This – that is, the Alaimansk research outpost, named after the place closest to it on the map – is a deadened wasteland perched on the Makuo glacier. It is a nowhere place. I look out of any window, and all I see is vast, unending white without so much as a boulder to break it. I know there are mountains to the south-west, but on even the mildest days the wind kicks up the powder and renders the sky a few hundred feet away as monotone as the ground. The Bask does not touch this part of the world. In my first few days here, before the tedium set in, I found the sparseness refreshing. A kind of savage beauty, wind-scoured and ever-changing. It was like the world was a fresh, untouched whiteboard, uncluttered with words or numbers – a quintessence of potential. You see how it was? How close I came to turning sentimental?
Never fear, though. Weeks of the stuff sapped me until I saw the landscape for what it is: barren and lifeless. It gnaws at the soul, this lack of colour.
ADDENDUM
We processed the results of the mag-return this evening, and I can’t help but be carried by my enthusiasm. There really is a large foreign body of some sort there. I will rerun the scan just to make sure my two imbeciles didn’t screw it up somehow, but I dare to hope. Hope that there is something worth the effort under all that ice, hope that we didn’t come all the way out here for nothing.
The scan that has me so unusually keen shows a void some 20 metres beneath the rock surface which is itself 1,200 metres (give or take a metre) under ice. It is dome-like in shape, 10 metres in diameter and 4 metres high at the apex. There are indications of low-density occlusions beneath a dense outer shell, most likely ice and sediment, so the void may be much larger when cleared.
It could be nothing more than a volcanic intrusion or some unusual product of glaciation. Even if it is pre-Ruin, it may be nothing more than a ball of garbage, a waste-dump. But something about the regularity of the void’s inner curve – it is almost too precise.
It’s late, and I have a cold bed to go to. Tunnelling starts tomorrow, and I need to be fresh.
* * *
Bask 45 – 498
I have spent the last two hours arguing with those fools. Shivering in that tiny site office, breathing in their body odour and the rank steam issuing from their mouths.
They likely talk down to me because I am a woman. They have the nerve to tell me they are overstretched, as if how they manage their shift patterns is any of my concern.
I maintained my position – the current schedule is quite achievable, in fact desirable. I’d rather have it done before Death arrives. But they puff their cheeks, complain about contracts and adverse conditions. Will no one save me from this tedium!
After an hour of watching the four of them carry on like this, I’d had enough. I threatened them, in matter of fact, with replacement and blacklisting and they knew I meant it. I made it clear I’d bear the delay of acquiring new staff if pushed (though it would present me with even more damned paperwork).
It was worth it, to see their asinine faces drop like they’d been kicked in the nethers. They backed down after that. This might be the back end of a frozen nowhere but the pay is good – far too good for the likes of them, in my opinion.
Imagine: being able to get on with the work I already have without being dragged into trivialities. And to have people who respect the framework of responsibility! Workers work, why should it be any other way? How would they like it if I barged in on them with questions about this or that pre-Ruin artefact? They have already cut down through almost a kilometre of ice – all I need is for them to finish what they agreed to do in the first place.
Where the hell is my new assistant?
Sleep 15 – 498
Finally, I can begin in earnest. The void has been breached. I have been going to bed later and rising earlier just to fit as much in as possible, and it is still not enough.
The problem, the diggers told me (they are suitably deferential now), was the shell. Delving through the ice was, if energy-hungry, little more than rapid, precise melting. The drills had chewed into the bedrock with barely a pause, but then they’d hit the intrusion itself and had blunted in just seconds, though the diggers assured me they were of the best tungsten carbide. We barely scratched the surface.
We had to sit on our hands for weeks while we waited for corundum bits to arrive, but those made no impression either. The noise from the shaft was appalling, like the scream of a wounded animal. There was an explosion. One of the diggers was killed.
After some wrangling, I sourced an old plasma lance from a contact in Keln; where it came from, who knows? Stolen from the military or most likely shipped from Aspedair. The cost was horrific, but it was the right choice. After a few hours we broke through to the chamber inside. I went down immediately, before the smoke had cleared, despite the fretting and fussing of my researchers (they’ve had some sort of lover’s quarrel and have become sullen, trying to outdo each other in fawning on me and firing waspish barbs at each other). I ignored them; I wouldn’t wait a second more to see this thing.
The void is, as I surmised, not a natural formation. The dome appears perfect; some manner of super-hard, non-conductive alloy. The floor is packed dirt and ice, built up over centuries. I estimated on the fly that if the chamber were in fact a sphere, I would be standing around three-quarters of the way up on a plug of dirty ice.
I must be cautious because my mind wants to run away with me. It still stings, the mockery the Elucidon poured on me when I delivered my paper on Master Computers. The evidence was all there, built up over many years of painstaking work; hard digs and long dark hours poring over barely legible glyphs on ancient storage devices. The pre-Ruin was a connected world in a way that we can barely fathom; everything from homes to vehicles to factories, to the very Lattice itself – it all communicated. There are dark gaps in all of it – something else that only reveals its shape by its effect on the rest of the system. I gave them the name Master Computers not because I believed them to be anything so unsophisticated, but because it was the only way to explain to the rest of those dullards what these things might be. Something had to run the system!
My younger self was more prone to injury. No evidence, they said, no proof. Even as their flat dismissal of a mountain of corroborating sources stabbed at me I could see the cowardice behind their eyes – the mere suggestion that the pre-Ruin was anything other than an anarchy making them sweat – and this coming from an upstart woman! As it often does, fear of the unknown rests easily on the couch of ridicule.
The diggers are melting the stuff away as I write – we will begin mapping and sampling. I try to keep my hands from shaking, to tell myself to be measured, but this thing is so large and so artificial, so unlike anything we’ve found before. What if, says the little voice. What if this is it?
I must confess, I have not felt this excited in years.
Alec IV
The pitch of the ship had Cale lunging for the side again. With nothing left to come up he dry-heaved over the rail, his jaw locked wide. The wake was a white trough carving through the waves and in the low grey sky some aryx coasted on the breeze with occasional, languid flaps of their scooped wings as they tracked the giant cargo ship. Their screeches mocked him as he felt another lurch in his gut. Though the cargo of frozen naru carcasses was packed in ice far below everywhere reeked of dead fish. It was as if the sweet-sick stench, the birds and the listing of the deck conspired to torture him.
He’d always hated the sea.
Cale’s lips were cracked and dry, but out of habit he wiped the back of his hand across them. His tongue felt like sand, though as bad as he felt he had to admit that, after three days at sea, it was getting better. An open deck was better than his coffin of a cabin and if he stood with his face full to the wind the smell almost went away; this morning he’d nearly made an entire lap of the deck without vomiting. Small victories. Out beyond the rail the sea stretched unbroken.
It had been three nights since Aulk had taken him out
in the dead of night, his puttering launch holding station beyond the headland, waiting for the cargo ship to pass. They’d matched speed with the hulk and he’d clasped the old fisherman’s hand in brief thanks before clambering up the side on a thin rope ladder. At the top, he was pulled over the gunwale without ceremony; he didn’t see the launch drift away behind them, though even now, he could imagine the weathered face with its worried old eyes as it watched the big ship disappear into the night.
I’m sorry, he thought, wishing he could send the words back to Endeldam on the wind. I brought you only trouble.
The aryx were calling to each other overhead as he caught the sound of a snigger down the deck. The crew were enjoying his discomfort. Especially the big one, the hulking bosun who ran the crew hard, his heavy hands and ready snarl keeping order. Cale hadn’t seen the captain since the market and it was clear that true authority rested on the senior crewman’s wide shoulders. He could be heard now, at the other end of the deck, his deep voice booming at some unfortunate hand.
The crew were terrified of the bosun – it was written on every word and gesture. He was the biggest man on the ship, even taller than Cale, with a wide-legged swagger and knuckles that were as calloused and flat as any prize fighter’s. Small eyes under heavy brows swept the air as if offended by everything. The first time they’d crossed paths there had been naked challenge on the man’s face – a dominant larg guarding his patch. Cale had averted his eyes but knew it hadn’t been enough. As an unknown quantity, he was a threat until proven otherwise. The crew felt the tension and avoided him, though some made fun of his landsman’s stomach, loudly, probably hoping the bosun would notice.
He heard someone approach from behind and stand next to him at the rail. The red-haired boy, who’d dropped the naru carcass back at the fish market, flashed a nervous smile and offered a battered metal mug.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Drink this.’
Cale took it and eyed the contents. Grog, still steaming from the galley kettle, a dark and pungent mixture. He took a sip and coughed as the fumes jumped up his nose. ‘Will this help?’
‘Not really, not with the throwing up.’ The boy’s face was very pale, wind-bitten cheeks almost as red as his bright mop of hair. Like the other hands he wore a yellow jacket against the spray. ‘Only time at the rail gets rid of that.’ The smile was earnest, at the fringes of desperation.
‘Encouraging,’ said Cale, taking another sip.
‘I’m Derrin, but everyone calls me New Boy.’
‘New Boy?’
He nodded. ‘Even after a whole year. Not a lot of imagination, this bunch.’ He glanced around in case anyone had heard. ‘Don’t tell them I said that.’
‘They don’t seem to want to talk.’
‘The bosun doesn’t like you. He doesn’t like anyone, especially new people. They’re just trying to get on his good side. Or stay off his bad one.’
‘Suits me.’ Cale watched the aryx swoop overhead. The boy was waiting for him to go on. ‘I’m Cale,’ he said.
‘It was me that pulled you aboard the other night.’ Derrin drank, grimacing. ‘Odd for us to take passengers.’
‘Odd for me to be one.’
They watched the waves for a while. A large one formed a little way off, racing over the top of its fellows, cutting a line against the pattern until it beat itself to nothingness against the iron of the hull, throwing spume back across the surface and spray high into the air.
‘Look at the horizon,’ said Derrin, pointing with his free hand.
‘What?’
‘Keep looking at the horizon when you feel the retch coming on. It helps.’
Cale did so, trying to find the hazed line between sky and sea. After a few minutes, he did start to feel a little better. ‘Thanks for that. And the drink.’
Derrin looked delighted. ‘No problem. A week, and you won’t have to think about it.’ He tilted his head to indicate some nearby crewmen, hauling crates. ‘I’ll bet they all had it the same. I did. Only the bosun was born with sea legs.’ Worry darkened his face. ‘Doesn’t even go on land when we’re in port. Makes us bring his fun aboard for him.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘I keep out of his way. You should too.’
‘I was planning to.’
A deep bass shout carried over the deck. ‘New Boy, you puke! Get on with it, or you’re going over that rail!’
Derrin shot up straight, fumbling his mug. It fell, spilling its contents as it bounced from the rail before tumbling into the foaming wake. He called out a stuttered apology and gave Cale a rueful look before shuffling off down the deck, shoulders hunched, head lowered. He took a mop from a bucket and set about cleaning the deck.
Cale saw the bosun was staring from the other side of the deck. He held the gaze, taking another sip of grog. He raised his cup. The bosun kept staring. The moment stretched and Cale felt his hackles rise. The bosun turned his head so one eye was pointing at him, then slowly tapped his skull with a thick finger. I’m watching you, it said. He bared his teeth, then turned and went below. Cale watched him go, his jaw aching.
* * *
The days on the Alec went by without much to tell them apart. The cabin Cale shared with a sullen crewman was tiny and stank of unwashed bodies. His bunkmate had had the place to himself until now and resented the invasion; the first two days of Cale vomiting into a bucket had done nothing to build bridges. Since then an unspoken agreement grew, where both men would avoid each other if at all possible. After finding his way to the main deck, Cale spent most of his time there anyway.
At first, he took his meals in the galley. The food was ship’s biscuit and fish most days. The water had the mineral-metallic hint of the recycler about it and the cook kept a kettle of grog on the burners for the crew. Cale suspected he would be turned away if he asked for some of the dark brew so he stuck with water, using the cup Derrin had given him.
One day, as he was leaving the galley, the bosun stopped in the hatchway, blocking it. The big sailor glowered at him, daring him to make a move. Cale held the gaze for a heartbeat before moving aside. The bosun snorted and swaggered past, tailed by two sniggering cronies. After that, Cale ate in his cabin.
He made daily laps around the deck, ignoring the sideways glances and mutters of the crew. Even those who weren’t outright joining in with the bosun’s game knew better than to acknowledge him. He saw Derrin sometimes but avoided him if he could, not wanting to cause the boy trouble – more than that, he didn’t feel like answering questions about himself.
The hardy aryx still followed the ship. Cale wondered if they slept on the wing. Watching the sea and the clouds in silence calmed him and he welcomed the monotony. Derrin had been right: keeping his eyes on the distance helped, though he didn’t think the discomfort would ever completely fade. The problem was that when the sickness went away the fear came back, a smouldering ball of worry in his gut. If he concentrated hard he could go without seeing the images in his head for whole minutes but he wished there was some way to make the big ship go faster.
One day, on one of his walks, he passed by a tarp that had slipped, revealing a mouldering pile of wood. A small chunk caught his eye – something in the grimy, rain-soaked grain grabbed at him, though he didn’t quite know what. He snatched at it before anyone could see and carried it to the bows, running the pad of his thumb along the ridges of the wood. The next day, with the old folding knife from his kitbag, he stood at the rail where he’d shared grog with Derrin and whittled shavings into the sea, working towards the hazy shape from his memory. The next day, he did the same. Bark gave way to wet fibre gave way to dry heartwood and the work got easier. He was just an observer as his hands worked, following their own plan.
On the fourth day, he saw what it was he was making. A wooden doll with a bulbous head and narrow shoulders. A toy soldier with a rifle over one shoulder, the bend of the wood suggesting a raised knee, as if marching. Bowden had owned a toy like this. It had been his favourite. Cale’s h
ands had remembered what memory had thrown away.
Even then, when his knees knocked together, he wanted to be a soldier. And look where it got him.
He felt a surge of nausea. He went to the rail to throw the unwelcome reminder into the sea, but at the last instant held back. Perhaps it was the hours his hands had put in to shaping it. Or perhaps it was the memory of the look on Bowden’s face as he’d played General in a sun-dappled garden, manoeuvring his pieces in an endless stratagem only he understood against an enemy of leaves and stones.
Later, he placed the toy on the small shelf by his bunk and let it watch over him as he slept.
Three weeks out from Endeldam the sky darkened as a big storm cut across their course and the hatches were sealed. Trapped below decks, his days felt like an eternity. The tiny portholes showed either black or iron grey, the only sign that time was still passing outside. The whole ship rang like a bell when a big wave hit and at times he could feel the rhythm of hail and rain as it hammered on the deck plates far above his head.
The cabin began to press in. Sleep wouldn’t come, only a kind of half-doze that left him feeling gritty and irritable. He dreamed sometimes, always the same thing, ugly and hazy. The clanging of the hull became a pounding of artillery; the patter of rain, bursts of small-arms fire. Hospital monitors beeped and clicked and Bowden’s face stared up at him with eyes that bled dark, rich cherry. He’d wake with a scream trapped in his throat and bang his head on the bunk above, drawing muffled complaints from his bunkmate.
To make matters worse, the queasiness came back. The ship was so large that when it moved it was as if the world itself was lurching, a titanic shifting of mass that turned his stomach. It was worse lying down, so he set out to explore the ship’s maze of deserted rooms and corridors. He barely saw anyone, the crew doubtless on watch or drunk in their bunks. After only a short while wandering he could have convinced himself that he was alone on a ghost hulk, adrift.
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