Rees found his fists bunching — and deliberately uncurled them. Keeping his voice level he said, “I should have turned you in while I had the opportunity. What do you want, Gover?”
“Last chance, rat,” Gover said softly. “Come with us now, or take what we dish out to these vicious old farts. One chance.”
The stares of Gover and Hollerbach were almost palpable pressures: the stink of smoke, the noise, the bloodied corpse on the deck, all seemed to converge in his awareness, and he felt as if he were bearing on his back the weight of the Raft and all its occupants.
Gover waited.
7
The rotation of the tethered tree was peaceful, soothing. Pallis sat by the warm trunk of the tree, chewing slowly on his flight rations.
A head and shoulders thrust their way through the mat of foliage. It was a young man; his hair was filthy and tangled and sweat plastered a straggling beard to his throat. He looked about uncertainly.
Pallis said softly: “I take it you’ve a good reason for disturbing my tree, lad. What are you doing here?”
The visitor pulled himself through the leaves. Pallis noticed how the boy’s coverall bore the scars of recently removed braids. Shame, Pallis reflected, that the coverall itself hadn’t been removed — and washed — with equal vigor.
“Regards to you, tree-pilot. My name’s Boon, of the Brotherhood of the Infrastructure. The Committee instructed me to find you—”
“I don’t care if Boney Joe himself shoved a fibula up your arse to help you on your way,” Pallis said evenly. “I’ll ask you again. What are you doing in my tree?”
Boon’s grin faded. “The Committee want to see you,” he said, his voice faint. “Come to the Platform. Now.”
Pallis cut a slice of meat-sim. “I don’t want anything to do with your damn Committee, boy.”
Boon scratched uncertainly at his armpit. “But you have to. The Committee… it’s an order—”
“All right, lad, you’ve delivered your message,” Pallis snapped. “Now get out of my tree.”
“Can I tell them you’ll come?”
For reply Pallis ran a fingertip along the blade of his knife. Boon ducked back through the foliage.
Pallis buried the tip of the knife in trunk wood, wiped his hands on a dry leaf and pulled himself to the rim of the tree. He lay facedown among the fragrance of the leaves, allowing the tree’s stately rotation to sweep his gaze across the Raft.
Under its canopy of forest the deck had become a darker place: threads of smoke still rose from the ruins of buildings, and Pallis noticed dark stretches in the great cable-walled avenues. That was new; so they were smashing up the globe lamps now. How would it feel to smash the very last one? he wondered. To extinguish the last scrap of ancient light — how would it feel to grow old, knowing that it was your hands that had done such a thing?
At the revolution’s violent eruption Pallis had simply retreated to his trees. With a supply of water and food he had hoped to rest here among his beloved branches, distanced from the pain and anger washing across the Raft. He had even considered casting off, simply flying away alone. The Bones knew he owed no loyalty to either side in this absurd battle.
But, he mused, he was still a human. As were the running figures on the Raft — even the self-appointed Committee — and those lost souls in the Belt. And, when all this was over, someone would have to carry food and iron for them once more.
So he had waited above the revolt, hoping it would leave him be…
But now his interlude was over.
He sighed. So, Pallis, you can hide from their damn revolution, but it looks as if it isn’t going to hide from you.
He had to go, of course. If not they’d come for him with their bottles of burning oil…
He took a deep draught of water, tucked his knife in his belt and slid smoothly through the foliage.
He made his way to an avenue and set off toward the Rim.
The avenue was deserted.
Shivering, he found himself listening for echoes of the crowds who had thronged along here not many shifts ago. But the silence of the wide thoroughfare was deep, eerie. The predominant smell was of burnt wood, overlaid with a meat-like stickiness; he turned up his face to the calm canopy of forest, nostrils seeking the soft wood-scented breeze from the branches.
As he had suspected a good fraction of the globe lamps hung in imploded fragments from their cables, dooming the avenue to half-light. The Raft had become a place of moody darkness, the blanket of shadows lifting here and there to reveal glimpses of this fine new world. He saw a small child licking at the remains of a long-empty food pallet. He made out a shape hanging from rope tied to the tree cables; a pool of something brown and thick had dried on the deck beneath it—
Pallis felt the food chum in his stomach. He hurried on.
A group of young men came marching from the direction of the Platform, braids ostentatiously torn from their shoulders. Their eyes were wide with joy; Pallis, despite his muscles, stood aside as they passed.
At length he reached the edge of the cable thicket and — with some relief — emerged to open sky. He made his way up the apparent slope to the Rim and at last climbed the broad, shallow stairs to the Platform. Incongruous memories tugged at him. He hadn’t been here since his Thousandth Shift dance. He remembered the glittering costumes, the laughter, the drink, his own big-boned awkwardness…
Well, he wouldn’t find a party here today.
At the head of the stairs two men blocked the way. They were about Pallis’s size but somewhat younger; dim hostility creased their features.
“I’m Pallis,” he said. “Woodsman. I’m here to see the Committee”
They studied him suspiciously.
Pallis sighed. “And if you two boneheads will get out of the way I can do what I came for.”
The shorter of the two — a square, bald man — took a step up to him. Pallis saw he was carrying a club of wood. “Listen—”
Pallis smiled, letting his muscles bunch under his shirt.
The taller doorman said, “Leave it, Seel. He’s expected.”
Seel scowled; then he hissed: “Later, funny man.”
Pallis let his smile broaden. “My pleasure.”
He pushed past the doormen and down to the body of the Platform, wondering at his own actions. Now, what had been the point of antagonizing those two? Was violence, the pounding of fist into bone, so attractive a release?
A fine response to these unstable times, Pallis.
He walked slowly toward the center of the Platform. The place was barely recognizable from former times. Food cartons lay strewn about the deck, no more than half emptied; at the sight of the spoiling stuff Pallis remembered with a flash of anger the starving child not a quarter of a mile from here.
Trestle tables studded the Platform. They bore trophies of various kinds — photographs, uniforms, lengths of gold braid, a device called an orrery Pallis remembered seeing in Hollerbach’s office — but also books, charts, listings and heaps of paper. It was clear that such government as still existed on the Raft was based here.
Pallis grinned sourly. It had been a great symbolic gesture, no doubt, to remove control from the corrupt center of the Raft and take it out to this spectacular vantage spot… But what if it rained on all this paperwork?
However, no one seemed too concerned about such practicalities at the moment, or indeed about the machineries of government in general. Save for a group of subdued, grubby Scientists huddled together at the center of the deck, the Platform’s population was clustered in a tight knot at the Nebula-facing wall. Pallis approached slowly. The Raft’s new rulers, mostly young men, laughed and passed bottles of liquor from hand to hand, gaping at some attraction close to the wall.