by Ian Whates
Restless, about 2 a.m. I move my blankets up to Dry Storeroom Number Three. With a full moon outside I watch the forest slide by, leaves glistening from a recent downpour. Then I see the forest floor hump up. It’s an antibody surge. The wave moves quickly along, rumpling the seedlings, rocks and fallen logs in its path, until it passes from sight. This is twice in one day I’ve seen Greme on the hunt. I’m not sure this is a good sign, but I’m not afraid. You can spend your whole life being afraid, and end up missing it all.
AT THE SECOND Seating for lunch, Captain Harliss announces that the rendezvous with Deepspire will happen the day after tomorrow. Branish coos with delight, leading a round of applause. My despair chest is brought in as a surprise, and everyone has another little gift to shove in its maw.
I respond with stony silence.
Branish elbows me, whispering, “Be gracious, Sarkila. People gave things they couldn’t afford.”
“Thank you,” I manage to say to the lunch crowd. “I know how much your sacrifices have cost you.” Everyone thinks this is a touching thing to have said. Clapping ensues. Captain Harliss nods at me, but less friendly than he’s been lately. Maybe he thinks I’m going to try a prank at the last minute, something that will embarrass him.
But I’m starting to think: What if I like Jonn? What if he’s being forced into this too, and worries as much as I do? I’ve been watching the monitor at Crow’s station every night until late, but he hasn’t dared radio me again.
After lunch, Harliss comes up to me and Branish. He looks down at me with suspicion. Maybe he’s wondering where my old fight is. Then he says, “I hope you’re not nervous about crossing over. The tube has never broken.”
“Maybe someone big and brave should test it, first,” I say, holding his gaze.
“Sarkila!” Branish gasps. But I’m having fun imagining Harliss crawling through the tube, and then the whole thing sagging under his weight until it breaks and blurps him onto the forest floor. Cue the phage bags.
A frown cuts into the captain’s broad forehead. I walk away, satisfied that I have lived up to – what does Branish call it? – my snotty reputation.
WHO AM I trying to fool? I’m terrified.
Deepspire will intersect our path tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. Branish and her friend Penley have made a white dress for me with lace at the throat and gauzy bunting caught up with bows. It’s lying right now on my despair chest like a dead body. To avoid open warfare, I’ve told Branish I’ll wear it, but of course it’s too grotesque to even consider.
This afternoon when Crow and others from the science deck are at Third Seating, I send a message from the computer, using the frequency from the first message: What are you like? I don’t even care if the techs on Deepspire intercept it.
Meanwhile I brood. How did Jonn know I was at the station that night he asked for my picture? Come to think of it, that was the night that Crow invited me to sleep here.
Crow.
He planned for me to have a message. My heart crimps a little as I think about how sweet this was. Crow is a little crazy, but what he did, that was really nice. He wasn’t always so odd. Before the hard times, we used to have fun working on science projects, and he seemed almost happy. He was headed to become science deck chief, and we were going to launch some new inquiries into Greme antibody responses. He hasn’t weathered the downturn very well. And he still had time to worry about me. I’m humbled.
A ping. I watch the few techs left at their science stations and shuffle closer to the screen so no one will see.
I won the marathon spiral stair climb. We better not talk. See you tomorrow, Sark.
He knows my name! That settles it. Crow has been talking to Jonn.
At a sound behind me, I turn. Crow stands there. He reaches past me and looks at the screen, nodding. Then he turns the screen off. “Storeroom three,” he murmurs. “Ten minutes.”
We meet as the sun is setting, and the storeroom has only a murky light from the window. “Thanks...” I begin, but Crow cuts me off.
“We can’t be seen together.” He takes my elbow and steers me behind some crates. “There isn’t much time. If Andergeesen reports us, it’s all over.”
My spirits spike with hope. “Have you figured out a way to get me out of this?”
Crow looks at me sideways, kind of like, well, a crow. “Yes and no. No, because you need to go with Jonn. That’s a given. I hope you like him better?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “But yes, you don’t have to go to Deepspire.”
“Jonn is coming here?” The thought is wildly exciting. I could stay with Crow, get my own cabin, stay in the spire I know so well...
“No. You’re going to Littlespire. Jonn’s already agreed. It can hold two right now.”
“But Littlespire’s dead!”
Crow looks toward the door that he can see through a crack between the crates. “I’ve been feeding it.”
I’m just trying to keep up with all this. The charges that wouldn’t work! Crow made it look like a malfunction. And feeding it. He must have been falsifying the outputs for months, diverting nutrients to Littlespire. I look at him in amazement. That was quite a show he put on at the ejection ceremony. My heart is jumping up and down in my chest. But how can I live on Littlespire? And they won’t let us! Harliss will be in a rage. It’s impossible. Besides, from the windows it looked all blistered and soggy. I say as much.
Crow smirks. He engineered a droopy look to the outside. “Sark,” he whispers, “look at me.”
I do, and the crazed, confused face that I’ve grown used to is totally different. Crow is paying attention, steady and confident. Has this been the real Crow all along?
He’s speaking fast and low. “We don’t have a future in Greme. The forest is getting smarter. It’s started an accelerated decomposition process on the deadfall. That’s why our extraction rates have been going down. Of course we’re dependent on what falls to the forest floor, since we can’t harvest the living Greme. But there’s not enough to sustain us, not anymore.” He lets this statement sink in. I realize the horrible truth: we’re not just suffering hard days. We’re at the end of days.
“Time to leave, Sark.”
“But to go where?”
A genuine grimace. “I don’t know. That’s for you to decide.”
“But I don’t know anything about it! I don’t know what’s out there!”
“Nobody does. But you’ll have Littlespire. You can look. Jonn’s got some ideas.”
“The grasslands?”
“No. Remember what I told you about grass.”
It communicates underground. “Crow,” I say, my voice rising, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
He puts a gentle hand over my mouth. “I know you don’t know. But let me ask you one question.” The hand comes down, as he sees I’m settling. “Are you afraid? Does the idea of taking off in Littlespire with a young man who’s as disgusted with spire life as you are, does this excite you or scare you? Answer truthfully.”
I lick my lips, trying to think.
“Don’t think. Just tell me the first answer that comes to mind.”
“I’m not afraid.”
I realize that I haven’t seen Crow smile in months. It helps a little.
“See,” he says, “everyone is afraid. We’re running around the forest two steps ahead of the phage bags. We’re even afraid to learn about the forest. You want to live this way?” From where we’re crouching he can just see the window, and he gazes through it as though he sees something out there besides the shadows of passing trees.
His voice goes dreamy. “I see Littlespire crossing the Long River. It’s only ten miles west of here. On the other side is grass, miles and miles of grassland. I see you skimming across the prairie, Sark. To the mountains.”
“What if the mountains are poison, too?”
“Might be. Then you go south to the great desert. There wasn’t much green there for the virus to feed on, and people used to live near t
he rivers. I’ve been arguing this with Harliss for years. He prefers the enemy he knows. I think he enjoys playing hide and seek with Greme. It’s a game at his level.” He holds my gaze.
But not at my level. Mine and Jonn’s. I nod. We don’t have much time, and there’s still so much to figure out.
Crow is ready with a plan. “When we meet Deepspire tomorrow, Jonn will be invited on an inspection of Highspire. While he’s touring, you’ll be in here, putting on your bridal dress.” He nails me with a look and I don’t dare react. “Then you’ll meet him in front of the science deck door. I’ll arrange for everyone to be outside, leaving you two a chance to be alone for the first time. Very romantic. Then we lock the door and you two enter Littlespire. I blow the tubes, and off you go.”
I ask how we’ll do this. My voice is mouse-small, because by now I know that Crow has it all planned down to a twig.
“Jonn can drive the spire.”
I say the obvious. “Harliss will kill you.” Metaphorically speaking.
He shrugs. By the look on his face, I’m sure he’ll enjoy this no matter what the cost.
He stands up. “Yes or no?”
I think about meeting Jonn and crossing the prairies. My great dream has been to step outside into Greme. But when one dream isn’t possible, you find another.
“Yes,” I answer.
Crow nods once and slips out of the room. I intend to follow in a few minutes, but I’m numb with shock and a queasy joy. Also, I’m worried about leaving Crow behind. My whole future is in front of me, and all I can think of is, I wish Crow were coming with me.
I DECIDE TO stay up all night and work out the details. What shall I bring? Shall I leave a note behind thanking people for all they haven’t done for me?
At the science deck window, I take one last peek at brave Littlespire. Not as sleek and lovely as Highspire, but even if it’s a little warty, it’s young, and if we find enough bio-matter, it will grow and change.
Then I gaze at the blank space on the wall where Crow has explosive bolts to break through a door. That ought to keep people busy enough patching like crazy as Jonn and I make our getaway.
THE DAY THAT Highspire and Deepspire are to meet is declared a holiday. I’ve been given a bunch of letters to deliver to remote relatives. I’m surprisingly gracious about all this, thanking everyone and acting a little spacey as brides are expected to. I can’t overplay this, though. Goose is watching me with a pinched gaze.
The dress is in Dry Storeroom Number Three; I’ve said goodbye to my mother a dozen times, and she is crying enough for both of us so I guess I don’t need to.
I’ve graciously accepted Penley’s offer to help me dress. As we discuss whether I will wear gray shoes or white, a horrid scream echoes through the dining deck. Varna Farspire is screaming as she presses her hands against Highspire’s largest window. We all rush over.
At first I can’t even fathom what I’m looking at. There is a jumble of rocks scattered below, lying aslant on a steep hill. But it’s not rocks, it’s an enormous spire. Fallen, broken. Impossibly, it’s lying on the hillside, a giant, horrifying body of a spire.
Great clanging sirens go off, and Captain Harliss is shouting over the loudspeakers for us to go to stations, but none of us can move.
“It’s not...” I whisper. “It’s not Deepspire.” It just can’t be Deepspire.
“Oh, God, where are the survivors?” Penley gasps.
“There!” someone shouts triumphantly as people in the wreck force open a window.
My stomach convulses as I see that it’s not a person at all. It’s a phage bag. Big and bloated, it can barely squeeze through. Another one is right behind it.
That’s when we realize that Deepspire has been down for a while.
“Stations, stations,” the captain keeps shouting, and finally people are rushing away, leaving me alone at the window.
Jonn, I whisper. Jonn.
Several huge, ancient hemlocks block our view of the crash. Highspire rocks alarmingly as the captain attempts to stay close while navigating the gullies and steep slope. Far below a river froths, looking like the crack to hell. I am in hell already.
I rush away and climb the spiral staircase, one just like Jonn must have won his marathon on, and reach the very top, the Nav Deck. Here it’s a storm of shouting, with inputs coming in on the screens, and Captain Harliss swearing and shouting coordinates to the pilot. I ignore this and move to the circular window wrapping the room.
There must be survivors. We were in contact only a day ago. But no one is stirring around the dead spire. How would we even effect a rescue if we found someone alive?
Then, far down the slope, I see a woman sliding and stumbling down the hillside. Behind her, a burly man picking his way down toward the river on a separate trajectory. He stops, bent over, coughing as though the forest is already defending against him.
And behind both of them, an antibody surge, rolling downward. It had been leaning against Deepspire, and I’d thought it was solid ground, but now it’s moving down the hill. Others on the bridge have already seen this and we rise higher as Captain Harliss moves Highspire out of clumping distance. The surges normally stay on the ground, but they can theoretically mass up into peaks.
Noticing me, Harliss barks at someone to get me out of here, but I don’t need prompting. I flee the scene, my thoughts like shattered ice.
I am on the spiral staircase, heading down. What is my station? What do you do when your plans topple down like a massive tree in the forest? Someone rushes past me carrying a self-contained breathing apparatus and bio suit. I squeeze off to the side, wishing that the walls would absorb me, the forest would take me. By the time I wander onto the science deck, I am nearly blind with tears.
Everyone is on the starboard side, staring out the windows, but Crow is sitting at his console. He swivels around to face me, his hair looking matted and wild, but his expression calm.
“It’s figured out the web path lines,” he says. “We’ve been getting emergency calls from all over. It was a coordinated attack.”
“Other spires are down?”
He nods blackly. Then the most horrifying statement of all: “We’ve all been breaking the rules about communication. Little snippets here and there, from all of us, between all of us. For seven hundred years, Greme has been charting our paths.”
I contributed to this. What are you like? I asked my would-be lover. I am sick at myself.
Crow stares at the computer screen. “I think it was counting on getting us, too. At the rendezvous.”
I move to the window, but I can’t see the fallen spire from here. I whisper, “Why does it hate us so much?”
“Sark. That’s unscientific. It doesn’t hate us, it’s just developing more efficient defenses.”
“We haven’t hurt it for hundreds of years, can’t it ever forgive?”
Crow sighs. “It sees us calving new spires. We were dominant once. Maybe it’s taking the long view.”
Then I see him. A young man racing up the hill. A good, strong runner. Dark hair. Jonn.
THE NEXT MINUTES will change my life forever. I am scared to death and pumped so full of adrenaline, I think my touch is electrified.
Nevertheless, I manage to reach Dry Storeroom Number Three to count to a hundred. Then, I rush down to the science deck and throw open the cabin door.
I shout breathlessly: “The captain is calling an all-hands meeting on the dining deck. Everybody out! Everybody!” I start waving furiously and people make for the door, everybody except Goose who is starting to make a call on his headset. I need to prevent this.
I rush up to him. “Captain Harliss needs you on the flight deck, right now!” I yank his headset off and push him toward the door. “He needs you, Goose. Run!” He is skeptical, but finally the notion that the captain specifically needs him, exerts its appeal. He moves through the door.
Crow pounces. Standing in the doorway facing Goose, he says, “Sucker.” T
hen he slams the door, locking it.
Dashing back to the console, he blows a line of charges at the nutrient station, and the wall shudders and sags. Then, standing on the instrument panel, we are both pulling away the broken pieces, furiously yanking them and throwing them down. Behind the wall, Littlespire’s door is revealed. There’s a thing nagging at me, but I’m so frantic, I can’t pinpoint it.
Crow, standing on the console, reaches through the hole. “Say a prayer, Sark.”
Um, I don’t know a prayer. But it’s just an expression, I realize, as Crow turns the wheel and it gives, moving counter-clockwise. The door in Littlespire’s hull swings wide into the gap left in Highspire’s wall.
We clamber through. Crow will drive the spire, and my job is to throw the rope to Jonn. It’s tied to the beginnings of the spiral staircase.
I don’t have time for more than a glimpse of Littlespire: yellowish walls, exposed circuitry, a wrap-around window. Crow has carried in his mobile computer and is jacking it in. He says, with amazing calm, “Shut the door, Sark.”
Reaching out for the handhold, I slam the door with such force the spire rocks. I spin the inside wheel, locking it.
The charges go off – little puffs like a distant landslide. Simultaneously Littlespire’s small grav annihilators kick in.
We are floating free.
The spire is just a flight deck right now. Down the spiral staircase, I can see a shadowy cave, the beginnings of crew quarters. But I have to focus on my next job: spotting Jonn on the hillside. Crow is intent on the ship systems, none of which have been tested other than virtually.
“There he is!” I exclaim. “Port side, up the hill.” Jonn is still climbing fast, scrambling over logs and darting around boulders. That’s when the thing that’s been nagging at me comes clear. There’s only room for two.
Littlespire starts to move, a thrilling sensation. We are under power.
