Stone Clock

by Andrew Bannister

  When it pulled back, there was a neat oval hole in the patch. The Bird regarded it for a second and then stabbed again, three times into the same spot.

  On the third stab, there was a fizz and an acrid electrical smell.

  The Bird swivelled itself upright. ‘Think that’s it. Might take a—’

  The lighting flicked from neutral to a glaring blue and an alarm blared.

  The pod trembled. It skewed violently round, slamming Skarbo against the side of his seat – and then the gravity was gone.

  The motors fell silent. The light faded and died.

  ‘—moment,’ said The Bird quietly. It looked around. ‘That did it. We’re off.’

  Skarbo looked towards what had been up. The thread-field was gone. So was the Handshake, and instead there were stars.

  Chvids’s face was pale in the faint starlight. ‘What happened?’

  Skarbo reached out a claw to touch her on the shoulder, and then thought better of it. ‘We’ve broken away. We’re free-falling out of Handshake space.’

  ‘Flying away from the ring?’ Her voice trembled a little.

  ‘Yes. We should be picked up.’ He didn’t add the word soon. He assumed she was grown-up.

  She nodded. ‘Picked up by who? These people you talked about?’

  Skarbo looked at The Bird. It shrugged. ‘In the end. Probably. Tiny volume, Handshake administrative space. Once we’re out of it they won’t bother with us.’

  Chvids nodded again. Then her face flickered. ‘Um, I feel—’

  She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Skarbo ducked, just in time. Obviously she had managed to eat at least something, fairly recently.

  Fortunately The Bird hadn’t vandalized the pod’s housekeeping systems when it shorted out the field controls.

  ‘And that?’

  The Bird peered. ‘Not sure. A nebula? Big cloud of hot gas. Skarbo? You’re the astronomer.’

  Skarbo shook his head. ‘I was a horologist.’

  ‘Well, you spent eight centuries staring through this part of the sky to look at your precious stone clock. You must have noticed something.’

  Skarbo suppressed a sigh. He turned towards the thing the other two were looking at. ‘Yes, it’s a nebula.’

  ‘Got a name, this thing?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He searched his memory. ‘It might be the Flatfruit Nebula. I haven’t seen it from this angle before.’

  ‘Ha. Guess not.’

  Chvids was staring at the view. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Skarbo looked again at the hazy streams of colour, and realized that she was right. It was beautiful. The benefits of fresh eyes, he thought – and once she had recovered from her zero-gee nausea, Chvids was looking at everything with fresh eyes.

  They’d had time to talk, in the hours since they’d broken free from the Ringway. She had been born on a farm in the Spin, on a planet she couldn’t even name. Sometimes, for a tiny proportion of her life, she had been allowed outside, working fields in the dying light of suns shielded by solar panels. But mostly she had lived and worked in the half-light of the kilometres of tunnels, tending the fat white grubs which probably had a better life than she did, at least up to the point where they were electrically stunned, mechanically skinned and minced.

  She and another worker had stowed away in a mince tank. They didn’t know where it was going, and they had no idea how long they would survive – if at all.

  Chvids had survived until the tank was pumped down at what turned out to be the Handshake. The other had drowned. When they were found, Chvids was imprisoned on a charge of vandalism – the mince was condemned as contaminated.

  She had never seen anything like stars before.

  She had also forgotten her dislike of speaking to The Bird. To Skarbo’s surprise, it was treating her with grave respect.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  She was pointing back past the Handshake towards a faint, granular surface that covered the whole field of view. It seemed to curve over towards them as if it was reaching out to surround them.

  ‘Ah.’ The Bird wagged its head from side to side. ‘Not so good. That’s the Warfront.’

  They watched for a while. Eventually Skarbo asked, ‘Ships?’

  ‘Yes. Ships. Many. Still a long way away.’

  Chvids pointed again. ‘They aren’t all a long way off. Look.’

  Skarbo followed her gesture. There was a bigger dot against the background. A moving dot; growing. He watched it for a moment. Then he turned to The Bird. ‘Will that be friendly, when it gets here?’

  ‘Not if it’s coming from there.’ The Bird lowered its head. ‘This may not have worked.’

  ‘Can we track it? Identify it?’

  ‘No. Pod’s only got a beacon. Can’t even switch it off. Too late anyway. Shit. It’s coming fast …’

  Skarbo strained his eyes. He could already see details: a blunt, angular shape with business-like projections. ‘It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.’

  The Bird peered. ‘It doesn’t look like anything good. Wonder if—’

  Then it stopped.

  ‘Hailing escape vehicle. Answer.’

  The voice sounded like hammered metal.

  Skarbo glanced round the cabin and then at the others. ‘We can’t,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to communicate with.’

  The voice came again. ‘We’ll worry about that. You talk. We’ll listen.’

  Chvids nudged Skarbo. ‘They’re vibrating the metal,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe they can pick us up the same way?’

  ‘Well done.’ The voice didn’t sound congratulatory. ‘Now stop whispering and identify yourselves. You’ve got ten seconds. Then we shoot you.’

  The Bird opened its beak, but Skarbo made a sharp downward motion and it subsided. ‘We are three escapees from the Handshake,’ he said. And then, just in case, ‘We’re neutral.’

  ‘The fuck you say. We escaped from the Handshake too and we ain’t neutral. No one is, not with that pile of ships a day behind them. Names?’

  Skarbo glanced at The Bird. It glared out towards the ship. ‘You first.’

  ‘We’re the ones with the guns. Names! Ten seconds.’

  The ship was close now. Skarbo guessed it was less than a hundred metres away. It didn’t seem to be closing; it hung steady in the field of view. It had an improvised, theatrical look, like something assembled by a child to be frightening – some of the blade-like fins and riveted bulges were obviously false.

  But then, it had subtle enough field control to be able to vibrate intelligible sounds out of their hull – and hear them replying.

  At least five seconds had gone. Skarbo made up his mind. ‘Chvids, Skarbo and companion,’ he said.

  The voice was quiet for a few seconds. Then it said, ‘Skarbo is a name I’ve heard. Along with wanted and dead. But companion is no name at all. You didn’t do what we said. Stay near the centre of that thing.’

  And without any warning the image of the ship wobbled and disappeared. In its place there was something much smaller – a featureless flattened off-white ovoid about half the size.

  The Bird made a harsh noise. ‘Bad! They’ve dropped a field. Weapons …’

  A spot at the front of it glowed bright yellow.

  Skarbo had time to say, ‘No, wait,’ and then there was a crash, and suddenly the pod was spinning wildly. An alarm howled, and there was the screech of escaping atmosphere. Skarbo crashed into something metal and then into Chvids, who made an oddly hoarse, wordless growl and grabbed weakly at him. She held on for an instant and then lost her grip, whirling away and slamming into the wall.

  Then there was a soft buzz and the spin slowed to a halt. The screech of the departing air died to a high whistle – but didn’t stop. Skarbo looked towards the source of the sound and saw a little mound of self-seal foam mushrooming out from the wall. They’d been holed – were still holed.

  The voice came ag
ain. ‘Warning shot. To judge by the stuff squeezing out I guess your hull has not quite plugged itself. I don’t care, and the next hole will be much bigger. Names.’

  The Bird had sunk its claws into the edge of a couch to steady itself. It flapped its wings once. ‘Haven’t got a name,’ it said sulkily. ‘Can’t help you. Stupid reason to shoot.’

  The voice laughed. ‘It might have been stupid yesterday but it isn’t today. Right. I figure you’re harmless where you are. I’m gonna take you on tow.’

  Skarbo glanced at the foam plug. ‘We’re still leaking.’

  ‘And I still don’t care. If you’re still breathing when we get back to the Handshake, let me know.’

  Skarbo turned away, and closed his eyes. Then he opened them again. Something floated across his vision, a little dark sphere, and he waved a claw at it.

  It shattered into hundreds of much tinier spheres. They were dark red.

  He turned to Chvids, who was clinging to the bulkhead with one hand. A stream of the little spheres was coming from somewhere on her head.

  As he pulled himself closer she turned towards him and smiled, and he saw the gash across her temple.

  Then he corrected himself. Not across. Through.

  Something had sliced deeply, neatly into the woman’s head – a tidy black-edged ravine, wisping balls of blood.

  Without looking away he said, ‘Bird?’

  Chvids closed her eyes and her fingers relaxed.

  ‘Bird?’

  ‘What? Oh.’ It pushed itself off from the couch and drifted over to Chvids. One of the drops of blood burst against its head. It didn’t seem to notice.

  Skarbo felt anger rising in him. ‘Ship out there? Whoever you are? Chvids is injured, maybe fatally. What are you going to do about it?’

  There was no answer. Skarbo got ready to shout.

  Before he could, the pod rang like a gong.

  The white ship seemed to flicker. Then it became an expanding cloud of plasma.

  Skarbo looked at The Bird. It raised its head slowly. ‘Well now,’ it said.

  Then there was another voice.

  My apologies. Are you well?

  It was the Orbiter.

  The Bird got there first. ‘How well do you think? Skarbo was kidnapped, then imprisoned, then we were shot.’

  And there are three of you. Who is the third?

  ‘Female. Humanoid. Injured.’

  I see.

  Outside a faint haze flicked into being between them and the rest of the universe, and the pod jinked slightly to the side. The sound of escaping air ceased. The movement knocked Chvids gently against the bulkhead. She made no noise.

  There is no time to bring you inside. Things have become – imperative. Treat her as best you can.

  Skarbo stared out at the haze. He couldn’t see the ship. ‘Is that it?’

  For the moment. Many apologies, again. I am less – able than I was.

  ‘Able?’ Skarbo shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  You should, of all people. But I have help. The old warships are not far away.

  The haze deepened. The Bird nodded at it. ‘Looks like a tow-field. Think we’re going wherever it’s going.’

  Beyond the haze, the stars blurred. The Bird clicked appreciatively. ‘Going somewhere pretty fast.’

  Skarbo watched the haze for a while. Eventually he said, ‘I see.’

  They had done what they could with the pod’s limited med kit. An uneven mound of gelseal covered Chvids’s temple, and after some debate they had sedated her. Now she half lay, half sat on one of the couches, held in by a loose seat web. There was no gravity, so presumably they were within the inertial bubble of whoever it was who was towing them, but it might return at any time.

  Skarbo watched her. He had known little about human anatomy even when he had had one, and now he knew nothing.

  He hadn’t even liked her. And now here he was thinking about her in the past tense.

  He was roused by a soft peck on the shoulder. He turned and found himself looking into The Bird’s eye.

  It tutted. ‘She chose to come,’ it said.

  ‘I know.’ It didn’t help. ‘She should be coming out of the sedation now.’

  ‘Be patient.’

  Skarbo shook his head. ‘I’ve been patient. I’ve been being patient for eight hundred years.’ He stared at The Bird. ‘And I have achieved nothing. Nothing!’ He had shouted the last word.

  The Bird pushed itself away from his shoulder and turned both eyes on him. ‘You think?’

  ‘What else should I think?’ Skarbo shrugged. ‘I spent all that time watching something dying slowly. Now here I am, watching—’ He stopped, and looked at Chvids.

  Her eyelids were flickering. Then they opened. Her eyes rolled, and focused. She took a breath.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  The Bird floated over to her and stared at her for a moment. Then it performed an elaborate mid-air shrug. ‘Oh, not much. You got shot. Skarbo’s blaming himself. I’m blaming him too.’

  She coughed. ‘It’s not his fault. Is it?’

  ‘Who cares? Blame him anyway.’

  Skarbo pushed it out of the way and it drifted off without protest. ‘Hello, Chvids. How do you feel?’

  She shook her head a little, as if testing something. ‘Okay. Weak. Kinda sick.’

  ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘I’m bored.’ But then she sighed, and her eyes closed.

  Skarbo looked at her, and then at The Bird. It shook its head.

  It was two days before the Orbiter and its friends felt able to slow, briefly, enough to take them on board. The pod still smelled of vomit that the housekeeping system couldn’t quite clear.

  The Orbiter was indeed less able than it had been. It had been damaged, elaborately. From the front it looked fairly intact, but there were long, seared wounds down its baroque flanks. One of them broadened into a gash that showed the stars on the other side.

  Two of the ancient warships flanked it, like bodyguards. Or carers.

  Skarbo stared at the mutilated ship. ‘What happened?’

  I found something, and I was found.

  When they were on board, the Orbiter explained. It had moved out of Handshake space towards the Spin, and for almost two days nothing had happened. Then it had run into a war.

  Skarbo nodded. ‘The Warfront.’

  No. Not that; but a result of it. The Warfront can only move at the speed of the slowest vessels, but it can grow as quickly as people join it. I did not anticipate that. It has grown very much.

  ‘How much?’

  It is now half a million kilometres across. Look.

  Air in front of Skarbo fuzzed, and became space. At first he thought it was space densely packed with stars, but then his mind completed the double-take.

  Ships. Hundreds of thousands of ships; maybe even millions, forming a shape like an outstretched hand, curved and ready to close.

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  Yes. The Warfront has so far avoided the Handshake, but it has moved around it on all sides. It is entering the ungoverned space at the periphery of the Spin, and as its tendrils close in it is trapping things between them. Systems, small civilizations, and some pre-existing wars that are becoming more intense under the pressure. I got caught in one.

  ‘I’m glad you escaped.’

  I almost didn’t. I had to be rescued.

  ‘By these two?’ Skarbo gestured to the left and right, pointing through the hull to roughly where he thought the flanking warships were.

  Yes. And in the process they disclosed most of their capabilities, and therefore were noticed. And so we are now in a hurry; the Warfront as a whole will want them, and various actors within the Warfront will want to get to where they suspect we are going before we do.

  Skarbo nodded. Then something occurred to him. ‘Where is Grapf?’

  Destroyed. I will miss it.

  And the old ship fell silent.

 
Chvids was intermittently wakeful, to begin with. She even asked questions.

  ‘Do you know where it’s taking us?’

  The Bird made a dismissive noise. ‘Want to guess?’ And then, without waiting for an answer: ‘The Spin. Where else? That’s where that lot are heading.’ It wagged its head towards the wall of ships that was the Warfront.

  They were getting closer.

  Her face crumpled. ‘I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to—’

  She didn’t finish. Skarbo’s mind completed the sentence: … die there.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It won’t be like it was before.’

  Which, he thought, was certainly true.

  She seemed reassured. She closed her eyes. ‘Tired. Head hurts.’

  Later, she half woke, and was sick again. Then she didn’t wake any more.

  They watched her troubled unconsciousness.

  Now, there was no doubt. Skarbo could see star patterns that he had last observed when he stared out into space from Experiment.

  The Orbiter let him play with the viewing controls. In one direction, there was the advancing Warfront. It had washed over the Handshake as if the vast structure didn’t exist.

  Which it no longer did.

  He had asked the Orbiter how many ships were following them.

  Many hundreds of thousands of capital ships and far more smaller ones. It is one of the greatest collections of ships for half a million years, and the number is growing by assimilation. Those who don’t join are processed. Listen.

  There was a fizzing noise, and then audio.

  ‘… latest to join the Warfront is the New Hanseatal Navy, and they didn’t even wait for their government to agree. Join or die, was the message, and they joined. Now, our reporter Kalf Bbei was embedded with the Navy and we’re hoping that means she’s now embedded with the Warfront. Kalf?’

  ‘… (crackle) … es, can you hear me? I’m still on the same ship; we’ve positioned ourselves within the Warfront fleet and we’re heading past the outskirts of the Hans system.’

  ‘We hear you clearly, Kalf. Tell me, are there any restrictions on you?’