by Greg Egan
When Tamara reached the end of the rail, Carla drew her own body to one side to give everyone behind her an unobstructed view of their leader. Tamara waited, looking to the east. She’d chosen the violet end of Sitha’s trail—Sitha being one star that all of them could recognize—to mark the direction through the void in which they would be flung.
The bright borderline, where the old star trails ended in a blaze of shifted ultraviolet, marched up from the horizon. Carla saw Sitha rising, but merely sighting it wasn’t the cue. The star had to lie at right angles to the zenith—and mercifully, that judgment wasn’t hers to make.
Tamara gave the signal, a sweep of her lower right hand, and released her hold on the rail.
Carla did the same, and the six of them fell into the void together. She glanced up to see the mountain receding and felt a rush of pure elation: to do this by choice, not by accident, wasn’t frightening at all. A few pauses later the rope joining her to Ada went taut as some small failure of synchronization caught up with them, but the jolt was mild.
Tamara was joined to Carla, but a second safety rope linked her directly all the way back to Macario, who’d been traveling at the rear of the group. Now the two of them started gathering up their ends of that longer rope, pulling themselves together. When they’d shortened it to a marked portion of equal length to the other five ropes, they hitched it to their harnesses, fixing the geometry.
Tamara gestured again, and Carla joined the others in firing a brief horizontal burst from her air jet. The loose hexagon spread out into a slowly turning, almost planar figure. At first everyone bounced around a little; the hexagon wasn’t perfectly rigid. But as the ropes dissipated the energy of people’s wayward motion, the hexagon’s stately rotation remained. Carla looked across at Macaria; behind her, the gaudy streaks of the old stars were changing places with the short, crisp trails of their orthogonal counterparts.
Tamara made a few small corrections on her own, to align the hexagon’s plane against the mountain. It was not like flying the Gnat or the Mite, but with care she could act as their pilot. So long as they were turning, centrifugal force and the rope’s deadening effect on any small departures would keep them in an orderly configuration.
The next stage was better handled cooperatively: on Tamara’s cue, they began firing their jets in unison toward Sitha, parallel bursts aimed at killing their velocity away from the Peerless. With one hand on the jet strapped to her chest and another on the second unit on her back, Carla could keep targeting the star even as the sky wheeled around and sent Sitha into her rear gaze.
Tamara halted the maneuver; they were approaching the mountain now. Carla glanced up but forced herself not to search for their destination. Tamara had chosen her own landmarks and made her own calculations. Ada had checked everything twice. The only thing to do now was to trust the navigators.
The slope grew closer with alarming speed. They were returning more rapidly than they’d been tossed aside, and the rocks themselves were now swinging around to meet them. Tamara made a series of corrections, tipping their trajectory to the south to take them past the territory they’d been unable to cross by rail. Carla’s body tensed at the threatened collision, and this new fear was far harder to dismiss: to fall into the void could be harmless, but there was no recovering from being dashed against the side of a mountain.
Finally, Tamara gestured for them to brake. Carla fired her jet toward the second target star, a nameless dazzle of violet on the borderline. The task kept her eyes away from the rocks, and when she finally stole a glance upward the jagged terrain had assumed an almost leisurely pace. She could see the tent easily now: the camouflage had lost its power for her. The slope around it was deserted. If there were lookouts they were all inside, peering out across the mountainside, expecting any intruders to come straight from the airlock.
Tamara had them shut off their jets. When the hiss from the nozzle fell silent, for a moment Carla felt as if she were suspended above the rock, but she knew that was impossible. A pause later she could see that they were still approaching, very slowly, not quite on target. Ada and Tamara took turns making adjustments, taking pains to keep the hexagon as level as they could. Carla stared up at the approaching ceiling, a few dozen strides away at most, then looked down just in time to catch Tamara’s last cue.
In almost perfect synchrony, the six of them unhitched their connecting safety ropes, took the hook-ends of their grappling ropes in one hand, then pointed their jets away from the rock and opened the valves wide to drive them home.
Carla hit the edge of the tent with her free upper hand stretched out above her, faster than she’d meant to, but close to the attachment point she’d aimed for. The jet was easily supporting her centrifugal weight, but it was threatening to send her skidding sideways. She reached up and thrust the hook into the fabric of the tent; the material was thickly woven, but the hardstone barb parted it easily and the supporting loop slipped in.
She shut off her jet, leaving her dangling by the grappling rope. She glanced around quickly: everyone was unharmed, in place, more or less at the same stage she was. Patrizia was fine. And Carlo was in here, almost free now. They just had to act quickly before the guards knew what had hit them.
Carla pulled the knife from her tool belt and plunged it in beside the attachment stake; she felt the tip go right through to the rock. She tried to extend the cut by lateral force alone—to slice around the stake’s retaining head in a neat circle—but she didn’t get far before the fabric resisted the blade. She pulled the knife out and thrust again, making a second cut, trying not to panic at the delay. How much could the guards hear, in airlessness? Rock was a good conductor of sound, but the fabric would carry it much less efficiently.
She made a third cut, a fourth. Together, these arcs still only did half the job. She joined two of them with yet another thrust, then did the same to the opposite pair. Two almost-half-circles enclosed the stake. At the edge of her attention she saw another corner of the tent already falling. If the guards had been oblivious until now, that advantage had just disappeared. Carla stabbed at her unfinished cut, joined the two large arcs on one side, aimed again. But before she could strike, the remnant of fabric tore under the strain and she fell with her corner away from the rock.
It was a short drop; the tent itself was still attached at four points. She looked up, hoping to see inside, but all she could glimpse was some exposed rock: the prison’s ceiling, glowing softly with red moss-light.
She lurched down again, as Tamara’s corner broke loose on her right. Two large air tanks came sliding down the fabric, almost striking her as they tumbled into the void, but she still couldn’t see anyone. She began hoisting herself up the grappling rope, hoping for a better view, but then the tent separated from the mountain completely.
Carla pulled herself over the edge, then unhooked the grappling rope and advanced by grabbing folds of the tent’s rough fabric. She saw a guard fleeing, silhouetted against the stars—a man, by the size of him, his air jet carrying him away across the slope. So where was Carlo? Had he fallen from the other side? She could see a host of small objects floating around her, but the center of the tent was too dark to show anything, still shaded from starlight by the mountain above. She crawled into the blackness.
Carla found the sack by touch alone. It had been secured to the tent with cords. She felt gently for the shape of Carlo’s body within; he started, but then became still. She pressed her helmet against the top of the sack. “It’s me,” she said. “You’re safe.” She heard a faint, unintelligible reply, then realized that her helmet was touching, not its double, but an unprotected skull. Inside the sack, Carlo was naked.
That was their response to Macaria’s escape: they’d stripped their remaining prisoner of any capacity to survive in the void. They must have set up an improvised cooling system to keep him alive, spraying the sack with air—those tanks that had fallen past her. But now he had nothing.
“It’s al
l right,” she said. “It’s all right.” She unstrapped the air jet tank from her chest and cut a long, vertical slit down the center of her cooling bag. Then she put a hand on Carlo’s shoulder, waited until she was sure he would remain still, and slid the knife a short way into the sack. She slipped her hand in beside the blade—so that if he moved, his skin would meet her fingers before it could make contact with the knife—then she made an incision to match her own.
She put away the knife and reached in to lay a palm against his chest; his skin was warm, but he was not in danger yet. He took her hand and squeezed it for a moment, then released it. Carla put one arm around the sack, holding him against her as she cut away the cords threaded through the material of the tent. Then she bound him to her, aligning the air vents as well as she could.
The darkness had lifted; they’d fallen far enough for the stars to show around the mountain. Carla saw Tamara and Patrizia approaching, dragging themselves awkwardly over the limp fabric.
Tamara bumped helmets with Carla. “How is he?”
“No cooling bag, but we’re sharing. There was only one guard?”
“Yes.”
“So which way do we go back?”
Tamara looked down at Carlo; the setup wasn’t ideal for a long trip. “We’ll try the closest airlock first. I’ll send in an advance party to be sure it’s clear.”
The others joined them, and they linked up with safety ropes again—clustering together tightly instead of rebuilding the hexagon. As Tamara maneuvered them back toward the mountain, Carla watched the tent falling away, shrinking to a small dark speck.
At the airlock, Ada and Patrizia went through first. Carla stood on the entrance platform, Carlo’s body pressed against her. He had barely moved since they’d been joined, and she could feel the heat growing in his flesh. She wondered how many supporters the kidnappers’ faction could summon at short notice. She and her friends might yet find themselves outnumbered.
Patrizia emerged and swept her hands toward the ladder, like a host inviting guests into her home.
When the airlock was repressurized, Carla removed the cords she’d tied around the sack and eased Carlo down onto the floor. He lay still. She knelt, intending to cut him free completely, but then he shifted suddenly inside the sack and began working his way out through the slit.
When he’d thrown the sack aside, Carla took him in her arms and rested her head on his shoulder. She realized she was still wearing her helmet.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” He helped her remove the helmet.
“We should let the others through,” she said.
“There are more of you?” He could see Ada standing guard at the doorway, but he must not have realized the full size of the raiding party.
By the time everyone was back inside the Peerless, Carlo was moving normally, talking and joking with them, eager to be brought up to date.
“They never got Amanda,” Carla explained. “And the Council’s ordered a vote; in four days’ time, everyone will have a say on what happens with your research.”
As Carlo digested that news, Tamara added, “There’s not much chance of approval, though, after everyone saw your autopsy notes on the fourth arborine.”
“My what? What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t autopsy one of the arborines who gave birth? Carla found the report in your apartment.”
“No.” He turned to Carla, confused, but before he could speak Tamara chirped with delight.
“I knew they were forged!” she said. “I knew it!”
“We have to get the news out,” Patrizia urged Carla. “That’s going to change everything!”
“No one’s going to believe a retraction now,” Ada predicted gloomily. “They’ll just think it’s a strategy to sway the vote.”
Carla couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. “I forged the autopsy notes,” she said. “I just wanted the kidnappers…” She trailed off. Everyone here had risked their lives for the cause she’d tried to destroy. She couldn’t start offering them excuses.
It was Tamara who broke the silence. “People will understand why,” she said. “Write up something short and we can send it out right now. Your co is finally safe, now you can speak the truth. That’s not a strategy, it’s just being honest.”
Carla looked to Carlo. “It’s a good idea,” he said. “Let people know what happened.” If he was angry with her, he was hiding it.
As the group made their way down the corridor, Carla composed the message in her head. Some passersby recognized Carlo and Macaria and greeted them warmly. Others hurried past, casting looks of disdain.
At the relay station, Carla sat at the paper tape punch. As she began hammering the buttons, Patrizia said, “There’s a bulletin here, it just came in a chime ago.”
“You haven’t heard yet?” The clerk was surprised. “Not good news.”
Patrizia read the copy on the wall in silence, then moved aside to let the others see it. Carla couldn’t concentrate on her own task any more.
“What is it?” she demanded.
Patrizia didn’t answer, but now Macaria had read it too. “The forest,” she said, dazed. “We’ve lost the forest.”
“What do you mean, lost it?”
“Someone set it alight. From the sound of this, they must have used sunstone. By the time the fire crews arrived there was nothing they could do. They’ve closed off all the entrances and left it to burn itself out.”
42
When Carlo insisted on seeing for himself exactly what had become of the forest, Tamara joined Ada, Patrizia and Carla to escort him down the axis. Macaria had reached the point where she couldn’t face any more bad news. She thanked Tamara and headed home with her co.
As the group entered the central corridor, Tamara could already smell the traces of smoke wafting up through the mountain. She’d seen her father burning off blight often enough to be impressed by the ability of plants to limit the spread of fire: in wheat, at least, there was a skin covering most of the stalk that could be shed if it caught alight. But nothing living was invulnerable, not even the mightiest tree. In the presence of a high enough density of flames, the heat carried through the air alone would be enough to render any kind of organic matter unstable.
By the time they reached the second level above the forest, the smoke was thick enough to scatter the moss-light into a disorienting red haze. Tamara struggled to see a dozen strides ahead; they might as well have sent out invitations for an ambush. The heat was becoming palpable, and Carlo had barely had time to recover from his last bout of hyperthermia. When he started faltering, losing his grip on the guide rope, Carla finally managed to dissuade him from continuing.
“If we’re already struggling at this distance,” she said, “imagine what it was like inside the chamber. The arborines will be dead. There’s nothing we can do about that.”
Tamara had reached the same conclusion long ago, but she’d been trying not to think about the consequences. Who would vote for the research to continue now? With reports of disfigured arborines still preying on their minds—notwithstanding Carla’s belated retraction—and no prospect of further animal tests to settle the matter, who could endorse such a project?
Carla’s apartment wasn’t far. Tamara suggested that the two of them rest there, and when she volunteered to stand guard Patrizia and Ada offered to join her.
They turned and headed back up the axis, smoke clinging to their skin. The blight infesting the arborines had been burned away before it could spread. Tamara knew the scent of eradication.
“We can’t just accept this!” Patrizia declared angrily. “We need to hit them as hard as they hit us!”
Tamara gestured with a hand to her tympanum. Carla and Carlo were asleep in the next room.
“What happened to the Council appointing police?” Ada replied caustically. “You want to burn a few farms now? Or just kidnap a few people at random?”
Patr
izia scowled. “Of course not. But we have to show them what happens when they try to win a vote by force. We have to find a way to hurt them.”
“Wars of retribution were hard enough on the ancestors,” Ada said. “And we have none of the resilience of a planetary culture. If people start repaying every act of violence in kind, we’ll all be dead within a year.”
Tamara didn’t doubt that. The prospect of her father’s mentality triumphing yet again enraged her—but she hadn’t quite lost her mind. The Peerless could not survive any escalating conflict. The Council would find someone to punish for the kidnappings and the fires, eventually, and she would have to be satisfied with that.
Patrizia swung back and forth on her rope, agitated, unable to let the matter drop. “No violence,” she said finally. “But we can still hurt them. We still have the one thing they fear the most.”
“That’s a bit too cryptic for me,” Ada admitted.
Tamara understood. “We still have the tapes,” she said. “We could still do one more experiment, before the vote comes in and the Council bans the research.”
Ada said, “You mean scale things down, from arborines to voles?”
“No, scale things up,” Patrizia corrected her. “We need a woman to give birth, before the vote. To prove that it works, to prove that it’s safe. To show the whole mountain that it really is possible.”
That silenced Ada. It silenced all three of them. Tamara stared at the walls, marveling at the strange disjuncture between the joy she felt at the prospect of the kidnappers and arsonists hearing the first rumors of such a thing, and the visceral sense of panic that gripped her at the thought of what it would take for those rumors to be real.
Patrizia said, “I’ll do it, if I have to.”
“You’re too young,” Tamara said flatly.
“What—do you think I’m not fertile yet?”
“I mean you’re too young to take the risk.”
