Stephen Baxter - Xeelee 1 - Raft

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Raft

by Stephen Baxter

Book 1 of the Xeelee Sequence

To my wife, Sandra

I must express my thanks to Larry Niven, David Brin and Eric Brown, who took the trouble

to read and comment closely on drafts of this novel, and on the imagined universe it

portrays: thanks to their input the quality of this work has been greatly enhanced. Thanks

also to Arthur C. Clarke, Bob Shaw, Charles Sheffield, Joe Haldeman, and David Pringle

for their words of praise and encouragement. Finally I owe a great debt of gratitude to

Malcolm Edwards, my editor at Grafton, for his patience, encouragement, and close

attention to the development of this work.

Chapter 1

It was when the foundry imploded that Rees's curiosity about his world became unbearable.

The shift started normally enough with a thump on his cabin wall from the fist of Sheen, his shift

supervisor. Groggily Rees pulled himself from his sleeping net and moved slowly about the jumbled

cabin, grinding through his wake-up routines.

The water from the rusty spigot emerged reluctantly in the microgee conditions. The liquid was sour and

cloudy. He forced down a few mouthfuls and splashed his face and hair. He wondered with a shudder

how many human bodies this water had passed through since its first collection from a passing cloud; it

had been dozens of shifts since the last supply tree from the Raft had called with fresh provisions, and the

Belt's antique recycling system was showing its deficiencies.

He pulled on a stained, one-piece coverall. The garment was getting too short. At fifteen thousand shifts

old he was dark, slim—and tall enough already and still growing, he thought gloomily. This observation

made him think with a stab of sadness of his parents; it was just the sort of remark they might have made.

His father, who had not long survived his mother, had died a few hundred shifts ago of circulatory

problems and exhaustion. Suspended by one hand from the door frame Rees surveyed the little iron-

walled cabin, recalling how cluttered it had seemed when he'd shared it with his parents.

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He pushed such thoughts away and wriggled through the narrow door frame.

He blinked for a few seconds, dazzled by the shifting starlight… and hesitated. There was a faint scent on

the air. A richness, like meat-sim. Something burning?

His cabin was connected to his neighbor's by a few yards of fraying rope and by lengths of rusty piping;

he pulled himself a few feet along the rope and hung there, eyes raking the world around him for the

source of the jarring scent.

The air of the Nebula was, as always, stained blood-red. A corner of his mind tried to measure that

redness—was it deeper than last shift?—while his eyes flicked around the objects scattered through the

Nebula above and below him. The clouds were like handfuls of grayish cloth sprinkled through miles of

air. Stars fell among and through the clouds in a slow, endless rain that tumbled down to the Core. The

light of the mile-wide spheres cast shifting shadows over the clouds, the scattered trees, the huge blurs

that might be whales. Here and there he saw a tiny flash that marked the end of a star's brief existence.

How many stars were there?

As a child Rees had hovered among the cables, eyes wide, counting up to the limits of his knowledge and

patience. Now he suspected that the stars were without number, that there were more stars than hairs on

his head… or thoughts in his head, or words on his tongue. He raised his head and scoured a sky that was

filled with stars. It was as if he were suspended in a great cloud of light; the star-spheres receded with

distance into points of light, so that the sky itself was a curtain glowing red-yellow.

The burning scent called to him again, seeping through the thin air. He wrapped his toes in the cabin

cable and released his hands; he let the spin of the Belt straighten his spine, and from this new viewpoint

surveyed his home.

The Belt was a circle about eight hundred yards wide, a chain of battered dwellings and work places

connected by ropes and tubes. At the center of the Belt was the mine itself, a cooled-down star kernel a

hundred yards wide; lifting cables dangled from the Belt to the surface of the star kernel, scraping the

rusty meniscus at a few feet per second.

Here and there, fixed to the walls and roofs of the Belt, were the massive, white-metal mouths of jets;

every few minutes a puff of steam emerged from one of those throats and the Belt tugged imperceptibly

faster at his heels, shaking off the slowing effects of air friction. He studied the ragged rim of the nearest

jet; it was fixed to his neighbor's roof and showed signs of hasty cutting and welding. As usual his

attention drifted off into random speculation. What vessel, or other device, had that jet come from? Who

were the men who had cut it away? And why had they come here…?

Again the whiff of fire. He shook his head, trying to concentrate.

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It was shift-change time, of course, and there were little knots of activity around most of the cabins in the

Belt as workers, grimy and tired, made for their sleep nets—and, a quarter of the Belt's circumference

from him, a haze of smoke hovered around the foundry. He saw men dive again and again into the

grayish fog. When they reemerged they tugged limp, blackened forms.

Bodies?

With a soft cry he curled, grasped the rope and sprint-crawled over the diffuse gravity wells of cabin

roofs and walls to the foundry.

He hesitated on the edge of the sphere of smoke. The stench of burnt meat-sim made his empty stomach

twist. Two figures emerged from the haze, solidifying like figures in a dream. They carried an

unrecognizable, bloodied bundle between them. Rees anchored himself and reached down to help them;

he tried not to recoil as charred flesh peeled away in his hands.

The limp form was bundled in stained blankets and hauled tenderly away. One of the two rescuers

straightened before Rees; white eyes shone out of a soot-smeared face. It took him a few seconds to

recognize Sheen, his shift supervisor. The pull of her hot, blackened body was a distant tugging at his

belly, and he was ashamed to find, even at a moment like this, his eyes tracking sweat droplets over her

blood-smeared chest. "You're late," she said, her voice smoke-deep as a man's.

"I'm sorry. What's happened?"

"An implosion. What do you think?" Pushing scorched hair from her brow she turned and pointed into the

stationary pall of smoke. Now Rees could make out the shape of the foundry within; its cubical form had

buckled, as if crushed by a giant hand. "Two dead so far," Sheen said. "Damn it. That's the third collapse

in the last hundred shifts. If only Gord built strong enough for this damn stupid universe, I wouldn't have

to scrape my workmates off each other like so much spoiled meat-sim. Damn, damn."

"What shall I do?"

She turned and looked at him with annoyance; he felt a flush of embarrassment and fear climb in his

cheeks. Her irritation seemed to soften a little. "Help us haul the rest out. Stick close to me and you'll be

fine. Try to breathe through your nose, OK?"

And she turned and dived back into the spreading smoke. Rees hesitated for a single second, then hurried

after her.

* * *

The bodies were cleared and allowed to drift away into the Nebula air, while the injured were collected

by their families and gently bundled to waiting cabins. The fire in the foundry was doused and soon the

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smoke was dispersing. Gord, the Belt's chief engineer, crawled over the ruins. The engineer was a short,

blond man; he shook his head miserably as he began the work of planning the rebuilding of the foundry.

Rees saw how the relatives of the dead and injured regarded Gord with hatred as he went about his work.

Surely the series of implosions could not be blamed on the engineer?

…But if not Gord, who?

Rees's shift was cancelled. The Belt had a second foundry, separated from the ruin by a hundred and

eighty degrees, and Rees would be expected to call there on his next working shift; but for now he was

free.

He pulled his way slowly back to his cabin, staring with fascination at the blood-trails left by his hands

on ropes and roofs. His head seemed still to be full of smoke. He paused for a few minutes at the entrance

to his cabin, trying to suck clean oxygen from the air; but the ruddy, shifting starlight seemed almost as

thick as smoke. Sometimes the Nebula breezes seemed almost unbreathable.

If only the sky were blue, he thought vaguely. I wonder what blue is like… Even in his parents'

childhood—so his father had said—there were still hints of blue in the sky, off at the edges of the Nebula,

far beyond the clouds and stars. He closed his eyes, trying to picture a color he had never seen, thinking

of coolness, of clear water.

So the world had changed since his father's day. Why? And would it change again? Would blue and those

other cool colors return—or would the redness deepen until it was the color of ruined flesh—

Rees pulled his way into his cabin and ran the spigot. He took off his tunic and scrubbed at his

bloodstained skin until it ached.

* * *

The flesh peeled from the body in his hands like the skin from rotten fruit-sim; bone gleamed white—

He lay in his net, eyes wide, remembering.

A distant handbell rang three times. So it was still only mid-shift—he had to endure another shift and a

half, a full twelve hours, before he had an excuse to leave the cabin.

If he stayed here he'd go crazy.

He rolled out of his net, pulled on his coverall and slid out of the cabin. The quickest way to the

Quartermaster's was along the Belt past the wrecked foundry; deliberately he turned and crawled the

other way.

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People nodded from windows and outdoor nets as he passed, some smiling with faint sympathy. There

were only a couple of hundred people in the Belt; the tragedy must have hit almost everybody. From

dozens of cabins came the sounds of soft weeping, of cries of pain.

Rees lived alone, keeping mostly to his own company; but he knew almost everybody in the Belt. Now

he lingered by cabins where people to whom he was a little closer must be suffering, perhaps dying; but

he hurried on, feeling isolation thicken around him like smoke.

The Quartermaster's bar was one of the Belt's largest buildings at twenty yards across; it was laced with

climbing ropes, and bar stock covered most of one wall. This shift the place was crowded: the stink of

alcohol and weed, the bellow of voices, the pull of a mass of hot bodies—it all hit Rees as if he'd run into

a wall. Jame, the barman, plied his trade briskly, laughing raucously through a graying tangle of beard.

Rees lingered on the fringe of the milling crowd, anxious not to return to his desolate cabin; but the drink

and laughter seemed to flow around him, excluding him, and he turned to leave.

"Rees! Wait…"

It was Sheen. She had pushed away from the center of a group of men; one of them—a huge, intimidating

miner called Roch—called after her drunkenly. Sheen's cheeks were moist from the heat of the bar and

she had cropped away her scorched hair; otherwise she was bright and clean in a fresh, skimpy tunic.

When she spoke her voice was still scoured rough by the smoke. "I saw you come in. Here. You look like

you need this." She held out a drink in a tarnished globe.

Suddenly awkward, Rees said, "I was going to leave—"

"I know you were." She moved closer to him, unsmiling, and pushed the drink into his chest. "Take it

anyway." Again he felt the pull of her body as a warmth in his stomachs—why should her gravity field

have such a distinct flavor from that of others?—and he was distractingly aware of her bare arms.

"Thanks." He took the drink and sucked at the globe's plastic nipple; hot liquor coursed over his tongue.

"Maybe I did need that."

Sheen studied him with frank curiosity. "You're an odd one, Rees, aren't you?"

He stared back, letting his eyes slide over the smoothness of the skin around her eyes. It struck him that

she wasn't really much older than he was. "How am I odd?"

"You keep yourself to yourself."

He shrugged.

"Look, it's something you need to grow out of. You need company. We all do. Especially after a shift like

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RaftbyStephenBaxterBook1oftheXeeleeSequenceTomywife,SandraImustexpressmythankstoLarryNiven,DavidBrinandEricBrown,who ookthetroubletoreadandcommentcloselyondraftsofthisnovel,andontheimagineduniverseitportrays:thankstotheirinputthequalityofthisworkhasbeengreatlyenhanced.ThanksalsotoArthurC.Clarke,B...

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Stephen Baxter - Xeelee 1 - Raft

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