Dura wrenched her legs and arms through the Air, surging toward the remote tableau. “Get out of the way! Rauc, oh, get out of the way! It will kill you…”

But she could not overtake the ring. Rauc seemed to be waiting, almost patiently, for the ring to come to her. The Air scraped in Dura’s mouth and throat. She clawed through the Air, her concern for patient, harmless Rauc merging with layers of savage memory: her desolation at the loss of Esk and her father, her continual, helpless ache at the thought of Farr, so remote from her.

A ring was a mechanism for a vortex line to shed instability, to lose excess energy in a bid to regain lost equilibrium. But the ring itself was unstable. It quivered in the Air as it climbed, seeming almost fragile, and it was visibly shrinking: already it had lost perhaps half its original diameter and was reduced to no more than a mansheight in width. And its path curved in the Air, as its spin wrenched at the gas it passed through. For a moment Dura wondered wildly if the combined effects of the shrinkage and the deviation of its trajectory might take the ring away from Rauc. Perhaps if Rauc would just Wave a little way, away from the curve of the path…

No. It was too late. Rauc was still alive, fully breathing, aware; but it was as if she was already dead.

The ring struck Rauc in the midriff. She seemed to implode around the ribbon of vorticity. Her smock was torn open and dragged forward, exposing her back; Dura saw shards of bone protruding from broken flesh. One arm was twisted around and torn away, leaving a grisly, twisted stump of ligament and bone. Rauc’s head remained intact, but it seemed to have been pulped; her face had been stretched, grotesquely, the mouth ripping at its corners.

The vortex ring passed on through the wreckage of Rauc, shrinking rapidly.

Dura let herself drift to a stop in a clear volume of Air. She felt the tension leave her muscles; she curled slowly into a ball, as if she were seeking sleep. This shouldn’t happen, she thought. It’s not right. We don’t deserve such a fate. It’s — unnatural.

And now there was another name to add to the litany of the caravans.

On the horizon, something moved. An object, slicing through the Air; it was like a ray, with shining, golden wings which beat at the Air… but it was far larger than any ray, large enough to be seen even though it was almost lost in the mists of the horizon. Blue-white light stabbed from the belly of the great sky-ray into the bruised purple mass of the Quantum Sea below.

More memories, legends from the mouths and staring eyecups of intense, lean old men, returned to her. I know what that is. Could it he causing the Glitches, with those beams?

I know what it is. It’s a ship, from beyond the Star.

She let her head sink forward, against her knees.

Xeelee.

14

“Xeelee.”

Amidst the wreckage of ceiling-farm buildings, Hork cradled the head of his father in his lap. He looked up at Muub, despair and rage shining from his bearded face.

Muub studied the broken body of Hork, Chair of Parz Committee, determined to forget his own personal danger — exposed as he was to the mercurial anger of the younger Hork — and to view this shattered man as just another patient.

As soon as word of the latest Glitch reached Parz, Hork, fearing for his father’s life, had summoned Muub. Now, less than a day later, here they were at the experimental Crust farm.

The small medical staff maintained here had clearly been overwhelmed by the disaster. They had greeted Muub on his arrival with a bizarre mixture of relief and fear — eager to hand over responsibility for the injured Chair, and yet fearful of the consequences if they were judged to be negligent. Well, the staff here had clearly done their best, and Muub doubted that the attention Hork had received could have been bettered even within his own Common Good Hospital. But the medics’ work had been to no avail, Muub saw immediately. The large, delicate skull of the Committee Chair was clearly crushed.

A Guard, crossbow loaded, hovered over the body, watching Muub surreptitiously.

Hork lifted his face to Muub; Muub read bitterness, apprehension and determination in Hork’s round, tough features. He tried to put aside the interest shown by the Guard in his movements. Hork was a grieving son, he told himself. “Sir,” he said slowly. “He’s dead. I’m sorry. I…”

Hork’s eyecups seemed to deepen. “I can see that, damn you.” He glanced over his father’s crushed body, picking at the Chair’s fine robes.

“The staff here were afraid to tell you,” Muub said.

“Do they have reason to be?”

Muub tried to judge Hork’s mood. He was honest enough to admit to himself that he would have no compunction in delivering the hapless attendants here up to Hork’s wrath, if he thought it were necessary to save himself. But Hork, though clearly shocked, seemed rational. And in his heart he wasn’t a vindictive man. “No. They did everything they could.”

Hork ran a hand over his father’s thin, yellow hair. “Make sure you tell them I appreciate their work. See they understand they’re under no threat for their part in this… And see they get on with treating the rest of the injured here.”

“Of course.” There was plenty of work for the medics here. As the Air-chariot had hurtled beneath the devastated hinterland, Muub had caught shocking, vivid glimpses of smashed fields — of coolies and uprooted wheat-stems drifting alike in the placid Air — of shattered, exploded buildings. Air-pigs had nosed among drifting corpses, seeking food. He shuddered. “I may be forced to stay here myself, sir, after you’ve departed. There is urgent work to be done, all around this area, finding and treating the wounded before…”

“No.” Hork still stroked his father’s head, but his voice was brisk, businesslike. “I intend to stay here one day, to ensure my father’s affairs are in order. During that time you may do as you please here. But then I will return to Parz, and you must return with me.” He raised his face to the sky and stared around at the Crust, at the newly congealed vortex lines. “The devastation is not restricted just to this farm, or even this part of the Crust. Muub, damage was done in a broad annulus right around the Pole, in a great swathe cutting through much of Parz’s best hinterland. It’s all to do with the Star’s modes of vibration, I’m told.” He shook his head. “If it’s any consolation there must have been similar bands of destruction encompassing the Star at every latitude, all the way to the North Pole. The Star rang like a Corestuff Bell, one cheerful idiot told me… Now I have to ensure that the work of relief is coordinated as well as it can be — and to start to consider the consequences of so much damage to Parz’s bread-basket hinterland. And I need you with me, Muub; you have thousands of patients throughout the hinterland, not just the few dozen here. And I have another assignment in mind for you…”

“As you say.”

Still Hork’s eyes probed at the sky. “Xeelee,” he said again.

His mind full of images of destruction, Muub tried to focus on what the Chair-elect was saying… It seemed very important to Hork. And therefore, he thought wearily, it was important to Muub.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Who?”

“The commoners… the ordinary people, here in the ceiling-farm. The coolies and their supervisors. Even some of the medical staff, who should be educated enough to know better.” Hork’s face grimaced in a ghastly echo of a smile. “They all saw the beams in the sky, the ship from beyond the Crust. The reality of these visions seems unquestionable, Muub. And the commoners have only one explanation… that the Xeelee have returned to haunt us.” He looked down at the devastated head of his father. “To destroy us, apparently.”