Stephen Baxter - Xeelee 3 - Flux

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Flux

Stephen Baxter

Flux

Book 3 of the Xeelee Sequence

To my nephew James Baxter

Dura woke with a start.

There was something wrong. The photons didn't smell right.

Her hand floated before her face, dimly visible, and she flexed her fingers. Disturbed electron gas,

spiraling dizzily around the Magfield lines, sparkled purple-white around the fingertips. The Air in

her eyes was warm, stale, and she could make out only vague shapes.

For a moment she hung there, curled in a tight ball, suspended in the elastic grip of the Magfield.

She heard voices, thin and hot with panic. They were coming from the direction of the Net.

Dura jammed her eyes tight shut and hugged her knees, willing herself to return to the cool oblivion

of sleep. Not again. By the blood of the Xeelee, she swore silently, not another Glitch; not another

spin storm. She wasn't sure if the little tribe of Human Beings had the resources to respond to more

disruption... nor, indeed, if she herself had the strength to cope with fresh disaster.

The Magfield itself trembled now. Encasing her body, it rippled over her skin, not unpleasantly, and

she allowed it to rock her as if she were a child in its arms. Then—not so pleasantly—it prodded her

more rudely in the small of the back...

No, that wasn't the Magfield. She uncurled again, stretching against the confines of the field. She

rubbed her eyes—the fleshy rims of the cups were crusted with sleep-deposits and felt sharp against

her fingers—and shook her head to clear the clouded Air out of the cups.

The prod in her back was coming from the fist of Farr, her brother. He'd been on latrine duty, she

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saw; he still carried his plaited waste bag, empty of the neutron-rich shit he'd taken out away from

the Net and dumped in the Air. His skinny, growing body trembled in response to the instabilities in

the Magfield and his round face was upturned to her, creased with an almost comical concern. In one

hand he gripped a fin of his pet Air-pig—a fat infant about the size of Dura's fist, so young that none

of its six fins were yet pierced. The little animal, obviously terrified by the Glitch, struggled to

escape, feebly; it pumped out superfluid jetfarts in thin blue streams.

His fondness for the animal made Farr seem even younger than his twelve years—a third of Dura's

age—and he clung to the piglet as if clinging to childhood itself. Well, Dura thought, the Mantle was

huge and empty, but there was precious little room in it for childhood. Farr was having to grow up

fast.

He was so like their father, Logue.

Dura, still misty with sleep, felt a surge of affection and concern for the boy and reached out to

stroke his cheek, to run gentle fingers around the quiet brown rims of his eyes.

She smiled at her brother. "Hello, Farr."

"Sorry for waking you."

"You didn't. The Star was kind enough to wake me, long before you got around to it. Another

Glitch?"

"The worst one yet, Adda says."

"Never mind what Adda says," Dura said, stroking his floating hair; the hollow tubes were, as

always, tangled and grubby. "We'll get by. We always do, don't we? You get back to your father.

And tell him I'm coming."

"All right." Farr smiled at her again, twisted stiffly, and, with his Air-pig's fin still clutched tight, he

began to Wave awkwardly across the Magfield's invisible flux paths toward the Net. Dura watched

him recede, his slim form diminished by the shimmering, world-filling vortex lines beyond him.

Dura straightened to her full length and stretched, pressing against the Magfield. She kept her mouth

wide open as she worked stiffness out of her limbs and back. She felt the feathery ripple of the Air as

it poured through her throat to her lungs and heart, rushing through superleak capillaries and filling

her muscles; her body seemed to tingle with its freshness.

She gazed around, sniffing the photons.

Dura's world was the Mantle of the Star, an immense cavern of yellow-white Air bounded below by

the Quantum Sea and above by the Crust.

The Crust itself was a rich, matted ceiling, purple-streaked with grass and the hairlike lines of tree

trunks. By squinting—distorting the parabolic retinas of her eyes—she could make out dark motes

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scattered among the roots of the trees fixed to the underside of the Crust. Perhaps they were rays, or

a herd of wild Air-pigs, or some other grazing creatures. It was too distant to see clearly, but the

amphibian animals seemed to be swirling around each other, colliding, confused; she almost

imagined she could hear the cool sound of their distress.

Far below her, the Quantum Sea formed a purple-dark floor to the world. The Sea was mist-

shrouded, its surface indistinct and deadly. The Sea itself, she saw with relief, was undisturbed by

the Glitch. Only once in Dura's memory had there been a Glitch severe enough to cause a Seaquake.

She shuddered like the Magfield as she remembered that ghastly time; she had been no older than

Farr, she supposed, when the neutrino founts had come, sweeping half the Human

Beings—including Phir, Dura's mother and Logue's first wife—away and on, screaming, into the

mysteries beyond the Crust.

All around her, filing the Air between Crust and Sea, the vortex lines were an electric-blue cage. The

lines filled space in a hexagonal array, spaced about ten mansheights apart; they swept around the

Star from far upflux—from the North—arced past her like the trajectories of immense, graceful

animals, and converged into the red-soft blur that was the South Pole, millions of mansheights away.

She held her fingers up before her face, trying to judge the spacing and pattern of the lines.

Through her fingers she could see the encampment, a little knot of frantic detail and

activity—jostling, terrified Air-pigs, scrambling people, the quivering Net—all embedded in the

shuddering bulk of the Air. Farr with his struggling Air-piglet was a pathetic scrap, wriggling

through the invisible flux tubes.

Dura tried to ignore the small, messy knot of humanity, to focus on the lines.

Normally the motion of the lines was stately, predictable—regular enough for the Human Beings to

measure their lives by it, in fact. Overlaid on the eternal drift of the lines toward the Crust there were

pulses of line-bunching: the tight, sharp crowdings that marked the days, and the slower, more

complex second-order oscillations which humans used to count their months. In normal times it was

easy for the Human Beings to avoid the slow creep of the lines; there was always plenty of time to

dismantle the Net, repitch their little encampment in another corner of the empty sky.

Dura even knew what caused the lines' stately pulsations, much good the knowledge did her: the Star

had a companion, far beyond the Crust—a planet, a ball like the Star but smaller, lighter—which

revolved, unseen, over their heads, pulling at the vortex lines as if with invisible fingers. And, of

course, beyond the planet—the childish ideas returned to her unbidden, like fragments of her

lingering sleep—beyond the planet were the stars of the Ur-humans, impossibly distant and forever

invisible.

The drifting vortex lines were as stable and secure, in normal times, as the fingers of some friendly

god; humans, Air-pigs and others moved freely between the lines, fearlessly and without any

danger...

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Except during a Glitch.

Now, across the frame of her spread fingers, the vortex array was shifting visibly as the superfluid

Air sought to realign with the Star's adjusted rotation. Instabilities—great parallel sets of

ripples—already marched majestically along the length of the lines, bearing the news of the Star's

new awakening from Pole to magnetic Pole.

The photons emitted by the lines smelled thin, sharp. The spin storm was coming.

—

Dura had chosen a sleep place about fifty mansheights from the center of the Human Beings' current

encampment, in a place where the Magfield had felt particularly thick, comfortingly secure. Now she

began to Wave toward the Net. Wriggling, rippling her limbs, she felt electricity course through her

epidermis; and she pushed with arms and legs at the invisible, elastic resistance of the Magfield as if

it were a ladder. Fully awake now, she found herself filled with a belated anxiety—an anxiety

healthily laced with guilt at her tardiness—and as she slid across the Magfield she spread the

webbed fingers of her hands and beat at the Air, trying to work up still more speed. Neutron

superfluid made up most of the bulk of the Air, so there was barely any resistance to her hands; but

still she clawed at the Air, her impatience mounting, seeking comfort in activity.

The vortex lines slid like dreams across her field of vision now. Ripples hurtled in great even chains,

as if the vortex lines were ropes shaken by giants located in the mists of the Poles. As the waves beat

past her they emitted a low, cool groan. The amplitude of the waves was already half a mansheight.

By Bolder's guts, she thought, maybe that old fool Adda is right for once; maybe this really is going

to be the worst yet.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the encampment grew from a distant abstraction, a melange of movement

and noise, to a community. The encampment was based around the crude cylindrical Net made of

plaited tree-bark, slung out along the Magfield lines. Most people slept and ate bound up to the Net,

and the length of the cylinder was a patchwork of tied-up belongings, privacy blankets, cleaning

brushes, simple clothes—ponchos, tunics and belts—and a few pathetic bundles of food. Scraps of

half-finished wooden artifacts and flags of untreated Air-pig leather dangled from the Net ropes.

The Net was five mansheights across and a dozen long. It was at least five generations old,

according to the older folk like Adda. And it was the only home of about fifty humans—and their

only treasure.

As she neared it, clawing her way through the clinging Magfield, Dura suddenly saw the flimsy

construct with an objective eye—as if she had not been born in a blanket tied to its filthy knots, as if

she would not die still clinging to its fibers. How fragile it was: how pathetic, how defenseless they

truly were. Even as she approached to join her people in this moment of need, Dura felt depressed,

weak, helpless.

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The adults and older children were Waving all around the Net, working at knots which dwarfed their

fingers. She saw Esk, picking patiently at a section of the Net. Dura thought he watched her

approach, but it was hard to be sure. In any event Philas, his wife, was with him, and Dura kept her

face averted. Here and there Dura could make out small children and infants still attached to the Net

by tethers of varying lengths. Each child, left tethered up by laboring parents and siblings, was a

small, wailing bundle of fear and loneliness, Waving futilely against its constraints, and Dura felt her

heart go out to every one of them. Dura spotted the girl Dia, heavily pregnant with her first child.

Working with her husband Mur, Dia was pulling tools and bits of clothing from the Net and stuffing

them into a sack; Air-sweat glistened from her swollen, naked belly. Dia was a small-limbed,

childlike woman whose pregnancy had served to make her only more vulnerable and young-looking;

watching her work now, her every movement redolent of fear, made something move inside

childless Dura, an urge to protect.

The animals—the tribe's small herd of a dozen adult Air-pigs and about as many piglets—were

restrained inside the Net, along its axis. They bleated, their din adding a mournful counterpoint to

the shouts and cries of humans; they huddled together at the heart of the Net in a trembling mass of

fins, jet orifices and stalks erect with huge, bowl-shaped eyes. A few people had gone inside the Net

and were trying to calm the animals, to attach leaders to their pierced fins. But the dismantling of the

Net was proceeding slowly and unevenly, Dura saw as she approached, and the herd was a mass of

panicky noise, uncoordinated movement.

She heard voices raised in fear and impatience. What had seemed from a little further away to be a

reasonably controlled operation was actually little more than a shambles, she realized.

There was something in her peripheral vision—a motion, blue-white and distant... More ripples in

the vortex tubes, coming from the distant North: immense, jagged irregularities utterly dwarfing the

small instabilities she'd observed so far.

There wasn't much time.

Logue, her father, hung in the Magfield a little way from the Net. Adda, too old and slow for the

urgent work of dismantling the encampment, hovered beside Logue, his thin face twisted, sour.

Logue bellowed out orders in his huge baritone, but, Dura could already see, with very little effect

on the Human Beings' coordination. Still Dura had that odd feeling of timelessness, of detachment,

and she studied her father as if meeting him for the first time in many weeks. Logue's hair, plastered

against his scalp, was crumpled and yellowed; his face was a mask through which the round, boyish

features shared by Farr could still be discerned, obscured by a mat of scars and wrinkles.

As Dura approached, Logue turned to her, his brown eyecups wide, his cheek muscles working.

"You took your time," he growled at her. "Where have you been? You're needed here. Can't you see

that?"

His words cut through her detachment, and despite herself, despite the urgency of the moment, she

felt resentment building in her. "Where? I've been to the Core in a Xeelee nightfighter. Where do

you think I've been?"

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Logue turned from her in apparent disgust. "You shouldn't blaspheme," he muttered.

She wanted to laugh. Impatient with him, with herself, with the continual friction between them, she

shook her head. "Oh, into the Ring with it. What do you want me to do?"

Now old Adda leaned forward, the open pores among his remaining hair sparkling Air-sweat. "Don't

know there's much you can do," he said sourly. "Look at them. What a shambles."

"We're not going to make it in time, are we?" Dura asked him. She pointed North. "Look at that

ripple. We won't get out of the way before it hits."

"Maybe. Maybe not." The old man raised his empty eyes to the South Pole; its soft glow illuminated

the backs of his eyes, the cup-retinas there; fragments of debris swirled around the rims and tiny

cleansing symbiotes swam constantly in and out of the cups.

Logue bellowed suddenly, "Mur, you damn fool. If that knot is stuck then cut it. Rip it. Gnaw it

through if you have to!—but don't just leave it there, or half the Net is going to go flapping off into

the Quantum Sea when the storm hits us..."

"Worst I've ever seen," Adda muttered, sniffing. "Never known the photons to smell so sour. Like a

frightened piglet... Of course," he went on after a few moments, "I remember one spin storm when I

was a kid..."

Dura couldn't help but smile. Adda was the wisest among them, probably, about the ways of the Star.

But he relished his role as doomsayer... he could never let go of the mysteries of his own past, of the

wild, deadly days which only he could remember...

Logue turned on her with fury, his face as unstable as the quivering Magfield. "While you grin, we

could die," he hissed.

"I know." She reached out and touched his arm, feeling the hot tide of Air which superleaked from

his clenched muscles. "I know. I'm—sorry."

He frowned, staring at her, and reached forward, as if to touch her. But he drew the hand back.

"Perhaps you're not as strong as I like to think you are."

"No," she said quietly. "Perhaps I'm not."

"Come," he said. "We'll help each other. And we'll help our people. No one's dead yet, after all."

—

Dura scrambled across the Magfield flux lines to the Net. Men, women and older children were

gathered in tight huddles, their thin bodies bumping together as they floated in the turbulent

Magfield, laboring at the Net. They cast fearful, distracted glances at the approaching vortex

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instabilities, and from all around the Net Dura could hear muttered—or shouted—prayer-chants,

pleas for the benevolence of the Xeelee.

Watching the Human Beings, Dura realized they were huddling together for comfort, not for

efficiency. Rather than working evenly and systematically around the Net, the people were actually

impeding each other from working effectively at the dismantling; whole sections of the tangled Net

were being left unattended.

Dura's feeling of depressed helplessness deepened. Perhaps she could help them organize better—act

as Logue's daughter for once, she admonished herself wearily, act as a leader. But as she studied the

frightened faces of the Human Beings, the round, staring eyecups of the children, she recognized the

weary terror which seemed to be numbing her own reactions.

Maybe huddling and praying was as rational a response as any to this latest disaster.

She twisted in the Air and Waved toward an empty section of Net, keeping well away from Esk and

Philas. Logue would have to do the leading; Dura would remain one of the led.

The first of the massive ripples neared the encampment. Feeling the growing tension in the Air, Dura

grasped the Net's sturdy rope and pulled her body against its shuddering bulk. For a moment her face

was pressed against the Net's thick mesh, and she found herself staring at an Air-pig, not an arm's

length from her. The rope-threaded holes punched through its fins were widened with age, ringed by

scar tissue. The Air-pig seemed to be looking into her eyes, its six eyestalks pushed straight out from

its brain pan, the cups swiveled at her. The beast was one of the oldest of the Air-pigs—as a kid, she

recalled wistfully, she would have known the names of each one of the meager herd—and it must

have seen plenty of spin storms before. Well, she thought. What's your diagnosis? Do you think

we've a chance of getting through this storm any better than we have all the others? Will you live to

see the other side of it? What do you think?

The creature's fixed, mournful stare, the brown depths of its eyecups, afforded her no reply. But its

musty animal warmth stank of fear.

The mat of rope before her face glimmered suddenly, blue-white; her head cast a shadow before her.

She turned to see that one vortex line had drifted to within a couple of mansheights of her position; it

shimmered in the Air, quivering, a cable emitting an electric-blue glow almost too clamorous for her

eyes.

The tribesfolk appeared to have given up any attempts at dismantling the Net; even Logue and Adda

had come Waving across to the illusory safety of the habitat. People simply clung on where they

were, arms wrapped around each other and around the smallest of the children, the opened-up Net

flapping uselessly around them. The crying of children resounded.

And now, with sudden brutality, the spin storm hit. A jagged discontinuity a mansheight deep surged

along the nearest vortex line past the Net, faster than any human could Wave, faster even than any

wild Air-pig could jet through the Air. Dura tried to concentrate on the solidity of the fibrous rope in

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her hands, the comforting Magfield which, as always, confined her body with a gentle grip... But it

was impossible to ignore the sudden thickness of the Air in her lungs, the roaring heat-noise blasting

through the Air so powerfully she feared for her ears, the quivering of the Magfield.

She clenched her eyes closed so hard that she could feel the Air in the cups squeeze away.

Concentrate, she told herself. You understand what's happening here. That wretched Air-pig, bound

up inside the Net, is as ignorant as the youngest piglet in its first storm. But not you; not a Human

Being.

And it is through understanding that we will prevail... But, even as she intoned the words to herself

like a prayer, she could not find any truth in that pious hope.

The Air was a neutron liquid, a superfluid. Superfluids could not sustain spin over extended

distances. So, in response to the rotation of the Star, the Air became filled with vortex lines, tubes of

vanishing thinness within which the Air's rotation was confined. The vortex lines aligned themselves

in regular arrays, aligned with the Star's rotation axis—closely parallel to the magnetic axis followed

by the Magfield. The vortex lines filled the world. They were safe as long as you stayed away from

them; every child knew that. But in a Glitch, Dura thought ruefully, the lines sometimes came

looking for you... and the Air's superfluidity broke down around a collapsing vortex line,

transforming the Air from a thin, stable, lifegiving fluid into a thing of turmoil and turbulence.

The worst of the first spin gust seemed to be passing now. Still clinging to the Net, she opened her

eyes and cast rapidly around the sky.

The vortex lines, parallel beams receding into infinity, were still marching grandly across the sky,

seeking their new alignment. It was quite a magnificent sight; and for a moment Dura felt wonder

thrill through her as she imagined the arrays of spin lines which stretched right around the Star

realigning, gathering and spreading, as if the Star were bound up in the integrated thoughts of some

immense mind.

The Net shuddered in her grip, its coarse fibers abrading her palms; the sharp pain jolted her rudely

back to the here and now. She sighed, gathering her strength, as weariness closed around her again.

"Dura! Dura!"

The childish voice, thin and scared, came drifting to her from a few mansheights away. Gripping the

Net with one hand, she twisted to see Farr, her little brother, suspended in the Air like a discarded

fragment of cloth and flesh. He was Waving toward her.

When Farr reached her, Dura enfolded him in her free arm, helping him wrap his arms and legs

around the security of the Net's ropes. He was breathing hard and trembling, and she could see the

short hairs which coated his scalp pulsing as superfluid surged through them.

"I was thrown off," he gasped between gulps of Air. "I lost my piglet."

"So I see. Are you okay?"

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"I think so." He stared up at her, his eyes wide and empty, and he raked his gaze across the sky as if

searching for the source of this betrayal of his safety. "This is terrible, isn't it, Dura? Are we going to

die?"

She ran her fingers casually through his stiff hair. "No," she said, with a conviction she could never

have mustered for herself alone. "No, we won't die. But we are in danger. Now come on, we should

get to work. We need to get the Net taken apart, folded up, before the next instability hits us and

wrecks it." She pointed to a small, open-looking knot. "There. Undo that. As quick as you can."

He buried his trembling fingers in the knot and began prizing out lengths of rope. "How long before

the next ripple?"

"Long enough to finish the job," she said firmly. For confirmation, with her own fingers still

dragging at the stubborn knots, she glanced upflux—Northward—to the source of the next ripple.

Instantly she saw how wrong she had been. From around the Net she heard voices raised in wonder

and rising alarm; within a few heartbeats, it seemed, she was hearing the first screams.

The next ripple was closing on them; already she could hear its rising clamor of heat fluctuations.

This new instability was huge, at least five or six mansheights deep. Dura watched, mesmerized, her

hands frozen. Already the ripple was hurtling at her faster than any she could remember, and as it

approached its amplitude seemed to be deepening, as if it were feeding on Glitch energy. And, of

course, with greater amplitude came still greater speed. The instability was a complex superposition

of wave shapes clustered along the length of the migrating vortex line, a superposition which

spiraled around the line like some malevolent animal clambering toward her...

Farr said, "We can't escape that. Can we, Dura?"

There was a moment of stillness, almost of calm. Farr's voice, though still cracked by adolescence,

had sounded suddenly full of a premature wisdom. It was some comfort that Dura wasn't going to

have to lie to him.

"No," she said. "We've been too slow. I think it's going to hit the Net." She felt distant from the

danger around her, as if she were recalling events from long ago, far away.

Even as it rushed up toward them the ripple bowed away from the trend of the vortex line in ever

more elaborate, fantastic shapes. It was as if some elastic limit had been passed and the vortex line,

under intolerable strain, was yielding.

It was almost beautiful, captivating to watch. And it was only mansheights away.

She heard the thin voice of old Adda, from somewhere on the other side of the Net. "Get away from

the Net. Oh, get away from the Net!"

"Do as he says. Come on."

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The boy slowly lifted his head; he still clung to the rope, and his eyes were empty, as if beyond fear

or wonder. She drove a fist into one of his hands. "Come on!"

The boy cried out and withdrew his hands and legs from the Net, staring at her with a round face full

of betrayal... but a face that looked once more like that of an alert child rather than a bemused,

petrified adult. Dura grabbed his hand. "Farr, you have to Wave as you've never Waved before. Hold

my hand; we'll stay together..."

With a thrust of her legs she pushed away. For the first moments she seemed to be dragging Farr

behind her; but soon his body was Waving in synchronization with hers, wriggling against the

cloying thickness of the Magfield, and the two of them hurried away from the doomed Net.

As she Waved, gasping, Dura looked back. The spin instability, recoiling, wafted through the Air

like a deadly, blue-white wand. It scythed toward the Net with its cargo of wriggling humans. It was

like some wonderful toy, Dura thought; it glowed intensely brightly, and the heat-noise it emitted

was a roar, almost drowning out thought itself. The bleating of trapped Air-pigs was cold-thin, and

Dura thought briefly of the old animal with whom she had shared that brief, odd moment of half-

communication; she wondered how much that poor creature understood of what was to happen.

Maybe half the Human Beings had heeded Adda's advice to get away. The rest, apparently paralyzed

by fear and awe, still clung to the Net. The pregnant Dia was lumbering away into the Air with Mur;

the woman Philas still picked frantically, uselessly, at the Net, despite the pleas of her husband Esk

to come away. It was as if, Dura thought, Philas imagined that the work was a magic spell which

would drive the instability away.

Dura knew that rotation instabilities lost energy rapidly. Soon, very soon, this fantastic demon would

wither to nothing, leaving the Air calm and empty once more. And, glowing, roaring, stinking of

sour photons, the instability was indeed visibly shrinking as it bore down on the Net.

But, it was immediately obvious, not shrinking fast enough...

With a heat-wail like a thousand voices the instability tore into the Net.

—

It was like a fist driving into cloth.

The Air inside the Net ceased to be superfluid and became a stiff, turbulent mass, whipping and

whorling around the vortex instability like some demented animal. Dura saw knots burst open; the

Net, almost gracefully, disintegrated into fragments of rope, into rough mats to which adults and

children clung.

The Air-pig herd was hurled away into the Air as if scattered by a giant hand. Dura could see how

some of the beasts, evidently dead or dying, hung where they were thrown, limply suspended against

the Magfield; the rest squirted away through the Air, their bellow-guts puffing out farts of blue gas.

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摘要：

FluxStephenBaxterFluxBook3oftheXeeleeSequenceTomynephewJamesBaxter1Durawokewithastart.Therewassomethingwrong.Thephotonsdidn'tsmellright.Herhandfloatedbeforeherface,dimlyvisible,andsheflexedherfing\ers.Disturbedelectrongas,spiralingdizzilyaroundtheMagfieldlines,sparkledpurple-whitearoun\dthefingertip...

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Stephen Baxter - Xeelee 3 - Flux

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