Raft

His eyes roamed around the red sky, restless. The falling stars were an array of pinpoints dwindling into the far distance; the depths of the Nebula, far below him, were a sink of murky crimson. Was this nostalgic disregard for the young of today just a symptom of ageing…? Or had people truly changed?

Well, there was no doubt that the world had changed around him. The crisp blue skies, the rich breezes of his youth were memories now; the very air was turning into a smoky sludge, and the minds of men seemed to be turning sour with it.

And one thing was for sure. His trees didn't like this gloom.

He sighed, trying to snap out of his introspection. The stars kept falling no matter what the color of the sky. Life went on, and he had work to do.

Tiny vibrations played over the soles of his bare feet, telling him that the tree was almost stable now, hovering at the lip of the star kernel's gravity well. Gover moved silently among the fire bowls. Damn it, the lad could do the job well when he was forced to. That was the most a

Gover nodded without looking at him.

Pallis dropped through the foliage, his thoughts turning to the difficult negotiations ahead.

It was the end of Rees's work shift. Wearily he hauled himself through the foundry door.

Cooler air dried the sweat from his brow. He pulled himself along the ropes and roofs towards his cabin, inspecting his hands and arms with some interest. When one of the older workers had dropped a ladle of iron, Rees had narrowly dodged a hail of molten metal; tiny droplets had drifted into his flesh, sizzling out little craters which—

A huge shadow flapped across the Belt. Air washed over his back. He looked up; and a feeling of astonishing cold settled at the base of his skull,

The tree was magnificent against the crimson sky. Its dozen radial branches and their veil of leaves turned with a calm possession; the trunk was like a mighty wooden skull which glared around at the ocean of air.

This was it. His opportunity to escape from the Belt…

The supply trees were the only known means of traveling from Belt to Raft, and so after his moment of decision following the foundry implosion Rees had resolved to stow away on the next tree to visit the Belt. He had begun to hoard food, wrapping dried meat in bundles of cloth, filling cloth globes with water—

Sometimes, during his sleep shifts, he had lain awake staring at his makeshift preparations and a thin sweat had covered his brow as he wondered if he would have the courage to take the decisive step.

Well, the moment had come. Staring at the magnificent tree he probed at his emotions: he knew he was no hero, and he had half-expected fear to encase him like a net of ropes. But there was no fear. Even the nagging pain in his hands subsided. There was only elation; the future was an empty sky, within which his hopes would surely find room.

He hurried to his cabin and collected his bundle of supplies, which was already lashed together; then he climbed to the outer wail of his cabin.

A rope had uncoiled from the tree trunk and lay across the fifty yards to the Belt, brushing against the orbiting cabins. A man came shimmering confidently down the rope; he was scarred, old and muscular, almost a piece of the tree himself. Ignoring the watching Rees the man dropped without hesitation across empty air to a cabin and began to make his way around the Beit.

Rees clung to his cabin by one hand. The rotation of the Belt carried the cabin steadily towards the tree's dangling rope; when it was a yard from him he grabbed at it and swarmed without hesitation off the Belt.

As always at shift change the Quartermaster's was crowded. Pallis waited outside, watching the Belt's pipes and boxy cabins roll around the star kernel. At length Sheen emerged bearing two drink globes.

They drifted to the relative privacy of a long stretch of piping and silently raised their globes. Their eyes met briefly. Pallis looked away in some confusion — then felt embarrassed at that in turn.

To the Bones with it. The past was gone.

He sucked at the liquor, trying not to grimace. "I think this stuff's improving," he said at last.

Her eyebrows arched slightly. "I'm sorry we can't do better. No doubt your tastes are a little more refined."

He felt a sigh escape from his throat. "Damn it, Sheen, let's not fence. Yes, the Raft has got a liquor machine. Yes, what comes out of it is a damn sight finer than this recycled piss. And everyone knows it. But this stuff really is a little better than it was. All right? Now, can we get on with our business?"

She shrugged, indifferent, and sipped her drink. He studied the way the diffuse light caught in her hair, and his attraction to her once more pulled at him. Damn it, he had to grow out of this. It must be five thousand shifts since the time they'd slept together, their limbs tangling in her sleeping net as the Belt rolled silently around its star…

It had been a one-off, two tired people falling together. Now, damn it to hell, it only got in the way of business. In fact he suspected the miners used her as their negotiating front with him knowing the effect she had on him. This was a tough game. And it was getting tougher…

He tried to concentrate on what she was saying. "… So we're down on production. We can't fulfil the shipment. Gord says it will take another fifty shifts before that foundry is operational again. And that's the way it is." She fell silent and stared at him defiantly.

His eyes slid from her face and tracked reluctantly around the Belt. The ruined foundry was a scorched, crumpled wound in the chain of cabins. Briefly he allowed himself to imagine the scene in there during the accident — the walls bellying in, the ladles spilling molten iron—

He shuddered.

"I'm sorry, Sheen," he said slowly. "I truly am. But—"

"But you're not going to leave us the full fee," she said sourly.

"Damn it, I don't make the rules. I've a treeful of supplies up there; I'm ready to give you what I get back in iron, at the agreed exchange rate."

She hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes fixed on her drink. "Pallis, I hate to beg. You've no idea how much I hate to beg. But we need those supplies. We've got sewage coming out of our spigots; we've got sick and dying—"

He gulped down the last of his drink. "Leave it, Sheen," he said, more harshly than he'd intended.

She raised her head and fixed him with eyes reduced to slits. "You need our metal, Raft man. Don't forget that."

He took a deep breath. "Sheen, we've another source. You know that. The early Crew found two star kernels in neat circular orbits around the Core—"

She laughed quietly. "And you know the other mine isn't producing any more. Is it, Pallis? We don't know what happened to it, yet, but we've picked up that much. So let's not play games."

Shame rose like a bubble inside him; he felt his face redden and he imagined his scars emerging as a livid net. So they knew. At least, he reflected gloomily, at least we evacuated the Nebula's only other mine when that star fell too close. At least we were honorable enough for that. Although not honorable enough to avoid lying about all that pain in order to keep our advantage over these people—

"Sheen, we're getting nowhere. I'm just doing my job, and this is out of iny control." He handed back his drink globe. "You have a shift to decide whether to accept my terms. Then I leave regardless. And — look, Sheen, just remember something. We can recycle our iron a hell of a lot easier than you can recycle your food and water."

She studied him dispassionately. "I hope they suck on your bones, Raft man."