Context

by John Meaney

  Vibrations in the floor. The zone beyond the wall was high-g: a maglev centrifuge cylinder some fifty metres across, spinning at immense speeds, to keep the squat Veraliks in shape.

  At the corridor’s end, Zoë stopped before a ceramic door.

  ‘This is Fyodor’s apartment.’

  ‘Fyodor?’

  ‘Pet name. The Zajinet you’ve already studied.’

  ‘Hope he’s not still frozen.’

  The entire building shuddered as the door was sliding open. It jammed halfway—and sirens began to whoop and wail, with a calm woman’s (automated) voice declaring: Please evacuate calmly but immediately, repeated in eight different languages—and Ro and Zoë had to squeeze through the gap.

  The Zajinet was not frozen, but in chaotic disarray: the macrocomponents of his body, from granules to small boulders, were spinning and shuddering, changing shape, pulling apart far enough to reveal the Zajinet’s inner form: a tracery of electric sapphire-blue, along which sparks of agitated white light burst and spattered.

  <<... danger...>>

  <<... danger...>>

  <<... danger...>>

  Every part of its group consciousness, for once, was in agreement.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  44

  NULAPEIRON AD 3421

  The carapace was scarlet speckled with black, and the tendrils, too, were shiny red.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Its rider swung her black-clad leg over the saddle, and slid to the stony ground. ‘Ain’t you never seen a ‘sprite before?’

  Tom shook his head, admiring the thing. ‘Never.’

  ‘Chaos.’ She crouched down, picked a shard from the floor, and idly tossed it away. ‘What a boring life you must’ve led.’

  The stone skittered across the ground; small echoes started, died away.

  All around, the cavern was vast, unfinished and natural. It was interstitial territory, belonging to no realm—neither Blight-controlled nor otherwise. On foot, Tom had descended fifteen strata, and made three hundred klicks’ horizontal progress, since leaving the Academy.

  He sketched a tricon—no holo, just fingertip movement in the air—and waited for the countersign.

  ‘For Fate’s sake.’ The rider rose, slapping dust from her shining black membrane-suit. ‘I’m Thylara, of the Clades Tau, and if you’re not the man I’m supposed to meet, then you’re dead. All right?’

  There’s a vast chasm between theory and practice—as Maestro da Silva used to say—when your life is on the line.

  Tom smiled.

  So bridge that gap. ‘What, then, do I do?’ ‘Climb aboard, my friend.’

  He slid onto the saddle behind Thylara, and carapace extrusions encased his legs, looped round his waist.

  ‘Are you sure this is—?’

  Acceleration jerked him back, knocked air from his lungs.

  Sweet Chaos!

  The arachnasprite whipped into motion.

  Tendrils were a scarlet blur as they sped towards the cavern wall and, still increasing speed, hurtled upwards, gravity and acceleration tugging together, and then they were speeding across the ceiling, the thwap-thwap of tendril pads a constant percussive refrain, with the broken floor far below/above Tom’s head.

  Thylara whooped as she kicked the ‘sprite into overdrive, and Tom yelled once, hard, and then their wild laughter was conjoined as they tore along maniacally, upside down amid the convoluted cavern system’s myriad twists and turns.

  TauRiders’ camp.

  They swung into view, rapidly crawled down the wall, leaped—tendrils flicking to maximum extension—onto a broken series of marble pillars, danced downwards. Outriders circled overhead, but Thylara waved them away.

  Adults, running children—dirty faces, but mostly clean enough. Parked arachnasprites, most of them dark blue, some scarlet like Thylara’s. A handful of bigger, older arachnargoi: brown/black cargo models, with holds sufficient to carry all the clan’s belongings.

  Tethered glowglobes, string-tied and sticky-tagged to pillars, provided patchy light. Cooking smells rose from thermopots.

  ‘Home’—Thylara slid down from the saddle—‘for a day or two. Then we’ll all be gone.’

  ‘How— ah.’ Cramp—after a full second day of riding as her passenger—hit Tom’s inner thighs. ‘How many of you are there?’

  Getting awkwardly to the ground, he rubbed his legs.

  ‘Two hundred and f— no, two hundred and three, as of next move. Tomorrow.’

  Tom frowned, but his legs hurt too much to decipher that.

  Stripping off her gauntlets, Thylara waved to somebody, then turned back to Tom.

  ‘Let’s eat.’

  They were too poor to eat fleischbloc more than once a tenday; Tom had no problems with the food. Only with the ragged kids, who ran circles around the eating adults until Thylara clipped one around the ear. They scampered off laughing, unhurt.

  Across one pillar, someone had daubed a glowing dragon, all fiery breath and shining eyes, and Tom remarked on it.

  ‘One of them, at least, has talent.’

  ‘Baz.’ Thylara turned aside and spat into the dirt. ‘Pity he can’t ride worth a damn.’

  That’s all that counts here, isn’t it?

  He understood, then, the appraising glances of the women, and the negative hand-sign Thylara had given. He might look all right, but—like the unfortunate Baz—Tom Corcorigan could not ride, and so was useless to the tribe.

  After eating, he curled up inside his cloak, and rested.

  ‘Hey!’ Thylara’s fist was thumping his thigh. ‘Wake up. You like wrestling, don’t you?’

  ‘Huh?’ Tom sat up. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Come on. Don’t dawdle.’

  In a half-natural amphitheatre, some of the men had already stripped off their jerkins. There was a beefy woman, in a laced-up vest, among them.

  ‘Fate,’ murmured Tom, as the first match began and a sweeping ankle-hook took a wrestler down. “That’s madness.’

  There was nothing unusual about their grappling technique, but they were competing on solid stone, without mats. Tom watched, enthralled, as a bearded man threw or locked five challengers in a row; then the big grappler looked around, disappointed.

  ‘Hey, Valdur,’ Thylara shouted down to him. ‘You’ve got a live one tonight.’

  “Who’s that, then?’

  Tom felt Thylara’s elbow nudge his ribs.

  No.

  ‘Don’t worry about his name, Valdur. Or his lack of an arm. This skinny guy’s going to kill you, you big bugger.’

  Afterwards, everyone save Tom got drunk, and he was more tempted by the booze than he had been for years. Every burgeoning, needless bruise spoke to him, taunted him with pain.

  I could’ve talked my way out.

  But he had not.

  Valdur had not been fooled by Tom’s apparent disability, and they had stalked each other like neko-felines, until Tom attacked.

  He had no idea how long they had grappled, and no-one seemed to have declared a winner, just finally decided to drag the bloodied fighters off each other.

  Then each had grasped the other’s forearm, and they laughed like madmen together.

  Next morning, very early, he forced himself to run. Easy pace, through tunnels which had been deserted for centuries.

  Damn, it hurts.

  But he ran from more than stubbornness. Experience told him that resting would make it worse, stiffening his body until he could scarcely move.

  It still hurts...

  On his return, the tribe was up and about. Even the children were helping to load panniers and cargo pods. Thylara waved at him, a white knife in her hand, inviting him to breakfast.

  ‘The tribe’s migration,’ she said, ‘will swing closer to the Grand’aume than we ought. But’—spitting onto the ground—‘that’s what we’ve been paid for.’

  ‘Don’t take risks.’

  ‘With the tribe’s safety?
I won’t.’ She slit open a food pack, passed it across. ‘We’ll travel together for three days, then I’ll take you to the drop-off point alone. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Fascinated, already mounted behind Thylara, Tom watched the TauRiders breaking camp.

  I’m privileged to see this.

  This was his time, his own one-way journey through life ... He suppressed the thought, forcing himself merely to watch.

  They moved with practised efficiency.

  Within a quarter of an hour, they had struck camp: all cargo hauled up into thoracic holds, dark arachnasprites taking up escort formations around the great arachnargoi. Scarlet and blue ‘sprites leaped ahead, forming scout and vanguard, while others fanned out.

  The TauRiders were ready to continue their migration.

  And then the last of the children was aboard, adults waved, and the first arachnargoi unfastened tendril pads and moved.

  From a hanging vantage point near the cavern’s ceiling, Tom and Thylara observed the motion.

  The entire formation flowed towards a wide exit.

  But—

  A person?

  Tom turned in his seat as Thylara kicked their ‘sprite into motion, crawling easily along the ceiling above the migrating tribe.

  ‘I saw someone.’ He tapped Thylara’s shoulder. ‘We’ve left someone behind.’

  A shake of her head.

  ‘That’s Kay la,’ she called back. ‘Too old.’

  They’re leaving her? Deliberately?

  A wizened woman, stoically watching her extended family leave, knowing she was not fit to migrate with them.

  ‘Comes to us all, speed-boy.’ Thylara reached back and thumped Tom’s thigh. ‘Comes to us all!’

  A last glimpse of the old woman.

  Then Thylara leaned forwards, hands sunk inside black control organs, and the ‘sprite shot into accelerated motion, faster and faster until the passing rockface was a blue-grey haze, tendrils becoming insubstantial scarlet mist, as slipstream blurred the world with stinging tears.

  ~ * ~

  45

  TERRA & BETA DRACONIS

  AD 2142

  <>

  [15]

  Turbulent, churning: the Zajinet’s external form.

  <<... crux is ... >>

  <<... danger...>>

  <<... nexus-node-now...>>

  Alarms still wailed.

  There was another shudder in the building, as though XenoMir itself was falling. Components whirled, and the Zajinet’s internal tracery sparked brighter.

  ‘Sir?’ Zoë had to shout above the noise. ‘It’s your former colleague, isn’t it? We need your advice.’

  It seemed to shrink, the Zajinet, as though its external chunks were being drawn together.

  <<... danger...>>

  <<... yes...>>

  <<... it comes...>>

  Even above the sirens, a screeching sound pierced the room. Ro and Zoë turned.

  The jammed half-open door was crumpling . . .

  Then a blocky brown three-fingered hand, close to the ground, ripped the metal door away.

  ‘Jesus.’

  Ro was unarmed, but Zoë had a pocket lineac—abandoning any remaining pretence at being a civilian—and she snapped its laser sight on.

  It was a Veralik, the intruder—brown, squat, and cuboid—and it stumped into the room on short legs, thumping its vox-box into life.

  ‘THE FEMALE.’ With a wave of its thick stubby pseudoarm in Ro’s direction: ‘HOLD HER.’

  Ro stared at it, then at Zoë, who shrugged.

  ‘Why are you—’

  But, from the corridor outside, a gasping voice, half unheard beneath the sirens: ‘The centrifuge hab ... fail...’ A wheeze, then: ‘Energy drain ...’

  It was Piotr, leaning against the twisted doorjamb.

  Behind Ro and Zoë, the Zajinet ambassador had withdrawn into a tighter form.

  ‘HOLD THE FEMALE. IT WILL ATTEMPT TO TAKE HER.’

  Ro circled away from the Veralik, using aikido footwork, knowing that to close with the blocky creature would be deadly.

  ‘ZAJINET, THE RENEGADE. IT STOPPED ROTATION. ENERGY—‘

  Avoiding, Ro changed direction.

  And stopped.

  Blinked.

  For a moment, she thought she had seen another Zajinet, but different: whorls, hexagonal convection cells, an hypnotic study in blue-grey movement.

  ‘STOP HER.’

  Unbelievably complex, that flow. Enthralling, as the room began to fade.

  ‘Ro!’ Zoë’s distant voice. ‘What’s happening?’

  Strange perspectives, twisting.

  A ghostly grasp on her sleeve.

  Slipping...

  ‘Ro, take my hand!’

  Slipping away.

  Transparency, a shrinking in all directions, a turning inside out: it was all of these, and more. Implode/explode, twist and elongate and shrink simultaneously: the world commanded, tore her apart, pulled her.

  Help me...

  Spacetime’s unbraiding, the freezing-burning explosion/transition, the ripping apart of all she was.

  Please...

  Obliteration.

  A moment of lucidity.

  Chamber: ovoid, glistening blue. A Zajinet with her.

  Its outer form, a thousand rocks and grains, slipped to the floor. Only a floating network of scintillating light remained.

  Scarlet light.

  Sparking—

  Blackness.

  Aching stiffness clasped every limb, tightened around her ribs, as she squinted against blue-tinged light, waking on a cold hard floor.

  ‘You’re awake.’ A woman’s voice. ‘Jared, call Lee. Our visitor’s waking up.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Ro sat up, pain clenching her back.

  ‘You’ll be all right, I think.’

  The woman had cropped royal-blue hair, was dressed in black and burgundy.

  ‘Where...?’

  The blueish corridor, round in cross-section and shining like glass, looped to the left. Two men were hurrying into view. Everything seemed different from XenoMir.

  Like a giant artery.

  Ro shook the thought away, trying to focus despite a pounding headache.

  ‘She needs the ‘doc.’ The woman.

  ‘No way, Lila.’ One of the men stopped, hands on hips. ‘Not till we ... Just where the devil have you been hiding, young woman?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  Help me...

  She remembered the strangely twisting maelstrom which had enveloped her.

  ‘For God’s sake, Josef. Look at the state of her.’

  ‘Until we find out what’s going—’

  A large hand grabbed her wrist, and Ro reacted as she had been taught. She rose to her knees, twisting, as the big man rotated and thumped heavily to the floor.

  She stood up and backed away.

  ‘Who the hell are you people? How did I get here?’

  Danger...

  They stared at her, at each other; even the man who was on the ground was watching wordlessly.

  ‘Are you saying’—the woman, Lila, spoke slowly as though to a child—‘that you’ve only just arrived here?’

  ‘Here? I don’t know where on Earth I am.’

  ‘In the Central Bone,’ Lila began. ‘Downslope from—’

  But the big man, climbing painfully to his feet, suddenly laughed.

  ‘Hardly on Earth.’

  Someone said: ‘But “where on BD3” sounds terrible.’

  Laughter fading.

  Ro began to shake.

  Help. . .