The Tropic of Eternity

by Tom Toner

  The body in his grasp shrivelled, drooling translucent yellow pus from its eyes and mouth and ears. The Drazlo-person arched his back, his face elongating into a snout, never breaking eye contact with his prey. Soon wiry black hairs were sprouting all over his body as the corpse’s pelt sizzled and melted away. Furto stared. Everything the being copied was simultaneously destroyed. The half-Lacaille’s ears elongated as the corpse’s melted. Furto knew that the stink of vinegar would be very strong right now, had the door not been airtight.

  Jospor and Veril were hugging each other. The corpse emptied its bowels, its stomach deflating, and shrivelled to a crispy strip of flesh and pus-smeared pelt, dangling in the horrible half-being’s grasp. Gramps was now almost completely Osserine. He flexed his claws, watching them grow, and turned his golden eyes on the three Vulgar.

  “How do you think you’ll survive without me?” he snarled. “Let me out of here and perhaps we’ll say nothing more of it.”

  Furto had been gazing desperately around the door trim and finally found what he was looking for. A blob of indented wall, like a thumbprint, right at the top of the arch.

  Gramps attacked the bubble without warning, dragging his claws along it, the screech startling them out of their stupor.

  “Veril!” Furto cried, singling out the tallest of them. “Lift me up!” He pointed to the indentation.

  Veril grabbed Furto under the armpits, hoisting him above his head.

  Furto stretched with all his effort, his fingers falling short. “Higher!” He could feel, where his knee pressed the bubble, the furious scrapings of Gramps trying to get out.

  Veril grunted and thrust him higher, the tips of Furto’s fingers just brushing the pad, his long arm almost there.

  Gramps had hooked one of his claws into a scratch in the surface.

  Veril threw him. Furto slammed his palm against the pad, falling the six feet back onto the floor.

  He sat up. Through the bubble, there was nothing but blackness, as if the lights had gone out. Nothing but a light switch—

  But then he saw, faint in the starlight, the petal-shaped rim of the outer bulkhead. The chamber had opened up, hurling away its contents.

  Gramps was gone.

  *

  They made their cautious way to the tapered front of the ship, the spaces shrinking around them until they had to crouch to look out upon their destination. There beneath them, looming across the black horizon like a reflection of their own great worlds, lay the spiralled wisps of another galaxy; a dazzling blush of stippled blues and crimsons and pinks, glowing with an interior power mightier than Furto could ever conceive.

  “Which one is it?” he found himself asking, suddenly very sober for the first time in many a day, remembering that it had been poor Slupe’s job to ask the pointless questions.

  “That would be Andromeda, as our maps call it,” said Jospor at his side. Furto looked at him in surprise.

  “Where Gramps came from,” Furto supplied, gazing out upon the coiled, wondrous light. It was as if they were sinking to the bottom of an ocean, the glow of deep, unglimpsed things glimmering up through the darkness. “Where he was trying to get back to.”

  “Can we survive?” Veril asked, a tremble in his voice betraying his fear. “Won’t we starve long before we get there?”

  Furto looked out upon the great Thundercloud, wondering. It had grown appreciably in size, he thought, since they’d first seen it.

  “You know,” he whispered, “we might just make it after all.”

  BOUNTY

  In the darkly wooded passes, fogged where mists clung to their slopes, Billyup scented something. Smoke. He wandered back into its slanting, fragrant trail and searched the forest for its source.

  Down among the great roots of the trees he saw it: a house, some way below him.

  The walled building had grown upwards, slimly entwining its terracotta-coloured material with the bulging trunks of the forest into a series of peaked spires. Billyup guessed it must have consisted of single rooms laid one atop another. His gaze searched the walled garden, spotting nobody in the grounds of the place, and started down.

  This time he’d made sure the Babbo was fast asleep before moving on the place, stuffing her with enough food to put her into a long digestive slumber. Billyup kept to the edge of the valley slope, stumbling between the trunks of massive Oblet trees until he reached the topmost windows of the house. He ducked, peering into their dark eyes, noticing that they possessed thick, warped glass instead of shutters. He skirted the bank and slipped through the tall ferns, drawing level with the lowest floor and sidling up to its wall. The building was smooth and mould-slimed down here, where the wooded mountain pass was at its dampest, and Billyup’s cloak felt heavy with moisture.

  He listened, ears pricked beneath his hood, the sounds of the valley growing dense around him: the sinking peeps and wails of Skinches, Whippertails and Crones, the broken, musical cries of Tup Tups in the depths of the hollow. It was the Mid-Quarter, the morning all but spent, yet inside the house nobody seemed to be stirring.

  He came to the lowest window, a small aperture with a moss-slimed frame and busted glass. Pushing it carefully in with one hand, he sniffed the air inside.

  Dank, spiced with something. There was someone here, all right. The sound of heavy, glutinous snoring came from deeper in, on one of the middle floors.

  Billyup made his way inside, more confident now, shoving the window open and ducking into the darkness. His foot sank into something as he clambered down from the window and he saw that large, fresh stools had been deposited all over the tiles. Someone had claimed this place.

  He wiped his foot and climbed the stairs, peeking into the first floor—a dark reception room with spotted black mould climbing up the walls—noting a heap of curious baggage, and ascended to the next, cocking his head as the snores grew louder.

  Billyup paused, keeping inside the shadow of the doorway, a high, sweet stench thick in the air. Scattered about the rugs on the floor were piles of clothes and hanks of chewed yellow bone. Two curved scimitars the length of Billyup himself stood propped against the wall.

  Snoozing mightily in the chamber’s four pushed-together beds were a collection of massive Jalan Melius, their great hairy bellies rising and falling as they slept. Billyup stood tiny and frozen among them, his hackles raised, afraid to leave. The Babbo, slung across his back as usual, stirred and lay still again. His mind worked as he thought of their bulky luggage in the last room: they’d come far, skirting the Provincial border. He hadn’t seen the front of the house but was dimly certain that the door would be smashed in. What did they want, all the way out here?

  One of the giants cleared his throat groggily, rumbling and tossing on the bed, which popped and creaked alarmingly. Billyup’s short hair prickled with sweat. He waited until the Jalan had settled again, then stole out of the room.

  Billyup went through the packs with trembling fingers. There was such a wealth of odd things that he hardly noticed the sounds from the adjoining room. His pointed ears twitched under his hood. Something had changed. Billyup looked up from his work.

  One of the Jalan was inside the chamber with him.

  The giant stood stooped and very still for a moment, swaying slightly on his feet; Billyup realised that he hadn’t been noticed yet—in his cloak and hood he must have blended in among the luggage scattered about the room.

  The Jalan scratched himself, drooling, and crouched to rummage in the pack nearest Billyup. He found what he was after—a set of long-handled brushes—and examined them for a while. Billyup remained frozen, sure the giant would smell him, but the Jalan seemed preoccupied with the act of brushing his teeth.

  The Babbo started to writhe and Billyup felt a vicious fury. He could throw her to the giants as an offering, simply toss her and run. But they’d have him before he could get more than ten steps. They’d pull him limb from limb.

  The Jalan straightened and dropped his brush, clear
ing his throat and gobbing brown phlegm into the corner of the room. Billyup closed his eyes, waiting; waiting for that deathly pause, the startled grunt, the thumping of huge feet advancing upon him.

  But there was nothing.

  The Jalan went on scratching himself for some time, claws rasping on skin, and swung his head around at the sounds of the others rousing themselves. He thumped to the doorway, maddeningly close.

  Billyup pissed himself. The stench of it rose thickly around him. He trembled as the Babbo started to stir, grumbling, on his back.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Jalan hesitate. A sharp intake of breath. The giant turned, gazing into the room.

  “Ghalangle!” came a cry from the bedroom.

  The Jalan paused thoughtfully at the doorway before thumping away.

  Billyup let out a stifled whimper, tugging roughly at his cloak with shaking hands and sneaking to one side of the doorway.

  All of the Jalan were up now, sitting groggily on the edges of their beds, heads almost brushing the ceiling. Ghalangle was the only one standing, his back to Billyup.

  “Kaamh keduraan,” said Ghalangle to the others. Billyup knew a morsel of Threheng. They’d overslept.

  “Haalangan ulai-kamie.” Lost their head start.

  Billyup listened, tensed and coiled and ready to dash back down the stairs if only that Ghalangle would get out of his way. He inched around the mildewed edge of the wall, hidden from the others by the Jalan’s body, absorbed, despite himself, in their talk.

  The others’ names were Calamus, Ajowan and Zedory. They were resting up, having passed the Monsoons out of the East only a few weeks before. Westerlings, Secondlings; people of every sort seemed to be after them. Billyup shuffled and pressed himself flat as Ghalangle leaned back, the Babbo brushing up against the wall, the giant’s huge shadow slipping over him.

  The conversation turned quickly to breakfast as they woke up, becoming more animated. Billyup knew it was now or never and began to slide past Ghalangle’s huge rump, the stairway in sight at last.

  “Kitack a-terus, maambunuh sietap Awger.”

  He paused in his creep, the Jalan close enough to touch.

  Awger? Were they talking about him? He cocked his head, listening.

  Maambunuh. They were killing Awgers. Every one they came across.

  “Mendiengaarh taang, terus maambunuh,” another said thickly, halfway through a sip of something.

  Billyup’s heart stilled. They had to stop killing Awgers or they’d scare off the one they were after. The one with the Babbo. They were worried he might ditch it.

  He must have gasped, though he had no memory of it. The next thing he knew he was down the stairs, sprinting as fast as his spindly legs would carry him out into the steaming woods, his face dripping, lungs burning.

  Climbing through the dense woodland, Billyup came to the first view he’d had of the flats of Pan. He peered beyond the trees, sighting along the ribbon of a slim dirt road, one of the many tributaries that led to the great Westerly Artery further north, and following its progress as it wound between coppices of lush, stately forest and on into the murk of the vast land.

  A traveller, a simple Westerling laden with goods, was picking his way up the grassy path. Billyup made a dash for the cover of an overhanging bower, trying to keep in the shadows, but his quick motion must have startled the person, and at the sight of Billyup lurking in the trees he stopped and stared, clearly unsure. Eventually the Melius continued on, casting sidelong glances, until he had climbed past Billyup and up the wooded hill. Billyup waited, watching, and seized his chance, scuttling after him, closing the distance. He brought out the rock when he was a few steps behind and swung it at the back of the taller man’s head. It made a hollow bonk of a sound, as if it had bounced off thick bone, and the traveller stumbled, swearing, while Billyup stepped back to observe the effect of his blow. The Melius staggered and turned to look at him, huge eyes disbelieving. Billyup brought the rock upwards, crushing the Melius’s large nose, blood spurting. He flopped backwards onto his pack with a clatter and rolled down the side of the hill. Billyup followed him, the Babbo awoken and sniffling on his back. The man looked to be thoroughly dead. Billyup grabbed one of the man’s hot, blood-slick ears and whipped out his blade, sawing with an effort into his neck. It was sweaty work. Blood jetted in quick, violent spurts, and as he moved the body a little, it smeared his cloak. When he was done, he picked the head out of the wildflowers, grasping it by its blood-matted hair, and drop-kicked it down the hill. He smiled, watching it bounce along the curve of the slope, deflected by various trees until it accelerated and tumbled out of sight.

  He glanced back at the corpse, satisfied, and went to work rummaging through its things. The man had been a bookseller; his bags were filled with very fine, slim-sheeted metal ring books with speaking pictures. Billyup didn’t look at them much, tossing them to one side until he found the purse buried in a secret pocket. He took the rolls of silk, pulling them out of their ties so he could gauge their length, and stared at the bloody scene, his thoughts far away.

  He’d known the Babbo was important, of course, but not this important. He’d thought at the time that she must be someone’s daughter, someone’s bride. Now he knew the truth—and he didn’t like it. On his back he held the queen of the world.

  Billyup considered then in earnest whether he ought to just toss her into the valley and be done with it. He got as far as untying her from his back, something that would have been far more difficult for anyone less double jointed than himself, and moving to a spot where he could see she would fall far, until a better idea occurred to him. He couldn’t just dump her; that wouldn’t stop them. No—he would find an Awger somewhere, some creature that looked like him. He would trick it and throttle it and leave the Babbo by its side. When they found her, Billyup himself would be long, long gone, and nobody would ever come looking for him again.

  DIMENSIONS

  Somewhere in Sotiris’s empty mind, an internal clock had been keeping count. Days in the lands of the dead were, to his great surprise, regular as clockwork, and stopping beneath the shade of a small tree growing at the side of the path, he became aware that he must have walked for a very, very long time. The notion of an “outside” still featured somewhere in his consciousness—that there was more to his existence than this, even if he would never see it again—and he knew instinctively that the subjective months, perhaps years, he felt had passed in here had most likely not gone by outside, wherever that was.

  He inspected his bare feet, leaning against the tree to check the soles. They were black with dirt but certainly didn’t look as if they’d spent years on the road. There were no blisters, and he felt no pain.

  Sotiris gazed out into the blush of fields, the warm blue sky burning lemon-yellow at its horizon, seeing all the way to his destination—the specks of some kind of habitation, its size impossible to guess. He squinted. Townships littered the path, travelling into a distance that his eyes, unlike those he had been born with, could see perfectly.

  He sat, suddenly immensely hungry. He had met people, he remembered with a start: things, creatures that had accompanied him a little of the way, found that he was poor at conversation and left. He recalled now that some of the fields of brambles had been burning, and that he’d passed something, a marker of some kind, searching his memories and discovering that it was a mummified beast that must have died climbing a tree. He remembered in vivid Technicolor walking beneath its outstretched hands, staring up into the empty death-scream of its face.

  Sotiris looked at the flowers around his feet with famished intensity, plucking some writhing beetles from their petals and popping them one after another into his mouth. They were so crisp and hard that they cut the inside of his cheek, only mashing into pulp after a few good, hard bites. He ate for a long time, sitting in the only patch of shade for miles around, the meadows alive with springing insects. Once, he saw something small and humanoid scuttle p
ast, following the route down the steadily steepening plain, and wondered if it, too, had business further along.

  Sotiris leaned back, satisfied at last, his chin and fingers coated with the rust-brown remains of his meal. He looked across to where the brambles grew thickest, a place he knew concealed one of the shallow canals that intersected the path, and roused himself.

  Leaving his nightgown in a heap, he wandered naked to the canal’s edge, seeing slivers of his reflection in its brackish, weed-choked surface. A waft of sulphur rose from the water, thick and heavy as a sewer, but he climbed in anyway. The water was very cold, in contrast to the heat of the day. He took a breath as he prepared to duck his head under and sank beneath the surface.

  And he remembered everything; a blaze of recollection so strong that he gasped for air, dragging icy water into his lungs. He flailed, groping for the reeds at the bankside and hauling himself out.

  Sotiris lay there, gulping air and coughing, too battered by the sudden barrage of recollection to bother wondering what would happen to him in here if he died. He turned onto his back and retched up some stinking water. As he did so, a small sailed raft came scudding down the canal, two matted, wet-looking mammals of indeterminate species sitting aboard and watching him uneasily. He locked eyes with them, noticing how the one at the back used its wide, flat hand as a rudder, and they sailed past.

  The memories dried and evaporated as quickly as the water, dissipating by the time he came to pick up his nightgown again and rejoin the path. She is at the zenith of this place, trapped by its depth, he said to himself, having seen it underwater. All the way, the path led ever downwards on a gentle slope, ever deeper, the walk getting easier and easier, as if he were being drawn.

  Sotiris glanced behind him, having not done so, he remembered now, since he’d left the woods, and saw that the tree-lined hill was so far away that it looked as if it would take more than the ten thousand lifetimes he’d experienced to get back there. And then he knew. This world was growing, extending, like tree rings over time. He could never go back. The forest and the upper world, already sliding from his recollection, would lie forever out of reach.