Rees turned his chair. Roch faced him, his corrupted mouth spread into a grin.
Rees tried to compute a way through this - to search for a lever that might influence this gross man and save his companion - but his rationality dissolved in a tide of rage. ‘You bastard, Roch,’ he hissed. ‘You’re murdering us. And yet you’re not as guilty as the folk up there who are letting you do it.’
Roch assumed an expression of mock surprise. ‘You’re not happy, Raftshit? Well, I’ll tell you what—’ He hauled himself to his feet. Face purpling, massive fists bunched, he grinned at Rees. ‘Why don’t you do something about it? Come on. Get out of that chair and face me, right now. And if you can put me down - why, then, you can tuck your little friend up again.’
Rees closed his eyes. Oh, by the Bones—
‘Don’t listen to him, Rees.’
‘I’m afraid it’s too late, Cipse,’ he whispered. He gripped the arms of his chair and tensed his back experimentally. ‘After what I was stupid enough to say he’s not going to let me off this star alive. At least this way you have a chance—’
He lifted his left foot from its supporting platform; it felt as if a cage of iron were strapped to his leg. Now the right . . .
And, without giving himself time to think about it, with a single, vein-bursting heave he pushed himself out of his chair.
Pain lapped in great sheets over the muscles of his thighs, calves and back. For a terrible instant he thought he was going to topple forward, to smash face-down into the iron. Then he was stable. His breathing was shallow and he could feel his heart rattle in its cage of bones; it was as if he bore a huge, invisible weight strapped to his back.
He looked up and faced Roch, tried to force a grin onto his swollen face.
‘Another attempt at self-sacrifice, Rees?’ Cipse said softly. ‘Godspeed, my friend.’
Roch’s smile seemed easy, as if the five gees were no more than a heavy garment. Now he lifted one massive leg, forced it through the air and drove his foot into the rust. Another step, and another; at last he was less than a yard from Rees, close enough for Rees to smell the sourness of his breath. Then, grunting with the effort, he lifted one huge fist.
Rees tried to lift his arms over his head, but it was as if they were bound to his sides by massive ropes. He closed his eyes. For some reason a vision of the young, white stars at the fringe of the Nebula came to him; and his fear dissolved.
A shadow crossed his face.
He opened his eyes. He saw red sky - and pain lanced through his skull.
But he was alive, and the loading of the star’s five gees had gone. There was a cool surface at his back and neck; he ran his hands over it and felt the gritty surface of an iron plate. The plate juddered beneath him; his stomach tightened and he gagged, dry. His mouth was sour, his tongue like a piece of wood, and he wondered how long he had lain unconscious.
Cautiously he propped himself on one elbow. The plate was about ten feet on a side; over it had been cast a rough net to which he was tethered by a rope around his waist. A pile of roughly cut iron was fixed near the centre of the plate. The plate had one other occupant: the barman, Jame, who regarded Rees incuriously as he chewed on a piece of old-looking meat-sim. ‘You’re awake, then,’ he said. ‘I thought Roch had bust your skull wide open; you’ve been out for hours.’
Rees stared at him; then the plate gave another shudder. Rees sat up, testing the gravity - it was tiny and wavering - and looked around.
The Belt hung in the air perhaps half a mile away, surrounding its star kernel like a crude bracelet around a child’s wrist.
So he was flying. On a metal plate? Vertigo swept through him and he wrapped his fingers in the net.
At length he made his way slowly to the edge of the plate, ducked his head to the underside. He saw four jet nozzles fixed at the corners of the plate, the small drive boxes obviously taken from Belt rooftops. Occasionally, in response to tugs by Jame on control strings, the nozzles would spout steam and the plate would kick through the air.
So the miners had invented flying machines while he had been gone. Why, he wondered, did they need them all of a sudden?
He straightened up and sat once more facing Jame. Now the barman was sucking water from a globe; at first he acted as if unaware of Rees, but at length, with a hint of pity on his broad, bearded features, he passed Rees the globe.
Rees allowed the water to pour over his tongue, slide down his parched throat. He passed the globe back. ‘Come on, Jame. Tell me what’s going on. What happened to Cipse?’
‘Who?’
‘The Nav—The Scientist. The ill one.’
Jame looked blank. ‘One of them died down there. Heart packed up, I heard. A fat old guy. Is that who you mean?’
Rees sighed. ‘Yes, Jame; that’s who I mean.’
Jame studied him; then he pulled a bottle from his waistband, unstopped it and took a deep draught.
‘Jame, why aren’t I dead also?’
‘You should be. Roch thought he had killed you; that’s why he didn’t hit you any more. He had you hauled up and brought to the damn Quartermaster’s - can you believe it? - and then you started to groan a bit, move around. Roch was all for finishing you off there and then, but I told him, “Not in my bar, you don’t.” . . . Then Sheen showed up.’
Something like hope spread through Rees. ‘Sheen?’
‘She knew I was due to leave on this ferry so I guess that gave her the idea to get you off the Belt.’ Jame’s eyes slid past Rees. ‘Sheen is a decent woman. Maybe this was the only way she could think of to save you. But I’ll tell you, Roch was happy enough to send you out here. A slower, painful death for you; that’s what he thought he was settling for . . .’
‘What? Where are you taking me?’ Rees, confused, questioned Jame further; but the barman lapsed into silence, nursing his bottle.
Under Jame’s direction the little craft descended into the Nebula. The atmosphere became thicker, warmer, harder to breathe; it was like the air in a too-enclosed room. The Nebula grew dark; the enfeebled stars shone brightly against the gloom. Rees spent long hours at the lip of the plate, staring into the abyss below. In the darkness at the very heart of the Nebula Rees fancied he could see all the way to the Core, as if he were back in the Observatory.
There was no way of telling the time; Rees estimated several shifts had passed before Jame said abruptly, ‘You mustn’t judge us, you know.’
Rees looked up. ‘What?’
Jame was nursing a half-finished bottle; he lay awkwardly against the plate, eyes misty with drink. ‘We all have to survive. Right? And when the shipments of supplies from the Raft dried up, there was only one place to go for food . . .’ He thumped his bottle against the plate and fixed Rees with a stare. ‘I opposed it, I can tell you. I said it was better that we should die than trade with such people. But it was a group decision. And I accept it.’ He waggled a finger at Rees. ‘It was the choice of all of us, and I accept my share of the responsibility.’
Rees stared, baffled, and Jame seemed to sober a little. Then surprise, even wonder, spread across the barman’s face. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’
‘Jame, I haven’t the faintest idea. Nobody told us exiles a damn thing—’ Jame half laughed, scratching his head. Then he glanced around the sky, picking out a few of the brighter stars, clearly judging the plate’s position. ‘Well, you’ll find out soon enough. We’re nearly there. Take a look, Rees. Below us, to my right somewhere—’
Rees turned onto his belly and thrust his face below the plate. At first he could see nothing in the direction Jame had indicated - then, squinting, he made out a small, dark speck of matter.
The hours wore on. Jame carefully adjusted the thrust from the jets. The speck grew to a ball the colour of dried blood. At length Rees made out human figures standing on or crawling over all sides of the ball, as if glued there; judging from their size the sphere must have been perhaps thirty yards wide.<
br />
Jame joined him. With absent-minded companionship he passed Rees his bottle. ‘Here. Now, look, boy; what you have to remember if you want to last here more than a half-shift is that these are human beings just like you and me . . .’
They were nearing the surface now. The sphere-world was quite crowded with people, adults and children; they went naked, or wore ragged tunics, and were uniformly short, squat and well-muscled. One man stood under their little craft, watching their approach.
The surface of the worldlet was composed of sheets of something like dried cloth. Hair sprouted from it here and there. In one place the sheets were ripped, exposing the interior structure of the worldlet.
Rees saw the white of bone.
He took a shuddering pull at Jame’s bottle.
The man below raised his head; his eyes met Rees’s, and the Boney raised his arms as if in welcome.
9
Jame brought the plate to a smooth landing on the crackling surface of the worldlet. Silently he set to work unlashing the batches of iron from the net. Rees clung to the net and stared wildly around. The cramped horizon was made up of sheets of hairy, brownish material, stirring sluggishly. Again Rees saw the white of bone protruding through breaks in the surface.
He felt his bladder loosen. He closed his eyes and clamped down. Come on, Rees; you’ve faced greater perils than this, more immediate dangers . . .
But the Boneys were a myth from his childhood, sleep-time monsters to frighten recalcitrant children. Surely, in a universe which contained the calm, machined interior of the Bridge, there was no room for such ugliness?
‘Welcome,’ a high, dry voice said. ‘So you’ve yet another guest for us, Jame?’ The man Rees had seen from the air was standing over the plate now, accepting an armful of iron from Jame. A few conventional-looking food packages were stacked at the man’s feet. Briskly Jame bundled them onto the plate and fixed them to the net.
The Boney was squat and barrel-chested, his head a wrinkled, hairless globe. He was dressed in a crudely cut sheet of surface material. He grinned and Rees saw that his cavernous mouth was totally without teeth. ‘What’s the matter, boy? Aren’t you going to give old Quid a hand?’
Rees found his fingers tightening about the strands of the net. Jame stood over him with a package of iron. ‘Come on, lad. Take this stuff and get off the plate. You haven’t any choice, you know. And if you show you’re afraid it will go the worse for you.’
Rees felt a whimper rising in his throat; it was as if all the revolting speculation he had ever heard about the Boneys’ way of life had returned to unman him.
He clamped his lips together. Damn it, he was a Scientist Second Class. He summoned up the steady, tired gaze of Hollerbach. He would come through this. He had to.
He untwined his fingers from the netting and stood up, forcing the rational half of his mind to work. He felt heavy, sluggish; the gravity was perhaps one and a half gee. So the mass of the little planet must have been - what? Fifty tons?
He took the iron and, without hesitation, stepped off the plate and onto the surface. His feet sank a few inches into the stuff. It was soft, like a coarse cloth, and covered with hair strands which scratched his ankles; and, oh, it was warm, like the hide of some huge animal—
Or human.
Now, to his horror, his bladder released; dampness slid down his legs.
Quid opened his toothless mouth and roared with laughter.
Jame, from the security of the plate, said: ‘There’s no shame, lad. Remember that.’
The strange trade was over, and Jame worked his controls. With a puff of hot steam the plate lifted, leaving four charred craters in the soft surface. Within a few seconds the plate had dwindled into a fist-sized toy in the air.
Rees dropped his eyes. His urine had formed a pool about his feet and was seeping into the surface.
Quid stepped towards him, his footsteps crunching. ‘You’re a Boney now, lad! Welcome to the arsehole of the Nebula.’ He gestured to the puddle at Rees’s feet. ‘And I wouldn’t worry about that.’ He grinned and licked his lips. ‘You’ll be glad of it when you’re a bit thirstier . . .’
Foul speculations ran through Rees’s mind; he shuddered, but kept his gaze steady on Quid. ‘What do I do now?’
Again Quid laughed. ‘Well, that’s up to you. Stand here and wait for a ride that will never come. Or follow me.’ He winked and, the iron under his arm, strode away across the yielding surface.
Rees stood there for a few seconds, reluctant to leave even the faint shadow of his link with the world away from this place. But he really had no option; this grotesque character was his only fixed point.
Shifting the weight of iron in his arms he stepped cautiously across the hot, uneven ground.
They walked about halfway round the worldlet’s circumference. They passed crude shacks scattered in random patterns over the surface; most of the buildings were simple tents of surface material, barely enough to keep out the rain, but others were more substantial, based, Rees saw, on iron frames.
Quid laughed ‘Impressed, miner? We’re coming up in society, aren’t we? See, they all used to shun us. The Raft, the miners, everybody. Much too proud to associate with the likes of the Boneys, after the “crime” we commit to live . . . But now the stars are going out. Eh, miner? Suddenly they’re all struggling to survive; and suddenly they’re learning the lessons we learned, all those thousands of shifts ago.’ He leaned closer to Rees and winked again. ‘It’s all trade, you see. For a bit of iron, a few luxuries, we fill the miners’ empty food pods. As long as they get a nicely packaged pod they don’t have to think too hard about what’s in it. Am I right?’ And he laughed again, spraying Rees’s face with spittle.
Rees shrank away, unable to speak.
A few children emerged from the huts to stare at Rees, their faces dull, their naked bodies squat and filthy. The adults barely registered his passing; they sat in tight circles in their huts, chanting a low, haunting song. Rees could not make out words but the melody was cyclic and compelling.
Quid said, ‘So sorry if we seem antisocial. There’s a whale in the Coreward sky, see; soon we’ll be singing him close.’ Quid’s eyes grew dreamy and he licked his lips.
Skirting a particularly shabby hut Rees’s foot broke through the surface. He found himself ankle-deep in foul, stinking waste. With a cry he backed away and began rubbing his feet against a cleaner section of surface.
Quid roared with laughter.
From within the hut a voice told him, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.’
Rees glanced up, startled by the voice’s familiarity. Forgetting the filth he stepped closer to the gloom of the hut, peered inside. A man sat alone. He was short and blond, and his frame was gaunt and wrapped in the remnants of a tunic. His face was obscured by a tangle of beard - ‘Gord. Is it you?’
The man who had once been the Belt’s chief engineer nodded ruefully. ‘Hello, Rees. I can’t say I expected to see you. I thought you’d stowed away to the Raft.’
Rees glanced around; Quid seemed prepared to wait for him, evidently highly amused. Rees squatted down and briefly outlined his story. Gord nodded sympathetically. His eyes were bloodshot and seemed to loom out of the darkness.
‘But what are you doing here?’
Gord shrugged. ‘One foundry implosion too many. One death too many. Finally they decided it was all my fault and sent me down here . . . There are quite a few of us Belters here, you know. At least, quite a few have been brought here . . . Times have worsened since you escaped. A few thousand shifts ago exiling someone down here would have been unthinkable. We barely acknowledged the existence of the place; until we started trading I wasn’t even sure the damn Boneys existed.’ He reached for a globe of some liquid; he raised it to his lips, suppressing a shudder as he drank.
Rees, watching him, became abruptly aware of his own powerful thirst.
Gord lowered the globe and wiped his lips. ‘But I’ll tell
you, in a way I was glad when they finally found me guilty.’ His eyes were red. ‘I was so sick of it, you see; the deaths, the stink of burning, the struggle to rebuild walls that couldn’t even support themselves—’ He dropped his eyes. ‘You see, Rees, those of us who are sent here have earned what’s happening to us. It’s a judgement.’
‘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.
Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring Page 14