Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring (19 page)

‘I’ll never believe that,’ Rees murmured.

Gord laughed; it was a ghastly, dry sound. ‘Well, you’d better.’ He held out his globe. ‘Here. Are you thirsty?’

Rees stared at it with longing, imagining the cool trickle of water over his tongue - but then speculations about the origin of the liquid filled him with disgust, and he pushed it away, shaking his head.

Gord, eyes locked on Rees’s, took another deep draught. ‘Let me give you some advice,’ he said softly. ‘They’re not killers here. They won’t harm you. But you have a stark choice. You either accept their ways - eat what they eat, drink what they drink - or you’ll finish in the ovens. That’s the way it is.

‘You see, in some ways it makes sense. Nothing is wasted.’ He laughed, then fell silent.

An eerie, discordant song floated into the hut. ‘Quid said something about singing to the whales,’ Rees said, eyes wide. ‘Could that be—’

Gord nodded. ‘The legends are true . . . and quite a sight to see. Maybe you’ll understand it better than I do. It makes a kind of sense. They need some input of food from outside, don’t they? Something to keep this world from devouring itself to skin and bones - although the native life of the Nebula isn’t all that nutritious, and there are a few interesting bugs you can catch - I suspect that’s the reason the original Boneys weren’t allowed to return to the Raft . . .’

‘Come on, lad,’ Quid called, shifting the load of iron under his arm.

Rees looked at him, then back to Gord. The temptation to stay with Gord, with at least a reminder of the past, was strong . . . Gord dropped his head to his chest, words still dribbling from his mouth. ‘You’d better go,’ he mumbled.

If Rees wanted any hope of escaping this place there was only one choice.

Wordlessly he gripped Gord’s shoulder. The engineer did not look up. Rees got to his feet and walked out of the hut.

Quid’s home was comparatively spacious, constructed around a framework of iron poles. There were no windows, but panels of scraped-thin skin admitted a sickly brown light.

Quid let Rees stay; Rees settled cautiously into one dark corner, his back against the wall. But Quid barely spoke to him and, at length, after a meal of some nameless meat, the Boney threw himself to the floor and settled into a comfortable sleep.

Rees sat for some hours, eyes wide; the eerie keening of the whale-singers washed around him in a tapestry of sound, and he shrank into himself, as if to escape the strangeness of it all. At last fatigue crept over him and he lowered himself to the ground. He rested his face on his folded forearm. The surface was so warm that he had no need for a blanket and he settled into a broken sleep.

Quid, ignoring Rees, came and went on his mysterious errands. He lived alone, but - to judge from the visits he made to his neighbours’ tents bearing packets of iron, and from which he would return adjusting his clothing and wiping his mouth - his iron was buying him out of loneliness.

At first Rees suspected Quid was some kind of leader here, but it soon became apparent that there was little in the way of a formal structure. Some of the Boneys had fairly well-defined roles - for example, Quid was the principal interface with the visitors from the mine. But the hideous ecology seemed largely self-sustaining, and there was little need for organized maintenance. Only the whale hunts, it seemed, brought the population together in any sort of cooperation.

Rees stayed in his corner for perhaps two shifts. Then his thirst became an unbearable pain, and with a cracked voice he asked Quid for drink.

The Boney laughed - but, instead of reaching for one of his stock of drink globes, he beckoned to Rees and left the hut.

Rees climbed stiffly to his feet and followed.

They walked around a quarter of the worldlet’s circumference and came to a break in the skin surface. It was a ragged hole perhaps a yard wide, looking disturbingly like a dried-out wound. Splinters of bone obtruded from its lip.

Quid squatted by the hole. ‘So you want a drink, miner?’ he demanded, his mouth a downturned slash of darkness. ‘Well, old Quid’s going to show you how you can get as much as you like to eat and drink . . . but the catch is, it’s what the rest of us eat and drink. It’s either that or starve, laddie; and Quid for one isn’t going to mourn the loss of your sneering face from his hut. Right?’ And he dropped his feet through the hole and swung himself into the planet’s interior.

Fear stirring - but his throat still burning with thirst - Rees approached the hole and peered inside.

The hole was full of bones. A stench like warm meat-sim billowed into his face.

He gagged but held his ground. Shaking his head free of the fumes he sat on the ragged lip of the hole and found purchase for his feet. He stood carefully, holding his breath, and worked his way down into the network of bones.

It was like climbing inside some huge, ancient corpse. The light, filtering through thick layers of skin, was brown and uncertain. The bright eyes of Quid glittered out of the gloom.

And all around Rees there were bones.

He looked around, his breath still trapped inside his body. He was, he realized, standing on a shelf of bones; his back rested against a small mountain of skulls and gaping, toothless jawbones, and his hands gripped a pillar of fused vertebrae. Starlight slanting through the entrance showed him a cross section of skulls, splintered tibiae and fibulae, ribcages like lightless lanterns; here was a forearm still attached to a child’s hand. The bones were mostly bare, their colour a weathered-looking brown or yellow; but here and there scraps of skin or hair still clung.

The planet was nothing more than a sparse cage of bones, coated with human skin.

He felt a scream well up from deep within him; he forced it away and expelled his breath in one great sigh, then was forced to draw in the air of this foul place. It was hot, damp and stank of decaying meat.

Quid grinned at him, his gums glistening. ‘Come on, miner,’ he whispered, the sound muffled. ‘We’ve a little way to go yet.’ And he began to work his way deeper into the interior.

After some minutes Rees followed.

The gravity grew lighter as they descended and a smaller residuum of corpses lay beneath them; at last Rees was pulling himself through the bone framework in virtual weightlessness. Bone fragments, splinters and knuckles and finger joints, battered at his face until it seemed he was passing through a cloud of decay. As they descended the light grew fainter, lost in the intermeshing layers of bones, but Rees’s eyes grew dark-adapted, so that it seemed he could see more and more of the dismal surroundings. The heat, the stench of meat became intolerable. Sweat coated his body, turning his tunic into a sodden mass on his back, and his breath grew shallow and laboured; it seemed almost impossible to extract any oxygen from the grimy air.

He tried to remember that the radius of the worldlet was only some fifteen yards. The journey seemed the longest of his life.

At last they reached the heart of the bone world. In the gloom Rees squinted to make out Quid. The Boney waited for him, hands on hips; he was standing on some dark mass. Quid laughed. ‘Welcome,’ he hissed. He was running his fingers over the forest of bones around him, evidently looking for something.

Rees pushed his feet through a last layer of ribs to the surface on which Quid stood. It was metal, he realized with a shock; battered and coated with grease, but metal nevertheless. He stood cautiously. There was a respectable gravity pull. This had to be some kind of artefact, buried here at the heart of the Boneys’ foul colony.

He dropped to his knees and ran probing fingers across the surface. It was too dark to make out a colour but he could tell that the stuff wasn’t iron. Could it be Ship hull-metal, like the Raft deck in the region of the Officers’ quarters? He closed his eyes and probed at the surface, trying to recall the feel of that faraway deck. Yes, he decided with growing excitement; this had to be an artefact from the Ship.

Pushing his way through the bone framework he paced around the surface. The artefact was a cube some three yards on a side. He stubbed his toe against an extrusion of metal; it turned out to be the remnant of some kind of fin, reminiscent of the stumps he had observed on the Moles of the mine and the Raft’s buses. Could this box once have been fitted with jets and flown through the air?

Speculation welled through his head, pushing aside thirst, revulsion, fear . . . He imagined the original Ship, huge, dark and crippled, opening like a skitter flower and emitting a shoal of sub-ships. There was the Bridge, its surface slick and fast; there were the buses/Moles, perhaps designed to carry one or two crew or to travel unmanned, to land and roll over uncertain surfaces - and then there was this new type, a box capable of carrying - perhaps - a dozen people. He imagined crewmen setting off in this bulky craft, maybe seeking food, or a way to return to Bolder’s Ring . . .

But some unknowable accident had hit the box ship. It had been unable to return to the Ship. They had run out of provisions - and to survive, the crew had had to resort to other means.

When at last they had managed to return - or perhaps had been found by a rescue party - they were, in the eyes of their fellows, befouled by their taking of the meat of Nebula creatures - and of their companions.

And so they had been abandoned.

Somehow they had wrestled their wrecked box ship into a stable circular orbit around the Core. And some of them had survived; they had raised children and lived perhaps thousands of shifts before their eyes closed . . . And the children, horrified, had found there was no way of ejecting the corpses; in this billion-gee environment the ship’s escape velocity was simply too high.

And generations had passed, until the layers of bones covered the original wreck.

Evidently Quid had found what he was looking for. He tugged at Rees’s sleeve, and Rees followed him to the far edge of the craft. Quid knelt and pointed downwards; Rees followed suit and peered over the lip of the craft. In the wall below him there was a break, and just enough light seeped in to let Rees make out the contents of the craft.

At first he could make no sense of it. The ship was jammed with cylindrical bundles of some glistening, red substance; some of the bundles were linked to each other by joints, while others were fixed in rough piles to the walls by ropes. Some of the material had been baked to a grey-black crisp. There was a stench of decay, of ageing meat.

Rees stared, bemused. Then, in one ‘bundle’, he saw eyesockets.

Quid’s face floated in the gloom, a tormenting mask of wrinkles. ‘We’re not animals, you see, miner,’ he whispered. ‘These are the ovens. Where we bake the sickness out of the meat . . . Usually it’s hot enough down here, what with the decay and all; but sometimes we have to bank fires around the walls . . .’

The bodies were all ages and sizes; flayed and butchered, the ‘bundles’ were limbs, torsos, heads and fingers—

He dragged his head back. Quid was grinning. Rees closed his eyes, forcing down the bile that burned the back of his throat. ‘And there’s no waste,’ Quid whispered with relish. ‘The dried skin is stitched into the surface, so that we walk on the flesh of our ancestors—’

He felt as if the whole, grotesque worldlet were pulsing around him, so that the forest of bones encroached and receded in huge waves. He took deep breaths, letting the air whistle through his nostrils. ‘You brought me down here for drink,’ he said as evenly as he could. ‘Where is it?’

Quid led Rees to a formation of bone. It was a set of vertebrae, almost intact; Rees saw that it was part of a branching series of bones which seemed to reach almost to the surface. Quid touched the spine and his finger came away glistening with moisture. Rees looked more closely and realized that a slow trickle of fluid was working its way down the channel of bones.

Quid pressed his face to the vertebrae, extending a long tongue to lap at the liquid. ‘Runoff from the surface, see,’ he said. ‘By the time it’s diluted by the odd bit of rain and filtered through all those layers up there, it’s fit enough to drink. Almost tasty . . .’ He laughed, and with a grotesque flourish invited Rees to take his turn.

Rees stared at the brackish stuff, feeling life and death choices once more weighing on him. He tried to be analytical. Perhaps the Boney was right; perhaps the crude filtering mechanism above his head would remove much of the worst substances . . . After all, the Boney was healthy enough to tell him about it.

He sighed. If he wanted to survive through more than another shift or two he really had no choice.

He stepped forward, extended his tongue until it almost touched the vertebrae, and allowed the liquid to trickle into his mouth. The taste of it was foul and the stuff was almost impossible to swallow; but swallow it he did, and he reached for another mouthful.

Quid laughed. The Boney’s angular hand clamped over the back of his neck and Rees’s face was forced into the slim pillar of bone; the edges of it scraped at his flesh and the putrid liquid splashed over his hair, his eyes—

With a cry of disgust Rees lashed out with both fists. He felt them connect with perspiring flesh; with a winded grunt the Boney fell away, landing amid a splintering nest of bones. Wiping his face clear Rees jumped into the network of bones and began to clamber up towards the light, his thrusting feet crushing ribs and skeletal fingers. At last he reached the underside of the surface, but he realized with dismay that he had lost his orientation; the surface of skin spread over him like some huge ceiling, unbroken and lightless. With a strangled scream he shoved his hands into the soft material and tore layers of it aside.

At last he broke through to Nebula air.

He dragged himself from the hole and lay exhausted, staring up at the ruddy starlight.

Rees sought out Gord. The former engineer admitted him without a word, and Rees threw himself to the ground and fell into a deep sleep.