Free Recursion by Tony Ballantyne Page B

Source sat. Late-night sightseers moved out of her way as she staggered past. The flier climbed until it was just higher than the surrounding buildings, still much lower than the branches of the Source, and then it began a long dive down toward the second level. Constantine caught a last glimpse of Mary moving through the sparse crowds. The passersby continued to pay no attention to her. An embarrassment, it was as if she wasn’t there.
    As if she were a ghost.

 

    Herb 2: 2210
    Herb gazed upward in awestruck silence. He had never seen so many spacecraft: layer upon layer of silver-grey disks, rising higher and higher into the night sky. Stacks of silver pennies thrown into the air, the farthest seeming no bigger than the cold diamond stars that twinkled behind them.
    On an intellectual level, Herb had known that the sky was big, but those thousands upon thousands of ships floating above gave it a depth he had never seen before. A feeling of vertigo swept over him and he wanted to sit down on the soft, spongy road and hold on tight. Beside him, Robert Johnston stood gazing upward without any apparent concern.
    “Impressive, huh?” he said.
    “Oh, yeah. Very impressive. Where are we?”
    Herb felt giddy: a man who had suddenly become aware of the cathedral vaulting that held up the sky. Johnston smiled delightedly and leaned closer.
    “On a staging planet.” He placed one finger to his lips and whispered, “At the edge of the Enemy Domain, just beyond the wave of expansion.” His eyes slowly slid from left to right in an exaggerated survey of the twisted buildings that surrounded them. “I think we’re okay at the moment, though.”
    Herb curled his lip at Johnston’s play-acting and began to walk along the soft road, looking all around. Now that he was getting used to the wonder of the night sky above, he had time to pay attention to his immediate surroundings. Hideously warped and melted buildings hemmed them in from all directions, leaning over above them like trees in a forest. They had a stretched-out look about them; they seemed too tall and thin to remain standing. Shadowy and lopsided drooping windows formed eyes that looked down upon them, silently pondering their presence. The air was warm and smelled of machine oil; from every direction there was a gentle hum that almost sounded like voices.
    Everything about this place seemed wrong. Even the road felt strange beneath his feet; it seemed to bounce and give as he walked on it. Herb got the impression that at any moment it would suddenly wriggle and turn around on itself, a large black snake turning to see who was walking along its spine.
    Johnston was following him. “What do you think of the Necropolis, then?”
    “The Necropolis?” Herb came to a halt and looked around. He gave a thoughtful nod. “An apt name. What’s the matter with this place? It looks like someone took a picture of a city and then smeared it down a wall. What are we doing here?”
    “Spying on the Enemy. We must be careful not to be seen.”
    At that, Johnston began creeping forward on tiptoes, his hands raised close to his chest. Herb remained where he was.
    “Come on,” Johnston called over his shoulder. “This way.” He continued his exaggerated movement down the road.
    Herb sighed and began to follow. He wondered if he was dreaming. He had no recollection of arriving on this planet.
    He remembered going to sleep on his ship, thoughts of Johnston’s descriptions of the Enemy Domain spinning through his mind. Five minutes ago he had woken to find himself standing, gazing up at the endless tiers of spaceships. Maybe Johnston had drugged him again, slipped something extra into the whisky. Herb certainly felt as if he was still under the influence of something, walking along a rubbery road, twisting between strangely warped buildings, beneath those pale static disks far above.
    Johnston had abandoned his exaggerated gait and was now walking normally, seemingly heading for