The Core

by Jack Robuck

  The plastic panels rumbled, the earth thudded, and the hulk of The Waverly in the distance let off an eerie metallic whine with the reverberations of the tinkling patter.

  Matthew, instantly soaked, turned to face the group, stunned. "Who was that?"

  Rachel stood apart from the others. She turned. Her walnut locks were turning darker, beginning to plaster down her head and shoulders, curling stickily by the beaded skin over her clavicle. She set her jaw and met Matthew's eyes with a look of bewilderment.

  "That was my grandfather."

  Jimmy stepped forward, shouting over the downpour. "What the fuck is The Core?"

  Rachel shook her head. "I have no idea."

  Jimmy fiddled with his handheld, trying to shield it from the rain. He punched in the coordinates that the hologram had transmitted before disappearing, and whistled. "I think I know where the Fleet assholes went."

  Gusset stalked forward to the edge of the void, where the hologram had floated, turning about in exasperation. He stomped on a grey panel. "Who cares? We need to figure out if this thing is a bomb, or some kind of buried ship, or some other bullshit they can use against us."

  Jimmy smirked. "If it’s a bomb, they'd blow themselves up too. I think our situation is a little bit bigger than that."

  Rachel looked as if she were in a trance, ignoring the pouring cold grey drench. Matthew turned to look at Jimmy. "Why?"

  "Because, the door to this thing is eleven earths from here. It’s not a bomb. It’s not a ship either...not exactly. It’s the planet."

  Jimmy and Matthew both leaned slowly out over the panel void and stared down into the inky infinite. Their eyes met, and as they looked again, a grey panel faded out of the shadows within. It slid quietly into the void and flushed home with a manufactured click.

  *

  They huddled in a blackened flash-baked fossil of the ship. Matthew recognized it as one of the many identical civilian cafeterias. Once domed, colorful and bustling, it was now the dark film negative of a memory that was starting to fade after weeks in the desert sun. Milky blue light coated every surface and the pounding torrent outside lulled him further into a surreal stupor. He was exhausted.

  So were the others. Natalie stared at the blank screen of Jimmy's over-damp handheld. Every few seconds, she frowned and smacked it angrily. Jimmy lay halfway on a charred round table, staring up at the domed ceiling, now ripped jagged like bread crust. His feet dangled just above the floor.

  "It doesn't have any moving parts, Nattie. It doesn't have any moving parts."

  Rachel's eyes were open, but she wasn't there. The thin ribbed fabric of her shirt was soaked through. She shivered absently. Matthew tried to pull her into his arms, but she absently put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him over onto his side. He scrambled back up, and she turned her face to him.

  She smiled weakly. "He used to say that. He used to say 'I hope you know what you're doing.' All the time."

  Matthew reclined against the wall. "Sounds cryptic."

  "No, not like that. I never saw him much. My mother didn't like to talk about it, but he would come around for a few days every couple of months. We lived way out, even past here. I'm one of the few people who grew up staring out at the stars all night. And whenever he came around, we played this game. I never played it with anyone else, but when he was there, it was the only thing we did. He'd just sit there, waiting for me to make my move, and as soon as I put my hand out..."

  "I hope you know what you're doing."

  Rachel smiled. "My mother would bring us a plate on the porch, and then when it was time for me to go to bed, they sat up talking all hours."

  "What kind of game?"

  "I dunno. I mean, I remember it, but...it doesn't matter." She turned back to stare out into the rain.

  Jimmy lay on the table. Beads of rain glistened on his wound, making it look worse than it was. "Well. That explains the gravity. I always just assumed Earth was bouncier than they let on."

  Natalie looked over at him. "You're getting loopy from the pain meds."

  "No, think about it. It’s just a question of density. Oh. Oh, fuck, of course. That explains the wind."

  Natalie put down the handheld and squinted at him for signs of sanity. "What wind?"

  “The wind. When we landed. Seemed like it went toward the explosion of the ship. The fusion reactor didn't uncover the panels. It blew right through them. They must all be new."

  Gusset threw a small shard of wreckage at Jimmy. "What in the fuck are you talking about? You still haven't told us what that grey shit is. Is it some sort of nuke-glass, cooked up outta sand and shit when the ship blew?"

  "No, no. It wasn't a nuclear explosion. That’s why it’s clean. And the panels are plastic, not glass. Didn't you see the way they were laid out in perfect squares? Didn't you see the thirty-two digit serial number on the back of that one, for fuck's sake? It’s a support structure. It’s a freaking facing surface."

  Gusset and Glazier exchanged a glance, then went back to staring out into the rain. Gusset spit. Glazier turned back to look over his shoulder. "For what?"

  Jimmy sat up, his elbows on the table, holding a bandage to his face. His good eye fixed on them, calm and sober looking. "You guys really don't get it? It’s an engineered, constructed scaffold." He paused. "For the world."

  Silence. Rachel put her hands down on the charred floor, pushing herself to stand. "Come on. We've gotta get moving again."

  Natalie looked up from the handheld. "This thing's still out of commission."

  Rachel brushed off her hands and put them on her hips, suddenly the cutthroat team leader again. "Doesn't matter. Jimmy saw basically where we're going. We'll take their ship, and head in the right direction. We'll pick up what we need and get that thing fixed on the way. We don't know what the Fleet is after, but whatever they're doing, it’s our job to stop them. Nothing else matters."

  Jimmy pulled himself together, and hopped off the table. He rubbed rain out of his hair with one hand. "There's only one place to gear up between here and there. Fucking thing was all the way around on the dark-dark.” He paused, looking sideways at Rachel. “We'll have to stop in Luna."

  Rachel sucked in a breath. "Let's go."

  Chapter 9

  From high above, Luna was a sapphire and diamond bracelet discarded on a nightstand in the darkness. Up close it became a canyon city, a cobblestone path narrowed on both sides by stilted structures nailed and leaned against the polygraph-sketched walls.

  Eternal night shrank away from the yellow gaslights along the way. The odor of burning, fry-grease and sweat tiptoed behind them as they walked. A constant cool drizzle put a shine on the city and a drop down Matthew's collar.

  Sloshes and droplets on tin roof sheets hummed in the distant dark. The structures clutching high up to the cliff face glowed an eerie blue, and some green. Where window boxes sprouted luminous mosses, they cast an alien uplight over paint-peeled, rain-soaked window jambs and shutters.

  Down the narrow alleys that sprouted off left and right, Matthew could see a bustling, soggy economy. Stalls and food counters hunched against the wall, shrinking from the narrow mud track; their stove-and-trash/storage-and-cash drawer backs scraping stone, the chrome-rimmed stools of competitors no more than a yard across the lane. Neon buzzed in the soggy hush, blinked, bathing strobes in the fog, in the mirror-puddles. Fluorescent snap-snap-snapped on as an old Asian man with a shrunken jaw opened up one of the stalls.

  They stopped in a wide, glowing courtyard where the chasm forked off ahead. Rachel put her hand on Glazier’s shoulder. "Doc, get these people to the doctor’s here. Jimmy knows the way."

  As the rest of the group limped off down the left-hand path, Matthew heard Glazier ask Gusset how he was feeling.

  Gusset let out a scoff in the quiet night. “Hey, Doc, beating a dead horse hurts nobody. Hah!”

  Rachel strode toward the wicker-scaffolded structure that embraced the sector of canyon wall between
the fork. Cantilevered out over the court, an enormous lithe siren, like the figurehead of an ancient ship, grew out from the triangular bow of the building. Where her nethers melted into the street, a red curtained doorway glowed from within.

  Matthew hurried to keep up with Rachel through the shuffling crowd. "What's that sound?"

  Rachel spoke quietly without slowing her pace. Her heel plates clattered on the stone street. "A trumpet, I think. And a mandolin. There's a seven-stringed zither hanging out doing bass....I bet you've never seen a band with an electric zither before."

  "I've never seen a band. Sounds...crazy."

  Rachel smiled. "Come on." She steered them up three steps, across the little terrace and through the curtain.

  Within, a crowd of locals huddled tightly around dozens of small velvet tufts. Steaming pots and elaborate pipes vied for stable footing on these, and the various purple and crimson surfaces were stained with past mishaps. A dim haze slithered over the sand-strewn floor and coiled up the wooden beams.

  On the stage was the band they’d heard from the street. They were locals, but younger than most planetsiders Matthew had seen. A tall, frail-looking young woman, with dark red hair like no one on The Waverly had ever had, walked up to the microphone. Her right shoulder was tattooed with several gears that appeared to be clogged with weeds and strands, growing stalks that blossomed up into bluebells.

  Behind her, sitting cross-legged on a short stool with one hand clutching a banjo, sat a man in a black top-hat with a broad red band. His right eye was gone, but he wore no patch. His vest was red too, and he wore soft sandals instead of boots. He had long sideburns that scooped all the way to the edge of his chin.

  The woman grabbed the microphone, and, with a nod to the band, held up a hand. Young boys in suspenders crouched barefoot on high platforms overhead. Each of them grabbed a wide, curved jar of blue liquid, and sat it in front of another jar, containing red. The room went noticeably darker. Then the boys removed the red jars.

  Huge spiral filament bulbs could be seen cerulean through the glass, and the room was cast throughout in a drowning blue light. The girl's red dress and hair went the color of long-dried blood, as did the furnishings of the top-hatted man.

  The band started up a stilted, unnatural, but folksy sort of funerary-ballad. Her paper skin glowed defiantly milky, and when she opened her mouth, so did her teeth.

  “Lover, you're lookin' pale and wan, standin' there outside.

  Lover, you're sickly somethin' fierce, and don't you try to hide.

  Well, I been waiting at home for you to come back to my side,

  Lover, you're lookin' pale and wan, just standin' there outside.

  “Lover, where you been tonight, no coat to warm your hide.

  Lover, how'd you find the path, no moon your way to light.

  Well, I been thinkin' awful thoughts, and tears my eyes have cried,

  Lover, you'll catch your death of cold, oh, won't you step inside.”

  The top-hatted man stepped up to the front of the stage.

  “Well, lady fair, I thank you for your love, oh lady kind,

  But I ain't cold, nor hungry, and I don't need no light.

  See, I was walkin' far tonight, to be here by your side.

  No dark of night or thought of fear could hold you from my sight.

  “But as I walked a ways, oh lady, through the pale moon light.

  As I walked, a creature caught me, strong, he grabbed me tight.

  His bite was like a vise, oh lord, his hunger drained me white.

  A drop he gave me back and left me layin' in the pines.

  “Now here I am, my lovely girl, I staggered to your side.

  Where I belong, and want to be, where everything's alright.

  But I don't feel just quite myself, so thanks for your invite,

  I do believe that I'll come in, and have myself a bite.”

  The girl stepped up again, and the man returned to his stool.

  “Lover, I'm afraid your supper's cold, and wrapped up tight.

  Lover, lord, your skin is cold, you're givin' me a fright,

  Your story's turned my heart to stone, there's devils in your eyes.

  Lover, keep away, oh lord, don't let me die tonight!”

  With that, the band picked up a raucous skin-tingling crawl. The zither plinked luminescent droplets in a shadowy crypt while the mandolin skittered across its stone floor. The trumpet screamed, it screamed, but it could not escape.

  Matthew shuddered next to Rachel. He whispered, "You're telling me vampires are real?"

  She laughed at him, but kindly. "The local tastes of Luna just run a little creepy, that’s all. Being out here in the dark all the time makes them...interesting."

  They watched the band play a few more songs, but Matthew’s interest waned as the top-hatted man became the focus of the set. The red-haired girl took a break, perching on a stool at the bar. A few minutes later, Rachel grabbed him by the elbow and steered him casually toward the stools next to her.

  Red, her elbows and her drink on the bar, looked up sideways through hanging tresses, and wrapped up a smile to offer them. "Rach."

  "Sydney."

  The light changed again, and the pale green wash bounced off the bar, uplit the crinkles around her eyes and glittered her dark eye makeup. The chemical bask of a dozen neon signs above the shelves of bottles flickered as the bartender came and went.

  Sydney brushed her hair back behind her ear. She sat arched over her drink, her loose dress hanging on her wraith-like figure like the flag of a slaughtered army. The freckled skin on her back stretched over her spine and gave her the appearance of a plucked bird. Through the thin fabric, her pert chest solidified the impression.

  She dipped her head to the straw and sipped as she eyed first Rachel, and then Matthew. "I had no idea you had a kid now."

  "Hilarious. As always. This is Matthew. He’s good at things."

  "I’m sure. Talent, or skill, I wonder. Anyway, what brings you all the way home?"

  "Work, pleasure. Family."

  Sydney furrowed her eyebrows. "You’re either laying it on thick, or you’ve gotten strangely nostalgic. Unless he actually is your kid. Or has there been a resurrection I didn’t hear about?"

  Rachel’s mouth smiled alone. "Three out of four. But I also need your help. You and the band are the only rebels out here..."

  "We are not that. We're not part of your little army."

  "You are. You were, anyway. You can be whatever you want. But unless you want Luna overrun by a much more powerful Fleet than we’ve ever seen, you need to help us. We have to get way out to the middle of the dark."

  "So you really are here for work. Why all the bullshit? Just hedging your bets to see what would make me listen?"

  "No. Sydney, look. There was a hologram of my grandfather. My family is mixed up in this some kind of way. More than I knew. And yes, I missed you. I need you, and I need your help."

  Sydney smiled a different, indecipherable smile, but she didn’t speak. Rachel sat and ordered drinks for the two of them. Another band was taking the stage, and some of Sydney’s friends joined them at the bar. The large, tattooed Asian man with the mandolin sat heavily next to Matthew and ordered two drinks.

  He turned to Matthew. "You’re not from around here."

  "I am not. I’m from the bright side."

  "No." He squinted at Matthew. "You're not from this planet. Or the Fleet. How strange."

  "How did you know that?"

  "You want to smoke some piati?" The large man beckoned to the bartender, a big bearded man who ducked under the glassware and the electric lines overhead on the way over.

  The man beside him called out over the band, “Set us up, Sean.”

  Sean brought over a hookah and placed bright orange coals over the filter. Matthew looked around to Rachel, who was lost in conversation with Sydney.

  The big Asian shook his head as he tilted down his hair-layered chin and pulled ha
rd on the hookah. On the exhale, he said, "She’s busy, little man. Probably will be all night." He laughed, and offered Matthew the stem. "I’m Charlie."

  "I’m Matthew." Matthew took in a pull of the hookah and sputtered, coughing.

  Charlie laughed as Matthew coughed, tried to stop, and coughed again and again. "Virgin! Hahaha!"

  "I’m not, I..." He coughed, then hacked.

  "It’s okay kid, keep trying." Charlie took another hit, and settled further onto the stool, his mountainous form spreading further out and down. He passed the hookah back to Matthew, who took another, smaller hit. Rachel and Sydney stood up and came around to them. They each took a deep pull on the mouthpiece.

  Rachel put her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. "Will you show him around, Charlie? We’ve got some things to discuss."

  Charlie nodded assent as he took the mouthpiece back from Sydney. Matthew turned his head to watch the women saunter away, Rachel’s arm around Sydney’s narrow waist. He turned back to Charlie, wide-eyed. The big man laughed hard, his eyes disappeared in his massive, sweaty face. "Come on, kid. Smoke up. Life is good."

  After smoking for a while, and a few more drinks, Charlie and Matthew stumbled up four flights of stairs and out onto the balcony overlooking the triangular courtyard. The pendulous breasts of the wicker statue on the front of the building hung present in the smoke wafting up from the street and out from the countless windows and broken-shuttered balconies in the neighboring walls.

  They dripped, soaked and mossy; a small ecology of lightning-bugs and vines could be seen clinging to the wicker mesh inside the hollow statue. The high-raked tin roofs around them and above rained waterfalls down. Practically nowhere was the actual rock of the chasm to be seen, but they were alone in the quiet fog, leaning out over the railing. Only the smell of cooking oil and rice reminded them that somewhere in the darkness people slept.

  In silence, they watched a pale figure—a bare, curved goddess in a blanket—step silently out onto a terrace across the span of space. Raising her arms up into the air, she let her blanket slide to the floor.