‘I see. There is nothing out there but dark matter,’ Uvarov growled quietly. ‘Nothing but the photino birds, and their even more exotic cousins - and whatever they’ve chosen to build, here at the heart of their dark empire, far from any baryonic structure.’
Uvarov wheeled to face Louise, his scooters spurting puffs of reaction gas. ‘If it exists, will the string have any effect on the photino birds?’
‘Possibly,’ Mark said. ‘Strings are gravitational defects. Dark matter is influenced by gravity . . .’
Uvarov nodded. ‘So perhaps the string is here to do damage to the photino birds. Is that possible? Perhaps the string has been moved here deliberately.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that, but I guess it’s possible.’ Mark peered up into the dome, his eerie, disembodied head looking bizarre. ‘Yes. If someone is waging war on the photino birds, then maybe they are using lengths of cosmic string as weapons. Think of that. And more: who in this Universe is capable of such an act, but the Xeelee themselves?
‘Lethe - fighting wars with bits of cosmic string. How have they the audacity to even imagine such weapons?’
Louise looked up into the dome’s sketchy, gaudy rendering of the Universe. Suddenly these scraps of data seemed pathetic, their understanding hopelessly limited. Were the final wars for the destiny of the Universe being played out between Xeelee and photino birds, somewhere in this huge void, even now, as she stared up in her blindness and ignorance?
‘Keep gathering your data, Mark,’ she said. ‘In another few days we’ll be out of this damn void.’
‘We’re like rats, crossing the rim of some huge war zone,’ Mark said, his huge face expressionless. ‘We can barely comprehend the visions around us. And we’re heading for the final battlefield . . .’
Suspended between Decks, in the middle of a cloud of floating chickens, Mark and Lieserl made love.
Afterwards, Lieserl rested her head against Mark’s bare chest. His skin, under her cheek, was rough, covered in short, tight-curled dark hairs, and slick with sweat - in fact she could taste the sweat, smell its salty tang. She felt a pleasant, moist ache in her thighs.
‘I still feel breathless. Maybe I’m too old for this,’ she said.
Mark nuzzled her hair. ‘Then make yourself younger.’
‘No.’ She pressed her face against his chest. ‘No, I don’t want to change anything. Let’s keep it just the same, Mark; let’s keep it real.’
‘Sure.’
She was silent for a moment. Then, despite herself, she added, ‘And it is bloody real, you know. A magnificent illusion.’
She felt him smile.
‘I told you. I’ve put a lot of time into getting it right,’ he said. ‘This and coffee.’
She laughed, and pulled herself away; her skin parted from his with a soft, moist sucking sound. ‘I wonder if anyone was watching us.’
Mark stretched; the chickens, fluttering and clucking, swam clumsily through the air away from his arms. He glanced around. ‘I don’t see anyone. If there was, do you care?’
‘Of course not. It might have done them good, in fact. Shaken them up a bit more.’
Lieserl rolled in the air, reached behind her back and began to straighten her hair. The Decks wheeled slowly around her, an immense box of green-furred walls. After the surrender of the Temples, the coming of zero-gee had, slowly, made inroads into the life of the people - the Undermen, as Spinner-of-Rope still called them - who lived here between the Decks. The most noticeable was the cultivation of all of the available surfaces of the Decks; now, the walls and ceilings were coated with meadows, patches of forests, fields of wheat and other crops. The trees grew a little haphazardly, of course, but they were being trained to emerge straight. And, without the pressure of walking feet, the grass in the parks and other areas was beginning to look a little wild.
A huddle of people had gathered under what had been the roof of Deck Two - the underside of Deck One. Mark - or rather a second projection of him - was taking the hesitant, young-old people through a literacy and Virtual usage programme. And elsewhere, Lieserl knew, the infrastructure of the Decks was being upgraded to remove the Decks’ enforced reliance on pictograms.
These initiatives gladdened Lieserl. She remembered the world of her brief childhood, drenched in Sunlight and data and Virtuals and sentience: perhaps the most information rich environment in human history. The contrast with the stunted, data-starved environment of the Decks was poignant.
In one spot, close to the surface, she saw Milpitas and Morrow, toiling together. The two old men were constructing a sphere of water, bound together in a frame of wood and reeds: a zero-gee water garden, Morrow had called it. Lieserl remembered his smile. ‘All part of Milpitas’ therapy,’ he’d said.
The whole environment made for a charming prospect: the Decks had evolved away from the bleak, iron-walled prison they’d been under the Planners during the long flight, and turned into a green-lined sylvan fantasy. There were trees growing at you out of the sky, for Life’s sake. And some inspired soul had liberated boxes of wild flower seeds from the Northern’s long-term stores; now the inverted meadows were, more often than not, peppered with bluebells.
The old floors were still coated with the old, boxy homes and factories, of course. But many of the homes had been abandoned; they sat squat on the surface like empty shells. Instead, new homes had been established in the air: rangy, open dwellings, loosely anchored to whichever surface was nearest, or fixed on thin, impossibly fragile spindles.
She held Mark’s hand and drifted through the chicken cloud, drinking in the fowls’ childhood, farmyard smell ( . . . or at least a Virtual, cleaned-up version of it). ‘You know,’ she said, ‘maybe zero-gee was the best thing that could have happened to this society. Slowly the Decks are turning into a decent place to live.’
Mark grunted. ‘But it’s taken a long time. And sometimes I think this is all a little unreal.’
‘What is?’
He waved a hand. ‘The strange, aerial society that’s been established here. I mean, beyond these walls of grass there is nothing - nothing but an intergalactic desert, across which we’re fleeing in search of protection from an alien species with whom man has been at war for megayears . . .’
Across the Universe we flee, Lieserl thought, with chicken eggs and bluebells . . .
‘Maybe that’s true,’ she said. ‘But so what? Is it a bad thing? What can the people here do, but live their lives and maintain the lifedome’s infrastructure? An awareness of what’s outside - of the Universe as megayear celestial battlefield, across which we’re fleeing - is like a morbid, paralysing awareness of death, it seems to me. Mark, we’re bystanders in the middle of a war. I suspect the last thing any of us needs is a sense of perspective.’
He grinned, and laid his hands on her bare hips. His eyes were alive, vibrant blue, within his coffee-dark face. ‘You’re probably right.’ He pulled her to him, and she could feel the firmness of a new erection against her own pad of pubic hair. ‘What can any of us do, but follow our instincts?’
She felt a small, contained part of herself open up in his warmth. Sex - even this Virtual reconstruction of it - was wonderful, and, remotely, she was reminded once more of how much had been kept from her during her brief, engineered life. She’d gained five million years of sentience, but had been deprived of her ancient, human heritage.
She lifted her arms and wrapped them around Mark’s neck. ‘You should be careful with me,’ she said. ‘I’m an old lady, you know . . .’
He bent his head to hers and kissed her; she ran her tongue over the sharpness of his teeth.
Around them, the chickens rustled softly, detached feathers drifting through the air like snow.
26
It was a good day for Spinner-of-Rope.
She found a large hive high in a tree. The bees buzzed in alarm as she approached, but she circled the trunk warily, keeping away from their vicious stings. She set a small fire in a
notch in the bark a little below the fat, lumpy form of the hive, and piled the flames high with moist leaves; she let the thick smoke waft up and over the hive. The bees, disoriented and alarmed, came flooding out into the smoke and scattered harmlessly.
Spinner, whooping in triumph, clambered back to the abandoned hive, broke it open with her axe of Underman metal, and dug out huge handfuls of comb, dripping with thick honey. She feasted on the rich, golden stuff, cramming it into her mouth; the honey smeared over her face and splashed her round spectacles. There would be more than enough to fill the two leather sacks she carried at her waist.
. . . Then, sitting on her branch, eating the honey, she found herself shivering. She frowned. Why should she be cold? It wasn’t even noon yet.
She dismissed the odd sensation.
In a nearby tree, a hundred yards from Spinner, a man sat. He wore a battered coverall, and his face looked tired, lined, under a thatch of grey hair. He was eating too: a fruit, a yam, perhaps. He smiled and waved at her.
He was a friend. She waved back.
She rinsed her face in a puddle of water inside a fat bromeliad, and climbed down to the ground.
She ran lightly across the level, leaf-coated floor of the forest. Arrow Maker would be tending his bamboo clumps, she knew; there were only a few groves of the species which provided the six-feet-long straight stems Arrow Maker needed to manufacture his blowpipes, and Maker cultivated the clumps with loving care, guarding them jealously from his rivals. Spinner would run up to him and show him the honey treat she’d found, and then—
Spinner-of-Rope. I know you’re awake.
. . . and then . . .
Come on, Spinner, talk to me.
Spinner slowed to a halt.
With regret she glanced down once more at the honey she would not be able to enjoy, and issued a soft, subvocal command.
Out of the air, the environment suit congealed over her limbs like some web made of silvery cloth, and the bulky couch materialized around her body. Like a skull poking through decaying flesh, the darkness of space, the harsh telltale lights of her waldoes, emerged through the forest dream.
‘Spinner-of-Rope. Spinner.’
Her heart beat as rapidly as a bird’s. ‘Yes, Louise.’
‘I’m sorry I had to dig you out of your Virtual like that. You, ah, you didn’t want to come back to us, I don’t think.’
Spinner grunted as the suit went into its daily sonic bath routine. ‘Well, can you blame me for wanting to escape?’ She let the bleakness outside the cage flood into her mind. How wonderful it had been to be ten years old again, to have no greater horizon than a day’s frog-hunting with her father! But she wasn’t ten years old; more than five decades had worn away since those honey-hunting days, and since then immense responsibilities had descended on her. The renewed awareness of who she was settled over her like a tangible weight: a weight she’d been carrying around for all this time - but which she’d forgotten to notice.
She shivered again - and became suddenly, sharply suspicious. She hissed out brief subvocal commands and called up a display of her environment suit air temperature. It was around eighteen degrees Celsius. Not exactly ice-cold, but still noticeably cool. She called up a faceplate-graphic of how her suit temperature had varied over the last few days.
The coldness she’d felt in her dream had been real. The suit temperature had been changed. For more than a week it had been maintained at twenty-five degrees - fully seven degrees warmer than today.
‘Louise,’ she said sternly.
She heard Louise sigh. ‘I’m here, Spinner-of-Rope.’
‘What in Lethe is going on? What have you been trying to do, cook me to death?’
‘No, Spinner. Look, we’ve come to understand - a bit belatedly, maybe - how hard this trip is for you. I wish, now, we’d found some other solution: someone else to relieve you, perhaps. But it’s too late for that. We’ve got ourselves into a situation in which we’re very dependent on you, and your continued good functioning out in that cage, Spinner.’
‘And the heat?’
‘Heat acts as a mild sedative, Spinner-of-Rope. As long as your fluid balance isn’t affected - and we’re monitoring that - it’s quite harmless. I thought it was a good solution to the problem . . .’
Spinner rubbed her cheek against the lining of her helmet. ‘Right. So you were sedating me, without my consent. Louise Ye Armonk, engineer of human bodies and souls . . .’
‘I guess I should have discussed it with you.’
‘Yes, I guess you should,’ Spinner said heavily. ‘And now?’
Louise hesitated. ‘It was becoming harder and harder to dig you out of your fantasies, Spinner. I was afraid we might lose you altogether . . . lose you to a dream of the forest.’
A dream of the forest.
With a sigh she straightened her posture in her couch. ‘Don’t worry, Louise. I won’t let you down.’
‘I know you won’t, Spinner.’ Louise sounded nervous, excited - uncharacteristically so. ‘Spinner-of-Rope . . . it’s the fifty-first day. Look around you.’
Spinner loosened her restraints; she glared around at her surroundings, at first seeing only emptiness. Irritated, she snapped out subvocals, and the faceplate began to enhance her naked-eye images.
‘Spinner, we’ve travelled a hundred and fifty million light-years. We’re reaching the end of the programmed hyperdrive jumps . . .
‘It’s nearly over, Spinner-of-Rope. We’re almost there.’
As the faceplate worked, dim forms emerged - the moth-like forms of galaxies, far away, all around her. She saw spirals, ellipticals, gigantic irregulars: huge clusters of galaxies in their characteristic threads and sheets, the whole vision looking impossibly fragile.
But there was something odd about the pale images.
‘We’ve arrived, Spinner-of-Rope,’ Louise said. ‘We are at the centre of things.’
Blue shift, Spinner-of-Rope. Blue shift, everywhere . . . Can you see it?
Yes. The galaxies - all around her sky - were tinged blue, she realized now. Blue shift.
She had come, at last, to the place all the galaxies were falling into.
PART V
EVENT: RING
27
The nightfighter - with its fragile cargo of humans, and travelling thirty-five light-years with every hyperdrive jump - arced down towards the disc of the scarred galaxy. Spinner-of-Rope sat in her cage, letting the waldoes run through their program; in the corner of her eye, telltales winked reassuringly.
This galaxy was a broad spiral, with multiple arms tightly wrapped around a compact, glowing core. The star system was a pool of rust red, punctuated with the gleam of novae and supernovae: thus, she saw, the galaxy had not escaped depredation at the hands of the photino birds. And the gleaming disc was disfigured by one stunning feature: a huge gouge of a scar, a channel of dust and glowing star-stuff that cut right across the disc, from rim to core.
Now the nightfighter, flickering through hyperspace, neared the rim of the disc, close to the termination of the scar.
This might have been the original Galaxy of humans, Spinner thought, and she wondered if Louise Armonk was sitting under the skydome over the forest, peering out at this freight of stars. Maybe this nostalgic similarity was the reason Louise and the rest had chosen this particular galaxy, out of hundreds of thousands around the cavity, for a closer study.
Suddenly the plane of the disc loomed up at her - and the nightfighter slid neatly into the notch gouged out of the disc.
‘Good navigation, Louise,’ she said. ‘Right down the channel.’
‘Well, it wasn’t so hard to hit. The channel is over two thousand light-years wide, and as straight as one of your blowpipes. The channel was cut so recently that the galaxy’s rotation hasn’t had time to distort it too far - although, in another few hundred thousand years there will be barely a trace of this feature left . . .’
The ‘fighter plunged along the gouge, and t
he view was spectacular. Above her was the gaunt, galaxy-stained sky of the Attractor; below and around her was an open tunnel of stars, hurtling past her. Looking ahead, it seemed she could see all the way to the gleaming core of the galaxy. It was difficult to remember that this neat star-walled valley was no less than fifty thousand light-years long . . .
At thirty-five light-years a second, the ship would reach the core in under thirty minutes.
Now the ‘fighter dived into a bank of opaque dust - and then exploded out again, the stars gleaming crimson and gold in the walls of the galaxy-spanning tunnel.
Spinner punched her fist into her palm and whooped.
She heard Louise laugh. ‘You’re enjoying the ride, Spinner-of-Rope?’
There were voices behind Louise Armonk. ‘I see it.’ Excited, shouting. ‘I see it—’
I see it, too.
Spinner turned in her chair, the restraints riding up awkwardly across her chest. The voice had sounded as if it had come from her left.
It had been the voice of the man from her forest dreams, of course. She almost expected to see that slim, dark form, sitting out there beyond the cage: that sixty-year-old face, the hair of grey pepper-speckled with black, the vulnerable brown eyes . . .
Somehow, she felt he was coming closer to her. He was emerging.
But there was nobody there. She felt disappointed, wistful.
‘That was Morrow, butting in,’ Louise was saying. ‘I’m sorry, Spinner. Do you want me to patch you into the conversation? . . . Spinner? Did you hear me? I said—’
‘I heard you, Louise,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. Yes, patch me in, please.’
‘ . . . straight ahead of us, at the end of this gouge,’ Morrow was saying. ‘There . . . there . . . See?’
‘Spinner, I’ll download our visuals to you,’ Louise said.
Spinner’s faceplate image was abruptly overlaid with false colours: gaudy reds, yellows and blues, making detail easy to discriminate.
The glowing walls of the star valley dwindled into a dull mist at infinity. And at the end of the valley - almost at the vanishing point itself - there was a structure: a sculpture of thread, coloured false blue.
Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring Page 123
