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

by Stephen Baxter

Rees suppressed a smile. ‘No, even further than that. The Nebula is a big place, lad; there is room to hide a lot of mystery. Perhaps there are even lost human colonies; perhaps the Boneys really exist, and all those legends are true . . . of the subhuman whale-singers lost in the sky.’

  The boy shuddered.

  ‘Of course,’ Rees mused, ‘there are puzzles about the native life of the Nebula. For example, how can it exist at all? Our records show that life in the home universe took thousands of billions of shifts to evolve. The Nebula isn’t anything like that old - and will be far younger when it dies. So how did life arise?’

  ‘You were telling me what will happen after the stars go out . . .’

  ‘Yes. The atmosphere, darkened, will steadily lose heat, and - less able to resist the gravity of the Core - will collapse. Finally the Nebula will be reduced to a layer a few inches thick around the Core, slowly falling inwards . . .’

  The young man, his face pale, nodded slowly.

  ‘All right,’ Rees said briskly. ‘Let’s look inwards now - past the Raft’s level, which is a thousand miles from the edge of the Nebula - and in to the centre.’

  Now the monitor filled up with a familiar ruddy sky. Stars were scattered sparsely through the air. Rees punched a key—

  - and stars exploded out of the picture. The focus plummeted into the Nebula and it was as if they were falling.

  Finally, the star cloud began to thin and a darker knot of matter emerged at its centre.

  ‘What you’re seeing here is a layer of detritus in close orbit around the Core,’ Rees said quietly. ‘At the heart of this Nebula is a black hole. If you’re not sure what that is right now, don’t worry . . . The black hole is about a millionth of an inch wide; the large object we call the Core is a dense mass of material surrounding the hole. We can’t see through this cloud of rubble to the Core itself, but we believe it’s an ellipsoid about fifty miles across. And somewhere inside the Core will be the black hole itself and an accretion disc around it, a region perhaps a hundred feet wide in which matter is crushed out of existence as it is dragged into the hole . . .

  ‘At the surface of the Core the hole’s gravity is down to a mere two or three gee. At the outer edge of the Nebula - where we are - it’s down to about one thousandth of a gee; but even though it’s so small here the hole’s gravity is what binds this Nebula together.

  ‘And if we could travel into the Core itself we would find gravity climbing to thousands, millions of gee. Hollerbach has some theories about what happens near and within the Core, a realm of what he calls “gravitic chemistry”.’

  Nead frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I bet you don’t.’ Rees laughed. ‘But I’ll tell you anyway, so you’ll know the questions to ask . . .

  ‘You see, in the day-to-day turmoil of things we - even we Scientists - tend to forget the central, astonishing fact of this cosmos - that the gravitational constant is a billion times larger than in the universe from which man arose. Oh, we see the macroscopic effects - for instance, a human body exerts a respectable gravitational field! - but what about the small, the subtle, the microscopic effects?’

  In man’s original universe, Rees went on, gravity was the only significant force over the interstellar scale. But over short ranges - on the scale of an individual atom - gravity was so tiny as to be negligible. ‘It is utterly dominated by even the electromagnetic force,’ Rees said. ‘And that is why our bodies are shambling cages of electromagnetism; and attractive electrical forces between molecules drive the chemistry that sustains our being.

  ‘But here . . .’ He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Here, things are different. Here, in certain circumstances, gravity can be as significant on the atomic scale as other forces - even dominant.

  ‘Hollerbach talks of a new kind of “atom”. Its fundamental particles would be massive - perhaps they would be tiny black holes - and the atom would be bonded by gravity in novel, complex structures. A new type of chemistry - a gravitic chemistry - would be possible; a new realm of nature about whose form even Hollerbach can scarcely begin to speculate.’

  Nead frowned. ‘But why haven’t we observed this “gravitic chemistry”?’

  Rees nodded approvingly. ‘Good question. Hollerbach calculates that the right conditions must prevail: the right temperature and pressure, powerful gravitational gradients—’

  ‘In the Core,’ Nead breathed. ‘I see. So perhaps—’

  There was a soft boom.

  The Bridge shifted slightly, as if a wave were passing through its structure. The image in the monitor broke up.

  Rees twisted. A sharp smell of burning, of smoke, touched his nostrils. The Scientists were milling in confusion, but the instruments seemed to be intact. Somewhere someone screamed.

  Fear creased Nead’s brow. ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘That came from the Library,’ Rees murmured. ‘And, no, it’s not bloody normal.’ He took a deep, calming breath; and when he spoke again his voice was steady. ‘It’s all right, Nead. I want you to get out of here as quickly as you can. Wait until . . .’ His voice tailed away.

  Nead looked at him, half-understanding. ‘Until what?’

  ‘Until I send for you. Now move.’

  The boy half-swam to the exit and pushed his way through the crowd of Scientists.

  Trying to ignore the spreading panic around him, Rees ran his fingers over the keyboard of the Telescope, locking the precious instrument into its rest position. Briefly he marvelled at his own callous coolness. But in the end, he reflected, he was responding to a harsh, terrible truth. Humans could be replaced. The Telescope couldn’t.

  When he turned from the keyboard the Observatory was deserted. Paper and small tools lay scattered over the incorruptible floor, or floated in the equilibrium layer. And still that smell of burning hung in the air.

  With a sense of lightness he crossed the chamber floor and climbed out into the corridor. Smoke thickened the air, stinging his eyes, and as he approached the Library images of the imploded foundry and of the Theatre of Light confused his thoughts, as if his mind were a Telescope focusing on the buried depths of the past.

  Entering the Library was like climbing into an ancient, decayed mouth. Books and papers had been turned to blackened leaves and blasted against the walls; the ruined paper had been soaked through by the efforts of Scientists to save their treasure. There were three men still here, beating at smouldering pages with damp blankets. At Rees’s entry one of them turned. Rees was moved to recognize Grye, tears streaking his blackened cheeks.

  Rees ran a cautious finger over the shell of ruined books. How much had been lost this shift? - what wisdom that might have saved them all from the Nebula’s smoky death?

  Something crackled under his feet. There were shards of glass scattered over the floor, and Rees made out the truncated, smoke-stained neck of a wine-sim bottle. Briefly he found himself marvelling that such a simple invention as a bottle filled with burning oil could wreak so much damage.

  There was nothing he could do here. He touched Grye’s shoulder briefly; then he turned and left the Bridge.

  There was no sign of security guards at the door. The scene outside was chaotic. Rees had a blurred impression of running men, of flames on the horizon; the Raft was a panorama of fists and angry voices. The harsh starlight from above flattened the scene, making it colourless and gritty.

  So it had come. His last hope that this incident might be restricted to just another attack on the Labs evaporated. The fragile web of trust and acceptance that had held the Raft together had finally collapsed . . .

  A few dozen yards away he made out a group of youths surrounding a bulky man; Rees thought he recognized Captain Mith. The big man went down under a hail of blows. At first, Rees saw, he tried to defend his head, his crotch; but blood spread rapidly over his face and clothing, and soon fists and feet were pounding into a shapeless, unresisting bulk.

  Rees turned his head away.

 
; In the foreground a small group of Scientists sat numbly on the deck, staring into the distance. They surrounded a bundle which looked like a charred row of books - perhaps something recovered from the fire?

  But there was the white of bone amid the charring.

  He felt his throat constrict; he breathed deeply, drawing on all his experience. This was not a good time to succumb to panic.

  He recognized Hollerbach. The old Chief Scientist sat a little apart from the rest, staring at the crumpled remains of his spectacles. He looked up as Rees approached, an almost comical mask of soot surrounding his eyes. ‘Eh? Oh, it’s you, boy. Well, this is a fine thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s happening, Hollerbach?’

  Hollerbach toyed with his glasses. ‘Look at this. Half a million shifts old, these were, and absolutely irreplaceable. Of course, they never worked—’ He looked up vaguely. ‘Isn’t it obvious what’s happening?’ he snapped with something of his former vigour. ‘Revolution. The frustration, the hunger, the privations - they’re lashing out at what they can reach. And that’s us. It’s so damn stupid—’

  Unexpected anger flared in Rees. ‘I’ll tell you what’s stupid. You people keeping the rest of the Raft - and my own people on the Belt - in ignorance and hunger. That’s what’s stupid . . .’

  Hollerbach’s eyes in their pools of wrinkles looked enormously tired. ‘Well, you may be right, lad; but there’s nothing I can do about it now, and there never was. My job was to keep the Raft intact. And who’s going to do that in the future, eh?’

  ‘Mine rat.’ The voice behind him was breathless, almost cracked with exhilaration. Rees whirled. Gover’s face was flushed, his eyes alive. He had torn the braids from his shoulders and his arms were bloodstained to the elbows. Behind him a dozen or more young men approached; as they studied the Officers’ homes their faces were narrow with hunger.

  Rees found his fists bunching - and deliberately uncurled them. Keeping his voice level he said, ‘I should have turned you in while I had the opportunity. What do you want, Gover?’

  ‘Last chance, rat,’ Gover said softly. ‘Come with us now, or take what we dish out to these vicious old farts. One chance.’

  The stares of Gover and Hollerbach were almost palpable pressures: the stink of smoke, the noise, the bloodied corpse on the deck, all seemed to converge in his awareness, and he felt as if he were bearing on his back the weight of the Raft and all its occupants.

  Gover waited.

  7

  The rotation of the tethered tree was peaceful, soothing. Pallis sat by the warm trunk of the tree, chewing slowly on his flight rations. A head and shoulders thrust their way through the mat of foliage. It was a young man; his hair was filthy and tangled and sweat plastered a straggling beard to his throat. He looked about uncertainly.

  Pallis said softly: ‘I take it you’ve a good reason for disturbing my tree, lad. What are you doing here?’

  The visitor pulled himself through the leaves. Pallis noticed how the boy’s coverall bore the scars of recently removed braids. Shame, Pallis reflected, that the coverall itself hadn’t been removed - and washed - with equal vigour.

  ‘Regards to you, tree-pilot. My name’s Boon, of the Brotherhood of the Infrastructure. The Committee instructed me to find you—’

  ‘I don’t care if Boney Joe himself shoved a fibula up your arse to help you on your way,’ Pallis said evenly. ‘I’ll ask you again. What are you doing in my tree?’

  Boon’s grin faded. ‘The Committee want to see you,’ he said, his voice faint. ‘Come to the Platform. Now.’

  Pallis cut a slice of meat-sim. ‘I don’t want anything to do with your damn Committee, boy.’

  Boon scratched uncertainly at his armpit. ‘But you have to. The Committee . . . it’s an order—’ ‘All right, lad, you’ve delivered your message,’ Pallis snapped. ‘Now get out of my tree.’ ‘Can I tell them you’ll come?’

  For reply Pallis ran a fingertip along the blade of his knife. Boon ducked back through the foliage.

  Pallis buried the tip of the knife in trunk wood, wiped his hands on a dry leaf and pulled himself to the rim of the tree. He lay face-down among the fragrance of the leaves, allowing the tree’s stately rotation to sweep his gaze across the Raft.

  Under its canopy of forest the deck had become a darker place: threads of smoke still rose from the ruins of buildings, and Pallis noticed dark stretches in the great cable-walled avenues. That was new; so they were smashing up the globe lamps now. How would it feel to smash the very last one? he wondered. To extinguish the last scrap of ancient light - how would it feel to grow old, knowing that it was your hands that had done such a thing?

  At the revolution’s violent eruption Pallis had simply retreated to his trees. With a supply of water and food he had hoped to rest here among his beloved branches, distanced from the pain and anger washing across the Raft. He had even considered casting off, simply flying away alone. The Bones knew he owed no loyalty to either side in this absurd battle.

  But, he mused, he was still a human. As were the running figures on the Raft - even the self-appointed Committee - and those lost souls in the Belt. And, when all this was over, someone would have to carry food and iron for them once more.

  So he had waited above the revolt, hoping it would leave him be . . .

  But now his interlude was over.

  He sighed. So, Pallis, you can hide from their damn revolution, but it looks as if it isn’t going to hide from you.

  He had to go, of course. If not they’d come for him with their bottles of burning oil . . .

  He took a deep draught of water, tucked his knife in his belt and slid smoothly through the foliage.

  He made his way to an avenue and set off towards the Rim. The avenue was deserted.

  Shivering, he found himself listening for echoes of the crowds who had thronged along here not many shifts ago. But the silence of the wide thoroughfare was deep, eerie. The predominant smell was of burnt wood, overlaid with a meat-like stickiness; he turned up his face to the calm canopy of forest, nostrils seeking the soft wood-scented breeze from the branches.

  As he had suspected a good fraction of the globe lamps hung in imploded fragments from their cables, dooming the avenue to half-light. The Raft had become a place of moody darkness, the blanket of shadows lifting here and there to reveal glimpses of this fine new world. He saw a small child licking at the remains of a long-empty food pallet. He made out a shape hanging from rope tied to the tree cables; a pool of something brown and thick had dried on the deck beneath it—

  Pallis felt the food churn in his stomach. He hurried on.

  A group of young men came marching from the direction of the Platform, braids ostentatiously torn from their shoulders. Their eyes were wide with joy; Pallis, despite his muscles, stood aside as they passed.

  At length he reached the edge of the cable thicket and - with some relief - emerged to open sky. He made his way up the apparent slope to the Rim and at last climbed the broad, shallow stairs to the Platform. Incongruous memories tugged at him. He hadn’t been here since his Thousandth Shift dance. He remembered the glittering costumes, the laughter, the drink, his own big-boned awkwardness . . .

  Well, he wouldn’t find a party here today.

  At the head of the stairs two men blocked the way. They were about Pallis’s size but somewhat younger; dim hostility creased their features.

  ‘I’m Pallis,’ he said. ‘Woodsman. I’m here to see the Committee.’

  They studied him suspiciously.

  Pallis sighed. ‘And if you two boneheads will get out of the way I can do what I came for.’

  The shorter of the two - a square, bald man - took a step up to him. Pallis saw he was carrying a club of wood. ‘Listen—’

  Pallis smiled, letting his muscles bunch under his shirt.

  The taller doorman said, ‘Leave it, Seel. He’s expected.’

  Seel scowled; then he hissed: ‘Later, funny man.’


  Pallis let his smile broaden. ‘My pleasure.’

  He pushed past the doormen and down to the body of the Platform, wondering at his own actions. Now, what had been the point of antagonizing those two? Was violence, the pounding of fist into bone, so attractive a release?

  A fine response to these unstable times, Pallis.

  He walked slowly towards the centre of the Platform. The place was barely recognizable from former times. Food cartons lay strewn about the deck, no more than half emptied; at the sight of the spoiling stuff Pallis remembered with a flash of anger the starving child not a quarter of a mile from here.

  Trestle tables studded the Platform. They bore trophies of various kinds - photographs, uniforms, lengths of gold braid, a device called an orrery Pallis remembered seeing in Hollerbach’s office - but also books, charts, listings and heaps of paper. It was clear that such government as still existed on the Raft was based here.

  Pallis grinned sourly. It had been a great symbolic gesture, no doubt, to remove control from the corrupt centre of the Raft and take it out to this spectacular vantage spot . . . But what if it rained on all this paperwork?

  However, no one seemed too concerned about such practicalities at the moment, or indeed about the machineries of government in general. Save for a group of subdued, grubby Scientists huddled together at the centre of the deck, the Platform’s population was clustered in a tight knot at the Nebula-facing wall. Pallis approached slowly. The Raft’s new rulers, mostly young men, laughed and passed bottles of liquor from hand to hand, gaping at some attraction close to the wall.

  ‘Hello, tree-pilot.’ The voice was insolent and unpleasantly familiar. Pallis turned. Gover stood facing him, hands on hips, a grin on his thin face.

  ‘Gover. Well, surprise, surprise. I should have expected you here. You know what they say, eh?’

  Gover’s smile faded.

  ‘Stir a barrel of shit: what rises to the top?’

  Gover’s lower lip trembled. ‘You should watch it, Pallis. Things have changed on this Raft.’

  Pallis inquired pleasantly: ‘Are you threatening me, Gover?’