The Fall of the Families

by Phillip Mann

  “Who killed Laurel?” he asked suddenly.

  But the only sound he heard was the wind in the Rout trees and the only sight the sluggish waves, maroon in the evening.

  “Damn your silence. You and Odin. You are a pair. Silent when I need you most.”

  THAT WHICH DID THE KILLING IS DYING. YOU WILL KNOW THE NAME ONE DAY. BE PATIENT, MAN. FOR ALL YOUR ANGER, THE SUN WILL NOT MOVE A WHIT FASTER. THERE, THAT IS A SAYING FROM THE GREAT DIPHILUS. WE HAVE TALKED ENOUGH FOR ONE DAY.

  The Diphilus became suddenly opaque, like a pool of milk, and all of its colours were gone.

  On his way down the hill, Pawl saw the Hooded Parasol returning. He wondered at its size. Drinking in the sun it had expanded, and now its petals were spread like a great funnel over hundreds of square metres. Pawl remembered Neddelia Proctor’s ship hovering over his island … but this was larger. Below the Parasol trailed gleaming threads like saliva. Stuck to the threads were blobs of white. When the Parasol grew closer Pawl saw that the blobs were sheep. He also saw that there was the body of a man trapped in the threads.

  That evening Pawl played Corfu. All the visiting aliens except the Diphilus gathered to watch. Pawl sat cross-legged on the floor and the Hammer crouched opposite him. When it breathed it turned its mouth away, but the eyes at the end of its hammer neck never left the board. Pawl was conscious of the Parasol that floated a few yards behind him. It had contracted down to the size of a small tent and was a uniform brown colour. Pawl guessed that it was dozing.

  The Lyre Beast had changed position and now hung like a broad untidy tapestry above the small Corfu board. Occasionally it rippled as though moved by a light breeze, and tinkled quietly.

  Reception back to Wynn on Bennet Island was clear and Pawl was glad to hear that calm voice whisper in his ear.

  Trader made the first move, advancing three of his white counters aggressively. Pawl answered cautiously, as though afraid to engage, by moving only one of his black counters and that laterally.

  For five rounds of moves he did just sufficient to avoid an onslaught. He held the Hammer at bay while Wynn analysed the possibilities. And then Wynn spotted the grand strategy. Pawl would be attacked by three even moves, forcing him to reply with even moves, and that would inevitably leave him open to an odd/even combination attack, especially since the Hammer was already well-placed.

  “Given the present state you face defeat in five moves,” whispered Wynn. “His only weakness is down the centre. I believe he thinks you are ignorant of that. If you play a seven move, he will have to answer with a five and that will squander his symmetry. Then play a six directly down the centre. I do not believe you can win, but you will give him food for thought and you will have blooded him.”

  Pawl did as Wynn advised and was pleased to see the Hammer’s neck rise and wrinkle in surprise. It played hastily, making two mistakes, and at the end of a flurry of trading and taking they were both weakened and just about on equal terms.

  The Hammer now settled lower. Pawl was interested to see that it began to use the feeler that resembled a human hand to move its pieces.

  Pawl attacked and was taken. The black tongue jutted out from the Hammer’s lips. It attacked, forcing open Pawl’s defence, though at a price; and then suddenly the game was over after two swift exchanges. The Hammer won but the game had gone to fifty-seven moves and both sides were mauled.

  “It is a fine player. It builds like music which I can understand. But it is irritational too. So you should never trust the Hammer beyond one move ahead. It beat us fairly but we will not make the same mistakes again.” So said Wynn.

  As for the Hammer, it was pleased with the game. Trader replaced the pieces slowly and replayed the game backwards, pausing for a long time over Pawl’s sudden counter-attack. Then it swept the pieces from the board and bowed its sting to Pawl in recognition. It drummed softly.

  “Trader say thank you,” murmured a tired Lake, who sat by its claws. “Play again tomorrow.”

  The next morning, just as Pawl was lifting Odin into the flyer in readiness for the short flight back to Bennet Island, the Spideret came bounding up from the underground domes. It ran straight towards them and stopped with one of its powerful hairy legs resting on the flyer’s flimsy back. Pawl saw the creature’s mandibles grate together and heard, much to his astonishment, words. It was not easy speech. It was a harsh unmusical sound. It was a rough adaptation of one organ to serve unusual needs and yet the Spideret persisted, forcing words.

  “I speak. Much practice. Lapis knew the signs. You not know the signs. I speak.” It paused. Its dull eyes stirred in their nest and it opened its mandibles wide, like a cat yawning. It settled again. “You play. Last night. We talked. Decision made. Now, you gain power over Auster. Great workshops there. Now, you capture Proctor ship. We copy. Now, you set Hammer free on Forge. Now. All now.”

  “Are you giving me instructions?” asked Pawl.

  “Yes. Orders. Now.”

  “Did you know Lapis?”

  “Not me. Sister know. Lapis good. Lapis knew the signs.”

  “What signs?”

  “Signs of our language. Now you go.” A stiff feeler swung round and pushed Pawl, urging him into the small flyer. “We are one now.”

  There was no argument. Pawl climbed into the small flyer, felt the compression as its hatch closed and the mouse-scamper over his shoulders as the safety web settled and locked. He spoke the key words and the flyer lifted, rocking on its A-G gimbals, and then it spun out over the red sea with a whine. The Spideret crouched on the shore and stared dully up as Pawl swung round over the mainland hills in a final loop before heading towards Bennet Island. When it saw that Pawl was finally on his way, the Spideret ran back to the low grey domes and disappeared inside.

  “Orders,” said Pawl to Odin.

  “It is not at ease with your language. It sounded stranger than it meant. If you could understand it when it said, ‘we all one now,’ you would feel very proud.”

  Pawl did not reply. He had still not got used to the idea that he was now part of a vast conspiracy; that his personal vengeance had achieved such scale. The wrenching sound of the Spideret speaking his language had cut through to him. It had frightened him.

  The heavy red waves, like ropy lava, slipped by and the steep cliffs of Bennet Island grew. Within minutes he was over the island and the flyer banked and began to drop, slipping sideways through the air towards the tumble of bricks and gardens and domes and pillars that was Pawl’s home. His Tower shone a bright and clear red and its burnished roof glinted in the early sun. People were about, pointing up at him and gathering in small groups on the lawn.

  Pawl let the flyer steady and settle of its own free will. It landed outside the old main building on the soft grass. The whine of the oscillators had barely died before there were people at the door.

  Pawl climbed ungainly out and was met by a barrage of shouting. Well to the front was Lan Tancred, and Pawl waved for silence and motioned for the man to speak.

  “We were attacked,” said Lan Tancred breathlessly. “A great bird….”

  “Not a bird, a flower it was … a jellyfish.”

  “Flowers don’t fly….”

  Bedlam was about to break out again and Pawl raised his hands. The crowd fell silent, looking at him. In all the excitement Pawl had forgotten the Hooded Parasol with its ration of sheep and a man.

  He faced a crowd of terrified people. Only Peron, standing at the back and with his scarred face cocked sideways, seemed relaxed, but he was staring at Pawl and his expression was curious.

  “Tell me clearly what happened,” said Pawl. “Lan Tancred will speak.”

  “Well, Master Pawl. It was late in the afternoon. Most of us were busy, going about our jobs, when we heard the children shouting that there was something in the sky. Some of us thought it must be you returning and we came outside to welcome you back. But everything was in shadow, and when we looked up we saw this bird or flower or what
ever with great spread purple wings wafting slowly, and hanging there right above the house. I’d never seen anything like it. And the smell. It made me sick. Then we saw little holes, like pores, open up on the petals and down came these long threads like spit. We thought it might be trying to anchor, but it wasn’t. The spittle trailed over the sheep and when it touched them it seized them and began to draw them up, even though they writhed. Markveldt the butcher saw what was happening, and he had his cleavers about him in his apron, and he ran under the beast down to the sheep and began to cut at the threads. He freed one, and we saw that the threads could be cut like tripe, but then one of the threads wrapped round Markveldt, and though he struggled and tried to cut above his head he couldn’t get his arms free.

  “He was lifted off the ground and the creature, whatever it was, went straight up into the air with Markveldt and a few sheep dangling from it, but he wasn’t struggling any more.”

  “Where is Mrs Markveldt?” asked Pawl.

  “Inside. We put her to sleep. She was going crazy. What was it, Master Pawl?”

  “Will it come back?” chimed in another voice.

  “Where did it come from?”

  The questions began to multiply.

  Pawl again called for silence. He needed to think quickly. He needed to satisfy the questions.

  “I saw the creature that attacked you,” he said distinctly. “I killed it in the air, far away, out over the ocean. I did not see any sheep or a man, but I did see it fall.”

  “What was it?” asked several voices, uncertain and still afraid.

  “A Maw. A mutant Maw. Created by one of my ancestors. I thought they were all extinct. Perhaps they are now. None have been seen for centuries. They are very weak and very vulnerable. One shot into their crown and they fall.”

  “What were they made for?”

  “Sport. We will keep a watch from now on, and if you want I will have the whole planet scoured, but it is hardly necessary. They are mindless things, easily felled.”

  Pawl was relieved to see the faces round him begin to relax. “Take this news to Mrs Markveldt. And tell her we will do everything in our power to help her.” The people began to disperse. Finally only Peron remained. He did not look relieved. As Pawl passed him he said, “That was not a mutant Maw; that creature was a Parasol. I found it in my book.”

  Pawl stopped and came close to him. “That information you will keep to yourself or I will burn your books. In any case, the creature is dead.”

  Peron looked at the ground, and although he said nothing, it was obvious that he did not believe Pawl.

  Later, passing through the house, Pawl overheard a conversation. Sona Tancred was speaking to her husband, scolding him, and Pawl lingered to hear.

  “She’s still sweating, still screaming every time she wakes. I think the woman’s demented. And you can say what you like, grief is grief, and she feels the loss just as much as ever your precious Master Pawl, though she is a servant and poor.”

  “We must purchase Auster. In the Felice Domain.”

  “Why?” asked Wynn. “We have better mines and closer. The satellites on Auster are almost worked out. The territory is not strategic.”

  “Sentimental reasons,” answered Pawl. “Auster will be a memorial to my brother Lapis. Tell the Felice.”

  “They will ask a price. They are not sentimental.”

  “Well, we can be diplomatic or we can start to squeeze them. Either way get me Auster.”

  “Yes Pawl.”

  “And Wynn….”

  “Yes?”

  “Forge. Tell Milligan. We will close the camp down. Arrange pensions. Those that want can move to Veritas. That would be a change for them.”

  “Acting now.”

  “One last thing, Wynn. Get a message out to Lotus-and-Arcadia. To Neddelia Proctor. Be discreet. Let her know that I would like to talk to her. I will write the note myself.”

  With these few words Pawl carried out the first orders of the aliens.

  30

  ON SANCTUM

  Sanctum was beginning to move.

  Deep in its hollow core all the creatures were settled, staring, each in their own way, at the great Tree.

  That it was dying was obvious, and yet even in dying its power was awesome. The trunk had lost its silver and now stood white and veiny like bled meat. Small fibres showered down endlessly from its great canopy, and these were snapped up by browsing creatures.

  But just now bright purple fire coursed and dribbled in its branches, and a giant pulse somewhere deep in its roots sent surges of violet flame up its trunk.

  All creatures contributed their will.

  Will was fashioned to a fine point of action.

  Symbols of change multiplied in the air, and slowly – inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, and then mile by gathering mile – Sanctum began to edge away from its dying star.

  The prophecy was coming true.

  Resonances changed. Tidal currents stirred the plasma of the dying star, releasing plumes of flame which leaped and fell and hastened its death.

  Closed as tight as a nut on the ocean, its surface barren, hard and pitted, Sanctum made way, spiralling out, gathering energy, burrowing like an auger into the black night of space.

  Soon, after several standard weeks of acceleration, it would achieve dilation speed. At that speed it would flicker, straining its mass against time.

  And in one moment it would die….

  … and be reborn in a lagoon in space, at a place where the stars are evenly spread: the Norea Constellation. Here are found the seed beds for the bio-crystalline brains.

  With the arrival of Sanctum the balance is changed.

  Seeds deform.

  Coiling in space, Sanctum sheds energy until it cools. It becomes almost invisible, glimmering only in the starshine. It looks dark and dead, but to the sensitive seeds it is a blazing psychic beacon.

  Beneath its surface life adjusts.

  The Tree, which has for so long guided the fortunes of Sanctum, is dead. The effort of hurling that world through dimensions has finally killed it. The wood, spongy and white in death, is abandoned. And life goes on.

  31

  ON FORGE

  And there was Milligan, up to his knees in sand and grit, his coverall plastered to him by the buffeting wind, heaving on a two-foot spanner and cursing as he tried to loosen one of the derrick nuts. For days, ever since the news had come that the camp was being closed down, he had done nothing but curse, and none of his men dared speak to him.

  To Milligan the departure was defeat. He had spent the best part of his life battling the heat and dust of Forge and living under the threat of the Hammer. And he’d survived too, adapting to the fierce planet. And for what? For what had he skinned his knuckles and spat red?

  Most of the men were gone. It was Milligan’s pride that kept him there. Not a winch or girder or cog of usable machinery would be left behind.

  Grinding and shrieking, the nut began to turn as Milligan hunched his shoulders and straightened his legs. He poured oil on the exposed thread and the lubricant blew in the wind and slopped. Soon the nut began to move more easily. He left it.

  Heavily, Milligan climbed the derrick, right up to the empty eye-sockets that had once cradled the great pit wheel. There were two plates to unscrew and then the whole derrick could be lowered ready to be broken up for the shuttle. At most a day’s work.

  At the top of the derrick the dry wind cut. Milligan could feel the metal structure shudder as it took the wind. He anchored himself against the safety bars. The drifting sand made it difficult to see, and then suddenly the air became lighter round Milligan.

  Sometimes it happened this way. Sometimes the wind just dropped away and the dust cleared and you could see the plain and the red hills and low dunes carved like whipped cream.

  The wind was dropping. Above Milligan the sky cleared. He could see patches of green sky and the outline of the hills.

  A vo
ice crackled in his ear. “Cutting power to the fence, chief. Okay.”

  “When you’re ready,” muttered Milligan into his throat mike. “Wind’s dropping. We’ll have a clear few hours to get the rest down.”

  In the clearing air Milligan could see the glow of the particle fence. It flared as the engineer took manual control of the generator. Then it began to fade as the current was gradually withdrawn.

  As the fence became still silence settled on the small mining camp. When the fence was live the randomizing of millions of particles made a continuous roar like a waterfall. Now the roar, as familiar to the miners as the patter of grit against their hoods, was gone, and it left a kind of vacuum. Milligan could hear himself breathe. He could hear the shouting of the engineer as he swung down from the generator shed.

  There was not a breath of wind. In the silence, high on the top of the derrick, Milligan looked out at the hills of Forge and then he saw them.

  On every ridge, on every hill, in all the shallow depressions which surrounded the camp, were Hammer. Their heads were raised and staring and their stings erect like hook-tipped javelins. Milligan stared open-mouthed. He felt the adrenalin pour into him like a sudden rush of pins and needles.

  The engineer who had climbed down from the generator froze in his step as he saw the thousands upon thousands of Hammer. Then he dived back towards the generator. But one of the Hammer moved more quickly. It sprang forward and severed the generator couplings to the fence. The current merely arched and fused and the generator stuttered into silence.

  The half dozen men and the Hammer faced one another.

  Milligan cleared his throat. He called to his men. “I think they’re going to let us get off in one piece. If they’d wanted to rush us they could have had us on toast anytime. Just move quietly. Don’t rush. Slowly into the shuttle.”