Chasm City

  I held onto the gun, clinging to it as if it were the only solid thing in the universe. I looked around frantically, trying to orientate myself relative to the others. The wind had knocked them all in different directions, like the fragments of a starshell, but though our trajectories were different, we were all falling downward.

  Below was only planet.

  My suit spun slowly, and I saw the elevator again, still attached to the thread, climbing away above me as I fell, growing smaller by the second. Then there was an almost subliminal flash of motion as the elevator which had been riding the thread below flashed by, still climbing at normal ascent speed, and an instant later an explosion almost as bright and quick as one of the nuke flashes.

  When the flash had gone, there was nothing left at all—not even thread.

  FOUR

  Sky Haussmann was three when he saw the light.

  Years later, in adulthood, that day would be his first clear memory: the earliest that he could clearly anchor to a time and a place and know to be something from the real world, rather than some phantasm which had transgressed the hazy border between a child’s reality and its dreams.

  He had been banished to the nursery by his parents. He had disobeyed them by visiting the dolphinarium: the dark, dank, forbidden place in the belly of the great ship Santiago. But it was Constanza who had really led him astray; she who had taken him through the warren of train tunnels, walkways, ramps and stairwells to reach the place where the dolphins were hidden. Constanza was only two or three years older than Sky, but in his eyes she was almost fully grown; supremely wise in the ways of the adults. Everyone said Constanza was a genius; that one day—perhaps when the Flotilla was nearing the end of its long, slow crossing—she would become the Captain. It was said half in jest but half in seriousness as well. Sky wondered if she would make him her second-in-command when that day came, the two of them sitting together in the control room he had still never visited. It was not such a ridiculous idea: the adults also kept telling him that he was an unusually clever child as well; even Constanza was sometimes surprised at the things he came out with. But for all Constanza’s cleverness, Sky would later remind himself, she was not infallible. She had known how to reach the dolphinarium without anyone seeing them, but she had not quite known how to get them back unseen.

  It had been worth it, though.

  “The grown-ups don’t like them,” Constanza had said, when they had reached the side of the tank which held the dolphins. “They’d rather they didn’t exist at all.”

  They stood on drainage grilles slick with spilled water. The tank was a high-sided glass enclosure bathed in sickly blue light, reaching away for tens of metres into the darkness of the hold. Sky peered into the gloom. The dolphins were purposeful grey shapes somewhere in the turquoise distance, their outlines constantly breaking up and reforming in the liquid play of light. They looked less like animals than things carved from soap; slippery and not quite real.

  Sky had pressed his hand against the glass. “Why don’t they like them?”

  Constanza’s reply was measured. “Something’s not quite right with them, Sky. These aren’t the same dolphins the ship had when it left Mercury. These are the grandchildren, or the great-grandchildren—I’m not sure which. They’ve never known anything except this tank, and nor have their parents.”

  “I’ve never known anything except this ship.”

  “But you’re not a dolphin; you weren’t expecting oceans to swim in.” Constanza had paused because one of the animals was swimming towards them. It had left its companions at the far end of the tank, huddled around what looked like a set of television screens showing different pictures. Now that it emerged into the volume of clear water immediately beyond the glass, it assumed a presence it had lacked a moment earlier; suddenly it was a large, potentially dangerous thing of muscle and bone, rather than something bordering on translucence. Sky had seen photos of dolphins in the nursery, and there was something not quite right about this creature: a network of surgically fine lines encased its skull, and there were geometric bumps and ridges around its eyes; evidence of hard metal and ceramic things buried just below the dolphin’s flesh.

  “Hello,” Sky said, tapping the glass.

  “That’s Sleek,” Constanza said. “I think so, anyway. Sleek’s one of the oldest ones.”

  The dolphin looked at him, the sly curve of its jaw making the scrutiny appear both benign and demented. Then it whiplashed around so that it was face-on to him and Sky felt the glass reverberate with unheard vibration. Something formed in the water in front of Sleek, sketched in arcs of transient bubbles. At first the trails of bubbles were random—like an artist’s preliminary brushstrokes—but then they became more structured and deliberate, Sleek’s head jerking animat edly as if the creature was in the throes of electrocution. The display lasted for only a handful of seconds, but what the dolphin was shaping was unmistakably a face, rendered three-dimensionally. The form lacked any fine details, but Sky knew that it was more than just a suggestion that his subconscious was creating from a few random bubble-trails. It was too symmetric and well-proportioned for that. There was emotion there as well, though it was almost certainly horror or fear.

  Sleek, his work done, departed with a contemptuous flick of his tail.

  “They hate us as well,” Constanza said. “But you can’t really blame them for that, can you?”

  “Why did Sleek do that? How?”

  “There are machines in Sleek’s melon—that bump between its eyes. They’re implanted when they’re babies. The melon’s what they normally make sound with, but the machines let them focus the sound more precisely, so they can draw with bubbles. And there are little things in the water—microorganisms—which light up when the sound hits them. The people who made the dolphins wanted to be able to communicate with them.”

  “You’d have thought the dolphins would be grateful.”

  “Maybe they would be—if they didn’t keep having to have operations. And if they had somewhere else to swim other than this horrible place.”

  “Yes, but when we reach Journey’s End . . .”

  Constanza looked at him with sad eyes. “It’ll be too late, Sky. For these ones, anyway. They won’t be alive then. We’ll even be grown-up; our parents old or dead.”

  The dolphin came back with another, slightly smaller companion and the two of them began to draw something in the water. It looked like a man being pulled apart by sharks, but Sky turned away before he could be certain.

  Constanza continued, “And they’re too far gone anyway, Sky.”

  Sky turned back to the tank. “I still like them. They’re still beautiful. Even Sleek.”

  “They’re bad, Sky. Psychotic, that’s the word my father uses.” She said it with not-quite-convincing hesitation, as if slightly ashamed of her own fluency.

  “I don’t care. I’ll come back and see them again.” He tapped the glass and spoke much louder. “I’ll come back, Sleek. I like you.”

  Constanza, though she was only slightly taller than him, patted Sky maternally on the shoulder. “It won’t make any difference.”

  “I’ll still come.”

  The promise, as much to himself as to Constanza, had been sincere. He did want to understand the dolphins, to communicate with them and in some way alleviate their misery. He imagined the bright, wide oceans of Journey’s End—Clown, his friend in the nursery, had told him that there would be oceans—and imagined the dolphins suddenly freed from this dark, dismal place. He pictured them swimming with people; creating joyous sound-pictures in the water; the memory of the time aboard the Santiago fading like a claustrophobic dream.

  “C’mon,” Constanza said. “We’d better be going, Sky.”

  “You’ll bring me back, won’t you?”

  “Of course, if that’s what you want.”

  And they had left the dolphinarium and commenced the intricate return trip, the two of them working their way through the Santiag
o’s dark interstices; children trying to find their way through an enchanted forest. Once or twice they passed adults, but Constanza’s demeanour was so confident that they were never questioned—not until they were well within the small part of the ship which Sky considered familiar territory.

  It was there that his father had found them.

  Titus Haussmann was a stern but kindly figure amongst the Santiago’s living; a man whose authority had been earned through respect rather than fear. He towered over the two of them, but Sky felt no real anger emanate from him; only relief.

  “Your mother’s been worried sick,” his father said. “Constanza—I’m deeply disappointed in you. I always had you down as the sensible one.”

  “He only wanted to see the dolphins.”

  “Oh, the dolphins, was it?” His father sounded surprised, as if this was not quite the answer he had been expecting. “I thought it was the dead that interested you, Sky—our beloved momios.”

  True enough, Sky thought—but one thing at a time.

  “And now you’re sorry,” his father continued. “Because they weren’t what you were expecting, were they? I’m sorry, too. Sleek and the others are sick in the head. The kindest thing we could do would be to put them all to sleep, but they keep being allowed to raise young, and each generation’s more . . .”

  “Psychotic,” Sky said.

  “. . . yes.” His father regarded him strangely. “More psychotic than the last. Well, now that your vocabulary’s showing such tremendous growth, it would be a shame to stifle it, don’t you think? A shame to deny you the potential to enlarge it?” He ruffled Sky’s hair. “I’m talking about the nursery, young man. A spell in it, where you can’t come into any harm.”

  It was not that he hated the nursery, or even especially disliked it. But when he was banished there it could not help but feel like a punishment.

  “I want to see my mother.”

  “Your mother’s outside the ship, Sky, so there’s no use running to her for a second opinion. And you know if you did she’d say exactly the same thing. You’ve disobeyed us and you need to be taught a lesson.” He turned to Constanza, shaking his head. “As for you, young madam, I think it might be for the best if you and Sky were not to play together for a period of time, don’t you think?”

  “We don’t play,” Constanza said with a scowl. “We talk, and explore.”

  “Yes,” Titus said, with a long-suffering sigh, “and visit parts of the ship you’re expressly not allowed to go to. That, I’m afraid, can’t go unpunished.” He softened his voice now, as he always did when he was about to discuss something of genuine importance. “This ship is our home—our only real home—and we have to feel like we live here. That means feeling safe in the places where it’s right to do so—and knowing where it isn’t safe to go. Not because there are monsters or anything silly like that, but because there are dangers—adult dangers. Machinery and power systems. Robots and drop shafts. Believe me, I’ve seen what happens when people go into places they’re not meant to go, and it usually isn’t very pleasant.”

  Sky did not doubt his father for an instant. As head of security aboard a ship which generally enjoyed political and social harmony, Titus Haussmann’s duties usually concerned accidents and the very occasional suicide. And although Titus had always spared Sky the more intimate details of how it was possible to die aboard a ship like the Santiago, Sky’s imagination had done all the rest.

  “I’m sorry,” Constanza said.

  “Yes—I’m sure you are, but that doesn’t change the fact that you took my son into forbidden territory. I’ll be speaking to your parents, Constanza, and I don’t think they’ll be best pleased. Now run along home, and perhaps in a week or two we’ll review the situation. Very well?”

  She nodded, said nothing, and left along one of the curving corridors which radiated away from the intersection where Titus had cornered them. It was not really far to her parents’ domicile—no part of the Santiago’s major habitation section was far from any other part—but the ship’s designers had cunningly avoided making any route too direct, except for the emergency crawlways and the train lines which reached down the spine. The snaking general-use corridors gave the illusion that the ship was considerably larger than its true size, and two families could live almost next to each other and feel that they lived in entirely different districts.

  Titus escorted his son back to their dwelling. Sky was sorry that his mother was outside, for—despite what Titus had said—her punishments were generally a shade more lenient than those his father prescribed. He dared to hope that she was already back aboard ship, having returned from her shift early, the work on the hull completed ahead of schedule, and that she would be waiting for them when they reached the nursery. But there was no sign of her.

  “In,” Titus said. “Clown will take care of you. I’ll be back to let you out in two, possibly three hours.”

  “I don’t want to go in.”

  “No—and if you did, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment, would it?”

  The nursery door opened. Titus propelled his son into the room without stepping across the threshold himself.

  “Hello, Sky,” said Clown, who was waiting for him.

  There were many toys in the nursery, and some of them were capable of holding limited conversations—even, fleetingly, giving the impression of true intelligence. Sky sensed that these toys were built for children of about his age, designed to mesh with a typical three-year-old’s view of the world. In most cases, he had begun to find them simplistic and stupid not long after his second birthday. But Clown was different; not really a toy at all, although not quite a person either. Clown had been with Sky for as long as he remembered, confined to the nursery, but not always present even then. Clown could not touch things, or allow himself to be touched by Sky, and when Clown spoke, his voice did not come from quite the place where Clown stood—or seemed to be standing.

  Which was not to say that Clown was a figment of his imagination; without influence. Clown saw everything that happened in the nursery and was punctilious in telling Sky’s parents when he had done something that required reprimanding. It was Clown who told his parents he had broken the rocking horse, that it had not been—as he had tried to make them think—the fault of one of the other smart toys. He had hated Clown for that betrayal, but not for long. Even Sky had understood that Clown was, apart from Constanza, the only real friend he had, and that there were some things Clown knew that were beyond even Constanza.

  “Hello,” Sky said, mournfully.

  “You’ve been banished here, I see, for visiting the dolphins.” Clown stood alone in the plain white room, the other toys concealed tidily away. “That wasn’t the right thing to do, was it, Sky? I could have shown you dolphins.”

  “Not the same ones. Not real ones. And you’ve shown them to me before.”

  “Not like this. Watch!”

  And suddenly the two of them were standing up in a boat, out at sea, under a blue sky. All around them the waves were broken by cresting dolphins, their backs like wet pebbles in the sunlight. The illusion of being at sea was marred only by the narrow black windows which ran along one side of the room.

  In a story book, Sky had once found a picture of someone else like Clown, dressed in puffed-out, striped clothes with big white buttons, with a comical, permanently smiling face framed by bouffant orange hair under a soft, sagging striped hat. When he touched the picture in the book, the clown moved and did the same kinds of tricks and vaguely amusing things that his own Clown did. Sky remembered, dimly, a time when his response to the Clown’s tricks had been to laugh and clap, as if there were nothing more that could be asked of the universe than to provide the antics of a clown.

  Now, subtly, even Clown had begun to bore him. He humoured Clown, but their relationship had undergone a profound sea-change which could never be entirely reversed. To Sky, Clown had become something to be understood; something to be dissected and parameter
ised. Clown, he now recognised, was something like the bubble-drawing the dolphin had made in the water: a projection carved from light rather than sound. They were not really in a boat, either. Under his feet, the room’s floor felt as hard and flat as when his father had pushed him inside. Sky did not quite understand how the illusion was created, but it was perfectly realistic, the walls of the nursery nowhere to be seen.

  “The dolphins in the tank—Sleek and the others—had machines in them,” Sky said. He might as well learn something while he was prisoner. “Why?”

  “To help them focus their sonar.”

  “No. I don’t mean what were the machines for. I mean, who had the idea to put them there in the first place?”

  “Ah. That would have been the Chimerics.”

  “Who were they? Did they come with us?”

  “No, to answer your last question, though they very much wanted to.” Clown’s voice was slightly high-pitched and quavery—almost womanly—but never anything other than infinitely patient. “Remember, Sky, that when the Flotilla left Earth’s system—left the orbit of Mercury, and flew into interstellar space—the Flotilla was leaving from a system that was still technically engaged in war. Oh, most of the hostilities had ceased by then, but the terms of ceasefire had still not been completely thrashed out, and everyone was still very much on a war footing; ready to return to the fray at a moment’s notice. There were many factions who saw the closing stages of the war as their last chance to make a difference. Some of them, by this time, were little more than highly organised brigands. The Chimerics—or more precisely, the Chimeric faction that created the dolphins—were certainly one of those. The Chimerics in general had taken cyborgisation to new extremes, blending themselves and their animals with machines. This faction had pushed those limits even further, to the point where they were shunned even by the mainstream Chimerics.”

  Sky listened and followed what Clown was telling him. Clown’s judgement of Sky’s cognitive skills was adept enough to prevent a lapse into incomprehensibility, while at the same time forcing Sky to concentrate intently on his every word. Sky was aware that not all three-year-olds could have understood what Clown was saying, but that did not concern him in the least.