘Only, breathing ’em out isn’t so easy as breathing ’em in, if you see what I mean, and you don’t get to breathe them all out because they get stuck, and the ones you don’t breathe out find oth
er ways to get by … I’m not going that way.’

  Skarbo nodded. ‘What will you do?’

  He got a sharp look. ‘That’s my business. Got plans.’

  For a moment neither of them spoke. Skarbo watched the thin chest lift, pause, and fall, and listened to the faint catch at the top of each breath that gave away the effort it cost. After a while, as the old man didn’t seem inclined to volunteer anything else, he said, ‘Do you know where you caught them?’

  ‘Know? No. But guess – I guess I got them on a freighter on the way out.’

  ‘Out of what?’

  ‘Where, not what. Out of the Spin, deathroach. That’s where.’ The old eyes narrowed. ‘Got your attention, did I?’

  Skarbo nodded, only realizing he had done so when the movement was finished.

  ‘Thought I would. Want to hear the rest?’

  This time the nod was conscious.

  The old man was called Pathin. He talked, slowly, about the Spin.

  The population of the Spin had peaked, at least in modern history, at just under a trillion formal inhabitants, and as many again who were anywhere between less formal and passing through – but that had been a quarter of a million years ago. A long time, but still modern by Spin standards.

  Since then, the trend had been uninterruptedly down, and the curve had been steepening.

  Pathin had lived on a planet called Zshifs. He looked up at Skarbo. ‘Hear of it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought not. Outer Spin, on this side. Two suns, one of ’em red. Three planets.’

  Skarbo half closed his eyes. He could visualize the models … ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Good. Nice place. Farms. Pretty coloured shadows from the suns. People used to say if you got laid by the light of the red one, the child would be a girl. Could have been right.’ The old man let out a sigh which tailed off in bubbles. ‘Then the sun started failing. Less light for the farms, you know? Then people started sticking these big solar panels in orbit. Gather the energy high up, before it hits the atmosphere, that’s what they said, and beam it down. More efficient.’

  Skarbo stared at him. ‘But how would anything grow?’

  ‘You tell me!’ Pathin shook his head. ‘So things died, year by year. And I left. We all left. There was nothing else for the freighters to do anyway. No goods. No food. Just people, leaving. Know how many were on board with me, deathroach?’

  Skarbo shook his head.

  ‘Five thousand. And that wasn’t one of the big ones. I heard a thousand ships left the Spin just that day.’

  Skarbo looked at the old man for long time. ‘How many?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Yes, but … that would mean five million people on the same day? Why that day?’

  Pathin coughed and spat. He studied the streak of phlegm for a moment, then looked back at Skarbo. ‘You don’t get it, do you? Not just that day, deathroach. Every day. Millions every day. Hundreds of millions every year. I wasn’t the first, and it got quicker after. You looked at the Spin from the outside and saw it was dying, right? Well we looked at it from the inside and felt it dying. What was there to do? Go virtual or get out. I got out.’

  ‘And here you are.’ Skarbo looked around the floor.

  ‘And here I am, but that’s not all my story. I’ve done plenty since. Got laid. Got drunk. Made money. Lived a life.’

  Skarbo thought about that. Then he asked, ‘How long since you left the Spin?’

  Pathin smiled gently. ‘I told you – a life. A long one. I reckon the Spin’s about empty by now. I’d guess it’s the first time in history a whole galaxy’s been evacuated. If you’re hoping to go there and meet living things, you’re too late. They’ll be gone, or virtual.’

  ‘Virtual?’

  ‘Of course. Living in the machines, deathroach. The vrealities. A lifetime in one of those takes a few hours in the outside. What do you think all that solar power was used for?’

  There was a long silence. Skarbo felt a cold, quiet knot growing in his abdomen.

  Then Pathin nudged him. ‘Don’t give up, deathroach. You’re not done with your life yet, and nor am I – not quite! Neither of us knows the final score yet. I’ll tell you mine at the end.’ He looked up sharply. ‘’cept in your case, I probably won’t. Not if you’ve any sense.’

  Skarbo laughed. ‘What choice am I going to have?’

  The old man looked at him for a second, then looked away.

  The crowd had dispersed. People were milling past, trailing muttered conversations. Some were carrying lumps of red flesh, none bigger than the palm of a human hand. A few were chewing.

  The loser had not gone to waste. Nothing in here went to waste – and it occurred to Skarbo that here was another reason he was being left more or less alone.

  Basically, he didn’t look edible.

  He shuddered, and reached out a claw to Pathin. ‘These people from the Spin. Where did they go?’

  The old man waved a hand vaguely. ‘Everywhere. Anywhere. They’re here, for a start.’

  ‘Refugees?’

  ‘Some. And some not. Plenty brought money. They’re running businesses. Planets, some of them. This place, too. Brought their feuds with them, they did. That’s why Handshake has two ends.’

  Skarbo looked at him. The wrinkled face was expressionless. ‘So, how did you come to be here?’

  The old man turned and spat again. ‘None of your business, deathroach.’

  Skarbo nodded. ‘Well, thank you,’ he said. He stood up.

  ‘Wait.’

  The old man’s hand was on his leg. He looked down. ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe I can help you after all. Haul me up.’

  Skarbo held out a claw. He wasn’t sure how much help he could be; even wasted as it was, the old man’s body weighed enough to pull the limb off. But it seemed the idea of support was enough, and Pathin pulled himself to a standing position without more than a soft tug. Once upright, the old man leaned in towards him. His voice seemed hoarser. ‘See where I spat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me what you see.’

  Skarbo frowned. He looked towards the streak of saliva.

  Then he looked back at Pathin. ‘I see flakes,’ he said. ‘Brown-coloured flakes.’

  ‘Yup. That’s the beginning.’ The old man slapped his chest. ‘I feel ’em. It’s coming, and early. This is where you help me and I help you, deathroach. Come with me down to the far end. If I falter, drag me.’

  Skarbo nodded, and began to walk alongside him. They went slowly, with Pathin pausing every dozen or so paces to draw a dozen rough-sounding breaths, but they went.

  At the far end the floor narrowed. The bodies thinned out; this was the worst lit, worst ventilated part of the prison, and only the poorest, sickest or least mobile stayed here.

  At last they were at the very end. The last occupied patches were behind them, and they were on empty floor. The walkway, and the field beyond it, formed a narrow arc-shaped barrier, partly enclosing the biggest empty area of floor Skarbo had seen here. Dark and remote and stuffy though it was, even so he didn’t understand why no one had claimed it as a patch.

  Then he saw a roll of stained cloth on the floor ahead of him. Pathin sighed, slumped down, and gathered the cloth under his head, and Skarbo got it.

  ‘This is your patch?’

  Pathin grinned, and even in the poor light Skarbo could see that there were brownish fragments on his ruined teeth. ‘Yup. Home. Good place for a last stand, eh?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Skarbo looked around at the empty floor and the stained cloth, and something in him broke. ‘I’ll stay with you.’

  ‘Oh no you won’t.’ Pathin coughed, spat into the palm of his hand, and closed his fingers around the result. ‘You may not be bothered by creepy-crawlies, deathroach, but that’s not the half of it. Not even close. Besides, I’m giving you a job. Much harder than watching your relatives fly out of my mouth. Yo
u up for that?’

  Skarbo smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They’re not my relatives, but yes.’

  ‘Good. Here it is: get everyone, every living creature, away from here. Create a clear zone of at least a hundred metres. You got that?’

  Skarbo stared at him. ‘I heard it, but—’

  ‘A hundred metres! Hell, deathroach. You were ready to watch me turn into a hatchery for flying insects. How is this worse? Sometimes you don’t get to choose your challenges. Get on with it. And get on with it soon. You’ve got five minutes.’

  And he turned his face downwards and buried it in the cloth. His body was shaking with coughs.

  Skarbo looked around. The boundary of the patch was closer than a hundred metres – much closer. And there were people near by. They hadn’t been there before, but the sight of an insect crouching next to an obviously dying human had piqued interest.

  He had an audience.

  He stood up and, bereft of ideas, began to walk towards the edge of the patch. The watchers stood up as he approached.

  ‘Did you kill him, roach?’

  ‘What’s to see?’

  He swallowed. ‘Pathin wants to be left alone.’

  Laughter. A young male pushed to the front of a growing group. ‘An old weird man dies. People watch. You going to stop us?’

  Another one joined him. ‘Careful. The roach might wing you to death.’

  More laughter.

  Skarbo shut his eyes for a moment. Then he had the idea. He opened them, as wide as he could, and pointed back over the heads of the crowd. ‘The doors! Look!’

  They spun round and stared. Then the first youth turned back. ‘What? Can’t see anything from here. What’s going on?’

  Skarbo willed earnestness into his voice. ‘You can’t? Of course; you have mammal eyes … the field is down. I can see it.’ He raised his voice. ‘The field is down! Run!’

  For a long moment nobody moved. Then someone started to walk. And then run. And then they were all running.

  Skarbo heard bubbling laughter behind him. He turned to Pathin. ‘This had better be good,’ he said. ‘Or I’m dead.’

  The man laughed again, a stuttering rasp full of obstructions. ‘You’ll be dead either way, if you stay here. Run yourself.’ He curled over and put his head between his knees.