Читать онлайн книгу «Hunter’s Run» автора Джордж Мартин
Hunter’s Run
Gardner Dozois
George Raymond Richard Martin
Daniel Abraham
A new benchmark in modern SF. A sharp, clever, funny morality tale that answers the biggest question of all: what makes us human?In a fight outside a bar Ramon Espejo kills a man. Next day, all hell breaks loose. The dead man was a big shot, a diplomat on a mission to the out-world of São Paulo. Ramon goes on the run, heading north toward unexplored territory, land so far only glimpsed from orbit during the first colony surveys.Ramon has gone from being nothing in the hills of Mexico to being nothing on São Paulo. He makes a bare living prospecting for minerals. Maybe God meant him to be poor, or he wouldn't have made him so mean. He can't even remember why he killed the European, only the drinking, and the rage that followed.Better to be alone in the wild landscape … off the map, beyond law and civilization. Each trip out he's sure will be the big one that'll make him rich. This one, too.Instead he finds something else, something terrifying. Or rather, it finds him, and uses him: as humans are used by species more intelligent than themselves. But Ramon Espejo is about to prove what a man is capable of. Ramon is about to demonstrate what it is to be human; to be angry, intelligent and alive. And he is about to discover his function in the broad flow of the universe. And why it was he killed the diplomat in the first place…
George R.R. Martin, Gardner Dozois and Daniel Abraham
Hunter’s Run
to Connie Willis who learned everything she knows from Gardner and George and taught it all to Daniel
Overture
Ramon Espejo awoke floating in a sea of darkness. For a moment, he was relaxed and mindless, drifting peacefully, and then his identity returned to him lazily, like an unwanted afterthought.
After the deep, warm nothingness, there was no pleasure in recalling who he was. Without coming fully awake, he nonetheless felt the weight of his own being settling on his heart. Despair and anger and the constant gnawing worry sounded in his mind like a man in the next room clearing his throat. For some blissful time, he had been no one, and now he was himself again. His first truly conscious thought was to deny the disappointment he felt at being.
He was Ramon Espejo. He was working a prospecting contract out of Nuevo Janeiro. He was … he was … Ramon Espejo.
Where he had expected the details of his life to rush in – what he had done last night, what he was to do today, what grudges he was nursing, what resentments had pricked him recently – the next thought simply failed him. He knew he was Ramon Espejo – but he did not know where he was. Or how he had got there.
Disturbed, he tried to open his eyes, and found that they were open already. Wherever he was, it was a totally lightless place, darker than the jungle night, darker than the deep caves in the sandstone cliffs near Swan’s Neck.
Or perhaps he was blind.
That thought started a tiny spring of panic within him. There were stories of men who’d got drunk on cheap synthetic Muscat or Sweet Mary and woke up blind. Had he done that? Had he lost that much control of himself? A tiny rivulet of fear traced a cold channel down his spine. But his head didn’t hurt, and his belly didn’t burn. He closed his eyes, blinking them hard several times, irrationally hoping to jar his vision back into existence; the only result was an explosion of bright pastel blobs across his retinas, scurrying colors that were somehow more disturbing than the darkness.
His initial sense of drowsy lethargy slid away from him, and he tried to call out. He felt his mouth moving slowly, but he heard nothing. Was he deaf, too? He tried to roll over and sit up, but could not. He lay back against nothing, floating again, not fighting, but his mind racing. He was fully awake now, but he still couldn’t remember where he was, or how he had got there. Perhaps he was in danger: his immobility was both suggestive and ominous. Had he been in a mine cave-in? Perhaps a rockfall had pinned him down. He tried to concentrate on the feel of his body, sharpening his sensitivity to it, and finally decided that he could feel no weight or pressure, nothing actually pinioning him. You might not feel anything if your spinal cord has been cut, he thought with a flash of cold horror. But a moment’s further consideration convinced him that it could not be so: he could move his body a little, although when he tried to sit up, something stopped him, pulled his spine straight, pulled his arms and shoulders back down from where he’d raised them. It was like moving through syrup, only the syrup pushed back, holding him gently, firmly, implacably in place.
He could feel no moisture against his skin, no air, no breeze, no heat or cold. Nor did he seem to be resting on anything solid. Apparently, his first impression had been correct. He was floating, trapped in darkness, held in place. He imagined himself like an insect in amber, caught fast in the gooey syrup that surrounded him, in which he seemed to be totally submerged. But how was he breathing?
He wasn’t, he realized. He wasn’t breathing.
Panic shattered him like glass. All vestiges of thought blinked out, and he fought like an animal for his life. He clawed the enfolding nothingness, trying to pull his way up toward some imagined air. He tried to scream. Time stopped meaning anything, the struggle consuming him entirely, so that he couldn’t say how long it was before he fell back, exhausted. The syrup around him gently, firmly, pulled him back precisely as he had been – back into place. He felt as if he should have been panting, expected to hear his blood pounding in his ears, feel his heart hammering at his chest – but there was nothing. No breath, and no heartbeat. No burning for air.
He was dead.
He was dead and floating on a vast dry sea that stretched away to eternity in all directions. Even blind and deaf, he could sense the immensity of it, of that measureless midnight ocean.
He was dead and in Limbo, that Limbo that the Pope at San Esteban kept having to repudiate, waiting in darkness for the Day of Judgment.
He almost laughed at the thought – it was better than what the Catholic priest in the tiny adobe church in his little village in the mountains of northern Mexico had promised him; Father Ortega had often assured him that he’d go right to the flames and torments of Hell as soon as he died unshriven – but he could not push the thought away. He had died, and this emptiness – infinite darkness, infinite stillness, trapped alone with only his own mind – was what had always waited for him all his life, in spite of the blessings and benedictions of the Church, in spite of his sins and occasional semi-sincere repentance. None of it had made any difference. Numberless years stretched before him with nothing but his own sins and failures to dwell upon. He had died, and his punishment was to be always and forever himself under the implacable, unseen eye of God.
But how had it happened? How had he died? His memory seemed sluggish, unresponsive as a tractor’s engine on a cold winter morning – hard to start and hard to keep in motion without sputtering and stalling.
He began by picturing what was most familiar. Elena’s room in Diegotown with the small window over the bed, the thick pounded-earth walls. The faucets in the sink, already rusting and ancient though humanity had hardly been on the planet for more than twenty years. The tiny scarlet skitterlings that scurried across the ceiling, multiple rows of legs flailing like oars. The sharp smells of iceroot and ganja, spilled tequila and roasting peppers. The sounds of the transports flying overhead, grinding their way up through the air and into orbit.
Slowly, the recent events of his life took shape, still fuzzy as a badly aligned projection. He had been in Diegotown for the Blessing of the Fleet. There had been a parade. He had eaten roasted fish and saffron rice bought from a street vendor, and watched the fireworks. The smoke had smelled like a strip mine, and the spent fireworks had hissed like serpents as they plunged into the sea. A giant wreathed in flames, waving its arms in agony. Was that real? The smell of lemon and sugar. Old Manuel Griego had been talking about all his plans for when the Enye ships finally emerged from the jump to the colony planet São Paulo. He flushed with the sudden, powerful recollection of the scent of Elena’s body. But that was before …
There had been a fight. He’d fought with Elena, yes. The sound of her voice – high and accusing and mean as a pitbull. He’d hit her. He remembered that. She’d screamed and clawed at his eyes and tried to kick him in the balls. And they’d made up afterwards like they always did. Afterwards, she had run her fingers along the machete scars on his arm as he fell into a sated sleep. Or was that another night? So many of their nights together ended like that …
There had been another fight, earlier still, with someone else … But his thoughts shied away from that like a mule might shy away from a snake on a path.
He’d left her before first light, sneaking out of her room heavy with the smell of sweat and sex while she was still asleep so he wouldn’t have to talk to her, feeling the morning breeze cool against his skin. Flatfurs had scurried away from him as he walked down the muddy street, their alarm cries sounding like panicked oboes. He’d flown his van to the outfitter’s station because he was going … before they caught him …
His mind balked again. It was not the nauseating forgetfulness that seemed to have consumed his world, but something else. There was something his mind didn’t want to recall. Slowly, gritting his teeth, he forced his memory to bend to his will.
He’d spent the day realigning two lift tubes in the van. Someone had been there with him. Griego, bitching about parts. And then he had flown off into the wastelands, the outback, terreno cimarrón …
But his van had exploded! Hadn’t it? He suddenly remembered the van exploding, but he remembered seeing it from a distance. He hadn’t been caught in the blast, but nonetheless the memory was thick with despair. The van’s destruction was part of it, then, whatever it was. He tried to bring his focus to that moment – the brightness of the flame; the hot, sudden wind of the concussion …
Had his heart been beating, it would have stopped then in terror as memory returned.
He remembered now. And maybe dying and being in Hell would have been better …
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Ramon Espejo lifted his chin, daring his opponent to strike. The crowd that filled the alleyway behind the ramshackle bar called the El Rey formed a ring, bodies pressing against each other in the tension between coming close enough to see and retreating to a safe distance. Their voices were a mixture of shouts urging the two men to fight and weak, insincere exhortations to make peace. The big man who was bobbing and weaving across the narrow circle from him was a pale European, his cheeks flushed red from liquor, his wide, soft hands balled into fists. He was taller than Ramon, with a greater reach. Ramon could see the man’s eyes shifting, as wary of the crowd as of Ramon.
‘Come on, pendejo,’ Ramon said, grinning. His arms were raised and spread, as if he were ready to embrace the fighter. ‘You wanted power. Come have a taste of it.’
The shifting LEDs of the bar’s signs turned the night blue and red and amber in turn. Far above them all, the night sky shone with countless stars too bright and close for the lights of Diegotown to drown.
The constellation of the Stone Man stared down at them as they circled, a single star smoldering balefully like a red eye, as if it was watching, as if it was urging them on.
‘I ought to do it, you ugly little greaser!’ the European spat. ‘I ought to go ahead and kick your skinny ass!’
Ramon only bared his teeth and motioned the man nearer. The European wanted this to be a talking fight again, but it was too late for that. The voices of the crowd merged into a single waterfall roar. The European made his move, graceless as a falling tree; the great left fist made its slow way through the air, moving as though through molasses. Ramon stepped inside the swing, letting the gravity knife slip from his sleeve into his hand. He flicked the blade open in the same motion that brought his fist against the larger man’s belly.
A look of almost comical surprise crossed the European’s face. His breath went out of him with a whoof.
Ramon stabbed twice more, fast and hard, twisting the knife just to be sure. He was close enough to smell the nose-tingling reek of the flowery cologne the man wore, to feel his liquorice-scented breath panting against his face. The crowd went silent as the European slipped to his knees and then sat, legs spread, in the filthy muck of the alley. The big, soft hands opened and closed aimlessly, slick with blood that turned pale when the LEDs were red, black when the light shifted blue.
The European’s mouth gaped open, and blood gushed out over his teeth. Slowly, very slowly, seeming to move in slow motion, he toppled sideways to the ground. Kicked his feet, heels drumming the ground. Was still.
Someone in the crowd uttered an awed obscenity.
Ramon’s shrill, self-satisfied pleasure faded. He looked at the faces of the crowd – wide eyes, mouths open in little, surprised ‘o’s. The alcohol in his blood seemed to thin, sobriety floating to the top of his mind. A sinking sense of betrayal possessed him – these people had been pushing him on, encouraging the fight. And now they were abandoning him for winning it!
‘What?’ Ramon shouted to the other patrons of the El Rey. ‘You heard what he was saying! You saw what he did!’
But the alley was emptying. Even the woman who’d been with the European, the one who had started it all, was gone. Mikel Ibrahim, the manager of the El Rey, lumbered toward him, his great bear-like face the image of patient, saintly suffering. He held out his wide hand. Ramon lifted his chin again, thrust out his chest, as if Mikel’s gesture was an insult. The manager only sighed, shook his head slowly back and forth, and made a pulling gesture with his fingers. Ramon curled his lip, half-turned away, then slapped the handle of the knife into the waiting palm.
‘Police are coming,’ the manager warned. ‘You should go home, Ramon.’
‘You saw what happened,’ Ramon said.
‘No, I wasn’t here when it happened,’ he said. ‘And neither were you, eh? Now go home. And keep your mouth shut.’
Ramon spat on the ground and stalked into the night. It wasn’t until he began to walk that he understood how drunk he was. At the canal by the plaza, he squatted down, leaned back against a tree, and waited until he was sure he could walk without listing. Around him, Diegotown spent its week’s wages on alcohol and kaafa kyit and sex. Music tumbled in from the rough gypsy houseboats on the canal; fast, festive accordion mixing with trumpets and steel drums and the shouts of the dancers.
Somewhere in the darkness, a tenfin was calling mournfully, a ‘bird’ that was really a flying lizard, and which sounded uncannily like a woman sobbing in misery and despair, something that had led the superstitious Mexican peasants who made up a large percentage of the colony’s population to say that La Llorona, the Crying Woman, had crossed the stars with them from Mexico and now wandered the night of this new planet, crying not only for all the children who’d been lost and left behind on Earth, but for all the ones who would die on this hard new world.
He, of course, didn’t believe in such crap. But as the ghostly crying accelerated to a heartbreaking crescendo, he couldn’t help but shiver.
Alone, Ramon could regret stabbing the European; surely it would have been enough just to punch him around, humiliate him, slap him like a bitch? But when Ramon was drunk and angry, he always went too far. Ramon knew that he shouldn’t have drunk so much, and that whenever he got around people, it always seemed to end like this. He’d begun his evening with the sick knot in his belly that being in the city seemed to bring, and then by the time he’d drunk enough to untie that knot, as usual someone had said or done something to enrage him. It didn’t always end with a knife, but it rarely ended well. Ramon didn’t like it, but he wasn’t ashamed of it either. He was a man – an independent prospector on a tough frontier colony world less than a generation removed from its founding. By God, he was a man! He drank hard, he fought hard, and anyone who had a problem with that would be wise to keep their pinche opinions to themselves!
A family of tapanos – small, raccoon-like amphibians with scales like a hedgehog’s spikes – lumbered up from the water, considered Ramon with dark, shining eyes, and made their way toward the plaza, where they would scavenge for the dropped food and trash of the day. Ramon watched them pass, slick dark paths of canal water trailing behind them, then sighed and hauled himself to his feet.
Elena’s apartment was in the maze of streets around the Palace of the Governors. It perched above a butcher’s shop, and the air that came in the back window was often fetid with old gore. He considered sleeping in his van, but he felt sticky and exhausted. He wanted a shower and a beer and a plate of something warm to keep his belly from growling. He climbed the stairs slowly, trying to be quiet, but the lights were burning in her windows. A shuttle was lifting from the spaceport far to the north, tracking lights glowing blue and red as the vessel rose toward the stars. Ramon tried to cover the click and hiss of the door with the throbbing rumble of the shuttle’s lift drive. But it was no use.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Elena yelled as he stepped inside. She wore a thin cotton dress with a stain on the sleeve. Her hair was tied back into a knot of black darker than the sky. Her teeth were bared in rage, her mouth almost square with it. Ramon closed the door behind him, and heard her gasp. In an instant, the anger had left her. He followed her gaze to where the European’s blood had soaked the side of his shirt, the leg of his pants. He shrugged.
‘We’ll have to burn these,’ he said.
‘Are you okay, mi hijo? What happened?’
He hated it when she called him that. He was no one’s little boy. But it was better than fighting, so he smiled, pulling at the tongue of his belt.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘It was the other cabron who took the worst of it.’
‘The police … will the police …?’
‘Probably not,’ Ramon said, dropping his trousers around his knees. He pulled his shirt up over his head. ‘Still, we should burn these.’
She asked no more questions, only took his clothes out to the incinerator that the apartments on the block all shared, while Ramon took a shower. The time readout in the mirror told him that dawn was still three or four hours away. He stood under the flow of warm water, considering his scars – the wide white band on his belly where Martin Casaus had slashed him with a sheet metal hook, the disfiguring lump below his elbow where some drunken bastard had almost sheared through his bones with a machete. Old scars. Some older than others. They didn’t bother him; in fact, he liked them. They made him look strong.
When he came out, Elena was standing at her back window, arms crossed below her breasts. When she turned to him, he was ready for the blast furnace of her rage. But instead, her mouth was a tiny rosebud, her eyes wide and round. When she spoke, she sounded like a child; worse, like a woman trying to be a child.
‘I was scared for you,’ she said.
‘You never have to be,’ he said. ‘I’m tough as leather.’
‘But you’re just one man,’ she said. ‘When Tomas Martinez got killed, there were eight men. They came right up to him when he came out of his girlfriend’s house, and …’
‘Tomas was a little whore,’ Ramon said and waved a hand dismissively, as if to say that any real man ought to be able to stand up against eight thugs sent to even a score. Elena’s lips relaxed into a smile, and she walked toward him, her hips shifting forward with each step, as if her pussy were coming to him, the rest of her trailing behind reluctantly. It could have gone the other way, he knew. They could as easily have passed the night as they had so many others, shouting at each other, throwing things, coming to blows. But even that might have ended in sex, and he was tired enough that he was genuinely grateful that they could simply fuck and then sleep, and forget about the wasted, empty day that had just gone by. Elena lifted off her dress. Ramon took her familiar flesh in his arms. The scent of old blood rose from the butcher’s shop below like an ugly perfume of Earth and humanity that had followed them across the void.
Afterward, Ramon lay spent in the bed. Another shuttle was lifting off. Usually there was hardly more than one a month. But the Enye were coming soon, earlier than expected, and the platform above Diegotown needed to be fitted out to receive the great ships with their alien cargos.
It was generations ago that mankind had raised itself up from the gravity wells of Earth and Mars and Europa and taken to the stars with dreams of conquest. Humanity had planned to spread its seed through the universe like a high councilor’s son at a port town brothel, but it had been disappointed. The universe was already taken. Other star-faring races had been there before them.
Dreams of empire faded into dreams of wealth. Dreams of wealth decayed into shamed wonder. More than the great and enigmatic technologies of the Silver Enye and Turu, it was the nature of space itself that defeated them, as it had defeated every other star-faring race. The vast dark was too great. Too big. Communication at the speed of light was so slow as to barely be communication at all. Governance was impossible. Law beyond what could be imposed locally was farcical. The outposts of the Commercial Alliance that humanity had been ‘persuaded’ to join by the Silver Enye (much as Admiral Perry’s gunships had ‘persuaded’ Japan to open itself up for trade in a much earlier generation) were wideflung, some outposts falling out of contact for generations, some lost and forgotten or else put on a bureaucrat’s schedule of concerns to be addressed another generation hence by another bureaucrat as yet unborn.
Establishing dominance – or even much continuity – across that gaping infinity of Night was something that seemed possible only from the provincially narrow viewpoint imposed by looking up from the bottom of a gravity well. Once you got out amongst the stars, you learned better.
No race had been able to overcome such vast distance, and so they had striven to overcome time. And it was in this that humanity at last found some small niche in the crowded, chaotic darkness of the universe. Enye and Turu saw the damage done by humanity to their own environment, the deep human propensity for change and control and their profoundly limited ability to see ahead to consequences, and they had found it more virtue than vice. The vast institutional minds, human and alien both, entered into a glacially slow generational agreement. Where empty planets were, intractable and inconvenient and dangerous, with wild flora and unknown fauna, there humans would be put. For the slow decades or centuries that it required to tame, to break, to pave over whatever marvels and threats evolution had put there, the Silver Enye and Cian and Turu and whatever other of the great races happened by would act as trade ships once had in the ancient days when mankind had displaced itself from the small islands and insignificant hills of Earth.
The São Paulo colony was barely in its second generation. There were women still alive who could recall the initial descent onto an untouched world. Diegotown, Nuevo Janeiro, San Esteban. Amadora. Little Dog. Fiddler’s Jump. All the cities of the south had bloomed since then, like mold on a Petri dish. Men had died from the subtle toxins of the native foods. Men had discovered the great cat-lizards, soon nicknamed chupacabras, after the mythical goat-suckers of Old Earth, that had stood proud and dumb at the peak of the planet’s food chain, and men had died for their discovery. The oyster-eyed Silver Enye had not. The insect-and-glass Turu had not. The enigmatic Cian with their penchant for weightlessness had not.
And now the great ships were coming ahead of schedule; each half-living ship heavy, they all assumed, with new equipment and people from other colonies hoping to make a place for themselves here on São Paulo. And also rich with the chance of escape for those to whom the colony had become a prison. More than one person had asked Ramon if he’d thought of going up, out, into the darkness, but they had misunderstood him. He had been in space; he had come here. The only attraction that leaving could hold was the chance to be someplace with even fewer people, which was unlikely. However ill he fit in São Paulo, he could imagine no situation less odious.
He didn’t recall falling asleep, but woke when the late morning sun streaming through Elena’s window shone in his face. He could hear her humming in the next room, going about the business of her morning. Shut up, you evil bitch, he thought, wincing at the flash of a lingering hangover. She had no talent for song – every note she made was flat and grating. Ramon lay silent, willing himself back to sleep, away from this city, this irritating noise, this woman, this moment in time. Then the humming was drowned by an angry sizzling sound, and, a moment later, the scent of garlic and chile sausage and frying onions wafted into the room. Ramon was suddenly aware of the emptiness in his belly. With a sigh, he raised himself to his elbow, swung his sleep-sodden legs around, and, stumbling awkwardly, made his way to the doorway.
‘You look like shit,’ Elena said, ‘I don’t know why I even let you in my house. Don’t touch that! That’s my breakfast. You can go earn your own!’
Ramon tossed the sausage from hand to hand, grinning, until it cooled enough to take a bite.
‘I work fifty hours a week to make the credit. And what do you do?’ Elena demanded. ‘Loaf around in the terreno cimarrón, come into town to drink whatever you earn. You don’t even have a bed of your own!’
‘Is there coffee?’ Ramon asked. Elena gestured with her chin toward the worn plastic-and-chitin thermos on the kitchen counter. Ramon rinsed a tin cup and filled it with yesterday’s coffee. ‘I’ll make my big find,’ he said. ‘Uranium or tantalum. I’ll make enough money that I won’t have to work again for the rest of my life.’
‘And then you’ll throw me out and get some young puta from the docks to follow you around. I know what men are like.’
Ramon filched another sausage from her plate. She slapped the back of his hand hard enough to sting.
‘There’s a parade today,’ Elena said. ‘After the Blessing of the Fleet. The governor’s making a big show to beam out to the Enye. Make them think we’re all so happy that they came early. There’s going to be dancing and free rum.’
‘The Enye think we’re trained dogs,’ Ramon said around a mouthful of sausage.
Hard lines appeared at the corners of Elena’s mouth, her eyes went cold.
‘I think it would be fun,’ she said, thin venom in her tone. Ramon shrugged. It was her bed he was sleeping in. He’d always known there was a price for its use.
‘I’ll get dressed,’ he said and swilled down the last of the coffee. ‘I’ve got a little money. It can be my treat.’
They skipped the Blessing of the Fleet, Ramon having no interest in hearing priests droning mumbo-jumbo bullshit while pouring dippers of holy water on beaten-up fishing boats, but they’d arrived in time for the parade that followed. The main street that ran past the Palace of the governors was wide enough for five hauling trucks to drive abreast, if they stopped traffic coming the other way. Great floats moved slowly, often stopping for minutes at a time, with secular subjects – a ‘Turu spacecraft’ studded with lights, being pulled by a team of horses; a plastic chupacabra with red-glowing eyes and a jaw that opened and closed to show the great teeth made from old pipes – mixing with oversized displays of Jesus, Bob Marley, and the Virgin of Despegando Station. Here came a twice-life-sized satirical (recognizable but very unflattering) caricature of the governor, huge lips pursed as if ready to kiss the Silver Enyes’ asses, and a ripple of laughter went down the street. The first wave of colonists, the ones who had named the planet São Paulo, had been from Brazil, and although few if any of them had ever been to Portugal, they were universally referred to as ‘the Portuguese’ by the Spanish-speaking colonists, mostly Mexicans, who had arrived with the second and third waves. ‘The Portuguese’ still dominated the upper-level positions in local government and administration, and the highest-paying jobs, and were widely resented and disliked by the Spanish-speaking majority, who felt they’d been made into second-class citizens in their own new home. A chorus of boos and jeers followed the huge float of the governor down the street.
Musicians followed the great lumbering floats: steel bands, string bands, mariachi bands, tuk bands, marching units of zouaves, strolling guitarists playing fado music. Stiltwalkers and tumbling acrobats. Young women in half-finished carnival costumes danced along like birds. With Elena at his side, Ramon was careful not to look at their half-exposed breasts (or to get caught doing so).
The maze of side streets was packed full. Coffee stands and rum sellers; bakers offering frosted pastry redjackets and chupacabras; food carts selling fried fish and tacos, satay and jug-jug; side-show buskers; street artists; fire-eaters; three-card monte dealers – all were making the most of the improvised festival. For the first hour, it was almost enjoyable. After that, the constant noise and press and scent of humanity all around him made Ramon edgy. Elena was her infant-girl self, squealing in delight like a child and dragging him from one place to another, spending his money on candy rope and sugar skulls. He managed to slow her slightly by buying real food – a waxed paper cone of saffron rice, hot peppers, and strips of roasted butterfin flesh, and a tall, thin glass of flavored rum – and by picking a hill in the park nearest the palace where they could sit on the grass and watch the great, slow river of people slide past them.
Elena was sucking the last of the spice from her fingertips and leaning against him, her arm around him like a chain, when Patricio Gallegos caught sight of them and came walking slowly up the rise. His gait had a hitch in it from when he’d broken his hip in a rock-slide; prospecting wasn’t a safe job. Ramon watched him approach.
‘Hey,’ Patricio said. ‘How’s it going, eh?’
Ramon shrugged as best he could with Elena clinging to him like ivy on brick.
‘You?’ Ramon asked.
Patricio wagged a hand – not good, not bad. ‘I’ve been surveying mineral salts on the south coast for one of the corporations. It’s a pain in the ass, but they pay regular. Not like being an independent.’
‘You do what you got to do,’ Ramon said, and Patricio nodded as if he’d said something particularly wise. On the street, the chupacabra float was turning slowly, the great idiot mouth champing at the air. Patricio didn’t leave. Ramon shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at him.
‘What?’ Ramon said.
‘You hear about the ambassador from Europa?’ Patricio said. ‘He got in a fight last night at the El Rey. Some crazy pendejo stabbed him with a bottle neck or something.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. He died before they could get him to the hospital. The governor’s real pissed off about it.’
‘So what are you telling me for?’ Ramon asked. ‘I’m not the governor.’
Elena was still as stone beside him, her eyes narrow in an expression of low cunning. Ramon quietly willed Patricio away, or at least to shut up. But the man didn’t pick up on it.
‘The governor’s all busy with the Enye ships coming in. Now he has to track down the guy that killed the ambassador, and show how the colony is able to keep the law and all. I’ve got a cousin who works for the chief constable. It’s ugly over there.’
‘Okay,’ Ramon said.
‘I was just thinking, you know. You hang out at the El Rey sometimes.’
‘Not last night,’ Ramon said, glowering. ‘You can ask Mikel if you want. I wasn’t there all night.’
Patricio smiled and took an awkward step back. The chupacabra made a weak, synthesized roar and the crowd around it shrilled with laughter and applause.
‘Yeah, okay,’ Patricio said. ‘I was just thinking. You know …’
And with the conversation trailing away, Patricio smiled, nodded, and limped back down the hill.
‘It wasn’t you, was it?’ Elena half-whispered, half-hissed. ‘You didn’t kill the fucking ambassador?’
‘I didn’t kill anyone, and sure as hell not a European. I’m not stupid,’ Ramon said. ‘Why don’t you watch your fucking parade, eh?’
Night came on as the parade wound down. At the bottom of the hill, in a field near the palace, they were putting a torch to the pile of wood surrounding Old Man Gloom – Mr Harding, some of the colonists from Barbados called him – a hastily cobbled-together effigy, almost twenty feet tall, with a face like a grotesque caricature of a European or a norteamericano, green-painted cheeks, and an enormous Pinocchio nose. The bonfire blazed, and, wreathed in flames, the giant effigy began to swing its arms and groan in seeming agony, a somehow eerie sight that sent a chill up Ramon’s spine, as if he had been given the dubious privilege of watching a soul being tormented in the fires of Hell.
All the bad luck that dogged people throughout the year was supposed to be burning up with Old Man Gloom, but watching the giant twist and writhe in slow motion in the flames, its deep, electronically amplified moans echoing off the walls of the Palace of the governors, Ramon had a glum presentiment that it was his good luck that was burning instead, that from here on in he was headed for nothing but misery and misfortune.
And one glance at Elena – who had been sitting silently with her jaw set tight and white lines of anger etched around her mouth ever since he had snapped at her – was enough to tell him that it wasn’t going to be very long before that prophecy started to come true.
CHAPTER TWO
He hadn’t intended to go back out for another month. Even though they’d fucked passionately the night before, after one of their most vicious arguments ever, tearing at each other’s bodies like crazed things, he’d decided to leave before she could wake up. If he’d waited, they’d only have had another fight, and she probably would have kicked him out anyway; he’d taken a swing at her with a bottle the night before, and she would be outraged at that once she’d sobered up. Still, if it wasn’t for the killing at the El Rey, he might have tried staying in town. Elena’d probably calm down in a day or two, at least enough that they could speak to each other without shouting, but the news of the European’s death and the governor’s wrath made Diegotown feel close and claustrophobic. When he went to the outfitter’s station to buy rations and water filters, he felt like he was being watched. How many people had been in that crowd? How many of those would know him by sight – or name? The outfitter didn’t have everything on Ramon’s list, but he had bought what was immediately available, and then had flown his van to Manuel Griego’s salvage yard in Nuevo Janeiro. The van needed some work before it could head out into the world, and Ramon wanted it done now.
Griego’s yard squatted at the edge of the city. The hulking frames of old vans and canopy fliers and personal shuttles littered the wide acres. In the hangar, it was equal parts junk shop and clean room. Power cells hung from the rafters, glowing with the eerie light that all Turu technology seemed to carry with it. A nuclear generator the size of a small apartment ran along one wall, humming to itself. Storage units were stacked floor to ceiling; tanks of rare gas and undifferentiated nanoslurry mixed in with half-bald tires and oily drive trains. Half the things in the shop would cost more than a year’s wages just to make use of; half were hardly worth the effort to throw out. Old Griego himself was hammering away on a lift tube as Ramon set his van down on the pad.
‘Hey, ese,’ Griego called out when Ramon popped the doors and came down to the working floor. ‘Long time. Where you been keeping yourself?’
Ramon shrugged.
‘I got a power drop in my back lift tubes,’ he said.
Griego frowned, put down his hammer, and wiped greasy hands on greasy pants.
‘Put on the diagnostic,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a look.’
Of all the men in Diegotown and Nuevo Janeiro – or possibly on this world – Ramon liked old Griego best – which was to say, he only hated him a little. Griego was an expert on all things vehicular, a post-contact Marxist, and, so far as Ramon could make out, totally free of moral judgments. It took them little more than an hour to find where the lift tube’s chipset had lost coherence, replace the card, and start the system’s extensive self-check. As the van stuttered and chuffed to itself, Griego lumbered to one of the gray storage tanks, keyed in a security code, and opened a refrigeration panel to reveal a case of local black beer. He hauled out two bottles, snapping the caps free with a flick of his thick, callused fingers. Ramon took the one that was held out to him, squatted with his back against a drum of spent lubricant, and drank. The beer was thick and yeasty, sediment in the bottom like a spoonful of mud.
‘Pretty good, eh?’ Griego said and drank a quarter of his own at a pull.
‘Not bad,’ Ramon said.
‘So you’re heading out?’
‘This is going to be the big one,’ Ramon said. ‘This time I’m coming back a rich man. You wait. You’ll see.’
‘You better hope not,’ Griego said. ‘Too much money kills men like you and me. God meant us to be poor, or he wouldn’t have made us so mean.’
Ramon grinned. ‘God meant you to be mean, Manuel. He just didn’t want me taking any shit from anybody.’ A quick vision of the European, mouth gaping open, blood gushing out over tombstone teeth, came to him, and he frowned.
Griego was shaking his head. ‘The same thing again, eh? This time’s the one, just like every other time you been out.’ He grinned. ‘You know how many times I heard you say that?’
‘Yep,’ Ramon said. ‘This time’s different, just like always.’
‘Go with God, then,’ Griego said. His grin faded. ‘Everyone’s been scrambling. Trying to get things finished. Aliens caught everyone with their pants around their knees, coming early like this. Funny, though. I don’t see a whole lot of people heading out right now. Pretty much everyone’s coming in for the ships – except you.’
Ramon sneered, but he felt the constant fear in his breast tighten a notch.
‘What? They’re going to give half a shit about a prospector like me? What’s there for me if I stay?’
‘Didn’t say you should,’ Griego said. ‘Just said there’s not many people going out right now.’
I look suspicious, Ramon thought. I look like I’m running from something. He’ll tell the police, and then I’m fucked. He clamped his hand around the bottle so hard his knuckles ached.
‘It’s Elena,’ Ramon said, hoping the half-lie would be convincing enough.
‘Ah,’ Griego said, nodding sagely. ‘I thought it must be something like that.’
‘She kicked me out again,’ Ramon said, trying to sound hang-dog despite the relief washing through him. ‘We had a fight about the parade. It got a little out of hand is all.’
‘She know you’re taking off?’
‘I don’t think she cares,’ Ramon said.
‘Right now, maybe she doesn’t. But you fly out of here and three weeks later she decides that all is forgiven, she’s going to come around tearing up my place.’
Ramon chuckled, remembering the incident that Griego was talking about. He was wrong, though. That hadn’t been about making peace; Elena had convinced herself that Ramon had taken a woman with him when he went out in the field. She hadn’t stopped raging and ranting until she found the girl on whom her paranoia had fixed still in town and involved with one of the magistrates, and even then she still seemed to hold a grudge. Ramon had had to spend almost half the money he’d gotten from his survey work just buying beer and kaafa kyit for all his business contacts whom she’d alienated.
Griego didn’t laugh with him.
‘You know she’s crazy, don’t you?’ he asked instead.
‘She does get pretty wild,’ Ramon said with a half-smile, trying the expression out like it was a new shirt.
‘No, I know wild girls. Elena is fucking loca. I know you like that girl down at the exchange. What’s her name?’
‘Lianna?’ Ramon asked, disbelief in his voice.
‘Yeah that’s the one. Lives over on the north side. Used to be you had a thing with her, didn’t you?’
Ramon remembered those days, when he’d been a younger man, new to the colony. Yes, there had been a woman with coffee-and-milk skin and a laugh that made a man happy just listening to it. Maybe he had even dreamed about her a few times since. But that had carried its own slice of hell with it. Ramon scratched at the scar that striped his belly. Griego raised an eyebrow and Ramon coughed out a laugh.
‘She’s … No. No, she’s not like that. There couldn’t be anything between someone like her and someone like me. And don’t ever let Elena hear you say different.’
Griego gestured his discretion with a wave of his bottle. Ramon took another pull. The thick, earthy taste of the beer was growing on him. He wondered how much alcohol the brew carried.
‘Lianna was a good woman,’ Ramon said. ‘Elena’s like me, though. We understand each other, you know?’ His voice filled with a sudden bitterness that surprised him. ‘We deserve each other.’
‘If you say so,’ Griego said, and the van chimed, its self-test complete. Ramon levered himself up and followed Griego to where the results floated in the air. The power and variance checked at each level, just edging down below optimal on the highest range. Griego waved a crooked finger at the drop.
‘That’s a little weird,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should take another look at –’
‘It’s the cable,’ Ramon said. ‘Salt rats ate through the old one. I had to get gold for the replacement. Couldn’t afford the carbon mesh.’
‘Ah,’ Griego said and clicked his tongue in something between sympathy and disapproval. ‘Yeah, that would do it. Too bad about the rats. That’s the problem with scaring away all the predators, eh? We wind up protecting all the things they used to eat, like salt rats and flatfurs, and then they’re everywhere.’
‘I’ll take a few rats if I don’t have to worry that there’s chupacabras and redjackets in the street every time I go out for a piss,’ Ramon said. ‘Besides, if we didn’t have vermin, how would we know we’d made a real city, right?’
Griego snapped off the display and shrugged. They settled the account; half from Ramon’s available credit, half into an interest bearing tab that the salvage yard’s system kept track of automatically. The sun was setting; the sky pink and gold and blue the color of lapis. Stars glimmered shyly from behind daylight’s veil. And Diegotown spread below them, its lights like a permanent fire. Ramon finished the last of his beer, then spat out the sediment. It left grit between his teeth.
‘The last mouthful’s not the best one,’ Griego said. ‘Still. Beats water.’
‘Amen,’ Ramon said.
‘How long you going out for?’
‘A month,’ Ramon said. ‘Maybe two.’
‘Miss the whole festival.’
‘That’s the idea,’ Ramon agreed.
‘You got enough food for that?’
‘I got hunting gear,’ Ramon said. ‘I could live out there forever if I wanted.’ He was surprised at the wistful, even yearning, tone that he could hear in his own voice.
There was a moment’s silence before Griego spoke again; words that made Ramon’s nerves shrill with sudden fear.
‘You hear about the European that got killed?’
Ramon looked up, startled, but Griego was sucking at his teeth, his expression placid.
‘What about him?’ Ramon asked warily.
‘Governor’s all pissed off about it, from what I hear.’
‘Too bad for the governor, then.’
‘The police came by. Two constables looking real serious. Asked if anyone had been in, getting a van in shape to head out fast. You know, someone who was maybe trying not to be found.’
Ramon nodded, staring at the van. His throat felt tight and the thick beer in his belly seemed to have turned to stone.
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Told them no,’ Griego said with a shrug.
‘There wasn’t anyone?’
‘A couple,’ Griego said. ‘Orlando Wasserman’s kid. And that crazy gringa from Swan’s Neck. But I figured, what the hell, you know? The police don’t pay me, these other people do. So where do my loyalties lie?’
‘Man got killed,’ Ramon said.
‘Yeah,’ Griego agreed, pleasantly. ‘A gringo.’ He spit sideways, then shrugged, as if the death of a gringo or any other kind of European was of no great consequence. ‘I’m just saying it because I’m not the only one they’re asking. You taking off, they may take that the wrong way, give you a hard time about it. Just keep that in mind when you supply up.’
Ramon nodded.
‘They gonna catch him, you think?’ Ramon asked.
‘Oh yeah,’ Griego said. ‘They’ll have to. Bust a gut to do it, if they got to. Show the Enye that we’re a justice-loving people. Not that they care. Shit, fucking Enye lick each other hello. Probably lick the governor and get pissed off if he doesn’t lick them back. Anyway, he’ll make a big show out of the trial, do everything to prove how they got the right guy, then put him down like a fucking dog. You know, whoever it is they decide did it. No one else, there’s always Johnny Joe Cardenas. They’ve been looking for something to hang on him for years.’
‘Maybe it’ll be good that I get out of the city for a while, then,’ Ramon said. He tried a weak smile that felt as obvious as a confession. ‘You know. Just to avoid misunderstandings.’
‘Yeah,’ Griego said. ‘Besides, this is the big one right?’
‘Lucky strike,’ Ramon agreed.
When he started up the van, he could feel the difference. The lift tubes seemed to chime as he lifted up into the sky, all of Diegotown, with its unplanned maze of narrow streets and red-roofed buildings, below him. Elena was down there somewhere. The police too. The body of the European. Mikel Ibrahim and the gravity knife Ramon had handed to him, just handed to him. The murder weapon! And slumped in a bar or a basement opium den – or maybe breaking into someone’s house – Johnny Joe Cardenas, just waiting to hang.
And Lianna, maybe, somewhere in the good section by the port, who didn’t think of Ramon anymore and probably never would.
Ramon’s thoughts were interrupted by the pulsing hum of a shuttle rising up into the thin and distant air. Another load of metal or plastic or fuel or chitin for the welcoming platform. Ramon spun the van north, set it for proximity avoidance, and headed out alone, leaving all the hell and shit and sorrow of Diegotown behind.
CHAPTER THREE
It was a warm day in the Second June. He flew his beat-up old van north across the Fingerlands, the Green-glass country, the river marshes, the Océano Tétrico, heading deep into unknown territory. North of Fiddler’s Jump, the northernmost outpost of the metastasizing human presence on the planet, were thousands of hectares that no one had ever explored, or even thought of exploring, land so far only glimpsed from orbit during the first colony surveys.
The human colony on the planet of São Paulo was only a little more than twenty years old, and the majority of its towns were situated in the subtropic zone of the snaky eastern continent that stretched almost from pole to pole. The colonists were mostly from Brazil and Mexico, with a smattering from Jamaica, Barbados, Puerto Rico, and other Caribbean nations, and their natural inclination was to expand south, into the steamy lands near the equator – they were not effete norteamericanos, after all; they were used to such climates, they knew how to live with the heat, they knew how to farm the jungles, their skins did not sear in the sun. So they looked to the south, and tended to ignore the cold northern territories, perhaps because of an unvocalized common conviction – one anticipated centuries before by the first Spanish settlers in the New World of the Americas – that life was not worth living any place where there was even a remote possibility of snow.
Ramon, however, was part Yaqui, and had grown up in the rugged plateau country of northern Mexico. He liked the hills and white water, and he didn’t mind the cold. He also knew that the Sierra Hueso mountain chain in the northern hemisphere of São Paulo was a more likely place to find rich ore than the flatter country around the Hand or Nuevo Janeiro or Little Dog. The peaks around the Sierra Hueso had been piled up many millions of years before by a collision between continental plates squeezing an ocean out of existence between them; the former seabottom would have been pinched and pushed high into the air along the collision line, and it would be rich in copper and other metals.
Few if any of the muleback prospectors like himself had as yet bothered with the northern lands; pickings were still rich enough down south that the travel time seemed unnecessary to most people. The Sierra Hueso had been mapped from orbit, but no one Ramon knew had ever actually been there, and the territory was still so unexplored that the peaks of the range had not even been individually named. That meant that there were no human settlements within hundreds of miles, and no satellite to relay his network signals this far north; if he got into trouble he would be on his own. He would be one of the first to prospect there, but years would pass, the economic pressure in the south would get higher, and more people would come north, following the charts Ramon had made and sold, interpreting the data he rented out to the corporations and governing bodies. They would follow him like the native scorpion ants – first one, and then a handful, and then countless thousands of small insectoid bodies in the consuming river. Ramon was that first ant, the one driven to risk, to explore. He was a leader not because he chose to be, but because it was his nature to seek distance.
It was better that way, to be the first ant. Although he was reluctant to admit it, he’d finally come to realize that it was better if he worked someplace away from other prospectors. Away from other people. The bigger prospecting cooperatives might have better contracts, better equipment, but they also had more rum and more women. And between those two, Ramon knew, more fighting. He couldn’t trust his own volatile temper, never had been able to. It had held him back for years, the fighting, and the trouble it got him into. Now it had gotten him into trouble that might cost him his life, if they caught him. No, it was better this way – muleback prospecting, just himself and his van.
Besides, he was finding that he liked to be out on his own like this, on a clear day with São Paulo’s big soft sun blinking dimly back at him from rivers and lakes and leaves. He found that he was whistling tunelessly as the endless forests beneath the van slowly changed from blackwort and devilwood to the local conifer-equivalents: iceroot, creeping willow, hierba. At last, there was no one around to bother him. For the first time that day, his stomach had almost stopped hurting.
Almost.
With every hour that passed, every forest and lake that appeared, drew near, and slipped away, the thought of the European he’d killed grew in Ramon’s mind, his presence sharpening pixel by pixel, becoming more real, until he could almost, almost, see him sitting in the copilot’s seat, that stupid look of dumb surprise at his own mortality still stamped on his big pale face – and the more real his ghostly presence became, the deeper Ramon’s hatred for him grew.
He hadn’t hated him back at the El Rey; the man had just been another bastard looking for trouble and finding Ramon. It had happened before more times than he could recall. It was part of how things worked. He came to town, he drank, he and some rabid asshole found each other, and one of them walked away. Maybe it was Ramon, maybe it was the other guy. Rage, yes, rage had something to do with it, but not hatred. Hatred meant you knew a man, you cared about him. Rage lifted you up above everything – morality, fear, yourself. Hatred meant that someone had control over you.
This was the place that usually brought him peace, the outback, the remote territory, the unpeopled places. The tension that came with being around people loosened. In the city – Diegotown or Nuevo Janeiro or any place where too many people came together – Ramon had always felt the press of people against him. The voices just out of earshot, the laughter that might or might not have been directed at him, the impersonal stares of men and women, Elena’s lush body and her uncertain mind; they were why Ramon drank when he was in the city and stayed sober in the field. In the field there was no reason to drink.
But here, where that peace should have been, the European was with him. Ramon would look out into the limitless bowl of the sky, and his mind would turn back to that night at the El Rey, the sudden awed silence of the crowd. The blood pouring from the European’s mouth. His heels drumming against the ground. He checked his maps, and instead of letting his mind run freely across the fissures and plates of the planetary surface, he thought of where the police might go to search for him. He could not let go of what had happened, and the frustration of that was almost as enraging as the guilt itself.
But guilt was for weaklings and fools. Everything would be all right. He would spend his time in the field, communing with the stone and the sky, and when he returned to the city, the European would be last season’s news. Something half remembered and retold in a thousand different versions, none of them true. It was one little death among all the hundreds of millions – natural and otherwise – that happened every year throughout the known universe. The dead man’s absence would be like taking a finger out of water; it wouldn’t leave a hole.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/dzhordzh-r-r-martin-45006/hunter-s-run/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Gardner Dozois
George Raymond Richard Martin
Daniel Abraham
A new benchmark in modern SF. A sharp, clever, funny morality tale that answers the biggest question of all: what makes us human?In a fight outside a bar Ramon Espejo kills a man. Next day, all hell breaks loose. The dead man was a big shot, a diplomat on a mission to the out-world of São Paulo. Ramon goes on the run, heading north toward unexplored territory, land so far only glimpsed from orbit during the first colony surveys.Ramon has gone from being nothing in the hills of Mexico to being nothing on São Paulo. He makes a bare living prospecting for minerals. Maybe God meant him to be poor, or he wouldn't have made him so mean. He can't even remember why he killed the European, only the drinking, and the rage that followed.Better to be alone in the wild landscape … off the map, beyond law and civilization. Each trip out he's sure will be the big one that'll make him rich. This one, too.Instead he finds something else, something terrifying. Or rather, it finds him, and uses him: as humans are used by species more intelligent than themselves. But Ramon Espejo is about to prove what a man is capable of. Ramon is about to demonstrate what it is to be human; to be angry, intelligent and alive. And he is about to discover his function in the broad flow of the universe. And why it was he killed the diplomat in the first place…
George R.R. Martin, Gardner Dozois and Daniel Abraham
Hunter’s Run
to Connie Willis who learned everything she knows from Gardner and George and taught it all to Daniel
Overture
Ramon Espejo awoke floating in a sea of darkness. For a moment, he was relaxed and mindless, drifting peacefully, and then his identity returned to him lazily, like an unwanted afterthought.
After the deep, warm nothingness, there was no pleasure in recalling who he was. Without coming fully awake, he nonetheless felt the weight of his own being settling on his heart. Despair and anger and the constant gnawing worry sounded in his mind like a man in the next room clearing his throat. For some blissful time, he had been no one, and now he was himself again. His first truly conscious thought was to deny the disappointment he felt at being.
He was Ramon Espejo. He was working a prospecting contract out of Nuevo Janeiro. He was … he was … Ramon Espejo.
Where he had expected the details of his life to rush in – what he had done last night, what he was to do today, what grudges he was nursing, what resentments had pricked him recently – the next thought simply failed him. He knew he was Ramon Espejo – but he did not know where he was. Or how he had got there.
Disturbed, he tried to open his eyes, and found that they were open already. Wherever he was, it was a totally lightless place, darker than the jungle night, darker than the deep caves in the sandstone cliffs near Swan’s Neck.
Or perhaps he was blind.
That thought started a tiny spring of panic within him. There were stories of men who’d got drunk on cheap synthetic Muscat or Sweet Mary and woke up blind. Had he done that? Had he lost that much control of himself? A tiny rivulet of fear traced a cold channel down his spine. But his head didn’t hurt, and his belly didn’t burn. He closed his eyes, blinking them hard several times, irrationally hoping to jar his vision back into existence; the only result was an explosion of bright pastel blobs across his retinas, scurrying colors that were somehow more disturbing than the darkness.
His initial sense of drowsy lethargy slid away from him, and he tried to call out. He felt his mouth moving slowly, but he heard nothing. Was he deaf, too? He tried to roll over and sit up, but could not. He lay back against nothing, floating again, not fighting, but his mind racing. He was fully awake now, but he still couldn’t remember where he was, or how he had got there. Perhaps he was in danger: his immobility was both suggestive and ominous. Had he been in a mine cave-in? Perhaps a rockfall had pinned him down. He tried to concentrate on the feel of his body, sharpening his sensitivity to it, and finally decided that he could feel no weight or pressure, nothing actually pinioning him. You might not feel anything if your spinal cord has been cut, he thought with a flash of cold horror. But a moment’s further consideration convinced him that it could not be so: he could move his body a little, although when he tried to sit up, something stopped him, pulled his spine straight, pulled his arms and shoulders back down from where he’d raised them. It was like moving through syrup, only the syrup pushed back, holding him gently, firmly, implacably in place.
He could feel no moisture against his skin, no air, no breeze, no heat or cold. Nor did he seem to be resting on anything solid. Apparently, his first impression had been correct. He was floating, trapped in darkness, held in place. He imagined himself like an insect in amber, caught fast in the gooey syrup that surrounded him, in which he seemed to be totally submerged. But how was he breathing?
He wasn’t, he realized. He wasn’t breathing.
Panic shattered him like glass. All vestiges of thought blinked out, and he fought like an animal for his life. He clawed the enfolding nothingness, trying to pull his way up toward some imagined air. He tried to scream. Time stopped meaning anything, the struggle consuming him entirely, so that he couldn’t say how long it was before he fell back, exhausted. The syrup around him gently, firmly, pulled him back precisely as he had been – back into place. He felt as if he should have been panting, expected to hear his blood pounding in his ears, feel his heart hammering at his chest – but there was nothing. No breath, and no heartbeat. No burning for air.
He was dead.
He was dead and floating on a vast dry sea that stretched away to eternity in all directions. Even blind and deaf, he could sense the immensity of it, of that measureless midnight ocean.
He was dead and in Limbo, that Limbo that the Pope at San Esteban kept having to repudiate, waiting in darkness for the Day of Judgment.
He almost laughed at the thought – it was better than what the Catholic priest in the tiny adobe church in his little village in the mountains of northern Mexico had promised him; Father Ortega had often assured him that he’d go right to the flames and torments of Hell as soon as he died unshriven – but he could not push the thought away. He had died, and this emptiness – infinite darkness, infinite stillness, trapped alone with only his own mind – was what had always waited for him all his life, in spite of the blessings and benedictions of the Church, in spite of his sins and occasional semi-sincere repentance. None of it had made any difference. Numberless years stretched before him with nothing but his own sins and failures to dwell upon. He had died, and his punishment was to be always and forever himself under the implacable, unseen eye of God.
But how had it happened? How had he died? His memory seemed sluggish, unresponsive as a tractor’s engine on a cold winter morning – hard to start and hard to keep in motion without sputtering and stalling.
He began by picturing what was most familiar. Elena’s room in Diegotown with the small window over the bed, the thick pounded-earth walls. The faucets in the sink, already rusting and ancient though humanity had hardly been on the planet for more than twenty years. The tiny scarlet skitterlings that scurried across the ceiling, multiple rows of legs flailing like oars. The sharp smells of iceroot and ganja, spilled tequila and roasting peppers. The sounds of the transports flying overhead, grinding their way up through the air and into orbit.
Slowly, the recent events of his life took shape, still fuzzy as a badly aligned projection. He had been in Diegotown for the Blessing of the Fleet. There had been a parade. He had eaten roasted fish and saffron rice bought from a street vendor, and watched the fireworks. The smoke had smelled like a strip mine, and the spent fireworks had hissed like serpents as they plunged into the sea. A giant wreathed in flames, waving its arms in agony. Was that real? The smell of lemon and sugar. Old Manuel Griego had been talking about all his plans for when the Enye ships finally emerged from the jump to the colony planet São Paulo. He flushed with the sudden, powerful recollection of the scent of Elena’s body. But that was before …
There had been a fight. He’d fought with Elena, yes. The sound of her voice – high and accusing and mean as a pitbull. He’d hit her. He remembered that. She’d screamed and clawed at his eyes and tried to kick him in the balls. And they’d made up afterwards like they always did. Afterwards, she had run her fingers along the machete scars on his arm as he fell into a sated sleep. Or was that another night? So many of their nights together ended like that …
There had been another fight, earlier still, with someone else … But his thoughts shied away from that like a mule might shy away from a snake on a path.
He’d left her before first light, sneaking out of her room heavy with the smell of sweat and sex while she was still asleep so he wouldn’t have to talk to her, feeling the morning breeze cool against his skin. Flatfurs had scurried away from him as he walked down the muddy street, their alarm cries sounding like panicked oboes. He’d flown his van to the outfitter’s station because he was going … before they caught him …
His mind balked again. It was not the nauseating forgetfulness that seemed to have consumed his world, but something else. There was something his mind didn’t want to recall. Slowly, gritting his teeth, he forced his memory to bend to his will.
He’d spent the day realigning two lift tubes in the van. Someone had been there with him. Griego, bitching about parts. And then he had flown off into the wastelands, the outback, terreno cimarrón …
But his van had exploded! Hadn’t it? He suddenly remembered the van exploding, but he remembered seeing it from a distance. He hadn’t been caught in the blast, but nonetheless the memory was thick with despair. The van’s destruction was part of it, then, whatever it was. He tried to bring his focus to that moment – the brightness of the flame; the hot, sudden wind of the concussion …
Had his heart been beating, it would have stopped then in terror as memory returned.
He remembered now. And maybe dying and being in Hell would have been better …
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Ramon Espejo lifted his chin, daring his opponent to strike. The crowd that filled the alleyway behind the ramshackle bar called the El Rey formed a ring, bodies pressing against each other in the tension between coming close enough to see and retreating to a safe distance. Their voices were a mixture of shouts urging the two men to fight and weak, insincere exhortations to make peace. The big man who was bobbing and weaving across the narrow circle from him was a pale European, his cheeks flushed red from liquor, his wide, soft hands balled into fists. He was taller than Ramon, with a greater reach. Ramon could see the man’s eyes shifting, as wary of the crowd as of Ramon.
‘Come on, pendejo,’ Ramon said, grinning. His arms were raised and spread, as if he were ready to embrace the fighter. ‘You wanted power. Come have a taste of it.’
The shifting LEDs of the bar’s signs turned the night blue and red and amber in turn. Far above them all, the night sky shone with countless stars too bright and close for the lights of Diegotown to drown.
The constellation of the Stone Man stared down at them as they circled, a single star smoldering balefully like a red eye, as if it was watching, as if it was urging them on.
‘I ought to do it, you ugly little greaser!’ the European spat. ‘I ought to go ahead and kick your skinny ass!’
Ramon only bared his teeth and motioned the man nearer. The European wanted this to be a talking fight again, but it was too late for that. The voices of the crowd merged into a single waterfall roar. The European made his move, graceless as a falling tree; the great left fist made its slow way through the air, moving as though through molasses. Ramon stepped inside the swing, letting the gravity knife slip from his sleeve into his hand. He flicked the blade open in the same motion that brought his fist against the larger man’s belly.
A look of almost comical surprise crossed the European’s face. His breath went out of him with a whoof.
Ramon stabbed twice more, fast and hard, twisting the knife just to be sure. He was close enough to smell the nose-tingling reek of the flowery cologne the man wore, to feel his liquorice-scented breath panting against his face. The crowd went silent as the European slipped to his knees and then sat, legs spread, in the filthy muck of the alley. The big, soft hands opened and closed aimlessly, slick with blood that turned pale when the LEDs were red, black when the light shifted blue.
The European’s mouth gaped open, and blood gushed out over his teeth. Slowly, very slowly, seeming to move in slow motion, he toppled sideways to the ground. Kicked his feet, heels drumming the ground. Was still.
Someone in the crowd uttered an awed obscenity.
Ramon’s shrill, self-satisfied pleasure faded. He looked at the faces of the crowd – wide eyes, mouths open in little, surprised ‘o’s. The alcohol in his blood seemed to thin, sobriety floating to the top of his mind. A sinking sense of betrayal possessed him – these people had been pushing him on, encouraging the fight. And now they were abandoning him for winning it!
‘What?’ Ramon shouted to the other patrons of the El Rey. ‘You heard what he was saying! You saw what he did!’
But the alley was emptying. Even the woman who’d been with the European, the one who had started it all, was gone. Mikel Ibrahim, the manager of the El Rey, lumbered toward him, his great bear-like face the image of patient, saintly suffering. He held out his wide hand. Ramon lifted his chin again, thrust out his chest, as if Mikel’s gesture was an insult. The manager only sighed, shook his head slowly back and forth, and made a pulling gesture with his fingers. Ramon curled his lip, half-turned away, then slapped the handle of the knife into the waiting palm.
‘Police are coming,’ the manager warned. ‘You should go home, Ramon.’
‘You saw what happened,’ Ramon said.
‘No, I wasn’t here when it happened,’ he said. ‘And neither were you, eh? Now go home. And keep your mouth shut.’
Ramon spat on the ground and stalked into the night. It wasn’t until he began to walk that he understood how drunk he was. At the canal by the plaza, he squatted down, leaned back against a tree, and waited until he was sure he could walk without listing. Around him, Diegotown spent its week’s wages on alcohol and kaafa kyit and sex. Music tumbled in from the rough gypsy houseboats on the canal; fast, festive accordion mixing with trumpets and steel drums and the shouts of the dancers.
Somewhere in the darkness, a tenfin was calling mournfully, a ‘bird’ that was really a flying lizard, and which sounded uncannily like a woman sobbing in misery and despair, something that had led the superstitious Mexican peasants who made up a large percentage of the colony’s population to say that La Llorona, the Crying Woman, had crossed the stars with them from Mexico and now wandered the night of this new planet, crying not only for all the children who’d been lost and left behind on Earth, but for all the ones who would die on this hard new world.
He, of course, didn’t believe in such crap. But as the ghostly crying accelerated to a heartbreaking crescendo, he couldn’t help but shiver.
Alone, Ramon could regret stabbing the European; surely it would have been enough just to punch him around, humiliate him, slap him like a bitch? But when Ramon was drunk and angry, he always went too far. Ramon knew that he shouldn’t have drunk so much, and that whenever he got around people, it always seemed to end like this. He’d begun his evening with the sick knot in his belly that being in the city seemed to bring, and then by the time he’d drunk enough to untie that knot, as usual someone had said or done something to enrage him. It didn’t always end with a knife, but it rarely ended well. Ramon didn’t like it, but he wasn’t ashamed of it either. He was a man – an independent prospector on a tough frontier colony world less than a generation removed from its founding. By God, he was a man! He drank hard, he fought hard, and anyone who had a problem with that would be wise to keep their pinche opinions to themselves!
A family of tapanos – small, raccoon-like amphibians with scales like a hedgehog’s spikes – lumbered up from the water, considered Ramon with dark, shining eyes, and made their way toward the plaza, where they would scavenge for the dropped food and trash of the day. Ramon watched them pass, slick dark paths of canal water trailing behind them, then sighed and hauled himself to his feet.
Elena’s apartment was in the maze of streets around the Palace of the Governors. It perched above a butcher’s shop, and the air that came in the back window was often fetid with old gore. He considered sleeping in his van, but he felt sticky and exhausted. He wanted a shower and a beer and a plate of something warm to keep his belly from growling. He climbed the stairs slowly, trying to be quiet, but the lights were burning in her windows. A shuttle was lifting from the spaceport far to the north, tracking lights glowing blue and red as the vessel rose toward the stars. Ramon tried to cover the click and hiss of the door with the throbbing rumble of the shuttle’s lift drive. But it was no use.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Elena yelled as he stepped inside. She wore a thin cotton dress with a stain on the sleeve. Her hair was tied back into a knot of black darker than the sky. Her teeth were bared in rage, her mouth almost square with it. Ramon closed the door behind him, and heard her gasp. In an instant, the anger had left her. He followed her gaze to where the European’s blood had soaked the side of his shirt, the leg of his pants. He shrugged.
‘We’ll have to burn these,’ he said.
‘Are you okay, mi hijo? What happened?’
He hated it when she called him that. He was no one’s little boy. But it was better than fighting, so he smiled, pulling at the tongue of his belt.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘It was the other cabron who took the worst of it.’
‘The police … will the police …?’
‘Probably not,’ Ramon said, dropping his trousers around his knees. He pulled his shirt up over his head. ‘Still, we should burn these.’
She asked no more questions, only took his clothes out to the incinerator that the apartments on the block all shared, while Ramon took a shower. The time readout in the mirror told him that dawn was still three or four hours away. He stood under the flow of warm water, considering his scars – the wide white band on his belly where Martin Casaus had slashed him with a sheet metal hook, the disfiguring lump below his elbow where some drunken bastard had almost sheared through his bones with a machete. Old scars. Some older than others. They didn’t bother him; in fact, he liked them. They made him look strong.
When he came out, Elena was standing at her back window, arms crossed below her breasts. When she turned to him, he was ready for the blast furnace of her rage. But instead, her mouth was a tiny rosebud, her eyes wide and round. When she spoke, she sounded like a child; worse, like a woman trying to be a child.
‘I was scared for you,’ she said.
‘You never have to be,’ he said. ‘I’m tough as leather.’
‘But you’re just one man,’ she said. ‘When Tomas Martinez got killed, there were eight men. They came right up to him when he came out of his girlfriend’s house, and …’
‘Tomas was a little whore,’ Ramon said and waved a hand dismissively, as if to say that any real man ought to be able to stand up against eight thugs sent to even a score. Elena’s lips relaxed into a smile, and she walked toward him, her hips shifting forward with each step, as if her pussy were coming to him, the rest of her trailing behind reluctantly. It could have gone the other way, he knew. They could as easily have passed the night as they had so many others, shouting at each other, throwing things, coming to blows. But even that might have ended in sex, and he was tired enough that he was genuinely grateful that they could simply fuck and then sleep, and forget about the wasted, empty day that had just gone by. Elena lifted off her dress. Ramon took her familiar flesh in his arms. The scent of old blood rose from the butcher’s shop below like an ugly perfume of Earth and humanity that had followed them across the void.
Afterward, Ramon lay spent in the bed. Another shuttle was lifting off. Usually there was hardly more than one a month. But the Enye were coming soon, earlier than expected, and the platform above Diegotown needed to be fitted out to receive the great ships with their alien cargos.
It was generations ago that mankind had raised itself up from the gravity wells of Earth and Mars and Europa and taken to the stars with dreams of conquest. Humanity had planned to spread its seed through the universe like a high councilor’s son at a port town brothel, but it had been disappointed. The universe was already taken. Other star-faring races had been there before them.
Dreams of empire faded into dreams of wealth. Dreams of wealth decayed into shamed wonder. More than the great and enigmatic technologies of the Silver Enye and Turu, it was the nature of space itself that defeated them, as it had defeated every other star-faring race. The vast dark was too great. Too big. Communication at the speed of light was so slow as to barely be communication at all. Governance was impossible. Law beyond what could be imposed locally was farcical. The outposts of the Commercial Alliance that humanity had been ‘persuaded’ to join by the Silver Enye (much as Admiral Perry’s gunships had ‘persuaded’ Japan to open itself up for trade in a much earlier generation) were wideflung, some outposts falling out of contact for generations, some lost and forgotten or else put on a bureaucrat’s schedule of concerns to be addressed another generation hence by another bureaucrat as yet unborn.
Establishing dominance – or even much continuity – across that gaping infinity of Night was something that seemed possible only from the provincially narrow viewpoint imposed by looking up from the bottom of a gravity well. Once you got out amongst the stars, you learned better.
No race had been able to overcome such vast distance, and so they had striven to overcome time. And it was in this that humanity at last found some small niche in the crowded, chaotic darkness of the universe. Enye and Turu saw the damage done by humanity to their own environment, the deep human propensity for change and control and their profoundly limited ability to see ahead to consequences, and they had found it more virtue than vice. The vast institutional minds, human and alien both, entered into a glacially slow generational agreement. Where empty planets were, intractable and inconvenient and dangerous, with wild flora and unknown fauna, there humans would be put. For the slow decades or centuries that it required to tame, to break, to pave over whatever marvels and threats evolution had put there, the Silver Enye and Cian and Turu and whatever other of the great races happened by would act as trade ships once had in the ancient days when mankind had displaced itself from the small islands and insignificant hills of Earth.
The São Paulo colony was barely in its second generation. There were women still alive who could recall the initial descent onto an untouched world. Diegotown, Nuevo Janeiro, San Esteban. Amadora. Little Dog. Fiddler’s Jump. All the cities of the south had bloomed since then, like mold on a Petri dish. Men had died from the subtle toxins of the native foods. Men had discovered the great cat-lizards, soon nicknamed chupacabras, after the mythical goat-suckers of Old Earth, that had stood proud and dumb at the peak of the planet’s food chain, and men had died for their discovery. The oyster-eyed Silver Enye had not. The insect-and-glass Turu had not. The enigmatic Cian with their penchant for weightlessness had not.
And now the great ships were coming ahead of schedule; each half-living ship heavy, they all assumed, with new equipment and people from other colonies hoping to make a place for themselves here on São Paulo. And also rich with the chance of escape for those to whom the colony had become a prison. More than one person had asked Ramon if he’d thought of going up, out, into the darkness, but they had misunderstood him. He had been in space; he had come here. The only attraction that leaving could hold was the chance to be someplace with even fewer people, which was unlikely. However ill he fit in São Paulo, he could imagine no situation less odious.
He didn’t recall falling asleep, but woke when the late morning sun streaming through Elena’s window shone in his face. He could hear her humming in the next room, going about the business of her morning. Shut up, you evil bitch, he thought, wincing at the flash of a lingering hangover. She had no talent for song – every note she made was flat and grating. Ramon lay silent, willing himself back to sleep, away from this city, this irritating noise, this woman, this moment in time. Then the humming was drowned by an angry sizzling sound, and, a moment later, the scent of garlic and chile sausage and frying onions wafted into the room. Ramon was suddenly aware of the emptiness in his belly. With a sigh, he raised himself to his elbow, swung his sleep-sodden legs around, and, stumbling awkwardly, made his way to the doorway.
‘You look like shit,’ Elena said, ‘I don’t know why I even let you in my house. Don’t touch that! That’s my breakfast. You can go earn your own!’
Ramon tossed the sausage from hand to hand, grinning, until it cooled enough to take a bite.
‘I work fifty hours a week to make the credit. And what do you do?’ Elena demanded. ‘Loaf around in the terreno cimarrón, come into town to drink whatever you earn. You don’t even have a bed of your own!’
‘Is there coffee?’ Ramon asked. Elena gestured with her chin toward the worn plastic-and-chitin thermos on the kitchen counter. Ramon rinsed a tin cup and filled it with yesterday’s coffee. ‘I’ll make my big find,’ he said. ‘Uranium or tantalum. I’ll make enough money that I won’t have to work again for the rest of my life.’
‘And then you’ll throw me out and get some young puta from the docks to follow you around. I know what men are like.’
Ramon filched another sausage from her plate. She slapped the back of his hand hard enough to sting.
‘There’s a parade today,’ Elena said. ‘After the Blessing of the Fleet. The governor’s making a big show to beam out to the Enye. Make them think we’re all so happy that they came early. There’s going to be dancing and free rum.’
‘The Enye think we’re trained dogs,’ Ramon said around a mouthful of sausage.
Hard lines appeared at the corners of Elena’s mouth, her eyes went cold.
‘I think it would be fun,’ she said, thin venom in her tone. Ramon shrugged. It was her bed he was sleeping in. He’d always known there was a price for its use.
‘I’ll get dressed,’ he said and swilled down the last of the coffee. ‘I’ve got a little money. It can be my treat.’
They skipped the Blessing of the Fleet, Ramon having no interest in hearing priests droning mumbo-jumbo bullshit while pouring dippers of holy water on beaten-up fishing boats, but they’d arrived in time for the parade that followed. The main street that ran past the Palace of the governors was wide enough for five hauling trucks to drive abreast, if they stopped traffic coming the other way. Great floats moved slowly, often stopping for minutes at a time, with secular subjects – a ‘Turu spacecraft’ studded with lights, being pulled by a team of horses; a plastic chupacabra with red-glowing eyes and a jaw that opened and closed to show the great teeth made from old pipes – mixing with oversized displays of Jesus, Bob Marley, and the Virgin of Despegando Station. Here came a twice-life-sized satirical (recognizable but very unflattering) caricature of the governor, huge lips pursed as if ready to kiss the Silver Enyes’ asses, and a ripple of laughter went down the street. The first wave of colonists, the ones who had named the planet São Paulo, had been from Brazil, and although few if any of them had ever been to Portugal, they were universally referred to as ‘the Portuguese’ by the Spanish-speaking colonists, mostly Mexicans, who had arrived with the second and third waves. ‘The Portuguese’ still dominated the upper-level positions in local government and administration, and the highest-paying jobs, and were widely resented and disliked by the Spanish-speaking majority, who felt they’d been made into second-class citizens in their own new home. A chorus of boos and jeers followed the huge float of the governor down the street.
Musicians followed the great lumbering floats: steel bands, string bands, mariachi bands, tuk bands, marching units of zouaves, strolling guitarists playing fado music. Stiltwalkers and tumbling acrobats. Young women in half-finished carnival costumes danced along like birds. With Elena at his side, Ramon was careful not to look at their half-exposed breasts (or to get caught doing so).
The maze of side streets was packed full. Coffee stands and rum sellers; bakers offering frosted pastry redjackets and chupacabras; food carts selling fried fish and tacos, satay and jug-jug; side-show buskers; street artists; fire-eaters; three-card monte dealers – all were making the most of the improvised festival. For the first hour, it was almost enjoyable. After that, the constant noise and press and scent of humanity all around him made Ramon edgy. Elena was her infant-girl self, squealing in delight like a child and dragging him from one place to another, spending his money on candy rope and sugar skulls. He managed to slow her slightly by buying real food – a waxed paper cone of saffron rice, hot peppers, and strips of roasted butterfin flesh, and a tall, thin glass of flavored rum – and by picking a hill in the park nearest the palace where they could sit on the grass and watch the great, slow river of people slide past them.
Elena was sucking the last of the spice from her fingertips and leaning against him, her arm around him like a chain, when Patricio Gallegos caught sight of them and came walking slowly up the rise. His gait had a hitch in it from when he’d broken his hip in a rock-slide; prospecting wasn’t a safe job. Ramon watched him approach.
‘Hey,’ Patricio said. ‘How’s it going, eh?’
Ramon shrugged as best he could with Elena clinging to him like ivy on brick.
‘You?’ Ramon asked.
Patricio wagged a hand – not good, not bad. ‘I’ve been surveying mineral salts on the south coast for one of the corporations. It’s a pain in the ass, but they pay regular. Not like being an independent.’
‘You do what you got to do,’ Ramon said, and Patricio nodded as if he’d said something particularly wise. On the street, the chupacabra float was turning slowly, the great idiot mouth champing at the air. Patricio didn’t leave. Ramon shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at him.
‘What?’ Ramon said.
‘You hear about the ambassador from Europa?’ Patricio said. ‘He got in a fight last night at the El Rey. Some crazy pendejo stabbed him with a bottle neck or something.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. He died before they could get him to the hospital. The governor’s real pissed off about it.’
‘So what are you telling me for?’ Ramon asked. ‘I’m not the governor.’
Elena was still as stone beside him, her eyes narrow in an expression of low cunning. Ramon quietly willed Patricio away, or at least to shut up. But the man didn’t pick up on it.
‘The governor’s all busy with the Enye ships coming in. Now he has to track down the guy that killed the ambassador, and show how the colony is able to keep the law and all. I’ve got a cousin who works for the chief constable. It’s ugly over there.’
‘Okay,’ Ramon said.
‘I was just thinking, you know. You hang out at the El Rey sometimes.’
‘Not last night,’ Ramon said, glowering. ‘You can ask Mikel if you want. I wasn’t there all night.’
Patricio smiled and took an awkward step back. The chupacabra made a weak, synthesized roar and the crowd around it shrilled with laughter and applause.
‘Yeah, okay,’ Patricio said. ‘I was just thinking. You know …’
And with the conversation trailing away, Patricio smiled, nodded, and limped back down the hill.
‘It wasn’t you, was it?’ Elena half-whispered, half-hissed. ‘You didn’t kill the fucking ambassador?’
‘I didn’t kill anyone, and sure as hell not a European. I’m not stupid,’ Ramon said. ‘Why don’t you watch your fucking parade, eh?’
Night came on as the parade wound down. At the bottom of the hill, in a field near the palace, they were putting a torch to the pile of wood surrounding Old Man Gloom – Mr Harding, some of the colonists from Barbados called him – a hastily cobbled-together effigy, almost twenty feet tall, with a face like a grotesque caricature of a European or a norteamericano, green-painted cheeks, and an enormous Pinocchio nose. The bonfire blazed, and, wreathed in flames, the giant effigy began to swing its arms and groan in seeming agony, a somehow eerie sight that sent a chill up Ramon’s spine, as if he had been given the dubious privilege of watching a soul being tormented in the fires of Hell.
All the bad luck that dogged people throughout the year was supposed to be burning up with Old Man Gloom, but watching the giant twist and writhe in slow motion in the flames, its deep, electronically amplified moans echoing off the walls of the Palace of the governors, Ramon had a glum presentiment that it was his good luck that was burning instead, that from here on in he was headed for nothing but misery and misfortune.
And one glance at Elena – who had been sitting silently with her jaw set tight and white lines of anger etched around her mouth ever since he had snapped at her – was enough to tell him that it wasn’t going to be very long before that prophecy started to come true.
CHAPTER TWO
He hadn’t intended to go back out for another month. Even though they’d fucked passionately the night before, after one of their most vicious arguments ever, tearing at each other’s bodies like crazed things, he’d decided to leave before she could wake up. If he’d waited, they’d only have had another fight, and she probably would have kicked him out anyway; he’d taken a swing at her with a bottle the night before, and she would be outraged at that once she’d sobered up. Still, if it wasn’t for the killing at the El Rey, he might have tried staying in town. Elena’d probably calm down in a day or two, at least enough that they could speak to each other without shouting, but the news of the European’s death and the governor’s wrath made Diegotown feel close and claustrophobic. When he went to the outfitter’s station to buy rations and water filters, he felt like he was being watched. How many people had been in that crowd? How many of those would know him by sight – or name? The outfitter didn’t have everything on Ramon’s list, but he had bought what was immediately available, and then had flown his van to Manuel Griego’s salvage yard in Nuevo Janeiro. The van needed some work before it could head out into the world, and Ramon wanted it done now.
Griego’s yard squatted at the edge of the city. The hulking frames of old vans and canopy fliers and personal shuttles littered the wide acres. In the hangar, it was equal parts junk shop and clean room. Power cells hung from the rafters, glowing with the eerie light that all Turu technology seemed to carry with it. A nuclear generator the size of a small apartment ran along one wall, humming to itself. Storage units were stacked floor to ceiling; tanks of rare gas and undifferentiated nanoslurry mixed in with half-bald tires and oily drive trains. Half the things in the shop would cost more than a year’s wages just to make use of; half were hardly worth the effort to throw out. Old Griego himself was hammering away on a lift tube as Ramon set his van down on the pad.
‘Hey, ese,’ Griego called out when Ramon popped the doors and came down to the working floor. ‘Long time. Where you been keeping yourself?’
Ramon shrugged.
‘I got a power drop in my back lift tubes,’ he said.
Griego frowned, put down his hammer, and wiped greasy hands on greasy pants.
‘Put on the diagnostic,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a look.’
Of all the men in Diegotown and Nuevo Janeiro – or possibly on this world – Ramon liked old Griego best – which was to say, he only hated him a little. Griego was an expert on all things vehicular, a post-contact Marxist, and, so far as Ramon could make out, totally free of moral judgments. It took them little more than an hour to find where the lift tube’s chipset had lost coherence, replace the card, and start the system’s extensive self-check. As the van stuttered and chuffed to itself, Griego lumbered to one of the gray storage tanks, keyed in a security code, and opened a refrigeration panel to reveal a case of local black beer. He hauled out two bottles, snapping the caps free with a flick of his thick, callused fingers. Ramon took the one that was held out to him, squatted with his back against a drum of spent lubricant, and drank. The beer was thick and yeasty, sediment in the bottom like a spoonful of mud.
‘Pretty good, eh?’ Griego said and drank a quarter of his own at a pull.
‘Not bad,’ Ramon said.
‘So you’re heading out?’
‘This is going to be the big one,’ Ramon said. ‘This time I’m coming back a rich man. You wait. You’ll see.’
‘You better hope not,’ Griego said. ‘Too much money kills men like you and me. God meant us to be poor, or he wouldn’t have made us so mean.’
Ramon grinned. ‘God meant you to be mean, Manuel. He just didn’t want me taking any shit from anybody.’ A quick vision of the European, mouth gaping open, blood gushing out over tombstone teeth, came to him, and he frowned.
Griego was shaking his head. ‘The same thing again, eh? This time’s the one, just like every other time you been out.’ He grinned. ‘You know how many times I heard you say that?’
‘Yep,’ Ramon said. ‘This time’s different, just like always.’
‘Go with God, then,’ Griego said. His grin faded. ‘Everyone’s been scrambling. Trying to get things finished. Aliens caught everyone with their pants around their knees, coming early like this. Funny, though. I don’t see a whole lot of people heading out right now. Pretty much everyone’s coming in for the ships – except you.’
Ramon sneered, but he felt the constant fear in his breast tighten a notch.
‘What? They’re going to give half a shit about a prospector like me? What’s there for me if I stay?’
‘Didn’t say you should,’ Griego said. ‘Just said there’s not many people going out right now.’
I look suspicious, Ramon thought. I look like I’m running from something. He’ll tell the police, and then I’m fucked. He clamped his hand around the bottle so hard his knuckles ached.
‘It’s Elena,’ Ramon said, hoping the half-lie would be convincing enough.
‘Ah,’ Griego said, nodding sagely. ‘I thought it must be something like that.’
‘She kicked me out again,’ Ramon said, trying to sound hang-dog despite the relief washing through him. ‘We had a fight about the parade. It got a little out of hand is all.’
‘She know you’re taking off?’
‘I don’t think she cares,’ Ramon said.
‘Right now, maybe she doesn’t. But you fly out of here and three weeks later she decides that all is forgiven, she’s going to come around tearing up my place.’
Ramon chuckled, remembering the incident that Griego was talking about. He was wrong, though. That hadn’t been about making peace; Elena had convinced herself that Ramon had taken a woman with him when he went out in the field. She hadn’t stopped raging and ranting until she found the girl on whom her paranoia had fixed still in town and involved with one of the magistrates, and even then she still seemed to hold a grudge. Ramon had had to spend almost half the money he’d gotten from his survey work just buying beer and kaafa kyit for all his business contacts whom she’d alienated.
Griego didn’t laugh with him.
‘You know she’s crazy, don’t you?’ he asked instead.
‘She does get pretty wild,’ Ramon said with a half-smile, trying the expression out like it was a new shirt.
‘No, I know wild girls. Elena is fucking loca. I know you like that girl down at the exchange. What’s her name?’
‘Lianna?’ Ramon asked, disbelief in his voice.
‘Yeah that’s the one. Lives over on the north side. Used to be you had a thing with her, didn’t you?’
Ramon remembered those days, when he’d been a younger man, new to the colony. Yes, there had been a woman with coffee-and-milk skin and a laugh that made a man happy just listening to it. Maybe he had even dreamed about her a few times since. But that had carried its own slice of hell with it. Ramon scratched at the scar that striped his belly. Griego raised an eyebrow and Ramon coughed out a laugh.
‘She’s … No. No, she’s not like that. There couldn’t be anything between someone like her and someone like me. And don’t ever let Elena hear you say different.’
Griego gestured his discretion with a wave of his bottle. Ramon took another pull. The thick, earthy taste of the beer was growing on him. He wondered how much alcohol the brew carried.
‘Lianna was a good woman,’ Ramon said. ‘Elena’s like me, though. We understand each other, you know?’ His voice filled with a sudden bitterness that surprised him. ‘We deserve each other.’
‘If you say so,’ Griego said, and the van chimed, its self-test complete. Ramon levered himself up and followed Griego to where the results floated in the air. The power and variance checked at each level, just edging down below optimal on the highest range. Griego waved a crooked finger at the drop.
‘That’s a little weird,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should take another look at –’
‘It’s the cable,’ Ramon said. ‘Salt rats ate through the old one. I had to get gold for the replacement. Couldn’t afford the carbon mesh.’
‘Ah,’ Griego said and clicked his tongue in something between sympathy and disapproval. ‘Yeah, that would do it. Too bad about the rats. That’s the problem with scaring away all the predators, eh? We wind up protecting all the things they used to eat, like salt rats and flatfurs, and then they’re everywhere.’
‘I’ll take a few rats if I don’t have to worry that there’s chupacabras and redjackets in the street every time I go out for a piss,’ Ramon said. ‘Besides, if we didn’t have vermin, how would we know we’d made a real city, right?’
Griego snapped off the display and shrugged. They settled the account; half from Ramon’s available credit, half into an interest bearing tab that the salvage yard’s system kept track of automatically. The sun was setting; the sky pink and gold and blue the color of lapis. Stars glimmered shyly from behind daylight’s veil. And Diegotown spread below them, its lights like a permanent fire. Ramon finished the last of his beer, then spat out the sediment. It left grit between his teeth.
‘The last mouthful’s not the best one,’ Griego said. ‘Still. Beats water.’
‘Amen,’ Ramon said.
‘How long you going out for?’
‘A month,’ Ramon said. ‘Maybe two.’
‘Miss the whole festival.’
‘That’s the idea,’ Ramon agreed.
‘You got enough food for that?’
‘I got hunting gear,’ Ramon said. ‘I could live out there forever if I wanted.’ He was surprised at the wistful, even yearning, tone that he could hear in his own voice.
There was a moment’s silence before Griego spoke again; words that made Ramon’s nerves shrill with sudden fear.
‘You hear about the European that got killed?’
Ramon looked up, startled, but Griego was sucking at his teeth, his expression placid.
‘What about him?’ Ramon asked warily.
‘Governor’s all pissed off about it, from what I hear.’
‘Too bad for the governor, then.’
‘The police came by. Two constables looking real serious. Asked if anyone had been in, getting a van in shape to head out fast. You know, someone who was maybe trying not to be found.’
Ramon nodded, staring at the van. His throat felt tight and the thick beer in his belly seemed to have turned to stone.
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Told them no,’ Griego said with a shrug.
‘There wasn’t anyone?’
‘A couple,’ Griego said. ‘Orlando Wasserman’s kid. And that crazy gringa from Swan’s Neck. But I figured, what the hell, you know? The police don’t pay me, these other people do. So where do my loyalties lie?’
‘Man got killed,’ Ramon said.
‘Yeah,’ Griego agreed, pleasantly. ‘A gringo.’ He spit sideways, then shrugged, as if the death of a gringo or any other kind of European was of no great consequence. ‘I’m just saying it because I’m not the only one they’re asking. You taking off, they may take that the wrong way, give you a hard time about it. Just keep that in mind when you supply up.’
Ramon nodded.
‘They gonna catch him, you think?’ Ramon asked.
‘Oh yeah,’ Griego said. ‘They’ll have to. Bust a gut to do it, if they got to. Show the Enye that we’re a justice-loving people. Not that they care. Shit, fucking Enye lick each other hello. Probably lick the governor and get pissed off if he doesn’t lick them back. Anyway, he’ll make a big show out of the trial, do everything to prove how they got the right guy, then put him down like a fucking dog. You know, whoever it is they decide did it. No one else, there’s always Johnny Joe Cardenas. They’ve been looking for something to hang on him for years.’
‘Maybe it’ll be good that I get out of the city for a while, then,’ Ramon said. He tried a weak smile that felt as obvious as a confession. ‘You know. Just to avoid misunderstandings.’
‘Yeah,’ Griego said. ‘Besides, this is the big one right?’
‘Lucky strike,’ Ramon agreed.
When he started up the van, he could feel the difference. The lift tubes seemed to chime as he lifted up into the sky, all of Diegotown, with its unplanned maze of narrow streets and red-roofed buildings, below him. Elena was down there somewhere. The police too. The body of the European. Mikel Ibrahim and the gravity knife Ramon had handed to him, just handed to him. The murder weapon! And slumped in a bar or a basement opium den – or maybe breaking into someone’s house – Johnny Joe Cardenas, just waiting to hang.
And Lianna, maybe, somewhere in the good section by the port, who didn’t think of Ramon anymore and probably never would.
Ramon’s thoughts were interrupted by the pulsing hum of a shuttle rising up into the thin and distant air. Another load of metal or plastic or fuel or chitin for the welcoming platform. Ramon spun the van north, set it for proximity avoidance, and headed out alone, leaving all the hell and shit and sorrow of Diegotown behind.
CHAPTER THREE
It was a warm day in the Second June. He flew his beat-up old van north across the Fingerlands, the Green-glass country, the river marshes, the Océano Tétrico, heading deep into unknown territory. North of Fiddler’s Jump, the northernmost outpost of the metastasizing human presence on the planet, were thousands of hectares that no one had ever explored, or even thought of exploring, land so far only glimpsed from orbit during the first colony surveys.
The human colony on the planet of São Paulo was only a little more than twenty years old, and the majority of its towns were situated in the subtropic zone of the snaky eastern continent that stretched almost from pole to pole. The colonists were mostly from Brazil and Mexico, with a smattering from Jamaica, Barbados, Puerto Rico, and other Caribbean nations, and their natural inclination was to expand south, into the steamy lands near the equator – they were not effete norteamericanos, after all; they were used to such climates, they knew how to live with the heat, they knew how to farm the jungles, their skins did not sear in the sun. So they looked to the south, and tended to ignore the cold northern territories, perhaps because of an unvocalized common conviction – one anticipated centuries before by the first Spanish settlers in the New World of the Americas – that life was not worth living any place where there was even a remote possibility of snow.
Ramon, however, was part Yaqui, and had grown up in the rugged plateau country of northern Mexico. He liked the hills and white water, and he didn’t mind the cold. He also knew that the Sierra Hueso mountain chain in the northern hemisphere of São Paulo was a more likely place to find rich ore than the flatter country around the Hand or Nuevo Janeiro or Little Dog. The peaks around the Sierra Hueso had been piled up many millions of years before by a collision between continental plates squeezing an ocean out of existence between them; the former seabottom would have been pinched and pushed high into the air along the collision line, and it would be rich in copper and other metals.
Few if any of the muleback prospectors like himself had as yet bothered with the northern lands; pickings were still rich enough down south that the travel time seemed unnecessary to most people. The Sierra Hueso had been mapped from orbit, but no one Ramon knew had ever actually been there, and the territory was still so unexplored that the peaks of the range had not even been individually named. That meant that there were no human settlements within hundreds of miles, and no satellite to relay his network signals this far north; if he got into trouble he would be on his own. He would be one of the first to prospect there, but years would pass, the economic pressure in the south would get higher, and more people would come north, following the charts Ramon had made and sold, interpreting the data he rented out to the corporations and governing bodies. They would follow him like the native scorpion ants – first one, and then a handful, and then countless thousands of small insectoid bodies in the consuming river. Ramon was that first ant, the one driven to risk, to explore. He was a leader not because he chose to be, but because it was his nature to seek distance.
It was better that way, to be the first ant. Although he was reluctant to admit it, he’d finally come to realize that it was better if he worked someplace away from other prospectors. Away from other people. The bigger prospecting cooperatives might have better contracts, better equipment, but they also had more rum and more women. And between those two, Ramon knew, more fighting. He couldn’t trust his own volatile temper, never had been able to. It had held him back for years, the fighting, and the trouble it got him into. Now it had gotten him into trouble that might cost him his life, if they caught him. No, it was better this way – muleback prospecting, just himself and his van.
Besides, he was finding that he liked to be out on his own like this, on a clear day with São Paulo’s big soft sun blinking dimly back at him from rivers and lakes and leaves. He found that he was whistling tunelessly as the endless forests beneath the van slowly changed from blackwort and devilwood to the local conifer-equivalents: iceroot, creeping willow, hierba. At last, there was no one around to bother him. For the first time that day, his stomach had almost stopped hurting.
Almost.
With every hour that passed, every forest and lake that appeared, drew near, and slipped away, the thought of the European he’d killed grew in Ramon’s mind, his presence sharpening pixel by pixel, becoming more real, until he could almost, almost, see him sitting in the copilot’s seat, that stupid look of dumb surprise at his own mortality still stamped on his big pale face – and the more real his ghostly presence became, the deeper Ramon’s hatred for him grew.
He hadn’t hated him back at the El Rey; the man had just been another bastard looking for trouble and finding Ramon. It had happened before more times than he could recall. It was part of how things worked. He came to town, he drank, he and some rabid asshole found each other, and one of them walked away. Maybe it was Ramon, maybe it was the other guy. Rage, yes, rage had something to do with it, but not hatred. Hatred meant you knew a man, you cared about him. Rage lifted you up above everything – morality, fear, yourself. Hatred meant that someone had control over you.
This was the place that usually brought him peace, the outback, the remote territory, the unpeopled places. The tension that came with being around people loosened. In the city – Diegotown or Nuevo Janeiro or any place where too many people came together – Ramon had always felt the press of people against him. The voices just out of earshot, the laughter that might or might not have been directed at him, the impersonal stares of men and women, Elena’s lush body and her uncertain mind; they were why Ramon drank when he was in the city and stayed sober in the field. In the field there was no reason to drink.
But here, where that peace should have been, the European was with him. Ramon would look out into the limitless bowl of the sky, and his mind would turn back to that night at the El Rey, the sudden awed silence of the crowd. The blood pouring from the European’s mouth. His heels drumming against the ground. He checked his maps, and instead of letting his mind run freely across the fissures and plates of the planetary surface, he thought of where the police might go to search for him. He could not let go of what had happened, and the frustration of that was almost as enraging as the guilt itself.
But guilt was for weaklings and fools. Everything would be all right. He would spend his time in the field, communing with the stone and the sky, and when he returned to the city, the European would be last season’s news. Something half remembered and retold in a thousand different versions, none of them true. It was one little death among all the hundreds of millions – natural and otherwise – that happened every year throughout the known universe. The dead man’s absence would be like taking a finger out of water; it wouldn’t leave a hole.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/dzhordzh-r-r-martin-45006/hunter-s-run/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.