‘I’m not a cruel man, Dura. I believe in treating my coolies as well as I can afford. And . . .’
‘Why?’ Dura found herself snarling. ‘Because you’re such a noble person?’ He smiled. ‘No. Because it’s economically more efficient for me to have a happy and healthy workforce.’ He laughed, and he looked a little more human to Dura. ‘That should reassure you if nothing else does. I’m sure you’ll be fine here, Dura. Why, as soon as you learn the trade I don’t see why we shouldn’t be thinking of you as a future supervisor, or skills specialist.’
She forced herself to smile back. ‘All right. Thank you. I understand you’re doing your best for me. What will I have to do?’
He indicated the rows of ripening wheat dangling from the forest ceiling above them. ‘In a few weeks we’ll be ready for the harvest, and that’s when the real work begins. But for now your job is to ensure that the growth of the wheat is unimpeded. Look for the obvious, like boars crushing the stems. Or trespassers.’ He looked saddened. ‘We get a lot of that nowadays . . . scavengers, I mean. A lot of poverty in the City, you see. Watch out for blight. Any kind of discoloration, or growth abnormalities . . . If we get any diseases we isolate the area and sterilize it fast, before the infection spreads.
‘Look for wild grass, any plants growing among the roots, damaging the wheat. We don’t want anything else absorbing the lovely Crust isotopes which were meant for our crop . . . And that includes young trees. You’d be surprised how fast they grow.’ He spread his hands wide. His enthusiasm was almost endearing, Dura thought. ‘You wouldn’t think it but this part of the Crust was all native forest, once.’
‘Remarkable,’ Dura cut in dryly, remembering the broad, unspoiled forests of her home area in the far upflux.
Frenk looked at her uncertainly.
They met another worker, a woman who drifted with her head lost in the green-gold crop and her legs dangling down into the Air. The woman was hauling small saplings down from between the green stems of the wheat and shoving the weeds into a sack bound to her waist.
‘Ah,’ Frenk said with a smile. ‘One of my best workers. Rauc, meet Dura. Just arrived here. Perhaps you’d be good enough to show her around . . .’
The woman drifted slowly down from the dangling crop. Over her head, Rauc was wearing her Air-helmet, a veil of soft, semitransparent gauze which covered a broad-brimmed hat. The curtain bulged out a little, showing that it was being fed by Air from the woman’s tank.
Frenk Waved fussily away.
Rauc was slim and wore a simple smock of grubby leather, though her arms were bare. After Frenk’s departure she regarded Dura sombrely for a few moments without speaking. Then she untied her veil and lifted it. Her face was thin and tired, her eyecups dark; she looked about Dura’s own age. ‘So you’re the upfluxer,’ she said, her voice containing the flat whine of the City-born.
‘Yes.’
‘We heard you were coming. We were glad. Do you know why?’
Dura shrugged, uncaring.
‘Because you upfluxers are strong . . . You’ll work hard, help us meet our quotas.’ She sniffed. ‘As long as you don’t show us up, you’ll be popular enough.’
‘I understand.’ This woman was trying to warn her, she realized. ‘Thanks, Rauc.’
Rauc led her beneath the golden ceiling-fields back towards the cluster of structures at the heart of the farm, where Dura had been dropped on first arrival. There was no sign of Qos Frenk’s car; Dura imagined him returning to his cosy, stuffy home inside the City. Now, in mid-shift, the little huts seemed deserted: they were small, boxy buildings of wood, dangling by lengths of rope from the truncated stems of Crust-trees. There was a small, unkempt herd of pigs. Rauc said the herd was kept - not for commercial purposes - but to provide meat for the coolies, leather for smocks and hats. Rauc showed her small stores of clothing, Air-sacks and tools. There was a bakery, its inner walls blackened by heat; the coolies’ staple food, bread, was made for them here. A large, overweight man laboured in the gloom of the bakery; he scowled at Dura and Rauc as they peered in at him. Rauc pulled a face. ‘Well, the bread’s fresh,’ she said. ‘But that’s all you can say for it . . . The lowest-quality wheat ends up here, that and any gleanings we can find, while the best stuff is shipped off to Parz.’
There was a dormitory building, a small, cramped box packed with rows of cocoons. About half the cocoons were occupied. A woman’s sleepy face lifted to stare at them before flopping back into sleep, mouth open and hair dangling. Rauc pointed out a vacant cocoon Dura would be able to claim for herself. But Dura couldn’t imagine sleeping in here, breathing in the snores and farts of others, while the fresh Air of the Mantle swept away all around her. It made her realize, jarringly, that she was going to be as out of place here as in Parz itself. Most of the coolies were, after all, City-born - and mostly from the Downside where conditions were even more cramped than the average. So off-shift coolies shovelled themselves into this stinking box, listening to each other breathe and pretending that they weren’t stranded out here in the Mantle, but were tucked away inside the cosy confines of Parz.
Rauc smiled at her. ‘I think we’ll get along, Dura. You can tell me about your people. And I’ll show you how to get around here.’
‘Frenk seems all right . . .’
Rauc looked surprised. ‘Oh, he’s decent enough. But that doesn’t matter. Not day to day, it doesn’t. I’ll introduce you to our section supervisor, Leeh. She makes a difference . . . But not as much as she likes to think. Now Robis - who runs the stores - that’s where the real power lies. Get him to smile on you and the world is a brighter place.’
Dura hesitated. ‘Frenk says I might get to be a supervisor, eventually.’
‘He says that to everyone,’ Rauc said dismissively. ‘Come on, let’s find Leeh; she’s probably off in the fields somewhere . . .’ But she hesitated, looking searchingly at Dura. Then, glancing around to check they were unobserved, she dug into a deep pocket in her smock and drew out a small object. ‘Here,’ she said, placing the object in Dura’s hand. ‘This will keep you well.’
It was a tiny five-spoked Wheel, like the one she’d seen around the neck of Toba Mixxax . . . a model of the execution device in the Market Place. ‘Thank you,’ Dura said slowly. ‘I think I understand what this means.’
‘You do?’ Now Rauc’s look was becoming wary.
Dura hastened to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t betray you.’
‘The Wheel is illegal in Parz City,’ Rauc said. ‘In theory it’s illegal everywhere, throughout the Mantle . . . wherever the Guards’ crossbows can reach. But we’re a long way from Parz here. The Wheel is tolerated on the ceiling-farms. Something to keep us happy . . . That old fool Frenk says it’s economically efficient for us to be allowed to practise our faith.’
Dura smiled. ‘That sounds like Frenk.’
‘ . . . But you never know. Do upfluxers follow the Wheel?’
‘No.’ She studied Rauc. She didn’t seem very strong, or much of a rebel; but apparently this Wheel business gave her comfort. ‘I saw a Wheel used as an execution tool.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why is it a symbol of faith?’
‘Because it’s used to kill.’ Rauc looked into her eyes, searching for understanding. ‘So many human lives have been Broken that the Wheel, the very shape of it, has become something human in itself. Or more than human. Do you see? By keeping the Wheel close by us we are staying close to the noblest, bravest part of us.’
Rauc’s speech was intense and earnest. Dura thumbed the little Wheel doubtfully. The cult must be quite widespread. After all, Toba Mixxax was an adherent . . . a ceiling-farm owner. Widespread through the Star, then, and through society itself.
If these Wheel cultists ever found a leader, they could be formidable opponents for the mysterious Committee which ran the City.
Rauc looked tired. ‘Come on. Let’s find Leeh, and get you started.’
Side by si
de the two women Waved through the orderly Air of the farm, the golden stalks of wheat suspended above them.
Farr was dimly aware of the other workers pulling away from him, sly looks conveying their pleasure at his discomfiture. Chunks of Crust-tree rolled past on their conveyor belt, ignored.
There was a growl. ‘No.’ Bzya, Farr realized, hovering close behind him.
Hosch’s bony head swivelled at Bzya, eyecups deep and empty. ‘You’re questioning me, Fisherman?’
‘This one’s too young,’ Bzya said, laying a huge hand on Farr’s shoulder. Farr, unwilling to lead his friend into trouble, tried to shrug the hand away.
‘But he was recruited for this.’ A muscle in the supervisor’s cheek was twitching. ‘He’s small and light, but he’s got that upfluxer strength. And we’re short of able-bodied . . .’
‘He’s got no skills. No experience. And we’ve taken a lot of losses recently, Hosch. It’s too much of a risk.’
Hosch’s cheek muscle seemed to have a life of its own. When he replied, it was in a sudden scream. ‘I’m not asking your advice, you Xeelee-lover! And if you’re so concerned for this Piglet-turd you can come down as well. Got that? Got that?’
Farr dropped his head. Of course, Hosch wasn’t being logical. If he - Farr - was being taken down because of his size, then surely Bzya shouldn’t be . . .
Bzya simply nodded, apparently unmoved by Hosch’s anger or by his own sudden assignment to peril. ‘Who’s the third?’
‘I am.’ Hosch’s rage still showed in the pulsing of muscles in his face, in the quivering of his eyecup rims. ‘I am. Now get moving, you Pig-lovers, and maybe we’ve got a chance to get down there before the Quantum Sea congeals . . .’
Farr and Bzya followed Hosch out of the hopper chamber. Hosch’s continued abuse passed unheard through Farr’s head, and he could only remember what Bzya had told him about Hosch and responsibility.
11
The chamber where they were to board the Bell was at the very base of the City. The chamber had walls, an upper surface - but no floor. Farr, following Hosch and Bzya, clung to guide ropes and gazed down into clear Air, drinking in its freshness after days of the stale stenches of the Harbour. He was aware of the immense mass of the City above him; it creaked softly, like some brooding animal.
The Bell itself was a sphere of hardened, battered wood two mansheights across. Hoops of Corestuff were wrapped around it. The Bell was suspended from an immense pulley which was almost lost in the darkness above Farr’s head. More cables attached the Bell loosely to the Spine. Farr could make out pale patches in the dimness above, faces of Harbour workers close to the pulley.
The Spine was a pillar of wood which plunged, trailing cables, out of this chamber and speared through the thick Air beneath the City. It turned into a dark line, barely visible, curving slowly to follow the flux of the Magfield. Cables trailed along its length to reach far, far down, into the distant, bruised-purple, lethal mass of the underMantle.
Farr, following the Spine’s curve, felt his heart slow inside him.
The Bell seemed impossibly fragile. How could it possibly protect him from dissolution in the depths of the underMantle, hovering over the boiling surface of the Quantum Sea itself? Surely it would be crushed like a leaf; no wonder so many Fishermen lost their lives.
Hosch opened up a large door in the side of the Bell and clambered stiffly inside. Bzya prodded Farr forward. As he approached the sphere Farr saw how badly scuffed and scratched the outer surface was. He ran a finger along one deep scar; it looked as if some animal had attacked this fragile-looking device, gouging it with teeth or nails.
Reassuring, he thought drily.
Farr had expected the interior of the Bell to be something like Mixxax’s car, with its comfortable seats and light-admitting windows. Instead he entered a pocket of gloom - in fact he almost collided with Hosch. The only windows were small panels of clearwood which hardly admitted any light; wood-lamps gave off a smoky, apologetic green glow. There was a pole running the length of the sphere’s axis, and Farr clung to this. There was a small control panel - with two worn-looking switches and a lever - and the hull was bulky with lockers and what looked like tanks of Air.
Bzya lumbered into the Bell. The interior was suddenly crowded; and as the Fisherman’s huge hands wrapped around the support pole the Bell was filled with Bzya’s strong, homely stench. Hosch clambered around them both to pull closed the hatch - a massive disc of wood which fitted snugly into its frame.
They waited in the almost complete gloom. There was a busy scraping from all around the hull. Farr, peering through the windows, saw Harbour workers adjusting the position of the Corestuff hoops so that they surrounded the sphere evenly, covering the hatchway. Farr glanced from Hosch to Bzya. Bzya returned his stare with a patient acceptance, the darkness softening the lines of his scars. The supervisor glared into space, angry and tense.
There was a humming, strangely regular. The whole craft vibrated with it. It seemed to permeate his very being; he could feel his capillaries contracting. He looked at Bzya, but the Fisherman had closed his good eye, his face set; his damaged eyecup was a tunnel to infinity.
. . . And something changed. Something was taken away from Farr, lifted for the first time in his life. The only time he had felt anything remotely like this was during that last, fateful hunt with the Human Beings, when he had experienced that disorienting fear of falling. What was happening to him? He felt his grasp of the support pole loosen, his fingers slip from the wood. He cried out, drifting backward.
Bzya’s strong hand grasped his hair-tubes and hauled him back to the pole; Farr wrapped his arms and legs around the solidity of the wood.
Hosch was laughing, his voice grating.
Somebody rapped on the Bell with a heavy fist. Now there was a sensation of movement - jerking, swaying; Farr could hear cables rattle against the Bell and against each other.
So it had begun. In brisk, bewildering silence, they were descending towards the underMantle.
‘The boy hasn’t been prepared for any of this, Hosch.’ There was no trace of anger in Bzya’s voice. ‘I told you. How can he function if his ignorance leaves him paralysed by fear?’
‘Talk to the upfluxer if you want.’ The supervisor turned his thin, creased, self-absorbed face away.
‘What’s happening to me, Bzya? I feel strange. Is it just because we’re descending, following the Spine?’
‘No.’ Bzya shook his head. ‘We are descending, but it’s more than that. Listen carefully, Farr; it’s important that you understand what’s happening to you. Maybe it will keep you alive.’
These words, simply spoken, evoked more fear in the boy than all of Hosch’s ranting. ‘Tell me.’
‘As we descend, the Air gets thicker. You understand that, don’t you? . . .’
Farr understood. In the deadly depths of the underMantle, pressures and densities were so great that nuclei were crammed together, forced into each other. It was impossible for the structures of bonded nuclei which composed human bodies - and all the material which comprised Farr’s world - to remain stable. The nuclei dissolved into the neutron superfluid that was the Air; and protons freed from the nuclei formed a superconducting fluid in the neutron mix.
At last, from the Quantum Sea inwards, the Star was like a single, immense nucleus; no nuclear-based life could persist.
‘How can this Bell of wood protect us? Won’t the wood just dissolve?’
‘It would . . . if not for the Corestuff hoops.’
The hoops were hollow tubes of hyperonic Corestuff. The tubes contained proton superconductor, extracted from the underMantle. More tubes led up through the cables to dynamos in the Harbour which generated electrical currents in the Bell’s hoops.
‘The currents in the hoops generate huge magnetic fields,’ Bzya said. ‘Like our own Magfield. And they protect us. The fields are like an extra wall around the Bell, to insulate it from the pressures.’
&nb
sp; ‘But what’s making me feel so strange? Is it this magfield of the Bell’s?’
‘No.’ Bzya smiled. ‘The hoops are expelling the Magfield - the Star’s Magfield, I mean - from the interior of the Bell.
‘We all grow up in the Magfield. The Magfield affects us all the time . . . We use the Magfield to move about, when we Wave. Farr, for the first time in your life you can’t feel the Magfield . . . For the first time, you can’t tell which way up you are.’
There was no way of tracking time. The silence was broken only by the clatter of cables, the dull thud of the body of the Bell against the Spine, and the almost subvocal, angry mumblings of Hosch. Farr kept his eyes closed and hoped for sleep.
After an unknowable period the Bell gave a savage lurch, almost jolting the axial bar from Farr’s hands. He clung to it, peering around the dimly lit cabin. Something had changed; he could feel it. But what? Had the Bell hit something?
The Bell was still moving, but the quality of its motion had changed - or so the pit of his stomach told him. They were still descending, he was sure; but now the Bell’s descent was much smoother, and the occasional collisions of the Bell against the Spine had ceased.
It felt as if the Bell were floating, loose, through the underMantle.
Bzya laid a massive, kindly hand on his arm. ‘It’s nothing to fear.’
‘I’m not . . .’
‘We’ve come free of the Spine, that’s all.’
Farr felt his eyes grow round. ‘Why? Is something wrong?’
‘No.’ The cabin’s small, woodburning lamps sent a soft glow into the pit of Bzya’s ruined eye. ‘It’s designed to be this way. Look, the Spine only goes down a metre or so from the City. That’s deeper than anyone could Wave unaided. But we have to go much, much deeper than that. Now our Bell is descending without the Spine to guide it.
‘The cables still connect us to Parz. And the current they’re carrying will continue to protect us, and the cable, from the conditions here, as long as we descend. But . . .’
Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring Page 64