Greg Egan - The Eternal Flame

Carla pulled the knife from her tool belt and plunged it in beside the attachment stake; she felt the tip go right through to the rock. She tried to extend the cut by lateral force alone—to slice around the stake’s retaining head in a neat circle—but she didn’t get far before the fabric resisted the blade. She pulled the knife out and thrust again, making a second cut, trying not to panic at the delay. How much could the guards hear, in airlessness? Rock was a good conductor of sound, but the fabric would carry it much less efficiently.

She made a third cut, a fourth. Together, these arcs still only did half the job. She joined two of them with yet another thrust, then did the same to the opposite pair. Two almost-half-circles enclosed the stake. At the edge of her attention she saw another corner of the tent already falling. If the guards had been oblivious until now, that advantage had just disappeared. Carla stabbed at her unfinished cut, joined the two large arcs on one side, aimed again. But before she could strike, the remnant of fabric tore under the strain and she fell with her corner away from the rock.

It was a short drop; the tent itself was still attached at four points. She looked up, hoping to see inside, but all she could glimpse was some exposed rock: the prison’s ceiling, glowing softly with red moss-light.

She lurched down again, as Tamara’s corner broke loose on her right. Two large air tanks came sliding down the fabric, almost striking her as they tumbled into the void, but she still couldn’t see anyone. She began hoisting herself up the grappling rope, hoping for a better view, but then the tent separated from the mountain completely.

Carla pulled herself over the edge, then unhooked the grappling rope and advanced by grabbing folds of the tent’s rough fabric. She saw a guard fleeing, silhouetted against the stars—a man, by the size of him, his air jet carrying him away across the slope. So where was Carlo? Had he fallen from the other side? She could see a host of small objects floating around her, but the center of the tent was too dark to show anything, still shaded from starlight by the mountain above. She crawled into the blackness.

Carla found the sack by touch alone. It had been secured to the tent with cords. She felt gently for the shape of Carlo’s body within; he started, but then became still. She pressed her helmet against the top of the sack. “It’s me,” she said. “You’re safe.” She heard a faint, unintelligible reply, then realized that her helmet was touching, not its double, but an unprotected skull. Inside the sack, Carlo was naked.

That was their response to Macaria’s escape: they’d stripped their remaining prisoner of any capacity to survive in the void. They must have set up an improvised cooling system to keep him alive, spraying the sack with air—those tanks that had fallen past her. But now he had nothing.

“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right.” She unstrapped the air jet tank from her chest and cut a long, vertical slit down the center of her cooling bag. Then she put a hand on Carlo’s shoulder, waited until she was sure he would remain still, and slid the knife a short way into the sack. She slipped her hand in beside the blade—so that if he moved, his skin would meet her fingers before it could make contact with the knife—then she made an incision to match her own.

She put away the knife and reached in to lay a palm against his chest; his skin was warm, but he was not in danger yet. He took her hand and squeezed it for a moment, then released it. Carla put one arm around the sack, holding him against her as she cut away the cords threaded through the material of the tent. Then she bound him to her, aligning the air vents as well as she could.

The darkness had lifted; they’d fallen far enough for the stars to show around the mountain. Carla saw Tamara and Patrizia approaching, dragging themselves awkwardly over the limp fabric.

Tamara bumped helmets with Carla. “How is he?”

“No cooling bag, but we’re sharing. There was only one guard?”

“Yes.”

“So which way do we go back?”

Tamara looked down at Carlo; the setup wasn’t ideal for a long trip. “We’ll try the closest airlock first. I’ll send in an advance party to be sure it’s clear.”

The others joined them, and they linked up with safety ropes again—clustering together tightly instead of rebuilding the hexagon. As Tamara maneuvered them back toward the mountain, Carla watched the tent falling away, shrinking to a small dark speck.

At the airlock, Ada and Patrizia went through first. Carla stood on the entrance platform, Carlo’s body pressed against her. He had barely moved since they’d been joined, and she could feel the heat growing in his flesh. She wondered how many supporters the kidnappers’ faction could summon at short notice. She and her friends might yet find themselves outnumbered.

Patrizia emerged and swept her hands toward the ladder, like a host inviting guests into her home.

When the airlock was repressurized, Carla removed the cords she’d tied around the sack and eased Carlo down onto the floor. He lay still. She knelt, intending to cut him free completely, but then he shifted suddenly inside the sack and began working his way out through the slit.

When he’d thrown the sack aside, Carla took him in her arms and rested her head on his shoulder. She realized she was still wearing her helmet.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Absolutely.” He helped her remove the helmet.

“We should let the others through,” she said.

“There are more of you?” He could see Ada standing guard at the doorway, but he must not have realized the full size of the raiding party.

By the time everyone was back inside the Peerless , Carlo was moving normally, talking and joking with them, eager to be brought up to date.

“They never got Amanda,” Carla explained. “And the Council’s ordered a vote; in four days’ time, everyone will have a say on what happens with your research.”

As Carlo digested that news, Tamara added, “There’s not much chance of approval, though, after everyone saw your autopsy notes on the fourth arborine.”

“My what? What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t autopsy one of the arborines who gave birth? Carla found the report in your apartment.”

“No.” He turned to Carla, confused, but before he could speak Tamara chirped with delight.

“I knew they were forged!” she said. “I knew it!”

“We have to get the news out,” Patrizia urged Carla. “That’s going to change everything!”

“No one’s going to believe a retraction now,” Ada predicted gloomily. “They’ll just think it’s a strategy to sway the vote.”

Carla couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. “I forged the autopsy notes,” she said. “I just wanted the kidnappers…” She trailed off. Everyone here had risked their lives for the cause she’d tried to destroy. She couldn’t start offering them excuses.

It was Tamara who broke the silence. “People will understand why,” she said. “Write up something short and we can send it out right now. Your co is finally safe, now you can speak the truth. That’s not a strategy, it’s just being honest.”

Carla looked to Carlo. “It’s a good idea,” he said. “Let people know what happened.” If he was angry with her, he was hiding it.

As the group made their way down the corridor, Carla composed the message in her head. Some passersby recognized Carlo and Macaria and greeted them warmly. Others hurried past, casting looks of disdain.

At the relay station, Carla sat at the paper tape punch. As she began hammering the buttons, Patrizia said, “There’s a bulletin here, it just came in a chime ago.”