Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring (111 page)

Deni was nowhere to be seen.

It seemed to take a lifetime to reach the open mouth of the ward. They bundled Bzya out into the Air, over the port’s splintered lip; Bzya rolled in the Air, helpless in his cocoon. Adda and Farr scrambled after him. Farr made to grab the head end of Bzya’s cocoon once more, but Adda stopped him. He hauled Bzya around lengthways, so that the Fisherman was almost lying across their laps. ‘We’ll take him like this,’ Adda said. ‘Get hold. We’ll both Wave backwards . . .’

Farr nodded, understanding quickly. He took handfuls of the cocoon, and soon he and Adda were kicking backwards in parallel through the Air, hauling the massive cocoon after them.

The City, looming huge over them, settled once more, this time with screeches from deep within its fabric. Adda imagined the huge Corestuff girders, the bones of the great carcass, twisting, failing one by one. Explosions of shattering wood erupted all over the Skin. Huge, rectilinear creases emerged over the wooden face, as if the Skin were starting to fold over on itself.

Adda kicked desperately at the thick Air, ignoring the numb ache of his legs, the pain of fingers which were turning into claws as they dragged at cocoon material. Vortex fragments continued to hail through the Air, rings and other fantastic forms sleeting past them.

Suddenly Bzya’s body twisted in the Air. The Fisherman’s heavy legs thumped into Adda’s chest, causing him to lose his grip. Adda heard the Fisherman groan from within his cocoon at this latest disruption.

Adda slithered to a halt and scrabbled at the slick, expensive material of the cocoon, trying to regain purchase.

Farr had stopped Waving. He’d simply come to a halt in the Air and had dropped the cocoon, and was staring back at the City.

‘By the blood of the Xeelee, boy . . .’

‘Look.’ Farr pointed back at the Hospital entrance. ‘I think it’s Deni.’

Adda rubbed dirt from his good eye and stared at the figures in the port. They were dwarfed by the huge wooden panorama of Skin all around them. Yes, it was Deni Maxx; the little doctor, all energy and competence, was working in the entrance to bring out still another patient.

There was a new sound from within the bulk of the City - a yielding sigh which slid rapidly to a higher pitch, almost as if in relief. Skin crumbled away in huge rafts of wood, revealing the Corestuff girder framework beneath. It looked like bones emerging through corrupt flesh. And, even as Adda watched, the girders, dully shining, were creasing, folding over.

Adda grabbed at the cocoon and kicked at the Air. His hands slid over the material and the inert bulk of Bzya barely stirred in the Air; but Adda clung to the material and tried again. In a moment Farr joined him, and soon the two of them were lunging backwards away from the City, their Waving ragged, spurting.

The face of the City - huge rents gaping - collapsed under its mask of anchor-bands and folded forward over them. The Corestuff structure showed no more resistance than if it had been constructed of soft pig-leather. Splinters of wood rained forward, bursting from the crumpling Skin.

Farr screamed: ‘Deni!’

Through the chaos of the crumpling face of the Hospital port, Adda could see the compact form of the doctor, still working. She looked up, briefly, at the collapsing Skin above her. Then she turned back to her patients.

The port of the Hospital ward closed like a mouth.

In the very last heartbeat Adda saw Deni raise her arm against the huge jaw of wood and Corestuff which closed over her, as if - at last - trying to save herself. Ragged edges of wood met like meshing teeth, bursting her body. A cloud of wood fragments and dust billowed from the crushed face of the City, obscuring the Hospital from Adda’s view.

Farr was screaming incoherently, but he was still Waving, dragging at Bzya’s cocoon.

‘Scream!’ Adda yelled over the crashing roar of the City. ‘Scream and cry all you want, damn you! But
don’t - stop - Waving
!’V

Hork pressed his face close to the surreally silent display. ‘It’s a jetfart,’ he said wonderingly. He laughed. ‘I can scarcely believe it. A jetfart, from the North Pole of a Star!’

Dura gripped the control levers, forcing her hands to remain clenched. The levers were warm, comfortable; they seemed to fit well in her palms. She felt as if she were trapped inside her head, an impotent observer of her own actions. She tried to imagine what must be happening inside the Mantle, if that map-globe really did represent the Star itself.

Hork Waved to the transparent wall, and stared at the tiny image of the battle. Eventually he turned to Dura and shouted, ‘I think that’s enough . . . You can let go.’

Dura stared at her hands. Her fingers wouldn’t open; she had to glare at her rebellious hands, consciously willing them to uncurl.

Released, the levers slid gently back to their rest positions.

The fount from the map-Star dwindled, thinning to a fine plume before dying completely; the map itself folded up and disappeared.

‘Is it over? We’re not aimed at the Ring any more?’

Hork Waved back across the huge chamber. He turned the chair’s arrow device this way and that, alternately studying the starbow and the field of stars, trying to judge the changes Dura had made.

Dura settled back in the chair, watching starfields explode silently across the sky.

‘We haven’t turned the Star around, if that’s what you mean,’ Hork said. ‘But we’ve turned it aside. I think so, anyway . . . The Ring has moved away from the centre of that wall.’ He pointed. ‘We’re still heading for the battlefield but we’ve deflected the Star; we’re going to miss the Ring.’

She frowned, her feeling of distance, of unimportance, lingering. ‘Will that be enough, do you think?’

‘To stop the Xeelee destroying us?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Dura. But we’ve done all we can.’

Dura looked at Hork, seeing a match in his broad face for her own sense of bewilderment, of anticlimax.

Hork held out his hand. ‘Come. We need to rest, I think, after such epic deeds. Let’s return to our wooden ship. We’ll eat, and try to relax.’

She allowed him to pull her out of the chair. Hand in hand, they Waved back to the inner tetrahedron.

As they entered it, Dura made her way towards the open hatchway of the ‘Pig’; but Hork held her arm. ‘Dura. Wait; look at this.’

She turned. He was pointing to the map on the inner wall of the tetrahedron - the map-Star, the wormhole diagram they had studied earlier. One of the wormhole routes - a path which snaked from the Core of the Star to its Crust, at the North Pole - was flashing, slowly and deliberately.

Hork nodded slowly. ‘I think I understand. This is how the Star-fount was made.’ He traced the wormhole with a fingertip. ‘See? When you hauled on your levers, Dura, this wormhole must have opened up. It took matter from the heart of the Star and transported it to the Crust. The Core material must have exploded at once in the lower pressure, releasing immense energy.

Dura felt odd; she seemed to see Hork as if at the far end of a long, dark corridor.

‘At the North Pole there must be huge engines to exploit this energy - the
discontinuity drive engines
Karen Macrae spoke of, which propel the Star itself.’ His gaze was distant. ‘Dura, some day we must reach those engines. And I wonder how the Colonists fared, when that wormhole belched . . .’

In Dura’s eyes all the colour had leeched from Hork’s face; even the lurid map on the tetrahedron wall had turned to shades of brown, and there was a strange, thin taste on her tongue.

She was exhausted, she realized. There would be time enough in the future for plans and dreams. For now, she longed for the comparative familiarity and security of the ‘Pig’, for food and sleep.

The rich, sweet stink of Air-pigs greeted her as she reached the ship’s entrance.

He touched Farr’s arm. ‘Wait. We stop here. That’s enough.’

Farr looked confused. He Waved through a couple more strokes, as if automatically; then, uncertainly, his legs came to rest. He released his grip on the cocoon material and looked down at his hands, which were bent into stiff claws.

Adda let himself drift away from the cocoon and hang in the Air, giving way to his fatigue for the first time since the start of the disaster. The Magfield supported him, but he could feel its continuing shudders. The aches in his legs, arms, back and hands had gone beyond mere fatigue, beyond exhaustion now, he realized, and had transmuted into real pain. He inflated his chest, hauling in dank Polar Air, and felt the thick stuff burn at his lungs and capillaries. He remembered the dire warnings of poor, lost Deni Maxx: that after his encounter with the Air-sow his body would never regain its pneumatic efficiency. Well, this day he’d tested that diagnosis to its limits.

The City was a battered wooden box almost small enough to be covered over by the palm of a hand, with the long, elegant Spine spearing down from its base to the underMantle. A cloud diffused around the upper City, a mist of rubble and dispersing refugees.

The Xeelee starbreakers continued to walk through the Mantle. Vortex strings hailed all around them, deadly and banal.

He felt his eyes close; weariness and pain lapped over his mind, shutting out the world. This was the worst part of growing old: the slow, endless failure of his body that was slowly isolating him from the world, from other people, immersing him instead in a tiny, claustrophobic universe of his own weakness. Even now, even with the Mantle in its greatest crisis . . ..

Well
, a small, sour part of him thought,
at least I won’t grow any older, to find out how much worse it gets.

‘ . . . Adda.’ There was more wonder than fear in Farr’s voice. ‘Look at the City.’

Adda looked at the boy, then turned his aching neck to the distant tableau of Parz.

The City had already drifted far from its usual site directly over the Magfield Pole, tilting and twisting slowly as it travelled. Now that drift was accelerating. Parz, with all its precious freight of life, swung through the Air like a huge spin-spider. It was oddly graceful, Adda thought, like a huge dance. Then there was a cracking noise, a sharp sound which travelled even to this distance, uneasily like breaking bone. Wood fragments burst around the junction of the City and its Spine - splinters which must be the size of Air-cars to be visible at this distance.

The Spine had snapped off.

The Spine remained suspended in the depths of the Polar Magfield, like an immense, battered tree trunk. The Spine must have been supplying much of the City’s residual anchoring in the Magfield, for now the box-like upper section of Parz, with green wood-lamp light still gleaming from its ports, rolled forwards like an immense, grotesque parody of a lolling head.

The structure could not long stand such stress.

The Corestuff anchor-bands, dull and useless, folded, snapped and fell away in huge pieces. The clearwood bubble which enclosed the Stadium burst outwards, popping. The Palace buildings on the upper surface, like elaborately coloured toys with their miniature forests and displays, slid almost gracefully away into the Air, exposing the bare wooden surface beneath.

And now the City itself opened, coming apart like rotten wood.

The carcass split longitudinally, almost neatly, around the central structural flaw of Pall Mall. From the cracked-open streets and shops and homes, Air-cars and people spilled into the Air. The Market opened up like a spin-spider’s egg, and the huge execution Wheel tumbled out into the Air.

The sounds of cracking wood, of twisting Corestuff, carried through the Air, mercifully drowning the cries of the humans.

Adda tried to imagine the terror of those stranded citizens; perhaps some of them had never ventured beyond the Skin before, and now here they were cast into the Air, helpless amid clouds of worthless possessions.

Now the residual structure of Parz imploded into fragments. All traces of the City’s shape were lost. The cloud of rubble, of wood, Corestuff and struggling people, drifted through the Air away from the amputated Spine, slowly diffusing.

Adda closed his eyes. There had been a grandeur about that huge death. Almost a grace, a defiance of the Xeelee’s actions which had been, in its way, magnificent.

‘Adda.’ Farr was pulling at his arm and pointing.

Adda followed the boy’s finger. At first he could see nothing - only the lurid crimson glow around the Northern horizon, the yellow chaos of the Air . . .

Then he realized that the boy was pointing out an
absence.

The starbreaker beams were gone.

Adda felt something lift from his heart. Perhaps some of them might yet live through this.

But then more vortex fragments came gusting towards them, precluding thought; gripping the boy’s hand as hard as he could, Adda stared into the mouth of the storm and grabbed at Bzya’s cocoon.

T
he Interface was glowing.

The shouting woke Borz from a deep, untroubled sleep. He stretched and scowled around, looking for the source of the trouble. He reached to his belt and pulled out his Air-hat, jammed it on his head. He didn’t really need the hat, of course, but he thought it gave him a bit more authority with the scavenging, thieving upfluxers who came by all the time and . . .

The Interface was glowing
. The edges around its four triangular faces were shining, vortex-line-blue, so bright he was forced to squint. And the faces themselves seemed to have been covered over by a skin of light, fine and golden, which returned reflections of the yellow Mantle-light, the vortex lines, his own bulky body.

A deep, superstitious awe stirred in Borz.

There was no sign of the pigs, which had been stored at the heart of the tetrahedron. And the various possessions - clothes, tools, weapons - which had been attached to the tetrahedron’s struts by bits of rope and net now tumbled around in the Air. A length of rope drifted past him. He grabbed it and laid it in his huge palm; the rope looked scorched.