Tales From The Edge: Emergence

by Stephen Gaskell

  He'd never been back since, never really left Levan's Crossing except for a few camping trips into the wilderness with his father. He remembered the place as bustling, noisy, the spaceport terminal teeming with emotions you rarely witnessed. Tears and laughter, relief, occasional white-hot rage. Mother and father had kept their little family unit to themselves, hustling them out of the terminal, mother carrying Billy in one arm, pulling Kelvin along with the other, while his father steered the auto-crate that contained all their worldly possessions around the crowds. They'd tumbled out into harsh sunlight, hailed a skimmer taxi, and been whisked away straight for Levan's Crossing, Kelvin barely able to get a good look at the mesmerizing street life, not least the gangly Kasmenai alien who'd been busking on the sidewalk with a instrument of strange design.

  I'll go back. Tonight.

  He stopped, marvelling at the thought.

  Maybe the answers to all his questions would be there, maybe they wouldn't, but at least he'd get to see Whitesands. The more he thought about it, the more he felt the idea was the right one. He could slip onto one of the trains as it slowly trundled out of the complex, ride on one of the car roofs, and watch the stars. Maybe the man who'd attacked him would cool off by morning, drop any plans for retaliation. He shuddered, thinking how he'd have to tell his father what had happened, how the man had been so determined to learn what Kelvin had seen in the workshop. Father would be angry. And mother. What would she think, him disappearing off without even a goodbye? Would anyone tell her he'd glassed the tattooed man? Probably. She'd be worried sick--

  Tomorrow. I'll deal with everything tomorrow.

  He knew he was burying his head in the sand, but he didn't care. Tonight he was heading for Whitesands, for adventures, and perhaps the truth.

  Underfoot, he felt the tracks thrumming, the pulses growing in strength.

  His ride was coming.

  *

  The maglev train hurtled through the hard, dark landscape, the shadows of cacti rushing past below, the wind whipping at the heavy cloth covering the precious ores. Kelvin discovered that if he lay flat on his back, nestled deep into a pocket near the middle of the canvas that covered the cargo, almost everything seemed still, and he could almost forget he was speeding across the desert at five hundred klicks per hour.

  Away from any light pollution, the night sky was spectacular.

  Millions of faint stars provided a glowing backdrop to the usual cast of the brightest hundreds, but the most awesome sight was reserved for the giant scar of the aurora, a pulsing veil of purple-red light of a thousand hues. Coruscating white flashes danced on its edges, and the filaments of lightning that usually blurred into a soft white outline, set themselves in stark relief against the blackness.

  He gazed hard, memorizing every detail, never wanting to forget the sight.

  Near the outskirts of the city, the train began to slow, Kelvin's legs pressing into his rocky footrest from the deceleration. He twisted onto his front and crawled to the side of the car for a better view. Cold air streamed through his hair as he stared over a dingy sweep of grey factories and industrial zones. Bright security lights bordered a few sites, causing him to squint from their glare, but most of the urban sprawl was dark. As the train slowed more, he could pick out the meagre trappings of the factory yards, the late night movement of ponderous vehicles, headlights illuminating the roads, and, strangely, a handful of fires burning. No buildings alight, more like bonfires crackling through splintered debris, or the volatile contents of a steel drum set to match. People moved in the light of the flames like moths round a fire.

  What the hell? Were they celebrating? Protesting?

  Father had explained that sometimes workers undertook industrial action if they didn't agree with their masters' plans, but the sight before his eyes didn't chime with the idea of the glittering city of Whitesands he'd conceived on that day all those years ago. A bad feeling settled in the pit of Kelvin's stomach.

  The electromagnetic hum of the train quietened, other sounds prickling his ear. The chatter of tracked vehicles, terse shouts, the low screech of an aircraft passing overhead. He glanced up, and the afterglow of its superheated exhaust left a line on the back of his retina.

  Like the freight lorries edging through the industrial districts, he realized that the cargo train on which he'd stowed was now being accompanied by a military escort. A pair of sleek aircraft, exteriors bristling with weaponry and electronics, glided along in lockstep, one on either side of the maglev, powerful beams picking out pockets of people on the ground who shook their fists at the light.

  Am I entering a warzone or a city?

  Gunfire rattled out from an upper level of a warehouse, tracers streaking across the night, and Kelvin had his answer. He ducked his head, braced. The shots had been aimed at the aircraft, and he imagined debris spiralling onto his position. He shouldn't have worried. A low growl pulsed from the aircraft, and an instant later a fireball mushroomed out of the warehouse.

  The maglev passed through some kind of city perimeter, a long unbroken wall of steep metal plates patrolled by Foundation robots and soldiers, and the aircraft broke off.

  No such wall had existed when they'd left.

  Kelvin hustled onto the side of his car, the chunks of ore beneath the canvas making for easy handholds, and jumped for the rushing ground.

  *

  He rolled hard, the skin scraping off his elbows and knees, came to a clumsy rest. He got up. As he checked himself over, he watched the train slide into Whitesands industrial terminus, distant mechs already waiting to unload the valuable freight.

  Crouching low, he made away from the tracks.

  A high chain-link fence topped with razor wire kept the line separate from the city streets, but less than twenty paces from where he'd landed he found a hole cut in the barrier and slipped through into a non-descript backlot. He jogged through the yard, concerned he might attract security, but the only movement came from a couple of mangy looking birds fighting over the carrion of some dead animal.

  Out front, despite the lack of street lighting, he could see he'd emerged into some heavy goods commercial district. A giant hoarding along the top-edge of the building whose backlot he'd left read "All Terrain Robotic Industries", and across the street a half-functioning LED sign proclaimed "Ne-lsen Fl-sh---ts Inc.". Neither store had any stock left, and broken glass crunched underfoot as Kelvin stalked along the shopfronts.

  Down the street the growl of a skimmer engine punctured the air. Kelvin pressed himself against the building, hiding in the shadows, afraid. The engine grew louder, and shortly Kelvin could see the skimmer gliding closer. The rider scanned the area, head sweeping back and forth, searching. Kelvin kept his body completely still, held his breath, and thankfully soon enough found himself watching the taillights recede.

  Had civil war come to Whitesands?

  Had it come to the whole of Craster?

  Was that why his father was building a spacecraft in secret? So they had an escape route if other channels failed them?

  He knew life in this part of the Arm was fragile; his father had explained when they'd arrived here that they might have to up and leave at short notice, that he shouldn't get too attached to Levan's Crossing. He never explained why though.

  Not that he really had any chance of getting too attached to the shithole that was home, although he would miss his friends if he had to suddenly go.

  He glanced at the low skyline, thinking. South, tall spires of glass and metal struck skywards in the downtown area, lights twinkling from many of the windows. Crystal gangways connected one building to another in complex webs so that from afar it appeared as a glass forest overlaid with sparkling creepers. The most notable sight, however, was the steady stream of ships rising from the spaceport--from the stately movement of the vast interstellar cruisers to the agile dance of dozens of minor shuttles who threaded between their larger cousins. A few craft hurtled planetwards, but by far the majority fled f
or space.

  Pricking his ears he detected the low hum of the biggest vessels' ion-engines, but overlaid on this baseline he could hear something else: crowds. Chanting or screaming he couldn't tell, only that they were many.

  Calming his shaking he sprang away from the wall's embrace.

  He would find them.

  He kept to the shadows, hustled through the broken streets, his compass set by the dim glow of the downtown and the slowly escalating sounds of the crowds. A cripple rooting through an abandoned tracked vehicle beckoned him over, but the man's face was mean, and Kelvin ignored his pleas. In the entrance to a plaza, a dozen mattresses had been scattered across the concourse, a number of slumbering forms occupying the makeshift beds. Nearby, a man sat smoking on a piece of rubble. He made a gun gesture with his free hand, pointed his symbolic firearm at Kelvin, before breaking into wild laughter. A ragged woman next to him slapped his arm down, clumsily got to her feet, straightening her tight skirt.

  "You want a good time, honey?"

  Kelvin shook his head, headed on.

  The woman's voice morphed into a ugly screech. "You ain't got what I need anyway! Cheapskate!"

  Later, when the spaceport was close enough that he could see the flare of individual crafts' thrusters, he heard a bitter quarrel coming from down the street. Two groups faced off against one another, although Kelvin could immediately tell that they shared little in common. The streets were narrower now, tiny businesses crammed under tenement housing, and he stumbled under a nearby awning, weighing up his options. The first group comprised five or six casually dressed young men, their postures radiating brashness and confidence. The second group were multi-generational, perhaps an extended family or a small community collective, children hugged tight to their elders' legs. An older woman wearing a flowing robe, her grey hair tied into complex spirals, seemed to be the group's spokesperson, standing slightly forward of her brethren. Glancing around, Kelvin caught distinctive faces in the windows high above, spied an unusual script on many of the signs, and realized he must've come across an ethnically-distinct neighbourhood. He couldn't understand the language the two groups conversed in, but the words seemed laced with hostility, though they did seem to be negotiating.

  He crept a couple of paces forward, curious.

  Something clattered down from overhead, sending him flying. Somehow he'd disturbed the awning. He glanced back at the stalemate down street, horrified to see all eyes gazing in his direction, the street silent. A couple of men from the first group pulled handguns from the small of their backs, edged closer.

  Shit!

  He didn't wait, scrambled to his feet, began running back the way he'd come, hurdling empty packing boxes, bins, makeshift street furniture. The men gave chase, their shouts ricocheting off the narrow facades of the buildings.

  He turned a corner--and slammed into the purring front section of a skimmer, the skin of his palms flash-burning from the heat of the engine. He pulled his hands away, stunned.

  "There you are," said the rider. Straggly blonde locks, sweaty and matted, framed a weather-beaten face. A red bandana covered the lower part of his face, muffling his voice, but Kelvin barely noticed, his attention on the glowing orb wedged deep into the rider's right eye socket. Bionics were rare in Levan's Crossing, the technology too expensive for most. The man glanced beyond Kelvin, and Kelvin realized it was the same rider who he'd hidden from earlier. He made a thumb gesture over his shoulder. "Climb on if you want to live."

  The shouts of the men grew louder.

  Kelvin sprung onto the skimmer, throwing his arms around his saviour's midriff and gripping hard. The skimmer engine wailed like a banshee, and the street turned into a blur. A few sharp turns later, Kelvin lost and dizzy, the skimmer slowed to a regular traffic pace.

  Kelvin hollered. "Why were you looking for me?"

  "I watched you bail from the maglev--" the rider shouted. "Guessed you were probably some runaway who didn't know what he was getting himself into heading straight into the heart of Kobeshi Town. Lucky I found you." The rider turned his head slightly. "You got a deathwish?"

  "No." Kelvin bristled. "I was just curious."

  "Curious? You never watch the news?"

  "No."

  The rider shook his head, uncomprehending.

  "What was happening?"

  "Trafficking. That's what was happening. Families without transport off-planet pay a small or a not-so-small fee for their children to gain safe passage out-of-system, usually with the promise of work at the other end. Half the time they end up in shallow graves twenty klicks outside the city. Business always booms for those scumbags when the Edge draws near."

  "The Edge?"

  The rider brought the skimmer to a dead standstill, killed the engine. They'd come to a smart district, well-dressed people milling in the haute-coutured gardens of late-night bars, the air brimming with personal security drones.

  "Kid, where are you from?"

  "Levan's Crossing."

  The rider tensed. "Levan's Crossing?"

  "That's what I said, didn't I?"

  The rider dismounted, pulled down his bandana. He couldn't have been more than thirty, but the deep lines of his face spoke of a weariness beyond his years. The man had witnessed bad things, but his remaining human eye still signified compassion. "You don't know, do you?"

  "I don't know what?" Kelvin unstraddled from the skimmer, exasperated. "What are you talking about?"

  "The exodus." He swivelled, pointed at the stream of craft rising for the stars. Behind the myriad vessels the aurora hung like a velvet backdrop, swirling with filaments of light. "The reason the rich and powerful are fleeing Craster."

  "It's not because of a war?"

  "War isn't the cause. A consequence, for sure, but not the cause." He sighed, returned his gaze to Kelvin. "You have family in Levan's Crossing?"

  Kelvin nodded.

  "Then the way forward is clear--"

  "Who are you?"

  The rider ignored the question. "We're not far from St Lorca Station--Whitesands main terminal." While he gave directions, he pulled a digital chit from an inside pocket, flashed it with some credit, then pressed it into Kelvin's palm. "Do yourself a favour. Head there, talk to no one, and take the next maglev home. The demonstrations near the spaceport are sure to turn violent. You don't want to get caught up in that." He clipped his mask back on, mounted his skimmer. "So, what are you waiting for?"

  With that, Kelvin's saviour sped off into the night.

  Kelvin watched the skimmer shrink to a dark dot between the glittering facades, then disappear entirely. He spun the chit between his fingers, thinking. Clearly, his parents--like the rest of the adults of Levan's Crossing--had deliberately kept the knowledge of this thing, the Edge, from their children so as not to scare them. On one level he was grateful for that, but on another . . . on another he resented the lack of trust, the way they'd forced him to be a child.

  Maybe I could've helped father build the spacecraft. Maybe it's not too late. And even if it is, then maybe we can just weather whatever storm is coming, and start over next year. We're a family of survivors, after all.

  He didn't want to go back yet, so he headed deeper into the city, drawn by the hubbub of the crowds. He passed through classy streets with marble white mansions, guarded by menacing-looking bots. The embassy district, he realized, later. Lines of refugees queued round the perimeter of several of the buildings, an incongruous rabble against the backdrop of pruned azaleas and pristine statues.

  He came to the fringes of the crowd, tired bodies drifting elsewhere as spacecraft whined overhead. He pressed on through mutterings of discontent, the crowds getting tighter, more vociferous in their anger. He learnt that the planetary government had disbanded, fled the world to form an emergency council on one of the space habitats in geosynchronous orbit, although many believed they'd already left the system. Aerial drones marshalled the protestors away from the spaceport entry/exit routes, occas
ionally breaking their lines to let small convoys of vehicles through. Some people slapped their fists on the sides of the cars, but were swiftly turned to writhing forms as the bots' lasers fired. "Our leaders are cowards!" a man with a bandana over his face cried, and his shout was greeted by a chorus of "Cowards! Cowards! Cowards!"

  "I'm sorry," Kelvin said, apologising to a middle-aged woman who he'd accidentally jostled. "I got pushed."

  "No bother," she said, smiling. "The unwashed masses always get pushed around."

  He smiled back. "This is going to sound like a stupid question, but if you could answer it simply and straightforwardly, I'd be grateful."

  "Yes?"

  He held the woman's eye. "What's the Edge?"

  A frown wrinkled her brow. "Why, dear," she said, gazing upwards, and pointing at the aurora. "That's the Edge. The Maelstrom's Edge."

  Kelvin's stomach dropped. "That's the Edge?"

  "Indeed."

  He whispered his next question. "What is it?"

  "It's . . . it's the end of all things. It's death. At least, that's how I think of it. I mean, you'd have to ask somebody who knows more about these things, but you can think of it as the storm to end all storms. Soon it will tear this world to pieces. Three months they guess. My neighbour says . . ."

  Kelvin tuned out, stricken.

  They'd been running from the Edge his entire life.

  And he'd always thought of it as something serene, something like a good omen, a benevolent relative always watching over him.

  How wrong he'd been.

  In a daze, he spun away from the woman, threading his way out of the maze of bodies, the boom of the vast engines overhead, the terse commands of the drones, the whistling and jeering and shouting, all the noise strangely subdued as if he was moving underwater.