Raft

by Stephen Baxter

  Pallis scratched his beard. "I'm not sure I understand why you didn't. The Bones know I've no sympathy with the old system; and the way your people had been kept down must have made you burn."

  "Of course it did. But... I didn't go to the Raft to throw fuel bombs, tree-pilot. I wanted to learn what was wrong with the world." He smiled. "Modest, wasn't I?"

  Pallis lifted his face higher. "You were damn right to try, boy. Those problems you saw haven't gone away."

  Rees cast a glance around the red-stained sky. "No, they haven't."

  "Don't lose hope," Pallis said firmly. "Old Hollerbach's still working."

  Rees laughed. "Hollerbach? They won't shift him. They still need someone to run things in there — find them the repair manuals for the supply machines, maybe try to move the Raft from under the falling star — and besides, I think even Decker's afraid of him..."

  Now they laughed together. They remained by the trunk for long minutes, watching the Belt approach.

  "Pallis, do something for me."

  "What?"

  "Tell Jaen I asked about her."

  The tree pilot rested his massive hand on Rees's shoulder. "Aye, lad. She's safe at present — Hollerbach got her a place on his team of assistants — and I'll do what I can to make sure she stays that way."

  "Thanks. I—"

  "And I'll tell her you asked."

  * * *

  A rope uncurled from the trunk of the tree and brushed against the Belt's rooftops. Rees was the first to descend. A miner, half his face ruined by a massive purple burn, watched him curiously. The Belt's rotation was carrying him away from the tree; Rees pulled himself after the trailing rope and assisted a second Scientist to lower himself to the rooftops.

  Soon a gaggle of Scientists were stumbling around the Belt after the dangling rope. A cluster of Belt children followed them, eyes wide in thin faces.

  Rees saw Sheen. His former supervisor hung from a cabin, one brown foot anchored in rope; she watched the procession with a broad grin.

  Rees let the clumsy parade move on. He worked his way toward Sheen; fixing his feet in the rope he straightened up and faced her.

  "Well, well," she said softly. "We thought you were dead."

  He studied her. The heat-laden pull of her long limbs still called uncomfortably; but her face was gaunt, her eyes lost in pools of shadow. "You've changed, Sheen."

  She spat laughter. "So has the Belt, Rees. We've seen hard times here."

  He narrowed his eyes. Her voice was almost brutal, edged with despair. "If you've the brains I once believed you had," he snapped, "you'll let me help. Let me tell you some of what I've learned."

  She shook her head. "This isn't a time for knowledge, boy. This is a time to survive." She looked him up and down. "And believe me, you and the rest of your flabby colleagues are going to find that quite tough enough."

  The absurd, shambling procession, still following the tree rope, had almost completed an orbit of the Belt.

  Rees closed his eyes. If only this mess would all go away; if only he were allowed to get back to his work—

  "Rees!" It was Cipse's thin voice. "You've got to help us, man; tell these people who we are..."

  Rees shook off his despair and pulled himself across the rooftops.

  8

  THE WINCH MECHANISM IMPELLED the chair toward the star kernel. Rees closed his eyes, relaxed his muscles and tried to blank out his mind.

  To get through the next shift: that was his only priority now. Just one shift at a time...

  If the exile to the Belt had been a descent into hell for Grye, Cipse and the rest, for Rees it had been the meticulous opening of an old wound. Every detail of the Belt — the shabby cabins, the rain hissing over the surface of the kernel — had crowded into his awareness, and it was as if the intervening thousands of shifts on the Raft had never been.

  But in truth he had changed forever. At least before he had had some hope... Now there was none.

  The chair lurched. The dome of rust rocked beneath his feet and already he could sense the tightening pull of the star's gravity field.

  The Belt had changed too, he mused... and for the worse. The miners seemed coarsened, brutalized, the Belt itself shabbier and less well maintained. He had learned that deliveries from the Raft had grown less and less frequent. As supplies failed to arrive a vicious circle had set in. Increasing illness and malnutrition and, in the longer term, higher mortality were making it ever harder for the miners to meet their quotas, and without iron to trade even less food could be bought from the Raft — which worsened the miners' conditions still further.

  In such a situation, surely something had to give. But what? Even his old acquaintances — like Sheen — were reluctant to talk, as if there was some shameful secret they were hiding. Were the miners making some new arrangements, finding some other, darker, way to break out of the food trap? If so, what?

  The wheels of his chair impacted the surface of the star and a full five gees descended on his chest, making him gasp. With a heavy hand he released the cable lock and allowed the chair to roll toward the nearest mine entrance.

  "Late again, you feckless bastard." The rumbling voice had issued from the gloom of the mine mouth.

  "No, I'm not, Roch; and you know it," Rees said calmly. He brought his chair to a halt at the head of the ramp leading down into the mine.

  A chair came whirring up from the gloom. Despite the recent privations the miner Roch was still a huge man. His beard merged with the fur and sweat plastered across his chest; a stomach like a sack slumped over his belt. White showed around his eyes, and when he opened his mouth Rees could see stumps of teeth like burnt bones. "Don't talk back, Raft man." Spittle sprayed his chest in tight parabolae. "What's to stop me putting you all on triple shifts? Eh?"

  Rees found the breath escaping from him in a slow sigh. He knew Roch of old. Roch, who you always avoided in the Quartermaster's, whether he was drunk or not. Roch, the half-mad troublemaker who had only been allowed to grow past boyhood, Rees suspected, because of the size of his muscles.

  Roch. The obvious choice as the Scientists' shift supervisor.

  He was still staring at Rees. "Well? Nothing to say? Eh?"

  Rees held his tongue, but the other's fury increased regardless.

  "What's the matter, Raftshit? Scared of a little work? Eh? I'll show you the meaning of work..." Roch gripped the arms of his chair with fingers like lengths of rope; with separate, massive movements, he hauled his feet off their support plates and planted them on the rust.

  "Oh, by the Bones, Roch, you've made your point," Rees protested. "You'll kill yourself—"

  "Not me, Raftshit." Now Roch's biceps tightened so that Rees could see the structure of the muscles through the sweat-streaked skin. Slowly, grunting, Roch lifted his bulk from the chair, knees and calves shaking under the load. At last he stood, swaying minutely, arms raised for balance. Five gees hauled at his stomach so that it looked like a sack of mercury slung over his belt; Rees almost cringed as he imagined how the belt must be biting into Roch's flesh.

  A grin cracked Roch's purpling face. "Well, Raft man?" Now his tongue protruded from his lips. With slow deliberation he raised his left foot a few inches from the surface and shoved it forward; then the right, then the left again; and so, like a huge, grotesque child, Roch walked on the surface of the star.

  Rees watched, not trusting himself to speak.

  At length Roch was satisfied. He grabbed the chair arms and lowered himself into the seat. He stared at Rees challengingly, his humor apparently restored by his feat. "Well, come on, Raftshit, there's work to do. Eh?"

  And he turned his chair and led the way into the interior of the star.

  * * *

  Most of the Scientists' work assignments were inside the star mine. For some imagined misdemeanor Roch had long since put them all on double shift. They were allowed an hour's break between shifts — even Roch had not denied them that yet — and when the break
came Rees met Cipse beneath the glow of a globe lamp.

  The Scientists sat in companionable silence for a while. They were in one of the porous kernel's larger chambers; lamps were scattered over its roof like trapped stars, casting light over piles of worked metal and the sullen forms of Moles.

  The Navigator looked like a pool of fat in his wheelchair, his small features and short, weak limbs mere addenda to his crushed bulk. Rees, with some effort, helped him raise a tube of water to his lips. The Navigator dribbled; the water scattered over the ruin of his coverall and droplets hit the iron floor like bullets. Cipse smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry," he said, wheezing.

  Rees shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

  "You know," Cipse said at length, "the physical conditions down here are poor enough; but what makes it unendurable is... the sheer boredom."

  Rees nodded. "There has never been much to do save supervise the Moles. They can make their own decisions, mostly, with occasional human intervention. Frankly, though, one or two experienced miners can run the whole kernel. There's no need for so many of us to be down here. It's just Roch's petty way of hurting us."

  "Not so petty." Cipse's breath seemed to be labored; his words were punctuated by pauses. "I'm quite concerned about the... health of some of the others, you know. And I suspect... suspect that we would actually be of more use in some other role."

  Rees grimaced. "Of course. But try telling Roch."

  "You know I've no wish to appear insulting, Rees, but you clearly have more in... common with these people than the... the rest of us." He coughed and clutched his chest. "After all, you are one of them. Can't you... say something?"

  Rees laughed softly. "Cipse, I ran out of here, remember. They hate me more than the rest of you. Look, things will get better, I'm sure of that; the miners aren't barbarians. They're just angry. We must be patient."

  Cipse fell silent, his breath shallow.

  Rees stared at the Navigator in the dim light. Cipse's round face was white and slick with sweat. "You say you're concerned about the well-being of the others, Navigator, but what about yourself?"

  Cipse massaged the flesh of his chest. "I can't admit to feeling wonderful," he wheezed. "Of course, just the fact of our presence down here — in this gravity field — places a terrible strain on our hearts. Human beings weren't designed, it seems, to function in... such conditions."

  "How are you feeling? Do you have any specific pain?"

  "Don't fuss, boy," Cipse snapped with the ghost of his old tetchiness. "I'm perfectly all right. And I am the most senior of us, you know. The others... rely on me..." His words were lost in a fit of coughing.

  "I'm sorry," Rees said carefully. "You're the best judge, of course. But — ah — since your well-being is so vital to our morale, let me help you, for this one shift. Just stay here; I think I can handle the work of both of us. And I can keep Roch occupied. I'm afraid there's no way he'll let you off the star before the end of the shift, but perhaps if you sit still — try to sleep even—"

  Cipse thought it over, then said weakly, "Yes. It would feel rather good to sleep." He closed his eyes. "Perhaps that would be for the best. Thank you, Rees..."

  * * *

  "No, I don't know what's wrong with him," Rees said. "You're the one with bio training, Grye. He hardly woke up when it came time to return him to the surface. Maybe his heart can't stand up to the gravity down there. But what do I know?"

  Cipse lay strapped loosely to a pallet, his face a bowl of perspiration. Grye hovered over the still form of the Navigator, his hands fluttering against each other. "I don't know; I really don't know," he repeated.

  The four other Scientists of the group formed an anxious backdrop. The tiny cabin to which they'd all been assigned seemed to Rees a cage of fear and helplessness. "Just think it through," he said, exasperated. "What would Hollerbach do if he were here?"

  Grye drew in his stomach pompously and glowered up at Rees. "May I point out that Hollerbach isn't here? And furthermore, on the Raft we had access to dispensers of the finest drugs — as well as the Ship's medical records. Here we have nothing, not even full rations—"

  "Nothing except yourselves!" Rees snapped.

  A circle of round, grime-streaked faces stared at him, apparently hurt.

  Rees sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "Look, Grye, there's nothing I can suggest. You must have learned something in all the years you worked with those records. You'll simply have to do what you think best."

  Grye frowned, and for long seconds studied Cipse's recumbent form; then he began to loosen the Navigator's clothing.

  Rees turned away. With his duty fulfilled claustrophobia swiftly descended on him, and he pushed his way out of the cabin.

  He prowled the confines of the Belt. He met few people: it was approaching mid-shift and most Belt folk must be at work or in their cabins. Rees breathed lungfuls of Nebula air and gloomily studied the over-familiar details of the little colony's construction: the battered cabins, walls scarred by generations of passing hands and feet, the gaping nozzles of the roof jets.

  A breeze brought him a distant scent of wood, and he looked up. Hanging in the sky in tight formation was the flight of trees which had brought him here from the Raft. The bulk of the supply machine was still slung between them, and Rees made out Pallis's overseer tree hovering in the background. The elegant trees, the faint foliage scent, the figures clambering through the branches: the airy spectacle was quite beautiful, and it brought home to Rees with a sudden, sharp impact the magnitude of what he had lost in returning here.

  The rotation of the Belt swept the formation over a horizon of cabins. Rees turned away.

  He came to the Quartermaster's. Now the smell of stale alcohol filled his head and on impulse he slid into the bar's gloomy interior. Maybe a couple of shots of something tough would help his mood; relax him enough to get the sleep he needed—

  The barman, Jame, was rinsing drink bowls in a bag of grimy water. He scowled through his gray-tinged beard. "I've told you before," he growled. "I don't serve Raft shite in here."

  Rees hid his anger under a grin. He glanced around the bar; it was empty save for a small man with a spectacular burn scar covering one complete forearm. "Looks like you don't serve anyone else either," Rees snapped.

  Jame grunted. "Don't you know? This shift they're finally going to offload that supply machine from the trees; that's where all the able bodies are. Work to do, see — not like you feckless Raft shite—"

  Rees felt his anger uncoil. "Come on, Jame. I was born here. You know that."

  "And you chose to leave. Once a Rafter, always a Rafter."

  "Jame, it's a small Nebula," Rees snapped. "I've seen enough to teach me that much at least. And we're all humans in it together, Belt and Raft alike—"

  But Jame had turned his back.

  Rees, irritated, left the bar. It had been — how long? a score of shifts? — since their arrival at the Belt, and the miners had only just worked out how to unship the supply device. And he, Rees, with experience of tree flight and of Belt conditions, hadn't even been told they were doing it...

  He anchored his toes in the wall of the Quartermaster's and stretched to his full height, peering at the formation of trees beyond the far side of the Belt. Now that he looked more carefully he could see there were many people clinging awkwardly to the branches. Men swarmed over the net containing the supply device, dwarfed by its ragged bulk; they tied ropes around it and threw out lengths that uncoiled toward the Belt.

  At last a loose web of rope trailed from the machine. Tiny shouts crossed the air; Rees could see the pilots standing beside the trunks of the great trees, and now billows of smoke bloomed above the canopies. With massive grandeur the trees' rotation slowed and they began to inch toward the Belt. The coordination was skillful; Rees could see how the supply machine barely rocked through the air.

  The actual transfer to the Belt would surely be the most difficult part. Perhaps the formation would m
ove to match the Belt's rotation, so that the dangling ropes could be hauled in until the machine settled as a new component of the chain of buildings. Presumably that was how much of the Belt had been constructed — though generations ago...

  One tree dropped a little too fast. The machine rocked. Workers cried out, clinging to the nets. Tree-pilots called and waved their arms. Slowly the smoke over the offending tree thickened and the formation's motion slowed.

  Damn it, thought Rees furiously, he should be up there! He was still strong and able despite the poor rations and back-crushing work—

  With a distant, slow rip, the net parted.

  Rees, wrapped in introspective anger, took a second to perceive the meaning of what he saw. Then all of his being seemed to lock on that small point in the sky.

  The pilots worked desperately, but the net became a mist of shreds and tatters; the formation dissolved in slow lurches of wood and smoke. Men wriggled in the air, rapidly drifting apart. The supply machine, freed of its constraints, hovered as if uncertain what to do. One man, Rees saw, was still clinging to the side of the machine itself.

  The machine began to fall; soon it was sailing toward the Belt in a slow curve.

  Rees dropped to hands and knees and clung tightly to the Belt cables. Where was the damn thing headed? The gravity fields of both star kernel and Nebula Core were hauling at the machine; the Core field was by far the most powerful, but was the machine close enough to the star for the latter to predominate?

  The machine could pass through the structure of the Belt like a fist through wet paper.

  The immediate loss of life would be enormous, of course; and within minutes the Belt, its integrity gone, would be torn apart by its own spin. A ring-shaped cloud of cabins, trailing pipes, rope fragments and squirming people would disperse until at last each survivor would be alone in the air, facing the ultimate fall into the Core...

  Or, Rees's insistent imagination demanded, what if the machine missed the Belt but went on to impact the star kernel? He recalled the craters left even by raindrops at the base of a five-gee gravity well; what would the roaring tons of the supply machine do? He imagined a great splash of molten iron which would spray out over the Belt and its occupants. Perhaps the integrity of the star itself would be breached...