David Gunn - Death's head

“Keep up with me,” I tell Anton and Debro, and somehow that means I inherit the girl and Rat Face, whose name turns out to be Phibs. He owns a printing press on a planet so primitive, it isn’t even networked. He claims to have produced samizdat pamphlets to order, for money. And doesn’t see why he should end up on Paradise.

“You’re lucky,” I say.

He glares at me.

“Do you have posh contacts, like Debro or Anton?” I ask him. “No, you’re here because the authorities couldn’t be arsed to kill you. And the reason they couldn’t be bothered is you were in it for the money. Being a moneygrubbing little fuck saved your life.”

“You know,” Phibs says, “you’re not as thick as you look.”

I punch him, but not very hard.

The tunnel gets colder and narrower as we push on into the gloom. Strange luminescent strings hang from the ceiling. They look as if they’re fungal, although Debro’s trying to remember if fungus can work at this temperature. She’s also shivering. Probably because she’s given her coat to the girl who walks behind us. Anton keeps darting back to check if she’s okay, but his interest seems fatherly.

“Here,” I say, giving Debro my own coat.

She glances at Anton, who smiles.

“He’s only being kind,” Anton says.

Debro looks doubtful. “I should probably tell you,” she says. “I’ve been celibate for fifteen years.”

So loud is my laughter that a boy sticks his head through one of those holes in the tunnel wall to see what the noise is about. He takes one look into my face and disappears.

“What?” demands Debro, sounding almost offended.

“It would be like fucking my sister,” I tell her. “And you need to meet my sister to know how bloody scary an idea that would be. She’s more my type…” My nod takes in the girl, all long black hair and features so fine she looks like she’d crumple in the first decent wind.

“She’s everyone’s type,” says Anton, earning himself a glare from Debro.

“I mean it,” he says. “She’s going to be trouble.”

Debro looks at him.

“You saw the way Ladro looked at her. You’ve seen Sven’s interest. There isn’t a man in this group who hasn’t checked her out with his eyes. It’s going to get worse.”

“What do you suggest we do?” asks Debro.

“I don’t know,” Anton says. “What can we do?”

“Trade her,” I suggest. “Now, while her value’s high.”

Debro shakes her head. “We…Are…Not…Trading…Anybody.” She is so upset she can barely bring herself to look in my direction.

“And if people die?”

She does face me then.

I sigh, think about what words I want to use.

Anton and Debro have had people listen to them for their entire lives. If anyone ever listened to me it was because I had stripes on my arm, and when those went I fell back on silence.

“People will die trying to protect her,” I say. “And those left will resent her and want what they’re protecting her from. I’ve seen it happen.”

“All the same.” Anton shrugs. “We can’t just give her up.”

“We can get food,” I tell him. “Maybe blankets and medicines.”

“No,” Debro says. “She stays.”

“Why?”

“Because,” says Debro. “That’s the right thing.”

I think about Debro’s words as we wander deeper into the tunnel. The rough-cut holes in the walls are becoming more frequent, the light fungus rarer. The temperature drops a degree or so every few hundred paces, and already our breath hangs around our faces like smoke. We have no food, few possessions, and little enough to keep us warm.

In the legion you protect your own. Debro’s demand is a version of that, but she’s widened the group to include everyone in need of help, including people she’s only just met.

It is a really dumb idea. I just can’t work out how to tell her so.

As it gets colder the group behind us become quieter. People are beginning to wonder how much worse the situation can become. They have no idea. Although when the tunnel does change, the change is so spectacular that even Phibs forgets to be miserable. The ceramic wall just stops and we step into a tube of frozen white gauze, with a thousand translucent ribs where bracing struts should be. A primitive backbone skims into the darkness above our heads.

“Impossible,” says Debro.

Anton shakes his head. “It’s here,” he says, touching his hand to one of the frozen ribs and wincing, as he has to peel it free.

“So Paradise does have wildlife,” I say.

“It would seem so.” Anton’s voice is matter-of-fact, and he begins to walk on before the rest of us have finished staring. He’s a strange man, and it’s hard to tell if he likes Debro or hates her.

“What is it?” Debro asks.

“It’s a worm.”

“Worms don’t have ribs.”

I take a look around us. “This one does,” I tell her.

A hundred, maybe two hundred paces beyond the beginning of the worm a man in a side tunnel has a fire burning. The smoke is sour, and whatever he’s cooking smells rancid. I’m interested in what he’s found to burn; Anton is more interested in his source of food.

“Hi,” says Anton, ducking his head to fit into the burrow. “I’m new here.”

Hard eyes stare at him, and then flick to where I stand in the doorway. The man is bearded, dressed in a dozen different layers of rags, and his hand starts moving toward his boot the moment Anton enters his world. A knife, I guess. Probably homemade and crude, like his shelter.

He’s a loner. We’ve all seen them before.

“No,” Anton says, shaking his head. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to know where you found the food.”

The old-timer’s grin shows broken teeth.

“Well?” My patience is not up to Anton’s standards.

“Wall,” the man says before going back to prodding his fire. Most of the ashes seem mixed with bone. I have my answer.

“We eat the worm,” I tell Debro.

Phibs looks sick.

“I’m serious…It’s frozen and vast. There’s got to be some kind of goodness in the bones, and the flesh can probably be dried for use later.” The girl is looking at me with horror. Debro’s expression isn’t much better. So I leave them to tell the others and push ahead. When I can go no farther and the worm gives way to a wall of sheer ice, I know we’ve arrived.

“We’re going to die,” announces Phibs when he catches up with me. He’s looking at our new quarters, which used to be somebody’s old quarters until that person obviously moved up in the world. A cave has been hacked directly into the ice, and a mound of frozen shit and yellow ice decorate one corner. All you can say for the arrangement is that at least the subzero temperatures mean the shit doesn’t smell.

A ragged piece of canvas is bundled into one corner. It’s ripped and filthy, but it’s better than nothing, and some of the men are wearing more than one layer of clothes. At least one of the older women has a cloak. Debro herself is wearing my jacket.

“I need that back,” I tell her.

Beside me, Anton bridles.

Phibs already understands. “We must make a doorway,” he says. “Keep in what heat we can, right?”

Debro slides herself out of my jacket, and I notice the expensive black suit beneath. No one has stolen Debro’s clothes anywhere up the line. I find that interesting in itself.

“And your jacket,” I tell another woman.

She glares at me.

“And yours.”

The man next to her clutches his arms across the front of his jacket. “Or what?” he demands.

“I’ll break your skull against the wall and take it anyway.”