The Weight of the World

by Tom Toner

  “Really?”

  Humour is a currency, Lycaste, like many things.

  “How do you know all this, Percy?” he asked, actually turning from the porthole to inspect his tiny cupboard. “You’ve been a prisoner all your life.”

  The same way I know that this ship’s motor relies solely on the simple flow of potential to kinetic energy, like a billion snapped strings. I take an interest. You should, too: it might save your life one day and will enrich it no end in the meantime.

  “Teach me to tell jokes, then.”

  Good man. Get that Vulgar Huerepo in here next time; we can make him the butt of them.

  Lycaste considered testing one of his jokes on Maneker as the evening descended, if only to keep his own fears at bay, but suddenly found he couldn’t think of any. Dark specks—the bees of Port Rubante—danced on the wind, attracted to the residual heat of the ship. Lycaste batted some away from his face until they droned up into the branches.

  The Amaranthine passed him a blob of honey on the tip of his knife. “Try.”

  He took a dab on his finger and touched it to his mouth. It was certainly nothing like any kind he’d had at home.

  “It’s all they live on here,” Maneker said, pocketing his knife. Lycaste glanced at him in surprise, understanding at last why the couple of Pifoon that escorted the party of Oxel had looked so sickly.

  “For half the year the Pifoon tend the hives on the outer surface, storing up for winter, at which point the bees take to the winds and circle the moon in a grand migration. So far, they have always come back, though I suspect that will change when the first invaders get here.”

  The small, stingless bees, no bigger than Old World flies and unornamented in contrast to their Proximo cousins, had managed to find their way into every chamber in the Epsilon. Huerepo had been given the job of clearing them out one compartment at a time, until some bright spark had opened the hangar for fresh air and readmitted thousands back into the ship. The Vulgar’s incandescent fury had been a genuine joy to watch, and Lycaste had tried to write down as many Vulgar curses as he could for future use. He’d been stunned, however, to hear that the Pifoon in the castle counted every individual bee that returned each evening. Huerepo must have killed hundreds before he, too, had been told.

  A whirr of pulleys announced something had been dropped. Lycaste and Maneker looked down to see a box of honey tumble between the branches and smash in the Canolis field beneath the ship.

  “Damn you, Poltor, you ham-fisted slot-humper!” Weepert raged, tired and sitting now.

  “Yes, well, upping yours, captain of the Shit-for-Brains,” the Vulgar called out sullenly from below, somewhat spoiling the illusion of Weepert’s authority. Huerepo’s cousin had been imbibing his own spirits since morning and had clearly forgotten the deception. Down in the Canolis field, the two sunburned Pifoon escorts looked obviously perplexed.

  We’re ready, the Spirit said beside Lycaste, directing its soft, rich voice at Maneker. It was visible only as a hunched pocket of air among a brown cloud of bees. Get Humpsquirt back to his pot-washing before he blows our cover.

  Lycaste climbed into the hangar, lithely negotiating the pulleys and stepping over the gap above the field that a smaller person might have fallen through. The repairs had been minor; the replacement of an expensive rubber sealant within the whole interior of the hull and all rends in the fuselage repatched with soldered tin. New Golanite bolts for the broadside cannon had been locked in rows along the bulkhead ready for loading and an extra lens for the forward Light Charger purchased.

  Lycaste made his way through to the corridor of jumbled hanging cages, wafting away a scattering of bees and sparing a longing look at the rusted four-man jet stationed at the door to the hangar. A gaggle of Oxel rushed between his feet, chirruping and cackling, excited to be on their way.

  The Epsilon India broke away from its mooring in the tree, blasting the waving Pifoon with twigs and steaming sewage. As a courtesy, it waited a little while before flashing its superluminals, a burst of wailing green flame pouring from its exhausts and slamming the ship through a sunset tunnel of cloud and into suborbit.

  The Tethered moon became a yellow curve in Lycaste’s porthole, the fields of Canolis stretching like a bright, dusty desert all the way to a deep blue orifice sea in the south, where the land became spottedly green and lush, nominally Amaranthine-held once more. He watched the uncountable stars begin to tremble like falling gems catching the light, all their myriad colours augmented for a moment, and settled back into his nest of dirty clothes.

  So, you’re going to stay here, in your cupboard?

  Lycaste hardly flinched. He nodded his head, staring out at Port Rubante as the Epsilon adjusted its curve to shoot away. “I like it in here.”

  There was a moment of silence in which Lycaste experienced that same strange sensation he’d felt in the Oratory, the feeling of something looking inside him.

  You’re starting to thrombose, you know. I can see the beginnings of a clot in one of your legs.

  Lycaste sat up, examining his bony ankles where they rested against the bulkhead. “What? Where?”

  Oh, I expect your adulterated system will break it down. I see all manner of circulatory problems in these Oxel, though, and don’t get me started on those honey-gobbling Pifoon. If I had a body—and believe you me, I intend to—I’d damn well look after it.

  Lycaste breathed out, his head seemingly expanding again, the sounds of the ship diminishing. The Epsilon, aligning with the speck of Gliese’s far-off star, had begun to lift away from the yellowish moon. Its pale blue band of atmosphere glowed at the edges of Lycaste’s window like the world he’d once seen from his tallest tower, reminding him of the opportunities to return home, opportunities he might presently be leaving behind.

  Now there’s a worrying sight, said the Spirit in his ear.

  Lycaste waited, not seeing anything but the moon as it began to drop away.

  Shit.

  A rolling series of thumps sounded throughout the rear of the vessel, loud even to Lycaste’s congested ears. The moon swung, filling his window with yellow again as he reached out to steady himself.

  “Percy?” Lycaste yelped, feeling the gravity of the ship shift and spin, doing all he could to splay out his arms and legs and wedge himself upright.

  Back in a minute.

  Part of Perception was already outside the Epsilon, fingers of its being taking hold of the Light Charger and coiling around it. It gazed out into the blackness, one half warmed by the glow of the moon and more distant sun, the other buffeted by a freezing wind, a little glad to be away from the Melius’s huge, sad face. Vapour rose from it, a shape in the dark, unseen.

  There, as it had suspected—a speck rushing from beneath. Perception had heard it between Lycaste’s breaths, a whining scream cutting through the dark. The Vulgar said this was how others attacked— Collaring, they called it—slamming from below just as craft went superluminal.

  It peered into the darkness, sighting the thing. It was a white blur, jagged with fins. Lacaille. This should be exciting.

  Three slender threads in the black. Thump thump thump, harpoons piercing the Epsilon’s hull, dragging it out of the current and back down towards the moon. Perception almost lost its grip, sliding like water from the surface of the ship and clinging around the exhausts, its form glowing green through the jets.

  A tip-off: it had suspected as much. On their way to Rubante they’d been far from subtle, easy prey for bandits. The Spirit squirmed back inside, passing through metal and flesh to reach Poltor on the flight deck.

  Don’t fight it, fall.

  “Where?” the ugly little monster wailed, spittle flying through the Spirit. It tasted him, briefly, registering a vitamin deficiency.

  Through the orifice sea. Where else?

  Poltor hesitated, maddeningly, before screaming the order. He clipped his helmet down, as if afraid of Perception. “What is it? What kind?”


  It’s a Man-o’-War, Poltor my dear, as your ship’s charts describe them. Lacaille frigate of the Retribution Class named the Hasziom.

  “Good eyes,” he said, hurrying through to the broadside battery. Perception looked on, eyeless, then passed through the vessel to observe preparations. Weepert and Smallbone were engaged in securing the scullery with quick, organised actions, the booze apparently steadying their nerves. This drinking thing, the Spirit mused, it fortified the Prism beautifully. From a porthole, it saw the moon’s yellow-and-blue-spotted curve growing rapidly closer as the Epsilon swung back down towards it, atmosphere tearing at the hull. Three Oxel with crude blowtorches and buckets of tools skittered past and the Spirit followed to the site of the harpoon impacts, rolling like a charged cloud through the hangar and up to the cells. The prisoner gripped the bars as the ship spun, perhaps thinking his salvation was close. Perception sympathised, passing through his guts and the bulkhead until it was back in the Void and sighting along the harpoon cables at the growing speck of the Lacaille ship.

  The attacking Lacaille clearly hadn’t expected such a violent manoeuvre. Perception cackled, terrified and exhilarated, moving like dry ice along the mile of cable and up to the furiously banking Man-o’-War, drawn to its gravity even as the moon began to exert its own brute force. The enemy frigate blasted friction rockets, lighting the Void with a silent bellow of orange. The harpoons dragged taut, singing. Perception was almost there, feeling them winding back in, knowing it could lose its grip at any moment. Solar winds pulled at its coils, dragging it this way and that as they fell. So close. The Epsilon accelerated again as the moon rushed closer, briefly popping the lumen barrier. Perception lost its grip, fighting to catch back on.

  Thirty feet. Perception slimmed and shot through the Void, blasting into the frigate through the mouth of a great broadside cannon swivelling on the Epsilon and frying the crude electrics with a surge of fury. The gun shot wide before it jammed, the shell lost to the huge yellow surface of the moon.

  Perception wove through the sweating Lacaille gun crew as they panicked and yammered at the deluge of sparks; then, hearing something more ominous, rose up through the layers of insulation and armour to the ship’s fuselage. Vacuum-suited troops with magnetised crampons were scrambling from a hatch, fastening locks around the harpoon cables and working their way out into the darkness.

  Perception glanced back to the speck of the Epsilon, feeling the moon’s gravity far below that diving speck and embracing it.

  The Spirit took the equivalent of a running jump then fell, narrowing to a spear.

  Lycaste drew his pistol from the bandolier, opening the door for Huerepo. Port Rubante loomed very large in his window, individual river tributaries growing in definition among the fields of yellow. The Epsilon spun again, slamming them both against the bulkhead and into the porthole.

  The Orifice sea: one of a dozen access holes bored into the moon so as not to strain the thin, barely supported crust. It was a wonder the Vaulted Lands hadn’t collapsed long ago; it was only a matter of time, surely. The Spirit weighed its options as it sighed through the Void, a dagger dropped from on high, considering with a flash of delight whether it could induce the moon to collapse upon their pursuers.

  Perception slammed back inside the flight deck, agitating Poltor’s stomach until he was almost sick in his helmet.

  Boarding party, riding the harpoon cables. Twist clockwise—you keep alternating for some absurd reason and opening up their route for them.

  “Clockwise?” Now the Oxel pilots were looking intently at the Vulgar as he apparently spoke to himself.

  Oh, how I wish I had some fucking hands, Poltor, then I’d fire you into the Void and fly this thing myself. As per the clock, imbecile.

  Poltor mimed the motion, staring at his gloves. “Like . . . a clock.” He nodded, eyes lighting up. “All right!”

  Lycaste and Huerepo clung to each other as the ship banked, spinning. Lycaste’s cask of honey cracked into the ceiling, bouncing from wall to floor as the Epsilon continued its roll, blankets and clothing following after. Lycaste ducked, throwing a hand around Huerepo’s tiny head as the box came sailing back towards them to strike the porthole.

  “Grab that bloody thing!” Huerepo squealed.

  Lycaste reached for it as they rolled again, falling with the ship’s inertia. Huerepo screamed as they pounded against the ceiling, dislodging the chamber’s water pipe. The cask cracked, loosing partially weightless splinters of wood and globs of honey into the room.

  Perception swam upwards to perch, hawk-like, on the stern of the spinning Epsilon, watching as the twisting harpoon cables wound together into one thick, creaking metallic rope. The nearest Lacaille soldier lost his grip to spin out into the blackness, slowing the others. The Epsilon’s hull began to scream as the cables twisted tighter, tearing into white-hot strips with each spin. They must know when to stop, surely. It waited, still spinning, realising that no, the damn fools didn’t have a clue.

  Level out! Perception raged at Poltor, almost popping the crew’s eardrums with the speed of its entry into the flight deck. Hasn’t this ever happened to you before?

  “Once! Once!” he screamed, buckled into his seat and whistling frantically to the pilots. “But we were doing it to someone else!”

  The spin halted just as Lycaste and Huerepo were at the ceiling. Huerepo grabbed hold of the busted water pipe as Lycaste fell, the cracked cask of honey following through the air and splintering over the back of his head.

  From afar the specks danced, glittering where the light of the moon blazed across them. Cannon in the side of the Epsilon opened fire, missing its attacker totally and emptying into the void. The Man-o’-War responded in kind, shredding one of its harpoon cables in the process but making a sizable hole in the Epsilon‘s fuselage. Wreckage peeled away in a swirling storm, billowing smoke that streaked across Port Rubante’s atmosphere like a ruddy brown stain.

  “The Light Charger? But it’s not been—”

  So help me, Poltor, I’ll slap you silly, you useless—

  The Epsilon banked, accelerating hard and sizzling away from the edge of the moon’s atmosphere. Smoke poured in an artful coil from its long-tailed stern, decorating the skies of Port Rubante. Facing the Man-o’-War at last, it appeared to gather breath, then discharged its prized heavy nose gun: a beam of blazing light that flickered into the blackness, rupturing through the Void like a strip of neon ivory, lightning playing across space.

  It missed. The Lacaille ship went superluminal, slamming past and down towards the moon, hauling the Epsilon after it.

  Specks, revealed only by their crawling shadows against the glare, clung on to the cables for dear life.

  Enough of this. Are they ready?

  Those Oxel that hadn’t been assigned to fixing the gaping hole in the stern of the ship were suiting themselves up, whooping excitedly until their tiny helmets sealed shut and blocked the sound. They fumbled with their microphones and the whoops returned, punctured with the whine of feedback. The Spirit floated through the rising exhausts of their suit generators, visible only for a moment as a hanging pall of leviathan coils that startled Poltor and Weepert into silence. Maneker, his hand outstretched and fumbling for a cockpit seat, had joined them.

  Well-met, Hugo. You’ve slept through the best parts, I fear.

  “Proclaimed yourself captain, Perception?” Maneker asked, dumping himself into the sweat-soaked seat.

  Without hesitation. Now cheer up—I’m about to deliver you a Man-o’-War for your arsenal.

  The Epsilon thundered its engines as they hit atmosphere, billowing through green-lit cloud and drawing level with the Man-o’-War. Air whipped around the two shapes, drawing a tight lozenge of vacuum about them that streamed, glowing, into the skies of Port Rubante.

  Those Oxel that weren’t frantically sealing the holes with rubber had made their way through the hatches to the Epsilon’s surface and were scrabbling onto the har
poon. Perception joined them, snaking towards the oncoming Lacaille until it was among them.

  They were little, these goblin men, but swaddled in great suits equipped with coal-burning chimneys, rubberized against the freezing wind and carbon-black where they’d been scorched by re-entry. Perception glanced back to where there ought to be sparks, remembering the pocket of vacuum they were all in. It saw the Oxel engaged already in severing the first of the cables and felt a jolt of pride. They surely understood that they would die the minute the first of the cables snapped, sliced in two or thrown out into the atmosphere. They were fools, but loyal fools.

  It should not come to that, Perception decided.

  It threw itself at the leading Lacaille, screaming with all its might into his mind. The Lacaille jerked, a gauntlet going to his helmet as he partially fell from the cable. Perception bellowed, switching from ear to ear while agitating the soldier’s guts. Soon the Spirit had them all vomiting into their helmets. It swung back to the Oxel.

  No more cutting, it said in their language of whistles and burps, I’ve softened them up for you.

  Across the vacuum they opened fire, bolts flying silently. The bright flash of lumen shots answered back, scoring black burns across the Epsilon’s fuselage.

  Perception knew the outcome. The Lacaille were better equipped in every way. It screamed at the attacking force and shot through them, passing up the cables to the parallel ship and in through a hatchway.

  All right, the Spirit thought, glancing swiftly about with the equivalent of a gleeful rubbing of hands. It took in the filthy wooden passages, veiled in a mist of benzene from the long guns. Let’s get a fire going.

  Lycaste cradled his head, sitting up. The Epsilon appeared to be flying straight now, but in his confusion he couldn’t quite tell. Huerepo was still hanging from the pipe above him. They stared at each other.

  Perception followed the maze, its being drawn to the charge of a collection of copper, brine-filled capsules stored in the bulkhead’s lining; what must have been the ship’s crude batteries. The Spirit reached its fingers into all of them at once, bursting them. The lighting wires in the passageway fizzled out to a chorus of screams that filtered down the halls. Perception considered the soldered clumps of wiring—nothing more than strips of steel, only one or two insulated at all—but thought better of fusing them. The ship began to slow immediately as power to the engines failed and a minimal backup generator rattled into life somewhere.