Lightmaker

by Kevin Elliott

  ‘Drop the knife, Phos.’

  Phos raised her hand. The dagger’s edges glistened. Its handle had grown around her fingers, and its birth had ripped another gouge into the floor.

  ‘If the world hears a threat….’

  Caliper met her gaze. ‘And hunger breeds threats.’

  Mitch tapped his foot over the floor’s scar. ‘Couldn’t they make food that way?’

  ‘We saw fields, so this exploit couldn’t make crops.’ Frinelia stepped towards Phos. ‘Can I hold the knife?’

  Phos let the dagger clatter to the floor. She’d never considered stabbing Caliper, but these machines had waited over silent centuries, and they’d leap at the slightest murmur.

  ‘I need to handle my temper – we all do.’ Caliper stared at the dagger.

  ‘I’ll seal the room and freshen the air; we can sleep once we’re out of our suits. Just hope our dreams don’t spark off any exploits.’

  ‘With luck, the builders considered dreams.’

  ‘But their machinery’s broken.’

  ‘The cart has bedding,’ Frinelia said. ‘If we persuade our bird friend—’

  Mitch pointed. ‘It’s gone.’

  Phos and Caliper glanced at each other, and she redrew the door. Scattered claw marks scuffed the dust as darkness rolled against their house. Not a glimmer showed elsewhere, so their light would beckon anyone inside the bowl.

  Caliper snatched a crate from the cart as Phos wandered back inside to flick symbols over the windows. She closed her eyes, but icons still flitted through her mind. They needed beds, but what thoughts worked here – rest and chair? Her eyes opened, and a fresh icon winked into place. She dragged it over her map, and a hum droned out behind as a six-inch-high plinth squeezed up from the floor, big enough to hold bedding. She brought up another platform, and half a minute of stroking the window repaired their ceiling.

  Frinelia stared. ‘Can you create pillows?’

  What were the words – clothes and sleep? Soft and bed? Wrong words: her body jolted as if bees had crawled into her suit, and three more guesses brought another three shocks.

  ‘No matter. We’ll manage,’ Frinelia said. ‘I can’t imagine your words, but can you enrich the air and let us remove our suits?’

  Phos tinkered with the icons, and fresh symbols spouted from her fingers. The window’s pale letters set out thoughts of wind-scoured skies and muggy days, and pastel tints swam into a faint rectangle where a delicate violet on the left shaded through green and into a harsh red. A fine black line sat in the red, but thinking of shelter nudged the line into the safety of the green – a colour borrowed from the Second. Soft tones breathed warmth into the ceiling light, and the plaster walls shimmered for an instant before reappearing as smooth sheets of beige.

  ‘I think it’s safe, Mitch. Fancy testing the air?’

  He unsealed his helmet, and she studied his face before peeling her own suit away. Caliper blushed as she slipped off her undershirt, but he dug out water flasks, and they freshened themselves.

  ‘These suits mean we don’t need water, but I miss the drinking, and if we find a lake, I’m gone,’ Caliper said.

  Phos wrapped a blanket around her as Caliper handed out bowls and segments of boulmer fruit, which glazed her lips with a chilled tartness. She cradled the dish and covered it with a plate. Tomorrow they’d aim for the rim, and if a plate covered this bowl-shaped world, they’d have to squeeze their way past and find a home for Christina’s argument, currently resting snugly in her backpack. Phos dimmed their lights as Frinelia lay beside her, and she drifted from calm rest into a fitful sleep.

  The mist outside soaked the black night. Everyone in this world had slept at the same hour, and she imagined their single room as a square bubble clinging to the world’s curves. Images of Christina and Caliper skittered through her dreams, and one open-eyed spell left her imagining the nanotech planting thoughts into her mind. Sleep returned, and images of the First Enclave’s creation drifted past: outsize humans rode self-hauling carts that knitted trees over brown dunes. Her dreams roved over milling crowds, thousands of frightened people racing towards fresh swathes of grass and trees. She searched their faces, but each one held an alien fleshy fullness; the trees were squat and dull. Her vision rolled over the shallow hills dotted around the bowl’s distant edges, but the rim rolled for miles, and fatigue tainted her dreams.

  Phos woke. Dawn’s blue light rinsed the floor, and the symbols daubing the windows had faded, though they brightened as she focused. The plinth underneath her bedding had moulded itself around her body.

  Mitch stood beside her. ‘The room’s learning: the gravel’s turned into paving stones, and you should see the spires outside. I noticed something yesterday, but my dreams added more.’

  Phos blinked: waking hadn’t cleared away her dreaming images. Caliper restacked their cart, and she glanced around their room and slid on her suit before sealing the door. No sign of birds, but rolling grassland wrapped their house as the world’s curve climbed into the grey bank of clouds.

  Crackles and a blizzard of shrill rattles scythed through her helmet, and she winced. Phos tapped her helmet as a sudden burst of hissing gave way to a man’s drawn-out sigh.

  ‘Is someone trying to speak?’

  ‘You’re making a real impression, Phos: we see your tracks.’ Rastersen’s oiled confidence flooded her mouth with bile. She imagined Rastersen’s breath brushing her ears as his hands gripped her shoulders.

  Caliper scowled. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Ah, our brilliant miller. Your candles won’t work here, so my guards will ensure Phos and I can talk without interruptions. We’re closing the distance between us as we speak. I believe Phos’s lively mind has dug up the truth of the hard landing, and I’m sure she now realises how limited our options are. Only one path remains.’

  Phos waved the others into silence.

  Rastersen cleared his throat. ‘You and me, Phos. I’m sure we had the same reaction on hearing about the oncoming famine, but vomiting never changes much. I drew myself a picture, a creaking oak with ten people huddled on one rotting branch, and I imagined a rising gale screaming at the tree. If everyone stays, everyone falls; everyone’s memories will wink out as if no one had lived, and our children remain unborn ghosts.’

  She swallowed, and her hair felt greasy.

  ‘If our ancestors had uncovered our future earlier, we might have sought different paths, but our world rots, and only one way is left. I have a future laid out for you. Join me, and you’ll sit among the survivors.’

  ‘Or we’ll find another branch.’

  ‘Control is vital, clay is shapeless until it meets a potter’s hands. You’ll see once we meet; I’ll hand you forbidden books, and we’ll walk through libraries you can’t imagine. You’ve woken the machines here, and your work may save more lives, but we must work together.’

  ‘Come and catch me. How are you finding these suits?’

  ‘Somewhat snug. Our ancestors may have been a touch smaller than us.’

  ‘Their suits are different,’ Phos mouthed to Caliper. He nodded.

  ‘We see your house, Phos, so stay where you are. Should your miller behave, I’ll let him go, and won’t that be nice?’

  Another question that didn’t need an answer. Phos pressed her palms together and spread them. Her glass slate showed a curved grid tracing out the First’s bowl, and four yellow dots pulsed beside the warehouse. Could she harness the tentacles lurking in the hedges?

  ‘Still listening, Phos? You seek challenges; their friction creates heat, and heat allows growth, and isn’t that why you chased the windmill’s light? Our new world offers both refuge and challenge.’

  Frinelia hissed before falling silent.

  ‘We need your talents. My world changed when my second syllable came: I thought knowledge would fall into my lap, but I had to memorise hymns and prayers, and learn meaningless rites, because no one understood my desire to learn how the
world worked. Perhaps marriage means the same for you, but if I tell the world of your talent, we’ll avoid that trap. Join us, Phos.’

  What books had he touched? His Torzene office had squatted on the ground floor. Was he luring her with a lie, or did his parents hold secrets? She couldn’t unclasp her hands, and she stared at Rastersen’s dots and at the light green band linking him to her. His words about marriage mirrored her thoughts, but she couldn’t forget his clammy palms. Phos looked up; sweat matted her hair, but Caliper sat on the cart to set his eyes level with hers, and he held out his palms.

  Phos’s fingers twitched as the yellow dots marking Rastersen’s place surged her way. She slid a fingertip over the green connecting line and dissolved it.

  ‘He won’t hear us now, but we must move. Did you hear him say his suit can’t grow? Is it an antique?’

  ‘Let’s hope he lacks your talent,’ Frinelia said.

  A faint grin touched Caliper’s face as he buckled on his harness. ‘Will his helmet show the same squiggles as yours?’

  ‘No idea, but he’s learning, and we can’t hide.’ Phos paused. ‘What did he learn as a priest?’

  Frinelia shrugged. ‘His father was adept at manipulating the uneducated and inexperienced, and Rastersen’s seminary provided practical lessons in bullying and control. This chaos has unshackled his talents.’

  ‘He was a quarter priest, so what does he know?’

  ‘Rastersen had books he shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t say what lessons they held. He knows how to learn, and this madness unlocks every imaginable secret.’

  Phos chewed her lip. Caliper’s threads could snare plants, and Rastersen’s words tugged her the same way. Would she freeze if they met again? ‘We have to shift.’

  ‘Let’s visit the spire.’ Mitch pointed ahead. ‘See, those plants at its base look dirty. Someone’s drained their life.’

  ‘It’s on our way,’ Caliper said. ‘You’ve seen the cart, though – it’ll take hours.’

  ‘Rastersen won’t have a cart, but we’ve another way to travel,’ Phos said.

  ‘Don’t tell me – you’re talking with our world.’

  Phos stooped and ran her hands over the wiry olive grass. Tension raced through her arm and mind, and she crouched beside a sandy patch as her suit sprayed images of speed over her helmet. Not a cart but the idea of a cart, an idea with warnings. Did birds feel the same when they chased worms?

  ‘Stand behind me.’

  There, a borrowed ghostly memory of waves riding over sea – no, not sea, dunes surging over desert. She saw images of boats cresting hills of sand as plumes of white dust sprayed out. More pictures flooded her mind, a sharp overhang showed at each boat’s front, and walls tapered up from the sand onto wide flat decks.

  Caliper stared. ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘Saving your shoulders: the builders didn’t haul carts around, and nor should you.’

  Phos’s boots crunched over dry soil as she trickled her threads through the packed grains. Dad had stacked crates in the darkness of his shed, and she’d gone exploring when she was small, reaching up and inside to stroke curves and corners, wondering what hid inside. Now her touch flowed through the sand’s quiet dark to trace out surfaces – packed sheets of tense powder quivering to hear commands. Phos raised her palm and wobbled upright as her threads flowed. Her mind carved sand, and the bare soil below cracked open as dust grains knitted together and wormed upward. Dirt splattered her helmet.

  Mitch stepped back. ‘Is this your doing?’

  ‘I suggested an idea, and the sand’s organising itself.’

  ‘What’s coming?’

  ‘They used to travel this way,’ Phos said.

  White jets of sand hissed from the ground and braided themselves into twisting columns of dust that rose twenty feet above her before arching back towards the earth. Sand bounced from an invisible surface, but enough stuck to form a platform at eye height, tapered to a point at the front and square at the back, and a pillar jutting from the front might create a place to steer. Sheets of sand climbed upward to meet the deck. The boat formed a gleaming wedge with arching facets sliced into the hull, and its curved sides reminded her of breaking waves. Ten yards long and four wide, and lacking sails and masts, but a hunger for speed crouched inside the craft.

  ‘Lovely,’ Frinelia said as the last sand plume died. ‘Can you conjure sea as well?’

  ‘I can’t say how it moves, but it’s for travel.’ Darkness had wrapped this seed for thousands of years, but it had sprouted once she’d shown it light. Had the builders ordered new boats for each journey?

  Mitch stroked the boat’s walls. ‘How come only Phos can do this?’

  ‘Can you imagine one Phos fighting another Phos? Perhaps the world picks one person to grip the talent.’

  ‘Perhaps the world makes mistakes. You need to pass on your learning, Phos: if we know more, we can help more. Might even help you.’

  ‘Let’s get the boat shifting.’

  ‘Always with the delay,’ Mitch said.

  The sand had listened; the boat was human-sized but lacked entrances. Another memory fluttered, and stroking the boat’s side showed her a hairline gap. The wall quivered, and a section snicked out into a hingeless door – a slab of compacted dust. More beige sand flowed out and settled into a short flight of steps linking boat and earth.

  Caliper slapped the hull. ‘How does this work?’

  ‘No idea.’ Layers of sand listened underfoot, and flashing coloured squares painted her helmet, but she’d focus and shift this boat.

  ‘Be careful,’ Caliper said. ‘If these machines have gone deaf….’

  ‘The spire’s miles off, and the rim even further. The cart’s good, and we’ll take it with us, but it’s slow.’

  Caliper’s fingers grazed the sand wall. ‘Let me test this.’

  ‘You do that, and I’ll work out the movement,’ Phos said.

  Caliper hauled himself up the steps to pace the deck. ‘Seems safe, though I can’t tell much.’

  ‘It’s just a beached boat,’ Mitch said. ‘Raising it is brilliant, but apart from playing sailors….’

  ‘This is different.’ Phos joined Caliper. The packed sand felt springy under her boots. ‘Stack our crates and the cart on the boat, and we’ll head for the rim. The spire lies on our way, but even with the boat, we can’t dawdle.’

  Mitch grinned. ‘Maybe we’ll meet your world seed.’ Tiny yellow letters capered over his helmet, too small to read.

  ‘What are those letters?’ Phos asked.

  ‘Only just turned up; can’t read ’em yet. How will we recognise the map room?’

  ‘Christina didn’t know what it would look like, so our search starts when we reach the rim.’

  The bowl was at least ten miles wide, and she’d seen how a circle’s outside was always just over three times the distance across, so there’d be acres of searching as Rastersen chased. Three birds pockmarked the sky ahead, a graceful check on their position.

  ‘Still with us, Phos? The boat’s loaded – whatever we call it,’ Caliper said.

  ‘Just watching birds.’

  Phos walked to the front, where the deck narrowed into a point. Sand had sprayed around her to form low walls, and she approached the pillar, a column of scrunched-together sand at the front. Any driver would watch for rocks and hedges as they steered the boat, and her hands searched the sand-white stem. Faint hollows opened beneath her fingers, like those she’d stroked on age-yellowed piano keys. Ahead, a hedge lumbered over a scrambled ridge of bleached rocks. Another hollow house sat beyond, and Mitch’s twisting spire lurked in the middle distance.

  Caliper helped Frinelia up the stairs and onto a raised platform running along the walls like a bench. Phos closed her eyes and gripped the pillar. Her suit clicked but said nothing. No reins on this boat; sand-strangled grass surrounded them to choke off any escape.

  She’d seen pictures of boats cresting storms on the inla
nd sea and labouring up hills of water before plunging into foam-flecked canyons to heave water out of their way.

  Impact slammed into her stomach like a giant’s punch. Spittle sprayed inside her helmet, and yelps burst from Frinelia and Mitch. Their boat had charged forward six inches before grinding to a halt. The deck now tilted, with Phos at the lowest point. She didn’t drive this boat; she had to shift sand around the hull.

  Again she stroked the pillar, and her threads explored the boat’s shape. The packed sand of the boat’s hull pushed against the free dust outside, and the craft’s weight crunched the soil. Dad had described the Second Enclave’s sea, and the spray escaping the restless power of the rolling waves, but would his words work here?

  Their boat eased into a crawl as life flowed through their craft. The hull sliced through a shallow dune, and waves of dark red grains rushed into the boat to slide under her boots before hurtling back into the earth. Slower than walking but easier on Caliper; his crates gripped the deck as their house crept past.

  Caliper raised his voice against the grinding. ‘Knew you’d do it, Phos.’

  ‘I always wanted to see where the land met the vault.’

  ‘Even back home?’

  ‘I wanted to see everything back home – even stuff that didn’t exist.’

  She felt a streak of damp sand on the boat’s left, soft and yielding. The doughy patch would skew their path, but her senses surrounded the stretch, and she whispered out a command.

  Hold together.

  The boat stayed upright to slip through the ring of stone pillars circling their house, and now the surrounding drystone wall stood ahead. Its weight bruised the sand, but circling around would cost time. Phos crunched the boat through the wall. The boat juddered, but its hull smacked the flat stones aside, and a wave of tremors stole her breath as the boat rollicked forward.

  Grass and shrubs blurred on each side, but their boat gobbled the vibrations and calmed itself. Phos glanced back as their house fell behind, and their hull scratched a faint trace across the sand as two birds kept pace.

  Minutes passed. Her head throbbed, and a remote chunk of her mind showed people in suits like hers, people wrestling with glistening black snakes coiling over their legs. Images came of humans cowering in glass houses from swarms of crimson dust. Did memories drift in the air here and wait for visitors? Were machines still listening?