Xeelee: Endurance

by Stephen Baxter

  He said grimly, ‘We are soldiers. We have been trained to survive. We will survive this, together.’

  ‘But how long has this monster kept these women as his slaves? Can you see the faces of the children? They look like him.’

  ‘It won’t happen to you.’

  ‘Oh, you can be sure of that,’ said Tira, her voice full of hate.

  Life in Teeg’s nasty little kingdom turned out to be simple.

  They lived outdoors, on the arid plain. For the first couple of days they stayed close to the cliff where the time chute had decanted, huddling at night in caves or under rocky overhangs.

  But then they were led away by Teeg and the enigmatic hovering machine, the ‘Weapon’. So, by default, Belo was exploring the Lowland, the greatest mystery of all to Shelf Philosophers of all persuasions. If it hadn’t been so brutally hard it would almost have been interesting.

  They slept out in the open. They ate berries they gathered from the sparse bushes, or they chewed on strips of dried meat – Belo wasn’t sure yet where the meat came from. Their clothes were rags, replaced if they came across a handy corpse, like poor Dane’s. But it appeared Teeg always got the best pick, like Belo’s own boots.

  And, while they walked, they carried fragments of Dane’s corpse with them. The women of Teeg’s grim harem seemed used to this. Even the blank-eyed children stumbled along with grisly butchered remnants. Belo had no clear idea why they did this.

  Indeed, Belo’s own continued existence puzzled him. It was obvious what Teeg wanted of Tira – but why keep Belo alive? Another man could only be competition, a threat; why tolerate him taking another breath?

  And towering over all these personal issues was the deeper mystery of the Weapon: where it had come from, how and why it had been made – and what its true purpose was, for Belo was beginning to suspect that it had nothing to do with Teeg and his petty lording. Belo couldn’t even see how Teeg communicated with it; he never spoke to it directly, never touched it. Sometimes, Belo thought, it was almost as if Teeg was following the Weapon, rather than the other way around. Belo longed to examine the Weapon, but he dared not approach it, not until he understood more.

  Belo tried to talk to Teeg as they walked. In his military service he had learned that any knowledge could be a lever. But he had to bury his resentment as Teeg marched along in his own spindling-leather boots, while Belo’s feet bled on the rough ground.

  ‘You are a victim of the time pit,’ Belo essayed.

  ‘As are you,’ Teeg snapped, as if Belo had tried to insult him.

  ‘We are soldiers. We fled a lost battlefield.’

  Teeg listened, his massive face closed up. For all his brutish behaviour, Belo sensed that this man was no fool. But Belo’s talk of his war clearly meant nothing to Teeg.

  Belo tried again. ‘You were cast in the pit by your enemies. Perhaps it was unjust—’

  ‘Unjust? More than that. I was born in the Attic, over Foro.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘I was a bastard, sired by some red-tinged Foron who raped a servant, my mother. Nobody accepted me, neither the Forons nor their slaves. In the end they stuck me down the pit and stranded me in the future. But not before I got to my father.’ Teeg grinned, remembering; Belo could see that this moment of patricide had been the peak of his life.

  ‘Teeg, the Forons are my enemies. But they no longer keep time-accelerated servants.’

  Teeg twisted his face. ‘How long?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ It was history to Belo. ‘Many generations.’

  Teeg shrugged. ‘Then that’s how long I’ve been down here, isn’t it?’

  And here was the cruel reality of the time pit. Even if you survived, to be cast down here was to be sent into the future, to live out a futile life adrift from family, friends, cut off even from the context of your crime.

  It was this that distressed Tira more than anything. After all, she and Belo were not criminals; had devoted their very lives to a cause.

  Foro had long been a centre of the traditional ‘Mechanistic’ philosophy, an argument that the world was a product of blind natural processes, while the community of Puul, further along the Shelf, had become a haven for heretics, ‘Creationists’, who clung to the idea that everything about the world had been shaped by mind – perhaps human mind. The sharp intellectual content of these ideas had burned away the last of the old animist religions to have emerged after the last Formidable Caress, among the tribes that huddled in the ruins of a fallen civilisation. But these contrasting world systems, sharpened by incompatibility, had become a banner of identity, as such theologies often would, and hostility had deepened.

  At last, border friction between the growing trading empires of Foro and Puul had provided the excuse everybody wanted for a cathartic war. It was a war that Belo had eagerly signed up for – a war that the Creationists of Puul had managed to carry all the way into the heart of Old Foro itself – but which, at the last, the Mechs had turned, thanks to their stunning bit of inventiveness with the balloons.

  And now he and Tira had been ripped out of their time, out of the very context of their war.

  As they discussed this, Tira said grimly, ‘We don’t even know how slowly time passes here, compared to home. We are surely already stranded far from our time. Everybody we knew must be dead. The war must be over, one way or another – perhaps even forgotten. And every day we are stuck here we are further removed from home.’

  Belo took her hand. ‘As long as we are alive the war is not over, for the truth burns in our hearts.’

  ‘As long as we are alive,’ Tira echoed.

  They held each other’s hands in a silent pact.

  Some of Belo’s questions were answered perhaps a week after their stranding on this doleful plain, when Teeg’s group of captives, shepherded by the patrolling Weapon, encountered others.

  It was a convocation of several groups, eight or ten of them, coming together across the emptiness of the plain. There were no more than a dozen people in each subdued little flock – and each was patrolled by a circling Weapon. These machines seemed more or less similar to the one associated with Teeg, but some showed wear, their carapaces patched with dull materials.

  Belo was surprised to see a herd of spindlings, six-legged, nervous and skittish, briskly controlled by a Weapon. While most of the machines were content to patrol, this Weapon regularly spat fire into the dirt; perhaps the spindlings needed reminding how to behave.

  And Belo spied another class of machines altogether: squat, ugly carts that ran along the ground. These devices gathered together heaps of dirt, which they circled jealously. Belo had no idea what their purpose could be.

  As the groups converged, Belo expected Teeg to call out to the other slave-keepers and Weapon-masters, perhaps even to socialise with them. But he stayed as silent and sullen as the rest, following the machines as they swept busily over the dusty ground.

  Their group was brought to a central place, marked out by the Weapons’ patrols. And here a very strange trade began to take place.

  Under Teeg’s direction, Belo, Tira and the others began to hurl the rotting scraps of Dane’s corpse into the rough arena marked out by the toiling wheel-based machines. Belo saw that similar body parts, and even corpses, some heartbreakingly tiny, were thrown out by other groups.

  Meanwhile one Weapon peremptorily isolated a spindling and sliced it up with brisk slashes of its sword of fire. The other animals bucked and mewled, their long necks twisting. The people took their chance to grab slices of meat, bloody, still warm.

  But the other Weapons were circulating. Some of them settled on the mounds of rusty dirt that had been gathered by the wheeled machines. Others took chunks of meat, spindling or human, charred it black with their belly-fires, and absorbed it within their metal carapaces.

  ‘It is a kind of market,’ B
elo whispered to Tira. ‘Meat is exchanged for meat, or for the heaped-up dirt.’

  ‘And this is how Teeg keeps his people alive,’ Tira said grimly, ‘by trading with other slave runners.’

  But Belo, watching closely, suspected this strange process had little to do with Teeg. After all, it was the machines who took the dirt, and absorbed much of the meat into their bodies. ‘Perhaps these Weapons need meat as we do, for fuel,’ he mused.

  Tira said, ‘But why the dirt?’

  Belo had an idea about that too. He knew a little of the lore of iron-smelting; his mind was bright and acquisitive, and he knew a little about a great many things. Perhaps the Weapons needed this rusty dirt for its iron, or other minerals, to repair their gleaming bodies. And so these toiling wheeled carts gathered iron-rich dirt, or dug it out of the ground as ore, and exchanged it for the organic material, the meat delivered here by their hovering cousins.

  There was a kind of economy operating here, Belo saw. But the trade wasn’t really about the people and their needs. It was about the Weapons.

  When the strange trade was done, the various groups moved apart, shepherded by the Weapons. The toiling wheel-machines scurried away over the ground, no doubt in search of more iron-rich soil.

  That night Teeg’s group ate comparatively well. Spindling flesh was tough and unsatisfying, but better than nothing. Belo believed that was because spindlings weren’t even native to the Old Earth, as humans were. Teeg muttered that sometimes the Weapons brought more palatable meat, rodents or birds.

  As he ate, Belo looked out upon the dismal plain, which flickered with light storms, distant, irregular, silent. Day and night on Old Earth were controlled by the rhythmic cycling of these light storms across the face of this, the deepest Lowland. In the midst of a landscape of mysteries, even this simple pattern baffled Belo. For if time was stratified, how could the days and nights down here on the Lowland itself have the same duration as up on the Shelf? For so it felt to him, now that he was here.

  But he had no answer to such questions. Belo was now a slave who ate roots and raw meat and slept in the dirt, a situation hardly conducive to theorising, and with time his thinking would surely grow stagnant. But for now he kept his wits.

  And as he watched Teeg and his machine, he thought he began to see certain truths about their situation.

  That night, in the dark, Tira came to Belo. ‘I think things are coming to a head,’ she whispered.

  ‘Teeg?’

  ‘He’s been looking at me . . . I think my grace period is up.’

  ‘And mine,’ said Belo.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He doesn’t need another male around. But as long as he had Dane’s flesh to trade, it was in his interests to keep me alive.’

  Tira grimaced. ‘As a walking larder.’

  ‘Yes. Easier for me to walk than for my flesh to be carried. But now he needs my meat.’

  Tira said, ‘As for me, I’ll fight to the last. But while he has that machine of his—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think the Weapon is “his” at all.’

  ‘You don’t?’ She turned to him, her face grimy and drawn. ‘What’s going on here, Belo?’

  ‘I’ll explain it all,’ he whispered. ‘But first we need to deal with Teeg. This is what you must do . . .’

  As the light of day began to gather, Belo sought out Teeg. The big man sat at the edge of the rough perimeter patrolled by the hovering Weapon, peering out at the other groups scattered over the plain. He watched Belo suspiciously.

  Belo was careful to keep his hands in sight at all times. ‘I have something for you. Two things, actually. Gifts.’

  Teeg pointed. ‘The Weapon is just over there.’

  Belo held his hands up. ‘I won’t try anything; I know it’s pointless. And I know what you intend to do to me.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘I won’t fight. What’s the point? I’m sick of fighting. I’m sick of it all. I was sick of it before I fell down that chute to this hellhole. Just make it quick, all right?’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I told you. I have gifts for you. Can I reach inside my jacket?’

  Teeg hesitated. ‘Slow as you like.’

  Belo reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his military-issue flask of gin. ‘It’s meant for the battlefield, to comfort the dying. An anaesthetic, you know?’ He unscrewed the cap and smelled the liquor. ‘Ah, the memories—’

  ‘Give me that.’ Teeg swiped the flask out of his hand and raised it to his lips. His small eyes closed; it was the nearest Belo had seen him come to showing pleasure.

  ‘When was the last time you had a real drink?’

  Teeg grunted. ‘When my father’s blood was still wet under my fingernails.’

  ‘Lovely memory. Well, have it all. You’d have taken it anyhow once I was dead.’

  ‘That and your boots.’ Teeg laughed, an ugly noise, and he wiped his watering eyes with the back of a filthy hand.

  The powerful drink was having the effect on a long-abstinent Teeg Belo had hoped for.

  Teeg raised the bottle again. ‘So what’s your other gift?’

  ‘What? Oh – Tira. The woman. Take her.’

  Teeg eyed him blearily. ‘You serious?’

  ‘She turned me down once too often.’

  ‘She turned you down?’

  ‘I mean, I got her out of the battle, and protected her from you, and she still won’t open her legs. I’ve had enough of her.’ Belo forced a smile. ‘Take her now, if you want. Have a party.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘When I tried it on she got away.’

  ‘What?’ Teeg, hot with the drink, got to his feet, swaying.

  Belo pointed into the dark. ‘Somewhere over there. I couldn’t see. You can get her back. You’re the boss here, aren’t you?’

  ‘Damn right.’ Teeg took a step forward, two.

  And the Weapon came drifting up with an almost-silent whisper of displaced air.

  ‘Wait.’ Teeg tried to get back inside the perimeter of its patrol. Belo braced himself to push him back – but compact bundles of rags hurtled past him and slammed into Teeg, knocking him to the ground, right in the path of the Weapon. Cold eyes gleamed in small, begrimed faces; Teeg’s slaves had rebelled at last, shoving him out of the Weapon’s cordon.

  And the Weapon spat fire.

  The wounds didn’t kill Teeg, not straight away. But Belo saw from the way he tried to hold closed his belly that the end wouldn’t be far away. Teeg’s eyes were full of pain and hatred.

  Tira stood over him. She had been hiding among Teeg’s women. ‘An appropriate way for you to die.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Belo said. ‘After all, you lied, didn’t you? That Weapon was never under your control. You have been farmed by it, farmed by a machine, just as much as these others, your hapless slaves. The only difference was that you had the cunning to turn the situation to your advantage. But now it’s over for you. Well, I’ll have my boots back. Don’t trouble to take them off. I can wait.’

  And he sat on the dirt while the flickering light of day gathered in the sky, and Teeg’s life blood spilled on the ground.

  For the first time the women talked, and even laughed. The children, hesitantly, began to play.

  And still the Weapon continued its deadly circling.

  ‘It is all about the Weapons,’ Belo said to Tira. ‘It always was.’ He smiled. ‘I call myself a Creationist. I should be ashamed of myself for not seeing it sooner.’

  The Creationists believed that everything about Old Earth had been made for a conscious purpose. But they also believed that the world was very ancient, and that time, too, had shaped the world and its contents – even here, where time ran like syrup.

  ‘The Weapons are made things,’ he
said. ‘And made for one thing—’

  ‘To fight in battle.’

  ‘Yes. Imagine going to war with such gleaming beasts at your command! But when those who had made them had finished their war, they forgot the Weapons, discarded them. And the Weapons, intelligent, purposeful in their own way, sought a new reason to exist.’

  The abandoned Weapons, programmed to survive, must have fought among themselves, cannibalising each other for raw materials. But with time a more stable ‘food chain’ emerged, with the toiling ore-extractors at the bottom, and the most aggressive battlefield machines at the top. The Weapons needed organic material too, which they took from animals like the spindlings – and, later, humans.

  So a kind of ecology had emerged, involving humans and Weapons and spindlings: an ecology composed of people, and the technology they had made, and animals, which, Creationists believed, had been brought to this world from somewhere else entirely. It was an ecology that could not have existed without the actions of space-spanning humans, far in the past. But it was the Weapons that had emerged as top predator, machines that learned to farm the remote descendants of those who first made them.

  ‘It is a very fable of Creationism,’ Belo breathed, marvelling. ‘Wait until I tell them about this back at the seminary in Puul!’

  ‘Except,’ Tira said dolefully, ‘the seminary, and Puul itself, probably don’t even exist any more.’

  ‘True, true.’ For a brief moment, exhilarated by new understanding, he had forgotten where they were.

  ‘And anyhow,’ Tira said, ‘I don’t see how any of this helps us. We are just as much slaves of the Weapon as these women ever were.’

  ‘Ah, but we are not like Teeg,’ he said. ‘Whatever his crime, he was a survivor of an age deep in the past, a pretechnological age. We, though, come from an age used to machines, though not so advanced as these. I am confident we will find a way to convince our Weapon to serve us, rather than the other way around.’

  One of Teeg’s women tapped his arm. ‘We help you. We watch machine. Long, long time. Know its ways.’ Her accent was stronger than Teeg’s; he wondered from what era she had come. She smiled at him. She looked very young.