by Rich Horton
The ship had come down onto the broad grasslands that would, in a normal map of Europe, have been the Atlantic ocean. The two wide seas he could see from his vantage point were shaped exactly like England, to the north, and like France, to the south. Impossible of course, but there you were. The estuaries that had nagged at his memory had done so because they were shaped like Cornwall and like Normandy. The English Channel was a broad corridor of land, with sea to the north and sea to the south, that widened in the distance into a pleasant meadowland where the North Sea should have been.
Recognising the familiar contours of the European mainland had impressed itself upon Vins’ consciousness so powerfully that it had dizzied him. It must be hallucination. He stared, he gawked. It was like the visual rebus of the duckrabbit, which you can see either as a duck or as a rabbit, and, then, as you get used to it, you find that you can flip your vision from one to the other at will. Vins had the heady sense that the broad bodies of water were in fact land (an impossibly flat and desert land), and the variegated stretches of landscape were in fact water (upon which light played a myriad of fantastical mirages). But of course that wasn't it. The visual image flipped round again. The land was land and the sea was sea. It was an impossible, inverted geography. The Atlantic highlands. The Sea of England. The Sea of France. He was in no real place. He didn't know where he was. He was dreaming. He could make no sense of this.
The land rushed up towards him. He had vented too much gas from his balloon, he'd done it too fast, he was coming down too quickly. But his mind wasn't working terribly well.
His feet went pummelling into the turf and he felt something twang in his right ankle. Pain thrummed up his leg, and his face went hard onto the grass. The wind was still pushing the balloon onwards, and dragging him awkwardly along. He fumbled with his harness and with a burly sense of release the balloon broke free and bobbed off over the landscape.
Vins pulled himself over and sat up. His ankle throbbed. Pain slithered up and down his shin. He watched the balloon recede, ludicrously flexible and bubblelike as it rolled and tumbled down the slope.
This crazy place.
He hauled his pack in by pulling on the cord, hand over hand and the pack dancing and bouncing over the turf towards him. From its innards he took out a medipack. The compress felt hot and slimy as he ripped it from its cover, but it did its job as he twined it around his leg. The pain dulled.
As soon as the compress had stiffened sufficiently to bear weight, he pulled himself up and started the hopalong trek back down the slope. At least, he told himself, it's downhill. At least it's not uphill. Downhill across the Atlantic.
He laughed.
* * * *
He anticipated the reaction of the others when he told them his discovery. To be precise, he rehearsed the possibilities: from galvanising amazement to indifference, or even hostility. So what they were living in an impossible landscape? The sun rose in the west and the stars did not move. Maybe they were indeed dead; in which case, why bother? Why bother about anything?
But when he arrived at the ship it was deserted: both Sinclair and Edwards had gone. They had taken few or no supplies with them, and at first Vins assumed that they were just scouting out the locality. But after a while of fruitlessly calling their names, and several hours of waiting, he came to the conclusion that they must have wandered permanently away, like Murphy. Which would be just like them.
If he saw them again—no.
When he saw them again he ought to grab them by their necks and shake them. Was this any way to run a scientific spaceship? He ought to plunge his hands in between their chins and chestbones and squeeze. Squee-eeze.
When he saw them.
His fury was tiring. And what with the long trek (downhill, sure, but even so) and the ache in his bungled-up ankle, Vins felt sleepy. He ate, he drank some, and then he lay down in one of the bunks and fell into dream-free sleep.
* * * *
The fifth night.
He awoke with a little yelp, and it took him a moment before he was aware that he was inside a blacked-out ship, crashed onto a world itself plunged into the chasm of night. “Though,” he said to himself, aloud (to hearten his spirits in all this darkness), “how we're plunged into the chasm of the night when the world don't seem to rotate, not a tittle, not a jot, that's beyond me."
His ankle was sore, and seemed sorer for being ignored. It was a resentful and selfish pain. Analgesic, that was the needful.
"Sinclair,” he called. Then he remembered. “I'm going to wrestle your neck you deserter,” he hooted. “Sinclair, you hear? I ought to stamp on your chest."
He had gone to sleep without leaving a torch nearby, so he had to fumble about. But in the perfect blackness he couldn't orient himself at all; couldn't get a mental picture on his location. He came through a bent-out-of-shape hatchway, running his fingers round the rim, and into another black room. No idea where he was. He ranged about, hopeless. Then, through another opening, he saw a rectangle of grey-black gleam, and it smelt clean, and it was the main hatch leading outside.
He stepped through, into the glimmer of starlight to get his bearings. He could turn and take in the bulk of the ship, and only then the mental map snapped into focus. First aid box would be back inside and over to the left. He was the hairiest? He was the only one not to have abandoned ship! For the mother of love and all begorrah, as Murphy would have said if he'd been in one of his quaint moods, they'd all abandoned ship. They were the hairiest, damn them.
His ankle was giving him sour hell, and the first aid box would be back in through the hatch, over to the left. He could find it with his fingers-ends. But he didn't go back inside.
The hair at the back of his neck tingled and stood up like grass as the wind passes through it.
"I,” he said, to the starlit landscape, but his voice was half-cracked, so he cleared his throat and spoke out loudly and clearly: “I know you're there. Whoever you are."
He turned, there was nobody.
He turned again, nobody.
"Come out from where you're hiding,” he said. “Is that you, Murphy? That would be like your idea of practical japery, you hairy old fool."
He turned, and there was a silhouette against the blackness. Too tall to be Murphy, much too tall to be Edwards or Sinclair. Taller than any person in fact.
Vins stood. The sound of his own breathing was ratchety and intrusive, like something had malfunctioned somewhere. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want? Who are you?"
The silhouette shifted, and moved. It hummed a little, a surprisingly high-pitched noise—surprising because of its height. It was a person, clearly; tall but oddly thin, like a putty person stretched between long-boned head and flipperlike feet. Oh, too tall.
"What are you doing?” Vins repeated.
"You're not supposed to be here,” said the figure: a man, though one with a voice high-pitched enough almost to sound womanly.
"We're not supposed to—we crashed,” returned Vins, his ankle biting at the base of his leg a little. He had to sit down. He could see a little more now, as his eye dark-adapted; but with no moon, and with no moonlight, it was still a meagre sort of seeing. Vins moved towards where a rock stood, its occasional embedded spots of mica glinting in the light. This was the same rock Sinclair had been laying upon when Vins had last seen him.
"I got to sit down,” he said, by way of explanation.
He could see that this long thin person was carrying something in his right hand, but he couldn't see what.
"Sit down, OK? Do you mind if I sit down, OK? Is that OK?"
"Sure,” said the stranger.
Vins sat, heavily, and lifted his frozen-sore ankle, and picked at the dressing. He needed a new one. This one wasn't giving him any benefit any more. The first aid box would be in through the hatch and to the left.
"You're trespassing,” said the stranger. “You've no right to be here. This world is forbidden to you."
"Is i
t death?” said Vins, feeling a spurt of fear-adrenalin, which is also recklessness-adrenalin, in his chest at the words. Did he dare say such a thing? What if this stranger were the King of the Land of the Dead, and what if he, Vins, were disrespecting him? “Are we all dead? That was one theory we had, as to why the sun rises awry, and why the stars don't move—and—and,” he added, hurriedly, remembering the previous day, “why the map is so wrong."
"Wrong?"
"An England-shaped sea where England-land should be. An Atlantic-shaped landmass where the ocean should be. You know what I'm talking about."
"Of course I do. This is my world. Of course I do."
"My ankle is hurting fit to scream,” said Vins.
The stranger moved his arm in the darkness. “This,” he said, “will have to go.” Vins assumed he was pointing at the shuttle. “You've no right to dump this junk here. I'll have it moved, I tell you. And you—you are trespassing on a forbidden world. You, sir, have incurred the penalty for trespassing."
"You can see pretty well for such a dark night,” said Vins.
"You can't?” said the stranger, and he sounded puzzled. “Old eyes, is it?"
"I'm thirty-three,” said Vins, bridling.
"I didn't mean old in that sense."
There was a silence. The quiet between them was devoid of cricket noise; no blackbird sang. The air was blank and perfectly dark and only the meanest dribble of starlight illuminated it. Then with a new warmth, as if he had finally understood, the stranger said: “You're a homo neanderthalis?"
"And I suppose,” replied Vins, as if jesting, “that you're a homo sapiens?” But even as he gave the words their sarcastic playground spin he knew they were true. Of course true. A creature from the spiritus mundi and from dream and childhood game, standing right here in front of him.
"You're from Earth, of course,” the sapiens was saying. “You recognised the map of Europe. You steered this craft here. I don't understand why you came here. You boys aren't supposed to know this place even exists."
Vins felt a hard knot of something in his chest, like an elbow trying to come out from inside his ribs. It was intensely uncomfortable. This being from myth and legend, and the race of Homer and Shakespeare and Mohammed and Jesus, and standing right in front of him now. He didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything for him to say.
"You want,” the human prompted, “to answer my question?"
"You're actually a homo sapiens?"
"You never met one?"
"Not in the flesh."
"I lose track of time,” said the homo sapiens. “It's probably been, I don't know. Centuries. It's like that, out here. The time—drifts. You got a name?"
"Vins,” said Vins.
"Well, you're a handsome fellow, Vins. My name is Ramon Harburg Guthrie, a fine old human name, a thousand years old, like me. As I am myself. And no older.” He chuckled, though Vins couldn't see what was funny.
"A thousand years?” Vins repeated.
"Give or take. It's been half that time since your lot were shaped, I'll tell you that."
"The last human removed herself four centuries ago,” said Vins, feeling foolish that he had to speak such kindergarten sentences.
Ramon Harburg Guthrie laughed. “Shouldn't you be worshipping me as a god?” he asked. “Or something along those lines?"
"Worship you as a god? Why would I want to be doing a thing like that? You're species homo and I'm species homo. What's to worship?"
"We uplifted you,” Ramon Harburg Guthrie pointed out. “Recombined you and backed you out of the evolutionary cul-de-sac, and primed you with—” He stopped. “Listen to me!” he said. “I'm probably giving entirely the wrong impression. I don't want to be worshipped as a god."
"I'm glad to hear it,” said Vins. “There's nothing sub-capacity about my brain pan. I speak from experience, but also from scientific research into the matter, using some of the many homo sapiens skulls that have been dug out of the soil of the Earth. I've spent twelve years studying science."
"Our science,” said Ramon Harburg Guthrie.
"Science is science, and who cares who discovered it? And if you care who discovered it, then it's not your science, Ramon Harburg Guthrie, it's Newton's and Einstein's."
But his tone had wandered the wrong side of angry. The homo sapiens lifted whatever it was he was holding in his right hand. When he spoke again, his high voice was harder-edged. “I built this place,” he said. “It's mine. It's a private world, and visitors are not allowed. I don't care about your brain pan, or about my brain pan, I only care about my privacy. Are there others?"
"We crashed,” said Vins, feeling a sense of panic growing now, though he wasn't sure exactly why. It was more than just the mysterious something the man was holding in his right hand. It was another thing, he wasn't sure what.
"I don't care how you came here. You're trespassing. Not welcome."
"It's hardly fair. It's not as if you put up a sign saying no entry."
He scoffed. “That'd be tantamount to shouting aloud to the whole system, here I am! That's be like putting a parsec-wide neon arrow pointing at my home. And why would I want to do that? I built my world away from the ecliptic and down, it's as flat as a coin and its slender edge is angled towards Earth. You can't see me, you inheritors. Nobody on that polluted old world. You don't know I'm here. There are similar ruses used all about this solar system, and eyries and haunts, radio-blanked bubbles and curves of habitable landscape tucked away. A thousand baubles and twists of landscape. Built by the old guard, the last of the truly wealthy and truly well-bred. Who'd trade-in true breeding for a mere enhanced physical strength and endurance?” He spoke these last five words with a mocking intonation, as if the very idea were absurd. “And, yes, I know your brain pans are the same size. But size isn't everything, my dearie."
Vins was shivering, or perhaps trembling with fear, but he summoned his courage. “I'm no dearie of yours,” he said. “What's that in your hand anyway? A weapon, is it?"
"How many were there in your crew?"
Of course Vins couldn't lie, not when asked a direct question like that. He tried one more wriggle. “A severely spoken and impolite question,” he said.
"How many in your crew?"
"Four,” he said. “Including me."
"Inside?"
"Are they inside? The ship?"
"Are they inside, yes."
"No. They wandered off. They were seduced by this world, I think. It's a beautiful place, especially when you've been tanked up in a spaceship for three months. It's a beautiful, beautiful place"
"Thank you!” said the homo sapiens Ramon Harburg Guthrie. And, do you know what? There was genuine pleasure in his voice. He was actually flattered. “It's my big dumb object. Big and dumb but I like it."
The sky, minutely and almost imperceptibly, was starting to pale over to the west. The silhouette had taken on the intimations of solidity; more than just a 2D gap in the blackness, it was starting to bulk. Dark grey face propped on dark grey body, but there was a perceptible difference in tone between the two things, one smooth and one the rougher texture of fabric.
"You didn't build this,” said Vins. “I'm not being disrespectful, but I'm not. Only—who can build a whole world? You're not a god. Sure the legacy of homo sapiens is a wonderful thing, the language and the culture and so on. But build a whole world?"
"Indeed, I did build it,” said Ramon Harburg Guthrie levelly.
"How many trillions of tonnes of matter, to pull one g?” said Vins. “And how do you hide an Earth-sized object from observation by..."
"You've done well,” said Ramon Harburg Guthrie, “if you've taken the science with which we left you and built space craft capable of coming all the way out here.” He sounded indulgent. “But that's not to say that you've caught up with us. We've been at it millennia. You've only been independent a handful of centuries. Left to your own devices for a handful of centuries."
The light
was growing away behind the western horizon. The human's face was still indistinct. The object he held in his right hand was still indistinct. But in a moment it would be clearer. Vins was shivering hard now. It was very cold.
"That's no explanation, if you don't mind me saying so,” he said, with little heaves of mis-emphasis on account of his shivering chest and his chattery teeth. The human didn't seem in the least incommoded by the cold.
"It's not a globe,” he said. “It's my world, and I built it as I liked. It's not for you. It's me-topia. You're not supposed to be here."
"It's beautiful and it's empty, it's void. There aren't even deer or antelope or cows. How is that utopia?"
He was expecting the human to say each to his own, or I prefer solitude or something like that. But he didn't. He said: “Oh, my dearie, it's void on this side. I haven't got round to doing anything with this side. There's world enough and time for that. But on the other side of the coin, it's crowded with fun and interest."
"The other side,” said Vins.
"It's a little over a thousand miles across,” said Ramon Harburg Guthrie. “So it's pretty much the biggest coin ever minted. But it's not trillions of tonnes of matter; it's a thin circular sheet of dense-stuff, threaded with gravity wiring. There's some distortion. You know, it appears to go up at the rim, highlands in all directions, and on both sides, which is odd."
"Which is odd,” repeated Vins. He didn't know why it was odd.
"It's odd because it's a gravitational effect. It's not that the rim is any thicker than any other place on the disc. But the gravitational bias helps keep the atmosphere from spilling over the sides, I suppose. I lost interest in that a while ago. And the central territories are flat enough to preserve the landscape almost exactly."
"Preserve the landscape,” chattered Vins.