She hesitated, thinking. “It’s meant to be used to refine the trajectory. To direct the Star even more precisely at its goal.”
He threw his arms wide. “Exactly. Perhaps there are devices lying dormant here, messages instructing us — or whoever was planned to be here — how to do just that. And what if we don’t, Dura? What if we don’t complete our mission? Perhaps the Ur-humans themselves will intervene, to punish our arrogance.”
Her palms were slick with sweat; his words were like the articulation of the conflict inside her. Who was she to decide the fate of a world, of generations?
She thought back over her life, the extraordinary, unfolding sequence of events that had led her to this point. Once, not a very large fraction of her life ago, she had been adrift in the Mantle, at the mercy of the smallest stray Glitch along with the rest of the Human Beings. Stage by stage, as events had taken her so far from her home, her understanding of the Mantle, the Star, and the role of mankind had opened out, like the layers of perception opened up gradually by the seeing-walls of this Ur-human construct.
And now she was here, with more power over events than any human since the days of the Core Wars. She was dizzy, vertiginous, a feeling she remembered from her first trips to the fringes of the Crust-forest, as a little girl with her father.
Her awareness seemed to implode. She became aware of her body — of the wide, dilated pores over her skin, the tension in her muscles, the knife still tucked into the frayed rope tight around her waist. She looked into Hork’s wide, staring eyes. She saw recklessness there, exhilaration, intoxication, the fringes of insanity. Hork, overwhelmed by the journey, the realm of Ur-humans, Colonists and stars, had forgotten who he was. She hadn’t. She knew who she was: Dura, Human Being, daughter of Logue — no more, and no less. And she was no more, no less qualified to speak for the peoples of the Star, at this moment, than anyone else. And that was why it was she who would have to act, now.
Her uncertainty congealed into determination. “Hork, I don’t care about the goals of these damn monster-men from the past. All I care about are my people — Farr, my family, the rest of the Human Beings. I won’t sacrifice them for some ancient conflict; not while I have some hope of changing things.”
The wide, distorted mouth of Karen Macrae was opening again; as she spoke, Dura saw, distracted by the detail, that Karen’s lips were not quite synchronized with her rustling words.
Time is long, inside our virtual world. But still, it is coming to an end. The Glitches have damaged us. Some have already lost coherence.
Stop the flight. We discover we do not want to die.
Dura closed her eyes and shuddered. The Colonists could no longer act. And so they had brought Star-humans — they had brought her — to this place, to save their world.
When she looked at Hork he was grinning, throwing his head back like some animal. “Very well, upfluxer. It seems I am outvoted, and not for the first time — although it doesn’t usually stop me. We are humans too, whatever our origins, and we must act, rather than die meekly as pawns in somebody else’s war!” He shouted, “Do it!”
She cried out; she felt remote, numb. She hauled on the levers as hard as she could.
Crimson fire erupted from the base of the map-Star.
27
Blue Xeelee light illuminated the Air. Fragments of shattered vortex lines hailed around Adda. He Waved furiously, squirming in the Air to avoid the deadly sleet, disregarding the pain in his back and legs. But even Waving wasn’t reliable; the strength and direction of the Magfield was changing almost whimsically, and he had to be constantly aware of its newest orientation, of which way his Waving would take him among the lethal vortex fragments.
He came to a clearer patch of Air. He twisted, his hips and lower back protesting, and Waved to a halt. He looked back toward the City, now about a thousand mansheights away. The great wooden carcass was tilting noticeably, leaning across a Magfield which no longer cradled it. Its Skin was still a hive of activity, of kicked-out panels and scrambled evacuations; Adda was reminded of corruption, of swarms of insects picking over a dying face.
There was no sign of Farr.
Adda looked back to the upper Downside, to the location of the Hospital. He could see motion inside that widened gash in the Skin, but he couldn’t make out Farr himself. Damn, damn… He shouldn’t have let go of the boy; he should have dragged him physically away from the City, from the damn Hospital, until either his strength ran out or the City fell apart anyway.
I’m an old man, damn it. He’d had enough; he’d seen enough. Now all he wanted was rest.
Well, it looked as if he still had work to do. Shaking his head, he dipped his body in the Air and Waved back toward the groaning City.
In the Hospital of the Common Good, patients continued to be brought to the exit. Another dull explosion sounded somewhere in the guts of the City, but — to Adda’s disbelief — the laboring volunteers scarcely looked up. He wanted to scream at them, to slap faces, to force these brave, foolish people to accept the reality of what was happening around them.
There were no cars returning to the port now. But nevertheless a volunteer hauled a helpless bundle — age and sex unidentifiable — to the breached Skin. The volunteer climbed out after the patient, gripped the bandaging with both hands, and, Waving backward, began to drag the patient away from the collapsing City. The volunteer was a young man, nude, his skin painted with elaborate, curling designs. This was evidently one of the acrobats who should have been taking part in the great Games spectacle today; instead here he was, his body-paint smeared and stained with pus, dragging a half-dead patient out from a dying City. Adda stared at the boy’s face, trying to make out how the acrobat must feel at this implosion of his life, his hopes; but he read only fatigue, a dull incomprehension, determination.
“Adda!”
It was Farr’s voice. Adda peered into the gloom of the ward, blinking to clear his one working eyecup.
“Adda — you must help me…”
There. Farr was close to the rear of the ward; he was hovering over another patient, a massive, still form wrapped in a cocoon. The boy seemed unharmed still, Adda saw with relief.
He pushed his way over the heads of the crowd.
The patient was lost in the cocoon with only a little flesh showing: a huge, crumpled fist, an area of shoulder or chest about the size of Adda’s palm. The exposed flesh was surfaceless, chewed up.
Adda suppressed a shudder and looked at Farr. The boy’s face was drawn, the fatigue showing in his eyecups, the dilated Air-pores like craters on his cheeks.
“I’m glad you returned.”
“You’re a damn fool, boy. I want you to know that now, in case I don’t get a chance to tell you later.”
“But I had to return. I heard Bzya’s voice. I…”
Something moved deep inside the cocoon — a head turning, perhaps? — and a claw-like finger protruded from the lip of the material, to pull the neck of the cocoon tighter closed. The tiny motion was redolent of shame.
“This is Bzya?”
“They had to pull him up from the underMantle. He was nearly lost — Adda, he had to abandon his Bell. He dragged back Hosch, but he was dead.” The boy looked down at his friend, his hands twisting together. “We’ve got to get him out of here — away from the City.”
“But…”
There was another dull impact, deep in the guts of the City. The very Air seemed to shake with it, and the ceiling of the ward settled, wood splintering with a series of snaps. Then a mansheight-square section of the ceiling imploded, raining sharp wood splinters. This time the workers and patients had to take notice; screams were added to the bedlam of orders and frantic activity, and patients threw bare or bandaged arms over their faces.