Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring

by Stephen Baxter

  But perhaps other devices had been fixed to those scars - devices long since discarded and now beyond his imagination - perhaps the ‘sensors’ of which the Mole spoke.

  He felt a surge of irrational gratitude to the Moles. In all his crushing universe they, enigmatic as they were, represented the only element of strangeness, of otherness; they were all his imagination had to work on. The first time he had begun to speculate that things might somewhere, sometime, be other than they were here had been a hundred shifts ago when a Mole had unexpectedly asked him whether he found the Nebula air any more difficult to breathe.

  ‘Mole,’ he said.

  An articulated metal arm unfolded from the nose of the Mole; a camera fixed on him.

  ‘The sky looked a bit more red today.’

  The transfer of nodules was not slowed but the small lens stayed steady. A red lamp somewhere on the prow of the machine began to pulse. ‘Please input spectrometer data.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rees said. ‘And even if I did, I haven’t got a “spectrometer”.’

  ‘Please quantify input data.’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ Rees said patiently.

  For further seconds the machine studied him. ‘How red is the sky?’

  Rees opened his mouth - and hesitated, stuck for words. ‘I don’t know. Red. Darker. Not as dark as blood.’

  The lens lit up with a scarlet glow. ‘Please calibrate.’

  Rees imagined himself to be staring into the sky. ‘No, not as bright as that.’

  The glow scaled through a tight spectrum, through crimson to a muddy blood colour.

  ‘Back a little,’ Rees said. ‘. . . There. That’s it, I think.’

  The lens darkened. The lamp on the prow, still scarlet, began to glow steady and bright. Rees was reminded of the warning light on the winch equipment and felt his flesh crawl under its blanket of weight. ‘Mole. What does that light mean?’

  ‘Warning,’ it said in its flat voice. ‘Deterioration of environment life-threatening. Access to support equipment recommended.’

  Rees understood ‘threatening’, but what did the rest of it mean? What support equipment? ‘Damn you, Mole, what are we supposed to do?’

  But the Mole had no reply; patiently it continued to unload its pannier.

  Rees watched, thoughts racing. The events of the last few shifts came like pieces of a puzzle to the surface of his mind.

  This was a tough universe for humans. The implosion had proved that. And now, if he understood any of what the Mole had said, it seemed that the redness of the sky was a portent of doom for them all, as if the Nebula itself were some vast, incomprehensible lamp of warning.

  A sense of confinement returned, its weight more crushing than the pull of the star kernel. He would never get anyone else to understand his concerns. He was just some dumb kid, and his worries were based on hints, fragments, all partially understood.

  Would he still be a kid when the end came?

  Scenes of apocalypse flashed through his head: he imagined dimming stars, thickening clouds, the very air souring and failing in his lungs—

  He had to get back to the surface, the Belt, and onwards; he had to find out more. And in all his universe there was only one place he could go.

  The Raft. Somehow he had to get to the Raft.

  With a new sense of purpose, vague but burning, he turned his chair to the exit ramp.

  2

  The tree was a wheel of wood and foliage fifty yards wide. Its rotation slowing, it lowered itself reluctantly into the gravity well of the star kernel. Pallis, the tree-pilot, was hanging by hands and feet below the knotty trunk of the tree. The star kernel and its churning Belt mine were behind his back. With a critical eye he peered up through the mat of foliage at the smoke which hung raggedly over the upper branches. The layer of smoke wasn’t anywhere near thick enough: he could clearly see starlight splashing through to bathe the tree’s round leaves. He moved his hands along the nearest branch, felt the uncertain quivering of the fine blade of wood. Even here, at the root of the branches, he could feel the tree’s turbulent uncertainty. Two imperatives acted on the tree. It strove to flee the deadly gravity well of the star - but it also sought to escape the shadow of the smoke cloud, which drove it back into the well. A skilful woodsman should have the two imperatives in fine balance; the tree should hover in an unstable equilibrium at the required distance.

  Now the tree’s rotating branches bit into the air and it jerked upwards by a good yard. Pallis was almost shaken loose. A cloud of skitters came tumbling from the foliage; the tiny wheel-shaped creatures buzzed around his face and arms as they tried to regain the security of their parent.

  Damn that boy—

  With an angry, liquid movement of his arms he hauled himself through the foliage to the top side of the tree. The ragged blanket of smoke and steam hung a few yards above his head, attached tenuously to the branches by threads of smoke. The damp wood in at least half the fire bowls fixed to the branches had, he soon found, been consumed.

  And Gover, his so-called assistant, was nowhere to be seen.

  His toes wrapped around the foliage, Pallis drew himself to his full height. At fifty thousand shifts he was old by Nebula standards; but his stomach was still as flat and as hard as the trunk of one of his beloved fleet of trees, and most men would shy from the network of branch scars that covered his face, forearms and hands and flared red at moments of anger.

  And this was one of those moments.

  ‘Gover! By the Bones themselves, what do you think you are doing?’

  A thin, clever face appeared above one of the bowls near the rim of the tree. Gover shook his way out of a nest of leaves and came scurrying across the platform of foliage, a pack bouncing against his narrow back.

  Pallis stood with arms folded and biceps bunched. ‘Gover’, he said softly, ‘I’ll ask you again. What do you think you’re doing?’

  Gover shoved the back of his hand against his nose, pushing the nostrils out of shape; the hand came away glistening. ‘I’d finished,’ he mumbled.

  Pallis leant over him. Gover’s gaze slid over and away from the tree-pilot’s eyes. ‘You’re finished when I tell you so. And not before.’

  Gover said nothing.

  ‘Look—’ Pallis stabbed a finger at Gover’s pack. ‘You’re still carrying half your stock of wood. The fires are dying. And look at the state of the smoke screen. More holes than your damn vest. My tree doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going, thanks to you. Can’t you feel her shuddering?

  ‘Now, listen, Gover. I don’t care a damn for you, but I do care for my tree. You cause her any more upset and I’ll have you over the rim; if you’re lucky the Boneys’ll have you for supper, and I’ll fly her home to the Raft myself. Got that?’

  Gover hung before him, hands tugging listlessly at the ragged hem of his vest. Pallis let the moment stretch taut; then he hissed, ‘Now move it!’

  With a flurry of motion Gover pulled himself to the nearest pot and began hauling wood from his pack. Soon fresh billows of smoke were rising to join the depleted cloud, and the shuddering of the tree subsided.

  His exasperation simmering, Pallis watched the boy’s awkward movements. Oh, he’d had his share of poor assistants in the past, but in the old times most of them had been willing to learn. To try. And gradually, as hard shifts wore by, those young people had grown into responsible men and women, their minds toughening with their bodies.

  But not this lot. Not the new generation.

  This was his third flight with the boy Gover. And the lad was still as sullen and obstructive as when he’d first been assigned to the trees; Pallis would be more than glad to hand him back to Science.

  His eyes roamed around the red sky, restless. The falling stars were an array of pinpoints dwindling into the far distance; the depths of the Nebula, far below him, were a sink of murky crimson. Was this nostalgic disregard for the young of today just a sym
ptom of ageing . . . ? Or had people truly changed?

  Well, there was no doubt that the world had changed around him. The crisp blue skies, the rich breezes of his youth were memories now; the very air was turning into a smoky sludge, and the minds of men seemed to be turning sour with it.

  And one thing was for sure. His trees didn’t like this gloom.

  He sighed, trying to snap out of his introspection. The stars kept falling no matter what the colour of the sky. Life went on, and he had work to do.

  Tiny vibrations played over the soles of his bare feet, telling him that the tree was almost stable now, hovering at the lip of the star kernel’s gravity well. Gover moved silently among the fire bowls. Damn it, the lad could do the job well when he was forced to. That was the most annoying thing about him. ‘Right, Gover, I want that layer maintained while I’m off-tree. And the Belt’s a small place; I’ll know if you slack. You got that?’

  Gover nodded without looking at him.

  Pallis dropped through the foliage, his thoughts turning to the difficult negotiations ahead.

  It was the end of Rees’s work shift. Wearily he hauled himself through the foundry door.

  Cooler air dried the sweat from his brow. He pulled himself along the ropes and roofs towards his cabin, inspecting his hands and arms with some interest. When one of the older workers had dropped a ladle of iron, Rees had narrowly dodged a hail of molten metal; tiny droplets had drifted into his flesh, sizzling out little craters which—

  A huge shadow flapped across the Belt. Air washed over his back. He looked up; and a feeling of astonishing cold settled at the base of his skull.

  The tree was magnificent against the crimson sky. Its dozen radial branches and their veil of leaves turned with a calm possession; the trunk was like a mighty wooden skull which glared around at the ocean of air.

  This was it. His opportunity to escape from the Belt . . .

  The supply trees were the only known means of travelling from Belt to Raft, and so after his moment of decision following the foundry implosion Rees had resolved to stow away on the next tree to visit the Belt. He had begun to hoard food, wrapping dried meat in bundles of cloth, filling cloth globes with water—

  Sometimes, during his sleep shifts, he had lain awake staring at his makeshift preparations and a thin sweat had covered his brow as he wondered if he would have the courage to take the decisive step.

  Well, the moment had come. Staring at the magnificent tree he probed his emotions: he knew he was no hero, and he had half expected fear to encase him like a net of ropes. But there was no fear. Even the nagging pain in his hands subsided. There was only elation; the future was an empty sky, within which his hopes would surely find room.

  He hurried to his cabin and collected his bundle of supplies, which was already lashed together; then he climbed to the outer wall of his cabin.

  A rope had uncoiled from the tree trunk and lay across the fifty yards to the Belt, brushing against the orbiting cabins. A man came shimmering confidently down the rope; he was scarred, old and muscular, almost a piece of the tree himself. Ignoring the watching Rees the man dropped without hesitation across empty air to a cabin and began to make his way around the Belt.

  Rees clung to his cabin by one hand. The rotation of the Belt carried the cabin steadily towards the tree’s dangling rope; when it was a yard from him he grabbed at it and swarmed without hesitation off the Belt.

  As always at shift change the Quartermaster’s was crowded. Pallis waited outside, watching the Belt’s pipes and boxy cabins roll around the star kernel. At length Sheen emerged bearing two drink globes.

  They drifted to the relative privacy of a long stretch of piping and silently raised their globes. Their eyes met briefly. Pallis looked away in some confusion - then felt embarrassed at that in turn.

  To the Bones with it. The past was gone.

  He sucked at the liquor, trying not to grimace. ‘I think this stuff’s improving,’ he said at last.

  Her eyebrows arched slightly. ‘I’m sorry we can’t do better. No doubt your tastes are a little more refined.’

  He felt a sigh escape from his throat. ‘Damn it, Sheen, let’s not fence. Yes, the Raft has got a liquor machine. Yes, what comes out of it is a damn sight finer than this recycled piss. And everyone knows it. But this stuff really is a little better than it was. All right? Now, can we get on with our business?’

  She shrugged, indifferent, and sipped her drink. He studied the way the diffuse light caught in her hair, and his attraction to her once more pulled at him. Damn it, he had to grow out of this. It must be five thousand shifts since the time they’d slept together, their limbs tangling in her sleeping net as the Belt rolled silently around its star . . .

  It had been a one-off, two tired people falling together. Now, damn it to hell, it only got in the way of business. In fact he suspected the miners used her as their negotiating front with him knowing the effect she had on him. This was a tough game. And it was getting tougher . . .

  He tried to concentrate on what she was saying. ‘. . . So we’re down on production. We can’t fulfil the shipment. Gord says it will take another fifty shifts before that foundry is operational again. And that’s the way it is.’ She fell silent and stared at him defiantly.

  His eyes slid from her face and tracked reluctantly around the Belt. The ruined foundry was a scorched, crumpled wound in the chain of cabins. Briefly he allowed himself to imagine the scene in there during the accident - the walls bellying in, the ladles spilling molten iron—

  He shuddered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sheen,’ he said slowly. ‘I truly am. But—’

  ‘But you’re not going to leave us the full fee,’ she said sourly.

  ‘Damn it, I don’t make the rules. I’ve a treeful of supplies up there; I’m ready to give you what I get back in iron, at the agreed exchange rate.’

  She hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes fixed on her drink. ‘Pallis, I hate to beg. You’ve no idea how much I hate to beg. But we need those supplies. We’ve got sewage coming out of our spigots; we’ve got sick and dying—’

  He gulped down the last of his drink. ‘Leave it, Sheen,’ he said, more harshly than he’d intended.

  She raised her head and fixed him with eyes reduced to slits. ‘You need our metal, Raft man. Don’t forget that.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Sheen, we’ve another source. You know that. The early Crew found two star kernels in neat circular orbits around the Core—’

  She laughed quietly. ‘And you know the other mine isn’t producing any more. Is it, Pallis? We don’t know what happened to it, yet, but we’ve picked up that much. So let’s not play games.’

  Shame rose like a bubble inside him; he felt his face redden and he imagined his scars emerging as a livid net. So they knew. At least, he reflected gloomily, at least we evacuated the Nebula’s only other mine when that star fell too close. At least we were honourable enough for that. Although not honourable enough to avoid lying about all that pain in order to keep our advantage over these people—

  ‘Sheen, we’re getting nowhere. I’m just doing my job, and this is out of my control.’ He handed back his drink globe. ‘You have a shift to decide whether to accept my terms. Then I leave regardless. And - look, Sheen, just remember something. We can recycle our iron a hell of a lot easier than you can recycle your food and water.’

  She studied him dispassionately. ‘I hope they suck on your bones, Raft man.’ He felt his shoulders slump. He turned and began to make his slow way to the nearest wall, from which he could jump to the tree rope.

  A file of miners clambered up to the tree, iron plates strapped to their backs. Under the pilot’s supervision the plates were lashed securely to the tree rim, widely spaced. The miners descended to the Belt laden with casks of food and fresh water.

  Rees, watching from the foliage, couldn’t understand why so many of the food cases were left behind in the tree.

  He stayed curled
closely around a two-feet-wide branch - taking care not to cut open his palms on its knife-sharp leading edge - and he kept a layer of foliage around his body. He had no way of telling the time, but the loading of the tree must have taken several shifts. He was wide-eyed and sleepless. He knew that his absence from work would go unremarked for at least a couple of shifts - and, he thought with a distant sadness, it might be longer before anyone cared enough to come looking for him.

  Well, the world of the Belt was behind him now. Whatever dangers the future held for him, at least they would be new dangers.

  In fact he only had two problems. Hunger and thirst . . .

  Disaster had struck soon after he had found himself this hiding place among the leaves. One of the Belt workmen had stumbled across his tiny cache of supplies; thinking it belonged to the despised Raft crewmen the miner had shared the morsels among his companions. Rees had been lucky to avoid detection himself, he realized . . . but now he had no supplies, and the clamour of his throat and belly had come to fill his head.

  But at last the loading was complete; and when the pilot launched his tree, even Rees’s thirst was forgotten.

  When the final miner had slithered down to the Belt, Pallis curled up the rope and hung it around a hook fixed to the trunk. So his visit was over. Sheen hadn’t spoken to him again, and for several shifts he had had to endure the sullen silence of strangers. He shook his head and turned his thoughts with some relief to the flight home. ‘Right, Gover, let’s see you move! I want the bowls switched to the underside of the tree, filled and lit before I’ve finished coiling this rope. Or would you rather wait for the next tree?’