Head Full of Mountains (27 page)

Darkness. He had known all along there would be darkness. And that he would end up there. More pervasive darkness in life than light. Certainly more in the reaches and recesses of the capricious world. If, indeed, the world was where he now found himself.

He understood nothing about his predicament, except for darkness. Had he been falling? Was this death? Then he was wrong about eternal oblivion.

The floor was cold and hard under him; he was seated upon ancient tiles.

A faint rustling—

The conversation about darkness had been with a
girl
.
A crew member
. Her face, the cast of her eyes upon him, and his hand touching her cheek: he could not imagine another chance to experience such wonders.

Then a faint glow—from quite close—bloomed. He recoiled slowly, blinking to see faces ringing him, brown and silent. Synchronous shadows moved across the bland expressions as the small lantern—a fibre of light (he’d seen these before, held them?)—was lifted higher, so they could see him better.

Batches
. He remembered what these people were called. In this darkness, he was ringed by
batches
.

Another glow sparked, and another; the aura of the combined glows expanded:

He sat in a large, old room, the extent of which could not be discerned. Portions of smooth, metallic wall rose to his left, passing beyond the pale hemisphere of light. Detritus, fabrics, broken tubes and fibre clusters, strewn about; the smell of sweat, urine, faint smoke. He remembered his name—
Crospinal
—and a scattered series of vignettes that did not fit together in any satisfactory way.

There were actually twenty batches, maybe even more, in concentric rows, crowded about. Some younger, some children, all naked, with similar features: broad head; full lips; high cheekbones. Like his own. At least one toddler, dirty and naked, stared from the pack. In the year of growth, probably. Crospinal could not find any traits that distinguished gender: what he could see of the bodies was smooth, and equally grimy, highlighted by the glow. Identical. He was much paler than any, somewhat taller than the tallest, and a
whole
lot thinner.

Crouching at the fore, those with the lanterns (his father had kept a stash of these next to his throne for occasions when the ambients were dormant) caused harsher light as they leaned forward, fracturing their faces, chests, clenched hands.

The wall towered up, steady, indicating—

From the remaining dark, something was coming.

Crospinal had heard it, and he stepped back.

He was at the bottom of the hub.

Remembering the ledge now, and the cockpit, the face of the dead batch, he called out.

His voice was loud, yet swallowed abruptly: no echo, no answer. The batches did not flinch, nor change expression, though the glow quavered as one scratched at a stomach with the hand that held the torch.

“What’s out there?”

They blinked and stared.

Had he been rejected by the apparition? Or had he escaped? He knew the figure had not been Luella’s, but a projection, a lie, yet he was disappointed by her ire. If he had fallen—well, that wasn’t even possible. Pointless to consider: the drop had been huge. He felt no pain in his body. He had once thought polymer clouds might catch him if he plummeted.

His chestplate flapped free. One of the straps detached in his fingers, so he tore the plate off altogether and tossed it before him. Still the batches did not react. Some shuffled, looked elsewhere. Already the material of his tricot was breaking down, reintegrating. He could smell the process. Crospinal felt his cool, bare chest, the minute bumps of his nipples smooth against the now-rougher skin of his fingertips.

“You can’t talk,” he said, addressing the batches. “Right? None of you. What’s out there? A machine? A paladin?”

One of the smaller batches made a sound, a sort of nervous whine, like his father’s dogs had done when Crospinal first began to stray.

He stood. Now the faces moved, a flicker of interest, watching him.

Crospinal touched his girdle, still anchored in place at his hips; then, around his neck, another vestige, his old collar. He held onto the loop of Kevlar with both hands, trying to remember enough details to form coherence. Images—his daybed; the blissful expression on his father’s face when conduits opened up to let him have his dose; Luella’s throne of light—he could not trust.

A corpse, sprawled at the base of a dream cabinet, killed by a crew member on Crospinal’s behalf—

That sound again, a whiff that set his heart racing.

“Hello?”

Could Crospinal convince himself that he was one of these graceful, silent batches, who watched him so placidly? Feeling somewhat monstrous, he took a third step, hands splayed before him, unsure if he would actually
contact
any of them, should they not get out of his way. Hidden, the child whimpered again—

And a clear voice admonished: “
Stop making a fucking racket
!”

Crospinal was stock-still when the man stepped as if from nowhere into the gloom. Unlike the batches—unlike himself—he was large and broad, a head taller, with hair on his scalp and face, and more down his bare chest. A strange, soft fabric had been wrapped and tied around his waist. His arms, folding, were as big around as Crospinal’s legs.

The batches, unafraid, parted at the man’s approach. His skin, under the scrawls of hair, moving now into the light, was marked with dark symbols and glyphs. He put his hands on his hips (no girdle there) and said: “You need to rest more, and shout less.”

He was not smiling.

“I don’t want to stay here,” Crospinal said. This was no apparition or projection. Though they shared a bond of sorts, he had not yet seen such a man.

“You’ve been out cold a long while. You’re ill, boy. Rest.” His voice was deep, slow. “Have you had some water, or tried to eat?” He pointed with a thick finger, but Crospinal did not look where he indicated. “You need to get your strength back. Go sit down. Sit back down.”

“I’m not thirsty.” Crospinal looked into the man’s shadowed eyes but could not read them, nor discern their colour. Eyes were blue, though once or twice in his journey, there had been green eyes, hadn’t there? He set his jaw. For most of his life there were no people
at all
. Except for his father. Were this man’s statements—about being unconscious, and being ill—more lies? Crospinal sure didn’t feel ill. He felt about as strong as he ever had. The passengers within had settled.

The man’s expression lay somewhere between smug and patronizing.

“They were scanning,” he said, “minutes ago. Looking for you, I presume. One of the cortexes, all the way out here in person, directing a small army. A paladin, you call them. On the move.” Nodding his head, he smiled now, or grimaced, showing poor teeth that looked grey in the lantern’s light. “Best remain here, with us. My friends here won’t hurt you.”

Crospinal stepped to the side, trying to pass, but the man blocked him with a strong, open hand, flat and firm against Crospinal’s bare chest.

“You didn’t hear me? I said don’t go out there. They’re looking for you.”

Water here must be entirely unenhanced. The man’s teeth were rotten. And for food? What did they all eat? There were no dispensers, no amenities. Uneven hair had never been depilated—at least, not in a very long time.

“Who are you?” Crospinal asked.

“I used to have a name, a few lifetimes ago. I used to have hundreds of names. But none of them are any use. Not now. They’d call me a sailor where you’re from, but I’m just a man.” Extending his free arm—

Flinching away, it took Crospinal a beat to realize he was not being reached for, and that the motion was merely to display the flesh of the man’s inner forearm: even in the gloom—despite the darker marks—Crospinal knew there was no implant, no inlay there. He saw tendons move, the definition of muscle, but no inlay.

“You live here without tethers? Without a gate?”

“Same as you.” The man lowered his arm and withdrew his hand from Crospinal’s chest (where flesh, newly exposed, surged with warm blood). “But I live clean. It’s not so hard, really, once you get past the worst. You adapt. Even down here. You know about this. You’ve been educated. If you can break free, leave all dependencies, you’ll be in the clear, right? Shake them off.” He stared Crospinal down. “Why are you here?”

Crospinal did not know how to answer. He said, “My father died.”

The man narrowed his eyes, a faint smile still on his lips. “Are you talking about a god here? Or was your father a man, like me?”

“A man. I’m Crospinal. His son.”

“He was probably all jacked up and fried out of his gourd. Did he raise you? Or did he catch you when you were older? How many years have you come around? I’d like to see your—”

Crospinal jerked back from what was clearly, this time, an attempt to clutch his arm. “Don’t touch me.”

“Shit, I’m not going to
hurt
you. I just wanna see. You’re an interesting guy. I bet you’ve got great stories, if you could get them straight.”

By now, the batches had begun to shows signs of disinterest, fidgeting, with soft grunts. Some must have dispersed when he wasn’t looking; there seemed fewer. The dimming glow-sticks were lowered. One got down on haunches to inspect the skin of a grubby thigh. Another scratched at a temple.

Crospinal stepped back again.

“Your father was crazy. We all are. From getting here, I suppose. From too much dreaming. Maybe we were crazy when we went to sleep.” He tapped his temple. “Most of us wake up basket cases, that’s for sure. Heads filled with dope and broken memories, and we don’t know up from down. Haunted. Your father should have known that it takes more than a little surgery and a few parlour tricks to make someone like you into a son.”

Crospinal said nothing.

“I know what goes on. I spent time struggling out of a stat, trying to get oriented. I might even have worn a jumpsuit once, or had dispensers growing around me. Artifacts, falling from the ceiling. Controllers were happy to see me. Until a gate came along. I might have tried to continue with the mission, without ever knowing what the mission was.” He laughed again. “I was like them once. Eating pellets of cytoprotection, antiflatulents, drinking water laced with antipyretics and immunoboosts. Recycling my sweat, my piss, my shit.” He paused. “You know, I examined you—
Crospinal
—when you were recovering. When you were lying there, nearly dead. I learned a lot about you over the past few days.”

Crospinal had been growing more and more tense; this last line—few
days
!—reverberated up his spine like a sharp wire. Looking at the faces surrounding him, suspecting ambush now, an impending attack, he saw only loose, blank expressions, disinterest. “I haven’t been down here for days,” he said. “And you don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re wrong on both counts. I know you think you’re equal, maybe even superior to me. I know you’ve got a shitload of damage done inside that head of yours. You were better off when you lived here, with us.” Sweeping his arm to indicate the others.

Crospinal stared. His heart was pounding so hard his body shook. “If you’re a passenger, why are
you
here?”

“Because everything is bullshit. You know that.” He pointed at Crospinal’s girdle. “Look, I hate to break the news, whatever you think your name is, but you’re not even human. Did you know that?”

At his sides, Crospinal clenched his fists. He looked at the batches again.

The man said, “They don’t understand anything except devotion. Like little puppies. The lucky fucks. Know what a puppy is, Crospinal? Like you would have been, if you’d been left alone. Now sit. You’ve been standing too long. Let’s talk more after you rest. It’s the least you could do.” He came forward, almost touching Crospinal, and Crospinal had to step back again. From a few centimetres away, the strong whiff of the man’s scent was sweet and heady, and surprising appeal nearly dashed Crospinal’s resolve.

“My friends here have been with me for a long time, since I arrived. I never tried to dress them up, though, or teach them anything. Intrusions leave me alone now. They’re loyal. They live with me. They follow me. Look: I don’t want to enrage you. I can see you’re enraged. Try to stay calm, because we have a lot to discuss. You were quite ill. I want to ask you some questions. I want to pick your addled brain. So have some food, some real food, and rest a while.” Indicating the area of the floor where Crospinal had previously sat, among the batches. Mere centimetres away, the man loomed.

“I’m not staying here.”

“You’ll get us killed,” he hissed. “If you head out there, you’ll get us fucking killed. Or you’ll get my friends killed. I won’t be impressed, either way.” He rubbed at his face, where the hair grew, at his jowls. Darker marks on his skin, in this dim light, moved across his skin like creatures, images of creatures, with long limbs, stalking—

Crospinal drew in a sudden breath.

“Just,” the man continued, right in Crospinal’s face, “as you’ll certainly get killed if you try to fight me.” Clapping Crospinal’s shoulder suddenly, his strong hand enclosing the knob of bone, a grip like metal. He pushed. “So sit the fuck back down.”

“I don’t want to stay here.”

“Don’t be a fool.” (Among the batches, the youngest child whimpered.) “Where would you go anyway? Run around out there until you collapse? Then do it all again? What do you mean to accomplish? What is there to get done? You have a god complex. That’s what your sailor gave you. Your
father
. Do you know what I mean?”

“No.”

“Sailors are gods, right? Paladins are gods. Men had other gods once, but they got lost along the way, like everything else.” He squinted. “All gods are selfish and vain. Gods demand worship. Gods demand prayer.”

Crospinal tried to pull away.

“And prayer’s a weakness. A sickness. People need to be careful about what they try to bring back.” The man’s grin exposed rotten teeth. “Light,” he shouted suddenly, raising his hands, and the ambients in the wall behind Crospinal flared: they stood, blinking in the new glare, while batches ducked and moved about, seeking cover from the light. There were dozens of them in the vicinity, some standing nearby, others reclined or sleeping, naked and filthy, on the floor. All around was littered with shreds of heaped construction materials, carbon rods, scales of raw composite. Toward the wall, heaps of feces. He could see it now, their
toilet
. Unrecycled waste.