Chasm City

THREE

“Sir? Dinner will be served on the lower deck in fifteen minutes, if you intend to join the other passengers.”

I jumped, not having heard anyone’s footsteps on the staircase which led up to the observation deck. I’d assumed I was completely alone. All the other passengers had retired to their rooms immediately upon boarding—the journey just long enough to justify unpacking their luggage—but I had gone up onto the observation deck to watch our departure. I had a room, but nothing that I needed to unpack.

The ascent had begun with ghostly smoothness. At first it hardly seemed like we were moving at all. There had been no sound, no vibration; just an eerily smooth glide moving imperceptibly slowly, but which was always gaining speed. I had looked down, trying to see the cultists, but the angle of the view made it impossible to see more than a few stragglers, rather than the mass that must have been directly below. We had just been passing through the ceiling iris when the voice had startled me.

I turned around. A servitor had spoken to me, not a man. It had extensible arms and an excessively stylised head, but instead of legs or wheels, its torso tapered to a point below the machine’s waist, like a wasp’s thorax. It moved around on a rail attached to the ceiling, to which the robot was coupled via a curved spar protruding from its back.

“Sir?” It began again, this time in Norte. “Dinner will be served…”

“No; I understood you first time.” I thought about the risk involved in mixing with real aristocrats, then decided that it was probably less than that involved in remaining suspiciously aloof. At least if I sat down with them I could provide them with a fictitious persona which might pass muster, rather than allowing their imaginations free rein to sketch in whatever details they wished to impose on this uncommunicative stranger. Speaking Norte now—I needed the practice—I said, “I’ll join the others in a quarter of an hour. I’d like to watch the view for a little while.”

“Very well, sir. I shall prepare a place for you at the table.”

The robot rotated around and glided silently out of the observation deck.

I looked back to the view.

I’m not sure quite what I was expecting at that point, but it couldn’t have been anything at all like the thing that confronted me. We had passed through the upper ceiling of the embarkation chamber, but the anchorpoint terminal was much taller than that, so that we were still ascending through the upper reaches of the building. And it was here, I realised, that the cultists had achieved the highest expression of their obsession with Sky Haussmann. After his crucifixion they had preserved the body, embalming it and then encasing it in something that had the grey-green lustre of lead, and they had mounted him here, on a great, upthrusting prow that extended inward from one interior wall until it almost touched the thread. It made Haussmann’s corpse look like the figurehead fixed beneath the bowsprit of a great sailing ship.

They had stripped him to the waist, spread his arms wide and fixed him to a cross-shaped alloy spar. His legs were bound together, but a nail had been driven through the wrist of his right hand (not the palm; that was a detail the stigma-inducing virus got wrong) and a much larger piece of metal had been rammed through the upper part of his severed left arm. These details, and the expression of numb agony on Haussmann’s face, had been rendered mercifully indistinct by the encasing process. But while it was not really possible to read his features, every nuance of his pain was written into the arc of his neck; the way his jaw was clenched as if in the throes of electrocution. They should have electrocuted him, I thought. It would have been kinder, no matter the crimes he had committed.

But that would have been too simple. They were not just executing a man who had done terrible things, but glorifying a man who had also given them a whole world. In crucifying him, they were showing their adoration as fervently as their hate.

It had been like that ever since.

The elevator tracked past Sky, coming within metres of him, and I felt myself flinching; wishing that we could be clear of him as quickly as possible. It was as if the vast space was an echo chamber, reverberating with endless pain.

My palm itched. I rubbed it against the hand-rail, closing my eyes until we were free of the anchorpoint terminal; rising through night.

“More wine, Mr Mirabel?” asked the foxlike wife of the aristocrat sitting opposite me.

“No,” I said, dabbing my lips politely with the napkin. “If you don’t mind, I’ll retire. I’d like to watch the view while we climb.”

“That’s a shame,” the woman said, pursing her own lips in a pout of disappointment.

“Yes,” said her husband. “We’ll miss your stories, Tanner.”

I smiled. In truth, I’d done little more than grimace my way through an hour of stilted smalltalk while we dined. I had salted the conversation with the odd anecdote now and then, but only to fill the awkward silences which fell across the table when one or other of the participants made what might, within the ever-shifting loom of aristocratic etiquette, be construed as an indelicate remark. More than once I had to resolve arguments between the northern and southern factions, and in the process of doing so I had become the group’s default speaker. My disguise must not have been absolutely convincing, for even the northeners seemed to realise that there was not automatically any affiliation between me and the southerners.

It hardly mattered, though. The disguise had convinced the woman in the ticket booth that I was an aristocrat, making her reveal more than she might have done otherwise. It had allowed me to blend in with these aristocrats, too—but sooner or later I would be able to discard it. I was not a wanted man, after all—just someone with a shady past and a few shady connections. There had been no harm in calling myself Tanner Mirabel, either—it was a lot safer than trying to come up with a convincing aristocrat lineage out of thin air. It was, thankfully, a neutral name that had no obvious connotations, aristocratic or otherwise. Unlike the rest of my dinner companions, I couldn’t trace my lineage back to the Flotilla’s arrival, and it was more than likely that the Mirabel name had arrived on Sky’s Edge half a century after that. In aristocrat terms I was posing as a parvenu lout—but no one would have been gauche enough to allude to that. They were all long-lived, tracing their lineages not just back to the Flotilla, but to the passenger manifest, with only one or two intervening generations—and it was perfectly natural to assume that I possessed the same augmented genes and access to the same therapeutic technologies.

But while the Mirabels probably had arrived on Sky’s Edge sometime after the Flotilla, they hadn’t brought any kind of germline longevity fix with them. Perhaps the first generation had lived a longer-than-normal human lifespan, but that advantage had not been passed to their offspring.

I didn’t have the money to buy it off the shelf, either. Cahuella had paid me adequately, but not so well that I could afford to be stung by the Ultras to that extent. And it almost didn’t matter. Only one in twenty of the planet’s population had the fix anyway. The rest of us were mired in a war, or scraping a living in the war’s interstices. The main problem was how to survive the next month, not the next century.

Which meant that the conversation took a decidedly awkward turn as soon as the subject matter turned to longevity techniques. I did my best to just sit back and let the words flow around me, but as soon as there was any kind of dispute I was pushed into the role of adjudicator. “Tanner will know,” they said, turning to me to offer some definitive statement on whatever had provoked the stalemate.

“It’s a complicated issue,” I said, more than once.

Or: “Well, obviously there are deeper issues at stake here.”

Or: “It would be unethical of me to speak further on this topic, I’m afraid—confidentiality agreements and all that. You do understand, don’t you?”

After an hour or so of that, I was ready for some time on my own.

I stood from the table, made my excuses and left, stepping up the spiral staircase which led to the observation deck above the habitation and dining levels. The prospect of shedding the aristocratic skin pleased me, and for the first time in hours I felt the tiniest glow of professional contentment. Everything was in hand. When I reached the top I had the compartment’s servitor prepare me a guindado. Even the way the drink fogged my normal clarity of mind was not unpleasing. There was plenty of time to become sober again: it would be at least seven hours before I needed an assassin’s edge.

We were ascending quickly now. The elevator had accelerated to a climb rate of five hundred kilometres per hour as soon as it cleared the terminal, but even at that rate it would still have taken forty hours to make it to the orbital terminal, many thousands of kilometres above our heads. However, the elevator had quadrupled its speed once it no longer had to punch through atmosphere, which had happened somewhere during our first course.

I had the observation deck to myself.

The other passengers, when they had finished dining, would disperse through the five compartments above the dining area. The elevator could comfortably carry fifty people and not appear crowded, but there were only seven of us today, including myself. The total trip time was ten hours. The station’s revolution around Sky’s Edge was synchronised to the planet’s own daily rotation so that it always hung exactly over Nueva Valparaiso, dead above the equator. They had starbridges on Earth, I knew, which reached thirty-six thousand kilometres high—but because Sky’s Edge rotated a little faster and had a slightly weaker gravitational pull, synchronous orbit was sixteen thousand kilometres lower. The thread, nonetheless, was still twenty thousand kilometres long—and that meant that the top kilometre of thread was under quite shocking tension from the deadweight of the nineteen thousand kilometres of thread below it. The thread was hollow, the walls a lattice of piezo-electrically reinforced hyperdiamond, but the weight of it, I had heard, was still close to twenty million tonnes. Every time I made a footfall, as I moved around the compartment, I thought of the tiny additional stress my motion was imparting to the thread. Sipping my guindado, I wondered how close to its breaking strain the thread was engineered; how much tolerance the engineers built into the system. Then a more rational part of my mind reminded me that the thread was carrying only a tiny fraction of the traffic it could handle. I stepped with more confidence around the picture window.

I wondered if Reivich was calm enough to take a drink now.

The view should have been spectacular, but even where night had yet to fall the Peninsula was hidden under a blanket of monsoon cloud. Since the world huddled close to Swan in its orbit, monsoon season came once every hundred days or so, lasting no more than ten or fifteen days each short year. Above the sharply curved horizon the sky had darkened through shades of blue towards a deep navy. I could see bright stars now, and overhead lay the single fixed star of the orbital station at the high end of the thread, still a long way above us. I considered sleeping for a few hours, my soldiering years having given me an almost animal ability to snap into a state of total alertness. I swirled what remained of the drink and took another sip. Now that I had made up my mind, I felt fatigue rushing over me like a damburst. It was always there, waiting for the slightest relaxation in my guard.

“Sir?”

I flinched again, only slightly this time, for I recognised the voice of the servitor. The machine’s cultured voice continued, “Sir, there is a call for you from the surface. I can have it sent through to your quarters, or you may view it here.”

I thought about going back to my room, but it was a shame to lose the view. “Put it through,” I said. “But terminate the call should anyone else start coming up the stairs.”

“Very well, sir.”

Dieterling, of course—it had to be. He wouldn’t have had time to get back to the Reptile House, although by my estimate he should have been about two-thirds of the way there. A shade early for him to try and contact me—and I hadn’t expected any contact anyway—but it was nothing to feel any anxiety about.

But instead, the face and shoulders that appeared in the elevator’s window belonged to Red Hand Vasquez. Somewhere in the room a camera must have been capturing me and adjusting my image to make it seem as if we were standing face to face, for he looked me straight in the eye.

“Tanner. Listen to me, man.”

“I’m listening,” I said, wondering if the irritation I felt was obvious in my voice. “What was so important that you needed to reach me here, Red?”

“Fuck you, Mirabel. You won’t be smiling in about thirty seconds.” But the way he said it made it seem less like a threat than a warning to prepare for bad news.

“What is it? Reivich pulled another fast one on us?”

“I don’t know. I had some guys make some more enquiries and I’m damn sure he’s on that thread, the way you think he is—a car or two ahead of you.”

“Then that isn’t why you’re calling.”

“No. I’m calling because someone’s killed Snake.”

I answered reflexively, “Dieterling?”

As if it could be anyone else.

Vasquez nodded. “Yeah. One of my guys found him about an hour ago, but he didn’t know who he was dealing with, so it took a while for the news to get back to me.”

My mouth seemed to form the words without conscious input from my mind. “Where was he? What had happened?”

“He was in your car, the wheeler—still parked on Norquinco. You couldn’t see there was anyone in it from the street; you had to look inside deliberately. My guy was just checking out the machine. He found Dieterling slumped down inside. He was still breathing.”

“What happened?”

“Someone shot him. Must’ve waited near where the wheeler was parked, then hung around until Dieterling got back from the bridge. Dieterling must have just got in the wheeler, getting ready to leave.”

“How was he shot?”

“I don’t know man; it’s not like I’m running an autopsy clinic here, you know?” Vasquez bit his lip before continuing, “Some kind of beam job, I think. Close range into the chest.”

I glanced down at the guindado I still held. It felt absurd to be standing here talking about my friend’s death with a cocktail drink in one hand, as if the matter was only a piece of easy smalltalk. But there was nowhere nearby to put the drink down.

I took a sip and answered him with a coldness that surprised me. “I prefer beam weapons myself, but they’re not what I’d use if I wanted to kill someone without making a fuss. A beam weapon creates more flash than most projectile weapons.”

“Unless it’s very close range; like a stabbing. Look, I’m sorry, man, but it looks like that’s how it happened. The barrel must’ve been pushed right into his clothes. Hardly any light or noise—and what there was would’ve been hidden by the wheeler. There was a lot of partying going on anyway tonight. Somebody started a fire near the bridge, and that was all the excuse the locals needed for a wild night. I don’t think anyone would’ve noticed a beam discharge, Tanner.”

“Dieterling wouldn’t have just sat back and let someone do that.”

“Maybe he didn’t get much warning.”

I thought about that. On some level the fact of his death was beginning to register, but the implications—not to mention the emotional shock—would take a lot longer. But I could at least force myself to ask the right questions now. “If he didn’t get much warning, either he wasn’t paying attention or he thought the person who killed him was someone he knew. He was still breathing, did you say?”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t conscious. I don’t think we could have done much for him, Tanner.”

“You’re sure he didn’t say anything?”

“Not to me or the guy who found him.”

“The guy—the man—who found him. Was he someone we’d met tonight?”

“No; he was one of the men I had tailing Reivich all day.”

This was how it was going to carry on, I thought: Vasquez just didn’t have the initiative to expand on an answer unless it was dragged kicking and screaming out of him. “And? How long had this man been in your service? Had Dieterling ever met him before?”

It was painfully slow, but he must have seen the way my questioning was running. “Hey, no way, man. No way did my guy have anything to do with this. I swear to you, Tanner.”

“He’s still a suspect. That goes for anyone we met tonight—including you, Red.”

“I wouldn’t have killed him. I wanted him to take me snake hunting.”

There was something so pathetically selfish about that answer that there was a good chance it was true.

“Well, I guess you’ve blown your chance.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it, Tanner.”

“But it happened on your turf, didn’t it?”

He was about to answer, and I was about to ask him what he had done with the body and what he intended to do about it when Vasquez’s image dissolved into static. At the same instant there was a powerful flash that seemed to come from everywhere at once, bathing every surface in a sickly white radiance.

It lasted for only a fraction of a second.

It was enough, though. There was something unforgettable about that hard burst of tarnished light; something I had seen once before. Or was it more than once? For a moment I wondered: remembering carnations of white light blossoming against stellar blackness.

Nuclear explosions.

The elevator’s illumination dimmed for a few seconds, and I felt my weight grow less and then return to normal.

Someone had let off a nuke.

The electromagnetic pulse must have swept over us, momentarily interfering with the elevator. I hadn’t seen a nuke flash since my childhood, one of the war’s small sanities being that for the most part it had stayed in the conventional realm. I couldn’t estimate the burst yield without knowing how far away the flash had been, but the lack of a mushroom cloud suggested that the explosion had taken place well above the planet’s surface. It didn’t make much sense: a nuke deployment could only have been the prelude to a conventional assault, and this was the wrong season for it. Elevated bursts made even less sense—military communications networks were hardened against electromagnetic pulse warfare.

An accident, perhaps?

I thought about it for a few more seconds, then heard footsteps racing up the spiral staircase between the elevator’s vertically stacked compartments. I saw one of the aristocrats I had just been dining with. I hadn’t bothered remembering his name, but the man’s levantine bone structure and golden-brown skin almost certainly identified him as a northerner. He was dressed opulently, his knee-length coat dripping shades of emerald and aquamarine. But he was agitated. Behind him, his foxlike wife paused on the last step, eyeing both of us warily.

“Did you see that?” the man asked. “We came up here to get a better look; you’ve got the best view from here. It looked pretty big. It almost looked like a…”

“A nuke?” I said. “I think it was.” There were retinal ghosts, pink shapes etched across my vision.

“Thank God it wasn’t any closer.”

“Let me see what the public nets say,” said the woman, glancing at a bracelet-shaped display device. It must have tapped into a less vulnerable data network than the one which Vasquez had been using, because she connected immediately. Images and text spilled across the device’s discreet little screen.

“Well?” said her husband. “Do they have any theories yet?”

“I don’t know, but…” She hesitated, her eyes lingering over something, then frowning. “No. That can’t be true. It just can’t be true.”

“What? What are they saying?”

She looked to the man and then to me. “They’re saying they’ve attacked the bridge. They’re saying that the explosion’s severed the thread.”

In the unreal moments that followed, the elevator continued to climb smoothly.

“No,” the man said, doing his best to sound calm, but not quite managing it. “They must be wrong. They’ve got to be wrong.”

“I hope to God they are,” the woman said, her voice beginning to crack. “My last neural scan was six months ago…”

“Damn six months,” the man said. “I haven’t been scanned this decade!”

The woman breathed out hard. “Well, they absolutely have to be wrong. We’re continuing to have this conversation, aren’t we? We’re not all screaming as we drop towards the planet.” She looked at her bracelet again, frowning.

“What does it say?” the man said.

“Exactly what it said a moment ago.”

“It’s a mistake, or a vicious lie, that’s all.”

I debated how much it would be judicious to reveal at this point. I was more than just a bodyguard, of course. In my years of service to Cahuella there were few things on the planet which I had not studied—even if that study had usually been motivated by some military application. I didn’t pretend to know much about the bridge, but I did know something about hyperdiamond, the artificial carbon allotrope from which it was spun.

“Actually,” I said, “I think they could be right.”

“But nothing’s changed!” the woman said.

“I wouldn’t necessarily expect it to.” I was forcing calm myself, clicking back into the crisis-management state of mind my soldiering years had taught me. Somewhere in the back of my head was a shrill scream of private fear, but I did my best to ignore it for the moment. “Even if the bridge had been cut, how far below do you think that flash was? I’d say it was at least three thousand kilometres.”

“What the fuck has that got to do with it?”

“A lot,” I said, managing a gallows smile. “Think of the bridge as being like a rope—hanging all the way down from orbit, stretched out by its own weight.”

“I’m thinking about it, believe me.”

“Good. Now think about cutting the rope midway along its height. The part above the cut is still hanging from the orbital hub, but the part below will immediately begin falling to the ground.”

The man answered now. “We’re perfectly safe, then? We’re certainly above the cut.” He looked upwards. “The thread’s intact all the way between here and the orbital terminus. That means if we keep climbing, we’ll make it, thank God.”

“I wouldn’t start thanking Him just yet.”

He looked at me with a pained expression, as if I were spoiling some elaborate parlour game with needless objections.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it doesn’t mean we’re safe. If you cut a long rope hanging under its own weight, the part above the cut’s going to spring back.”

“Yes.” He looked at me with threatening eyes, as if I was making my objections out of spite. “I understand that. But it obviously doesn’t apply to us, since nothing’s happened.”

“Yet,” I said. “I never said the relaxation would happen instantly, all along the thread. Even if the thread’s been cut below us, it’ll take some time for the relaxation wave to climb all the way up to us.”

His question was fearful now.

“How long?”

I had no exact answer for them. “I don’t know. Speed of sound in hyperdiamond isn’t very different than in natural diamond—about fifteen kilometres a second, I think. If the cut was three thousand kilometres under us, the sound wave should hit us first—about two hundred seconds after the nuke flash. The relaxation wave should move slower than that, I think… but it will still reach us before we reach the summit.”

My timing was exquisite, for the sonic pulse arrived just as I had finished speaking, a hard and sudden jolt, as if the elevator had just hit a bump in its two-thousand-kilometre-per-hour ascent. “We’re still safe, aren’t we?” asked the wife, her voice only a knife-edge from hysteria. “If the cut is below us… Oh God, I wish we’d been backed-up more often.” Her husband looked at her snidely. “It was you who told me those flights to the scanning clinic were too expensive to make a habit out of, darling.”

“But you didn’t have to take me literally.”

I raised my voice, silencing them. “I still think we’re in a lot of danger, I’m afraid. If the relaxation wave is just a longitudinal compression along the thread, there’s a chance we’ll ride it out safely. But if the thread starts picking up any kind of sideways motion, like a whip…”

“What the fuck are you,” the man asked, “some kind of engineer?”

“No,” I said. “Another kind of specialist entirely.”

More footfalls on the stairs now as the rest of the group came up. The jolt must have convinced them something was seriously wrong.

“What’s happening?” asked one of the southerners, a burly man a foot taller than anyone else in the elevator.

“We’re riding a severed thread,” I answered. “There are spacesuits aboard this thing, aren’t there? I suggest we get into them as quickly as possible.”

The man looked at me as if I were insane. “We’re still ascending! I don’t give a damn what happened below us; we’re fine. They built this thing to take a lot of crap.”

“Not this much,” I said.

By now the servitor had arrived as well, suspended from its ceiling rail. I asked it to show us to the suits. It should not have been necessary to ask, but this situation was so far beyond the servitor’s experience that it had completely failed to detect any threat to its human charges. I wondered if the news of the severed thread had reached the orbital station. Almost certainly it had—and almost certainly there was nothing that could be done for the elevators still on the thread.

Still, it was better to be on the upper part of the thread than the part below the severing point. I imagined a thousand-kilometre-high section below the cut. It would take several minutes for the top of the thread to smash into the planet below—in fact, for a long while it would seem to hang magically, like a rope trick. But it would still be falling, and there was nothing in the world that could stop it. A million tonnes of thread, slicing down into the atmosphere, laden with cars, some of them occupied. It would be a slow and quite terrifying way to die.

Who could have done this?

It was too much to believe that it didn’t have something to do with my ascent. Reivich had tricked us in Nueva Valparaiso, and if it hadn’t been for the bridge attack I would have still been trying to assimilate the fact of Miguel Dieterling’s death. I couldn’t imagine Red Hand Vasquez having anything to do with the explosion, even though I hadn’t completely ruled him out of the frame for my friend’s murder. Vasquez just didn’t have the imagination to attempt something like this, let alone the means. And his cultist indoctrination would have made it very hard for him to even think of harming the bridge in any way. Yet someone appeared to be trying to kill me. Maybe they had put a bomb aboard one of the elevators rising below, thinking I was on it, or would be on one of those below the cut point—or maybe they had fired a missile and misjudged the point to aim for. It could have been Reivich, but only in the technical sense—he had friends with the right influence. But I’d never figured him as someone capable of an act of that ruthlessness: casually wiping out of existence a few hundred innocents just to ensure the death of one man.

But maybe Reivich was learning.

We followed the servitor to the emergency space suit lockers, each of which held one vacuum suit. They were of antique design by spacefaring standards, requiring the users to physically insert themselves in the garment rather than have it enfold around them. They all appeared to be one size too small, but I donned my suit quickly enough, with the dexterous ease with which one might slip on a suit of combat armour. I was careful to hide the clockwork gun in one of the suit’s capacious utility pockets, where there should have been a signal flare.

No one saw the gun.

“This isn’t necessary!” the southern aristocrat was saying. “We don’t need to wear any damn—”

“Listen,” I said, “when the compression wave hits us—which it will do any second—we could be flung sideways with enough force to break every bone in your body. That’s why you need to be wearing a suit. It’ll offer some protection.”

Maybe not enough, I thought.

The six of them fumbled with their suits with varying degrees of confidence. I helped the others, and after a minute or so they were ready, except for the huge aristocrat, who was still complaining about the fit of the suit, as if he had all the time in the world to worry about it. Troublingly, he began to eye the other suits in the closet, wondering perhaps if they were all truly of the same size.

“You don’t have time. Just get the thing sealed and worry about cuts and bruises later.”

Below, I imagined the vicious kink in the thread racing toward us, gobbling the kilometres as it climbed. By now it must have already passed the lower elevators. I wondered if it would be violent enough to fling the car off the thread.

I was still thinking about it when it hit.

It was much worse than I had imagined it would be. The elevator jerked to one side, the force of it slamming all seven of us against the inner wall. Someone broke a bone and started screaming, but almost immediately we were flung in the opposite direction, crashing against the clear arc of the picture window. The servitor broke loose from its ceiling rail and fell past us. Its hard steel body daggered into the glass, but though the glass fractured into a webwork of white lines, it managed not to break. Gravity fell as the elevator decelerated on the thread; some element in its induction motor had been damaged by the whiplash.

The southern aristocrat’s head was a vile red pulp, like an over-ripe fruit. As the whiplash oscillations died down, his body tumbled limply around the cabin. Someone else started screaming. They were all in a bad way. I might even have had injuries of my own, but for the moment adrenalin was whiting them out.

The compression wave had passed. At some point, I knew, it would reach the end of the thread and be reflected back down again—but that might be hours from now, and it would not be so violent as before, its energies bled into heat.

For a moment I dared to think that we might be safe.

Then I thought about the elevators below us. They might have slowed down as well, or even been flung off the thread completely. Automatic safety systems may have come online—but there was no way to know for sure. And if the car below was still ascending at normal speed, it would run into us very soon indeed.

I thought about it for a few moments before speaking, raising my voice above the moans of the injured. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But there’s something I’ve just thought of…”

There was no time to explain. They’d just have to follow me or take the consequences of staying in the elevator. Not even time to get to the elevator’s emergency airlock; it would take at least a minute to cycle all seven—or six now—of us through it. Besides, the further we could get away from the thread, the safer we’d be if there was a collision between the elevators.

There was really only one option.

I retrieved the clockwork gun from my suit pouch, gripping it clumsily in my gloved fingers. There was no way to aim it with any precision, but thankfully, none was called for. I merely pointed the gun in the general direction of the fracture pattern left on the glass by the falling servitor.

Someone tried to stop me, not understanding that what I was doing might save their lives, but I was stronger; my finger pulled the trigger. In the gun, nano-scale clockwork unravelled, unleashing a ferocious pulse of stored molecular-binding energy. A haze of flechettes ripped from the barrel, shattering the glass, creating a widening network of fractures. The window puckered outward, straining, and then broke into a billion white shards. The storm of air hurled all of us through the ragged opening, into space.

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.