Stone Clock

by Andrew Bannister

  ‘None. The attitude seems to be, the whole galaxy can see where the fleet is going so what’s the point in secrecy?’

  ‘And you are still going to the same place?’

  ‘Yes we are. We are heading for the Spin, and it’s hard to see what could stop us.’

  ‘And, if you can tell us this, what does it feel like, being part of that?’

  ‘I can’t lie, it’s exciting and terrifying, both at once. There’s a sense, when you talk to people, of being involved in something huge, some great project like there’s never been before. We don’t know what we’ll find when we get there; we guess there’ll be competition. There’s talk of another fleet, heading from the other side, but we just don’t know about that. Why wouldn’t there be? Everyone is positioning the Spin as some kind of prize. Meanwhile people are talking about a new beginning, but catch them off guard and you find some of them are afraid it will be an ending instead. I don’t—’

  The voice cut off.

  ‘Kalf? Are you there?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, we lost Kalf. That is, we lost contact. We hope we didn’t lose her too. Kalf, if you can hear us, we’ll stay—’

  Then that voice cut off too.

  Skarbo stared at the place the voices had come from. ‘Ship?’

  Gone. Everything is changing, Skarbo. I, too, have a sense of ending.

  Skarbo blinked. He had never heard the old ship sounding so reflective. He thought about that for a while. Then he said, ‘Ship? So have I. But I’m not ready to end yet.’

  Yes. And, of course, endings often come before beginnings.

  ‘And beginnings before ends.’

  They stopped talking, and Skarbo went back to the viewers. It felt better to turn them away from the Warfront, which was out of his control or understanding, towards something which he at least understood.

  Or thought he did.

  Yes. The Spin.

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. With, he counted, seven days of life remaining, he was almost there. And somehow, he felt further away than ever.

  ‘Orbiter?’

  Yes?

  ‘What is it like there?’

  Quiet.

  ‘Do you know where we’re going?’

  Only from memory. I have not been here for almost a hundred thousand years. The population centres were near the middle. But I would rather begin at the periphery – the Outer Rotate. There is – was – a transit station. I will head for that. There may be a shuttle. You will need one, if you want to land anywhere.

  Skarbo blinked. He had thought his own life was long. A thousand centuries – and that was only the latter part. How old was this thing?

  He shook himself. ‘Is there a map? I would like to …’ he hesitated. He wanted to say, make it real. To put back the people, in my mind at least. Instead he said, ‘to learn it.’

  I can project some images.

  ‘Thank you.’

  And the space in front of him was full of planets – a model, not a map, looking just the same as the many models he had made over the centuries. But not the same, because if he reached a claw into this model he could grasp it, move it. Go closer.

  He lost himself.

  The alarm sounded, and Skarbo realized it was the second time. He disengaged from the model.

  He didn’t know how long he had been Spin-gazing. The model was intoxicating; he could wander among the planets, watching clouds pass over continents he had never seen in eight centuries of observation, and then dive through the atmospheres to see cities, oceans, mountains.

  He had hoped to see activity but the model seemed static. Nothing was moving.

  The alarm had stopped. He looked round. ‘Ship? What was that?’

  We are slowing. We will dock shortly.

  ‘Dock? Oh. Where?’

  There. Look.

  Skarbo looked. Next to him, The Bird was perched in its usual observation place on the rail. It was silent.

  He supposed the thing he was looking at was a space station, but it was on an incomprehensible scale – far bigger than the Handshake.

  If you took a few hundred spheres, each a kilometre across, packed them closely round a bomb, set it off, and then froze the whole thing a second after the explosion, then you would get something that resembled this. It looked as if it had only stopped moving for a fraction of a second – as if it was ready to start expanding again at any moment.

  Skarbo found his voice. ‘What is it called?’

  It used to be called simply Terminal. Now it emits an automatic call-sign which says it is called Exeunt. I don’t know why. I have hailed, but there is no response.

  ‘Will you approach?’

  Yes.

  ‘Is it safe?’

  There seemed to be a slight pause. Then the ship said, Probably. Remember we have back-up; my friends are not far away. And if you want to make planet-fall, we need to find an atmosphere-capable craft. There used to be such here.

  ‘I see.’ Skarbo looked away.

  The Bird hissed, ‘You know what that is?’

  Skarbo blinked. ‘It’s a space station; some sort of entry portal, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe that, but something else. It’s the kind of really big thing you make to make yourself feel better about having forgotten how to make planets.’

  ‘Really?’ Skarbo stared at the thing.

  ‘Really. Showing off like that’s a sign of decline. Proper advanced stuff doesn’t have to be big and fancy. Ha. And the word Exeunt is about leaving, not arriving. Reckon they knew they were on the down escalator.’

  The thing grew in the screen. Spheres drifted past. Close up, their surfaces appeared scarred and discoloured.

  They nosed up to a sphere that looked fairly intact. There was a soft clunk.

  We have docked.

  Skarbo and The Bird looked at each other. Then The Bird raised its head. ‘Any sign of life?’

  There was a pause. Then, No. Apart from an automated response, no one is talking to me.

  ‘Which means what?’

  I don’t know. It is interesting that my identification seems to have been recognized.

  ‘Why?’

  Because it was last used a hundred thousand years ago. That implies continuity of recollection. Possibly, of ownership or management.

  The Bird gave an impatient hop. ‘And? What do we do?’

  I suggest you wait. I think it would be unwise to enter this place until we have more information.

  ‘And this from the machine that sent us into the Handshake?’ The Bird shook its head. ‘Ha …’

  I seem to remember you went willingly.

  The Bird huffed. Skarbo watched it, then looked away. ‘What about Chvids?’ he asked.

  There might be better medical facilities in there. There might not. There may be risks. Given her status I cannot recommend it.

  ‘Status?’ Skarbo glanced towards the woman. She was motionless, floating slackly within the seat restraints, and her face was grey. ‘Is she dying?’

  Close to dead. I am exploring one avenue.

  ‘Which is?’

  She would live out a normal life in a virtual setting.

  Skarbo blinked. ‘Only that?’

  I cannot foresee another way.

  ‘Virtual?’ The old man had talked about the vrealities of the Spin …

  People were beginning to matter. Chvids in particular. And that was why he had done what he had done. He promised himself that it made sense.

  They disengaged, and spent an hour slowly nosing around and between the forest of spheres. The ship didn’t suggest docking again, and Skarbo didn’t need to ask why. Instead they scanned, and mapped, and watched.

  There would have been little to dock with. Most of the spheres showed at least some damage; many were ravaged, with deep rips exposing twisted metal structures on the inside. Now and then the Orbiter extended a field and pushed a drifting piece of debris out of the way.

  Then it sto
pped.

  Ah. This is new.

  Skarbo looked out. At first he thought he was looking at even more extreme damage; they were near the end of the great central shaft, and instead of a neat closure there was a rough stump, with broken stalks sticking out of it. One of them ended in a half-sphere.

  Then his mind processed the word new.

  ‘Under construction?’

  Yes. At least, at some point it was. I assume the work has been abandoned for many years.

  The Bird nodded. ‘Explains the state of the place,’ it said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Half built? Bound to fail. Like a half-built nest – always falls apart.’

  Skarbo nodded.

  Then, so fast he felt dizzy, the world in his head rearranged itself, and he knew.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and it seemed to take centuries just to form the syllable. And then, ‘Ship?’

  An hour later they found the shuttle. Skarbo barely heard the Orbiter announcing it. He had spent the whole time staring out sightlessly at the half-finished thing that was bound to fail, and wondering how it had taken him eight centuries to realize this one simple fact. And hoping, with something far on the other side of desperation, that the idea he and the ship had come to would work.

  The ship had listened to his thesis. He hadn’t been sure it would. When he had finished it had indulged in another of its increasingly frequent long silences.

  Then it had said, I agree. I am astonished. I congratulate you.

  He shook his head. ‘There’s no point in congratulations. It was a guess. You might as well thank The Bird for giving me the idea.’

  Nevertheless.

  Skarbo felt like hitting something. ‘But it’s too late! I should have thought of it lifetimes ago. Lifetimes! And I would need lifetimes to analyse it. Now I have no time at all.’

  Another silence. Then the ship said slowly: It may not be too late. I have an idea.

  Skarbo looked up. ‘I have a guess about your idea.’

  The vrealities. Is that your guess?

  ‘Yes. There could be lifetimes.’

  Are you ready to spend more lifetimes on a problem?

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at Chvids. And so is she, he thought.

  And now he was staring out, and his mind was racing.

  Skarbo?

  ‘Yes … yes.’ He pulled himself out of it and looked at the image of the craft. ‘Is it – suitable?’

  Approximately. I would not recommend high-gravity work … Are you still convinced you want to do this?

  He nodded. ‘Yes. All of it. For her,’ he pointed at Chvids, ‘and for, well … everything.’

  Not for you?

  ‘No. Or, not mainly.’ To one side, he heard The Bird muttering something about a fucking saviour complex. He ignored it.

  Indeed. I have selected a suitable planet.

  ‘Good. Then we’d better go.’

  Wiits Harbour (vreality)

  ZEB WOKE FROM unconsciousness. It seemed to take centuries, and it hurt as much as waking from death.

  He sat up and assessed his environment, because it seemed safer than starting with himself. That could wait.

  He wasn’t in the town. The smells were different, and so were the sounds. The last thing he remembered from the town was busy silence, but this was different – the natural quiet of a place being itself. Air movement, and distant sea birds. And along with those, a soft, deep, fundamental creak that made him think of trees.

  The air smelled of sea, too. Not the industrial sea of the town, but something fresh.

  He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but now he felt ready.

  The first thing he saw was the woman. Her eyes were still amused. ‘Hello again,’ she said. ‘Back with us?’

  He gave himself a moment to recover. Then he said, ‘I wasn’t with you in the first place.’

  ‘No. But you are now.’

  He said nothing, simply watched her. She watched back, without wavering or changing her expression, which was the bare trace of a half-smile.

  She was tall and slim, wearing loose trews and a simple shirt that emphasized her shape by hanging loosely. At first glance it looked like youthful slenderness but there was something behind it, as if the young woman was just an image projected on to an older background. Her face, too – it was smooth, but with a fragility which seemed heightened the more he looked at it.

  Her eyes were deep brown, and gave nothing.

  When he had finished his inspection, he looked away, thinking that if they had been playing a game he had lost it. The thought made him smile.

  He wasn’t ready to re-engage. He stood up and stretched, taking his time, and looked about him.

  They were in a round chamber, no more than a dozen paces across. The walls and ceiling seemed to be woven, of some sort of thick vine laced through uprights in a complicated pattern that baffled his eye when he tried to study it. There were mats of something similar, but finer, on the floor, and there were tall narrow windows spaced evenly around the walls.

  He took the half-dozen paces to a window and looked out.

  And down.

  He managed not to catch his breath, but it was close. There was sea below them – a long way below – a grey-green crawling surface streaked with off-white.

  He couldn’t help it. He turned back to the woman. ‘How high are we?’

  The half-smile broadened. ‘Only four hundred metres. This is the Lower Lookout.’ He heard the capital letters.

  ‘Lower? There are more?’

  ‘Certainly. Look out this way.’ She gestured to the windows behind her.

  He walked over and looked, and this time there was an up as well as a down to look at.

  Several ups, in fact. He could see several more … towers? No, not towers. More like stems – knotted, plaited, twisted stems that thinned and bulged as they rose. At the base they disappeared into the ocean. At the top, they opened out into complicated latticeworks that flattened into platforms.

  He shook his head. ‘Are these what I think they are?’

  ‘I suppose you think they’re trees?’

  He nodded.

  ‘No. Even though people call them the Seatrees, they aren’t trees. They’re more like vertical corals. But they grow; about ten centimetres a year.’

  ‘Barely enough to notice.’

  Now there was no doubting her smile. ‘That depends how long you have to do the noticing. When we came here they were only a few metres above the water.’

  He did a quick mental calculation. ‘But that means you’ve been here …’ He fell silent.

  ‘Yes.’ She stood up, and became brisk. ‘Something we have in common, I think. Tell me your name. Your real name.’

  He stared at her. Then he said simply, ‘Zeb.’

  ‘Right. Well, come on, Zeb.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet. Who are you? Why did you attack me?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘The word you’re looking for is rescued.’

  ‘No it isn’t. I was fine, then you kicked me unconscious.’

  ‘You weren’t fine. You had the Straights and the Measures after you. You were wounded. Or have you forgotten? You were going to die. Again.’

  ‘Again?’ He looked at her sharply. ‘How did you know that?’

  She laughed. ‘There’s nothing special about it. You have history, my friend. You have left traces. Legends, even. You are interesting. And you seem to be healed, by the way.’

  ‘I …’ He reached a hand to his hip, then his shoulder. No pain, and no blood. He looked at her, and felt his eyes widen. ‘You did that?’

  She watched him for a second. ‘Problem?’

  ‘No.’ It was a lie. He had a problem with anyone who could mess with the vreality. He hadn’t seen Keff for lifetimes, had almost forgotten the creature. Was she another?

  She was still watching him. Then her lips twitched and she looked away. ‘Your choice. So, are you coming?’

  He shrugg
ed. ‘What’s the hurry?’

  She smiled, but now it was different – it was sad, and this time age shone through. ‘For him, the hurry is – infinite. But I’m afraid you and I have no need to hurry at all. It’s something else we have in common, Zeb, and it’s why I was hoping you’d turn up.’

  She walked up to the wall and pushed it gently. A section unravelled itself to leave a hole just tall enough for her to pass through it upright. She walked through, turned, and beckoned.

  He followed. He was wondering what she meant by in common.

  Spin, Outer Rotate

  SKARBO WAS STANDING about five paces from the edge of the cliff. It was as close as he dared go; under its sparse layer of grey, dusty soil the rock was soft, and shot through with frost-fractures, and the land at the base of the cliff a kilometre below was strewn with fresh rock-falls.

  The shuttle had worked. It was little more than a tapering tube with an elderly chemical motor at one end, but it had juddered down through the old, thin atmosphere well enough, and settled with a jolt and a creak on to the high plateau barely a hundred metres from where they had intended to land.

  It was very cold, not that it seemed to bother him, but there was no frost. The air felt thin and old and utterly dry, and it smelled of rock-flour.

  In some ways it reminded him of the last years of Experiment, but somehow worse – he struggled for a while, and then came up with the word abandoned.

  Yes. Abandoned; that was it. But then Experiment had never really been inhabited, except by him – and this place obviously had.

  The ship said that the rows of polished, tilted plates were primitive solar panels, much lower tech than the vast, silent gauzy film of low-orbit solar array they had passed on the way down into the atmosphere.

  Skarbo had caught his breath at the sight of the array. ‘What is that?’

  It is called a Skylid.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ It was – the shifting colours reminded him a bit of the surface of the Sphere.

  Yes. It is a monomolecular solar collector. There is another name for them – I have heard them called Shrouds. Because in the end the planets beneath them die. As has this one.

  Skarbo watched the beautiful, deadly thing rippling gently, and said nothing else.

  Now he was on the surface he could see more than solar stuff. From what little he knew of agriculture this was an unlikely site for it, but someone had tried. Between the base of the cliff and the solar farms were the other sort of farm – a strip of cultivation a kilometre wide, with different-looking plants in different areas. Skarbo thought he could see the ghost of organization.