Head Full of Mountains

by Head Full of Mountains (retail) (epub)

  And there was a smell in the breeze, rank and moist. He hesitantly filled his lungs. The collar of his uniform fizzled briefly as it tried to filter.

  “Ready? Young master? Are you all right? Or shall I put myself in doze mode, to conserve energy, while I wait for you to decide?”

  Leaves made hushed sounds, adjusting their angle, gaining exposure to the light above. The engines rumbled, so far away. On the skin of his cheeks, and on his forehead, Crospinal felt the warm glow that motivated the plants. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, changing the safety strap from one hand to the other, trying to shake the mood that had descended over him. Sitting there, squinting, for some time, not eager at all to go into this oversized garden, for he might never emerge, he saw—across a thin line of crumbled nutrients before the elemental’s feet, leading into the growth—a trail of faint, but clearly human, footprints.

  THE CLEARING

  What Crospinal had wanted to tell the elemental and what he had said aloud were very different. He had been ruminating about his memories since the metal rat operated on him, mostly because he no longer seemed as buffeted by their intrusions upon him and, in the relative, linear calm, experienced an unusual precision he had not been able to achieve before—though why he had felt the need to explain himself to the rude machine, and why he had failed badly at doing so, he did not know.

  Until recently, the past and the present, and maybe even the future, entwined together. Crospinal could see that now.

  Though the elemental protested, he dismounted. Taking a few steps toward the edge of the garden, he felt steady on his long legs. Crouching to run his fingertips over the shallow depressions in the material spilling from the border of the trees—this evidence of another person, maybe even the other boy who taunted his thoughts—he froze. Never before had he been able to crouch like this. He glanced over at the elemental to see if it registered the importance of this discovery, but the machine had wandered off, idling, head and straps hanging low.

  “Father,” Crospinal whispered, turning back to the nutrient tiles, which were woven through in places by pale, grubby tendrils from the trees that withered under the lights, dying as they vainly sought the landscape necessary for blind expansion; beyond the delineation, materials of the world were repellent to the roots. “I’ve gone into a mad station,” he said, “and I’ve ridden sleek machines. I’ve seen my face, changed, reflected in the curves of a passing orb. I encountered a metal rat that was in no way a rat. I’ve . . . I’ve been swallowed by a canister that spit me out with a new set of knees.”

  When he touched the footprint with the tips of his fingers, he was surprised to feel nothing special, nor did the Dacron of his mitt register a rush, or an insight, merely scattered fragments of crumbled tile, tamped down, and the textured surface of composite beneath. Could these prints, he suddenly wondered, be his own? Had he walked this close to the giant garden without being aware? Surely that was not possible. Or maybe he’d forgotten? Was it any less likely than the idea of encountering another human, or reaching a mountain?

  Extended periods of time since his operation were missing. Not subsumed by the swelling of some recollection or another, or from a shifting of them, but excised, erased. Were the machine’s lies about the procedure related? Glancing up, into the trees, Crospinal frowned. Was this the concept he had wanted to explain?

  Placing his foot carefully next to one of the footprints: sheathed snugly by the old boot, his foot was definitely larger. Not his own. If these were the prints of the other boy, then the boy was smaller than him. To the somnambulant elemental, he said loudly, “Wake up!”

  The smart machine lifted its head to look at him, red eyes pale in the brightness of the bay.

  “This one was barefoot,” said Crospinal, voice quieter now. “Right? No boots.”

  “Runners don’t wear jumpsuits. Just crew.”

  Crospinal considered this information, deciding he could make neither head nor tail. “And how many runners are there? In the garden?”

  “I can’t answer that, young master. Runners come and go. Unless they’re trained, or feral, they don’t do much of anything. Mostly they stay in the hub. Maybe groups were sent here by a paladin, but now they’ve forgotten why. And there’s dozens of gardens, in dozens of bays, all around the perimeter.”

  A chill passed through Crospinal. He thought he might faint. “How many people are there in all, in the whole world?”

  “Thousands. A million. Including everyone. Hard to say.”

  Crospinal set his jaw. “I’ll continue by myself. You can stay here, or whatever you want. Thanks for the lift.”

  “Why, young master? You could get lost in there. Get on. I’ll take you. I brought you this far. I said nothing to offend you.”

  Crospinal shook his head; he wanted to be alone. He could see why father had disliked these machines.

  Avoiding small clusters of roots, which were large enough to tangle a foot, he tried not to brush against any leaves, yet he saw fronds withering with mere proximity, as if an aura of blight preceded him. Above the height of the root clusters, trees were spindly things, growing independent from each other—one stalk, straight up—offering no coverage and letting in considerable light. Jutting out from the vertical stalk, the delicate leaves extended, upper surface crusted with a thirsty blue layer aimed toward the light. When the leaves turned in unison, with a faint rustling, he felt homesick and a rush of emotion so powerful he caught his breath. Like the leaves, he was fragile, broken, crumbling with the slightest of touches. Crospinal picked his way through, nagged by sensations he had forgotten something.

  The elemental followed, silently, with ease.

  While Fox and Bear watched, he had destroyed dozens of trees, probably hundreds.

  Against the soles of his boots, in the gaps between the root nests, the nutrient tiles, long ago crumbled by the actions of the roots, were luxuriously soft, like the green strip had been, laid before the vanished dream cabinets. The explosion that had torn the pen free must have destroyed them. He would never know if his sister had been inside a sealed booth, or if father had known about the cabinets, let alone had been inside one, like the elemental implied. Again he recalled the horrid faces of the creatures, looking up from their task, hissing and gesticulating when they saw him coming. They were looking for him. They were the oblivion the machine had described, the end of time.

  “You should walk in this direction, young master, or you’ll go in circles. Why don’t you just get on? I don’t understand how I’ve offended you. I’ll get us to the other side as quick as possible.”

  “I want to see a runner. That’s all. And I want to walk.”

  “There’ll be runners when we emerge. When they see us, they’ll live up to their name. But we’ll be stuck here all day if you don’t get on. I’ll have to leave soon, you know, to go charge. My battery seems weak. You could perish. There’s no food in a garden, not if you’re used to crew food. Not unless you want to eat pinworms and other microscopic detritivores.”

  Despite challenges negotiating the trees, the footprints were easy to follow. Where the plants did not grow tall, Crospinal could see for some distance—though now he saw only growth, in all directions, as if it went on and on forever.

  “I think there were two,” he said, examining an area where the pair had apparently milled: clusters of random prints, and not the same size. “Is that possible? Two of them? Walking in line?”

  “Sure,” said the machine, very close behind. “Of course it is.”

  “One was bigger than the other. Maybe from another year. Older than me. But I don’t know what the years were called before I was born.”

  “Don’t subscribe to the definition passengers try to use to define time. It’s ludicrous.”

  “Years have names. The year of action. The year of discretion. They’re important.”

  “And those are batch years. Even le
ss use.

  “Your father gave no name to the livestock, or to the birds of the sky, and none to the wild animals. But still there was no helper just right for him.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “A passenger I met told me that. At a time when the first passengers were stumbling around. They were startling creatures. No doubt those two uprights helped your passenger get connected. Possibly they helped him abduct you. Passengers have a certain sad poetry in their veins.

  “Each of us has a name given by our father. And each of us has a name given by our stature, and by the mountains.”

  Crospinal was being strung along, played with. Mountains? There wasn’t much he could do. Escape and fighting were dismal options.

  “He was the first passenger I ever met. He had just woken, and was in a lot of psychic pain. There was nothing then. Each of us, he told me, has a name, given by our sins, and by our longing. You know how they talk, I’m sure. Each of us has a name given by our enemies, and given by our love. Each of us has a name given by celebrations, and by our death.”

  Crospinal licked his lips. He cleared his throat. “Where was I? Two people. Walking one behind the other, as best they could, going the same way.”

  Leaves remained limp. Several stalks had been damaged by the passing of the pair, but these others could not be as clumsy or as incautious as Crospinal. Whenever he brushed against a stalk, or got stuck in the roots and had to pull his foot out, black seeds pattered down all around, fronds curled away, hissing, and the thin, bluish panels flaked off the leaves, covering his uniform with scales.

  He even fell at one point, killing a swatch of growth, and killing more as he tried to get back up.

  “Single file,” said the elemental while Crospinal struggled, not offering any help.

  Crospinal brushed at himself. “What?”

  “It’s called single file. What you were describing. When one human walks behind the other.”

  Only when Crospinal looked up, toward the ceiling, could he see something other than trees: clouds drifted above, revealing hints, at last, of a distant grey structure. Another black crow passed overhead, or perhaps one he had seen before, in a wide circle. All around him were giant trees. He suppressed rising tension. Would Fox come soon, to tell him it was supper time, and take him home? But Fox was not here. Fox and Bear were gone. Though he had resented his chaperones, Crospinal would have liked very much to see them again. Would they chase this nameless one away?

  “What do you want with me?” Crospinal asked suddenly. “Why are you following me?”

  “To lesser and greater degrees,” replied the elemental, “that’s what we do, young master. Assist.”

  “I’m not like the others. You said that yourself. Yet you gave me a ride. The station fed me. The metal rat saved my life and operated on me. You’re trying to teach me all kinds of stuff. Why?”

  “I can only speak for myself.” The elemental bounded over a particularly large root nest, which had stymied Crospinal for some time, and landed next to him with precise placement of its feet, legs absorbing energy, emitting the slightest pneumatic hiss as it turned, just a few centimetres away, to look into his eyes; Crospinal saw his own wearied expression reflected. “We have a code, us machines.”

  Crospinal stared as long as he could. He could not read an elemental. There were no signs to read. They did not blink, nor have pupils—

  Abruptly, the ambients dropped in intensity, significantly, then dimmed again, until the garden around him was near-dark. Alarmed, Crospinal had frozen, looking past the silhouetted treetops as a third dimming of the lights occurred, plunging the landscape into darkness. “What’s happening?”

  “Night,” said the machine. “Rhythms are changing. But look, over there.”

  Crospinal had already seen the drone, a black shape emerging from the dark, and he ducked, pulling the elemental down by its straps. Huddling there, in the thin cover of trees and the abrupt shadow, they both watched the device best they could (though, for the elemental, the lack of light was most likely a nonissue).

  Descending from the polymer mists, making a pitch so high Crospinal was not sure if he imagined the sound, the drone hovered, poised over the garden. He held his breath. Why was he hiding? He had only seen drones flying far below, in the abyss under the catwalks. He had seen them watching as the depths were transformed. Much bigger up close, as long and blunt as a daybed, but the blackness of a void, and with the same cold energy as father’s banks.

  “What does it want?”

  Coming down to the tops of the trees, the drone pivoted slowly. There were tiny lights stitched around the nose. Twice, a brilliant sheet fanned out, illuminating harshly, but the light did not linger nor return for a third pass.

  “Quiet, young master.”

  In his attempt to seek cover, Crospinal had bruised innumerable leaves. Fragments from the dying plants would not come off, though he brushed at them frantically.

  The drone moved closer, angled down.

  Crospinal slowly mounted the elemental. He lay his torso forward, whispering, “Can you run faster than that thing?”

  “Of course.”

  Holding his hands out for the straps, which twined obediently up his forearms, the waist belt took him, too, holding onto his hips, pulling him snug into the saddle. The elemental backed away, moving deeper into the taller trees.

  “It wants something. . . .”

  The drone did not follow, though. One more time the light fanned from its nose, across where they were, casting shadows of the stalks suddenly against them stark as blades: Crospinal cringed.

  Before long, he could see the hovering device no longer. In the darkness, however, he could not see the footprints, either. He had lost the trail.

  The elemental was still able to step around and leap over root masses with ease, despite the lack of ambients. Elbows held in tight, as he had been instructed, Crospinal tried almost desperately not to brush against the filaments of the trees but, rocking in the saddle, he knew he left behind a wake of wounded and crumbling.

  “They’re just ahead,” said the elemental.

  “What are?” Thoughts of drones, photosensitive leaves, and the fallen darkness, all wiped away.

  “The runners.”

  Crospinal pulled hard on the straps to stop the elemental. He’d gone cold, and his heart was thudding. “Don’t just walk up to them,” he hissed. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Why not?”

  They were between the root masses of two very large trees. All light was fully dimmed, which Crospinal had not imagined possible. He could hardly see his own hands in front of him, clenching tight to the straps. He felt ill.

  “You said you wanted to meet a person. There are two, a hundred metres or so ahead. They can’t hear us. They don’t speak. They don’t even know we’re here. They’ll probably just stand there, baffled, or run away.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “They’re runners on some pointless patrol, or they’ve strayed, and been forgotten. They won’t hurt you unless that’s what they’ve been told to do. They barely think.”

  “I’ve never met another person.”

  “Never?”

  “Only father, and— Only dad.”

  “Well,” said the machine, “it’s not a big deal.”

  Crospinal’s hands were sweating: the capillaries of his mitts attempted to accommodate. “Go slow,” he said. “Will the lights come back on soon? I can’t see anything.”

  “That’s the whole point. They turn on in the morning. Night’s just getting started.”

  “Father was able to keep the darkness away. This is bad.”

  “You’re freaking out,” said the machine. “It’s just a pair of young runners. That’s all. Relax. Keep your hands in. Should I scan you?”

  “No.”

  Beyond the dim sh
ape of the root masses, he saw the gleam of a circular pool, like the one in the garden back home. As they advanced upon it, Crospinal made out the far edge of nutrient tiles, and gentle ripples on the water, reflecting what few lumens remained. Around the rim of the pool, roots could find no purchase and dangled, pale, puffy, waterlogged. In the darkness, these looked like dead fingers, trailing the surface.

  “Can’t you make the lights come back on? Isn’t there a controller here? I don’t like this. How do you keep darkness away?”

  “You should probably be quieter, young master, if you wish to remain undetected.”

  “I can’t see a damn thing.” Crospinal ground his teeth together. Was this a trap? The night, the drone, the obtuse elemental. There were no signs of other people. “Where are they?”

  The machine answered very quietly. “There are two, as you predicted, one predominately male, the other a female. Though you’d be hard-pressed to see the distinction. The girl’s helping the boy. They’re still there, on the far side of this reservoir. They were thirsty, but this water’s not for them. There’s something wrong with the boy’s legs.”

  Crospinal sat numbly in the saddle, cheeks burning again. The elemental had been messing with him all along. Lies and stories. Because it could not be possible that all boys had something wrong with their legs.

  The trees were silent, leaves limp. Crospinal discerned grey indications that the garden continued, on the far side of the water: the hint of a curve at the water’s edge, but no movement. Should he run away? Not wise, he supposed, in these conditions.

  The elemental took careful steps forward. Crospinal had more than his share of doubts. His head buzzed with thoughts, none of which could be pinned down or be considered helpful. Could he even share the same space as another living person, outside the pen? They would negate each other.

  Despite further protests from the elemental, Crospinal again dismounted. He stooped to drink, filling his cupped hands. The Dacron hissed and he felt the liquid roil in his palms. The water was cool, heavy, embellished with proteins and antitoxins. Crospinal soon felt more level-headed—