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    Hanging Vines
    Hanging Vines
    Hanging Vines
    Ebook213 pages3 hours

    Hanging Vines

    By Sean Monaghan

    ()

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    About this ebook

    In a bizarre enclosed world, Alex Nightman flees Iddleston's thugs and mechanicals. All over a misunderstanding.
    Caught between the endless ceiling and the world's wide ocean, Nightman needs his wits and every trick he can muster to stay out of reach.
    Just the adventure for lovers of the worlds of Larry Niven, and Karl Shroeder.


    "Reminiscent of K.W. Jeter's Farewell Horizontal, only Monaghan's world is exactly horizontal"

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTriple V Publishing
    Release dateMay 3, 2018
    ISBN9781386723493
    Hanging Vines
    Author

    Sean Monaghan

    Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music. Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music.

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      Book preview

      Hanging Vines - Sean Monaghan

      Hanging Vines

      Copyright 2018 by Sean Monaghan

      All rights reserved

      Cover Art: © Ilya Shalkov | Dreamstime.com

      Published by Triple V Publishing

      Author web page

      www.seanmonaghan.com

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.

      This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

      This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

      Contents

      Cross Section

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty One

      Chapter Twenty Two

      Chapter Twenty Three

      Chapter Twenty Four

      Chapter Twenty Five

      Chapter Twenty Six

      Chapter Twenty Seven

      Chapter Twenty Eight

      Chapter Twenty Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty One

      Chapter Thirty Two

      About the author

      Other Books by Sean Monaghan

      Links

      Cross Section

      Chapter One

      Slipping through a pillar gap right at the ceiling, Alex Nightman slowed. The oxidized, pitted surfaces of the pillars flaked as he passed through. Flickering rust scales fluttered through the cavity to the endless water below.

      Then, the sounds of fish thrashing. Coming up from deeper, lured by the rust flakes, thinking they were insects alighting. Nightman’s forehead lamp’s beam glinted from the steely water’s surface.

      In this part of the structure the ceilings dipped low toward the water. The cavity smelled of old algae, as if pockets and pools of stagnant water lay caught against stone columns or walls.

      From farther off, perhaps a kilometer, came the sounds of his pursuers. The clanking of a mechanical ceiling crawler, and the buzz of a hefty boat. Twin-engined. The occasional shout, echoing from ceiling and water. Fading into the distance.

      He’d clambered for kilometers along the structure’s ceiling, trying to evade them. Not an easy task in the dark, with his damaged climbing kit. And trying to avoid panicking.

      Still, the darkness gave him cover. The structure’s ancient lights all shut off for night. Topside, apparently, there was a dome, stretched across some airless desert, with special receptors to gather light from some star–a ball of burning gas millions of miles away, if that could be believed–and transfer the energy into the structure. For light. For the old engines to clean the air.

      The pursuers had already gone by him. Some clever switching around pillars and well-placed shots from his counter-measures blunderbuss had sent the team off target.

      Soon they would give up and return to Qualda. It might just be that Nightman might never be able to return. Bad credit and gangs after him didn’t make for an easy return. The city did not forgive easily.

      Qualda sat on a huge platform mounted on pillars, right at the water’s surface. Girders and planks held the city in place.

      He loved the place. His friends and family were there. It would be tragic if he couldn’t return.

      Still. He could figure that out come morning.

      He’d covered probably around six kilometers in his flight from Qualda. Mostly on catwalks and beams. A few cables. A couple of leaps across gaps using his trapeze. Relying on the trapeze to not dump him in the water.

      With the trapeze-set’s air cannon he could fire a line out close to a hundred meters. Nine times out of ten it made a good zip line. Every so often the limpet end wouldn’t adhere and the whole thing would drop into the water. He’d have to reel it all back up and fire again.

      When he got a good line, he could hand-over-hand with the ratchets and cover ground in good time. Set up the sling, reel in the line and do the whole thing over again.

      Sometimes he used winches. Powerful little fist-sized motors, almost like miniature mechanicals. Fast, smart and able to transfer around limpets from rope set to rope set.

      Today, he didn’t have any winches. Too bad.

      Nightman shut off his lamp. He adjusted the trapeze, letting it spread out to form a sheet. Tendrils from the tips latched onto ceiling niches and crevices, holding tight.

      No catwalks in these parts. He depended on the trapeze to keep him above the water.

      Nightman slipped into the trapeze–now a hammock–and stretched out.

      The hammock creaked as it adjusted to his shape, and lifted support around his back. An old unit–the best he could afford, secondhand–but better than trying to use rope slings or going handheld.

      His canvas-methread supply bag, with drinking water, snacks and jacket and other spare clothing bumped his feet. Tied into the hammock too. With the blunderbuss.

      He felt secure. Well hidden.

      Stretching out in the darkness, he slipped two things from his pocket. The first, a little blueberry muffin protein tab, he stuck in his mouth. The tender delicious sweetness dissolved in his mouth, immediately making him feel more energized.

      The second, his dialin lens, he placed over his left eye. The two centimeter thick disk spread out, adjusting to fit around his eye socket. The device wound out its tendril ear mic, settling the tip into his ear. It tickled for a moment.

      The thin second lens flipped out over his right eye to create the projection depth.

      Data scrolled up across Nightman’s vision, as if hanging in the space above his face. Stock prices, water levels, temperature gradients, structural integrity, contacts, assets, latest news, latest gossip.

      Reaching his left hand up, he touched the ceiling. Important to know the distance so that he didn’t make a grab for something in the virtual space and smack his knuckles against the steel. The hammock didn’t leave much gap.

      Nightman listened again to the sounds of the world. The drip of water from somewhere nearby. The fish had settled down. Moved on to some other, genuine, source of nutrition.

      The calls and clanks from his pursuers continued to diminish.

      With a couple of pokes and prods into the display, Nightman brought up his mother’s contact. A pinch at the details and the call went through.

      It took a few chimes before she answered. Her aging bones ached from the latest round of knee operations. She didn’t get around the way she once had.

      The image of her in her little backwater apartment flickered into view. Her ancient stag trophy on the beige wall, narrow white-framed window looking out onto the blank-faced alley wall, threadbare sofa with old Slaccathe rug on the floor. Probably the most expensive thing she owned.

      Alex? she said, voice shrill in his ear.

      Hey Mum, he said, sotto voce. The lens would pick up his words and amplify them through the signal. Even though they were far off now, he didn’t want the people out in the boat and mechanical to hear him.

      Where are you? she said. Did you call your girlfriend yet? I heard there was an altercation. Was that you? They showed footage on the lens. It looked like you. You can’t go doing that you know. You have responsibilities now. You’re not eighteen anymore.

      Yeah. How’s your knee Mum?

      Ah, they want me back Monday. Some kind of additional surgery required. If you ask me it means some kind of additional fee.

      Maybe they just want for you to get around more easily. Nightman smiled.

      Yes, yes. Was that you?

      Mum, maybe it was me. I don’t know what you mean exactly.

      Look.

      The image of her apartment flickered away, replaced by a scratchy newsfeed. Some of the sections had the dull shimmer of artificial cameras.

      A dark bar. Tall tables in the center, people in overalls drinking from hefty glass tankards. Booths around the sides. The long bar itself with multiple silvery spigots, each bearing the logo of the company that produced the particular poison.

      Nightman knew the place. Damon’s Demon Hall. Even farther backwater than his mother’s place.

      Watching the images, he could just about smell the beery crush of the place, hear that raucous buzz of over-enthusiastic conversations.

      And he knew what came next.

      There. In the back booth. Himself.

      He looked thinner than he felt. Always the way with these kinds of recordings.

      Nightman waited. He knew exactly how this played out.

      Across from him sat Sally Ringström. Twenty three years old, degree in lag-tech, starting up her own company to deliver protein and carbo synthesizers to foodhalls. Dark haired, she wore black, with a single white button at her clavicle.

      Very alluring. He’d thought that back then, too, when the recording had been made.

      But all business. Discussing how Nightman could lease her some of his low-clearance algae farm tracts out toward Silbilene. He owned six acres of over-water continuous conveyors. Inherited from his father. Actually, left in trust until Nightman reached twenty-one years old.

      All through his teens, Nightman had known that farming lay in his future. He didn’t know whether to thank or curse his father for that.

      I don’t have any cash, Sally had said.

      That’s fine. We can work something out. On the table they had tapas and beer. Good accompaniment for a meeting. Maybe next time they could have pasta and wine. Even lobster and wine. A good red.

      Sally drummed her fingers on the table. A percentage of my company.

      Nightman had shrugged and seen the guys come in.

      Four of them. Last time it had been two. Apparently Diego still did not buy Nightman’s pleas of a misunderstanding.

      Lying in his hammock, he took a breath. So all this lay splayed out on the news for all to see. Forty thousand something people in Qualda. Anyone from any of the other cities could see it too. Silbilene had seven thousand, Fortitude close to a hundred thousand.

      Even within this sphere of the dome structure more than two million people lived. Maybe it would even make it out to other domes.

      Not a good look for someone struggling to convince creditors to help keep his business afloat. Figuratively.

      The four of them stood over two meters tall. Muscle in places no one should have muscle. Two male, two female.

      Nightman imagining how hard their piledriver punches would hit.

      If he wanted now, he could just wave away the feed. Return to his call with his mother.

      But he couldn’t stop watching.

      On the feed he stood from the table. Excused himself. Told Sally to call him.

      Muscle number one grabbed Nightman’s shoulder. He’d given his best winning smile. Tried to explain.

      Explain this.

      Piledriver.

      Into the gut.

      On the feed, Nightman collapsed. In his hammock he twitched, half-feeling the blow again.

      But he’d turned with it. On the floor he rolled. Kicked out.

      Muscle number one stumbled back. Collided with muscle number two.

      It’s a misunderstanding! Nightman had shouted.

      Muscle number three leapt over the other two. Scrabbled at Nightman.

      Another duck. A push.

      The woman slammed into the table. Tapas and beer flew.

      Sorry Sally, Nightman had yelled.

      And he’d fled through Damon’s Demon Hall. Out the back door.

      Lost from the news.

      A reporter came up on the feed. She described some details, a clear image of Nightman’s stubbled face over her left shoulder.

      His mother came back. Satisfied? she said.

      I’m sorry Mum. He could imagine her milking her friends for sympathy. I don’t know where I went wrong with that boy.

      She’d never wanted the farm. Not to run for herself. But she had wanted Nightman to have the choice. So she’d let it run on after Nightman’s father’s death, letting the trust manage the farm, rather than selling it off.

      It had been run on contract until Nightman himself took over. His mother always far too busy with her own work. Head physician at the waterborne-disease clinic. She’d worked with afflicted people from Qualda and surrounding locales.

      Until her own affliction slowed her down. Arm wastage. Her right arm withered and crooked. It made it impossible to treat people, but she still consulted.

      Nightman realized that the news feed didn’t really show anything. More like just an altercation at the bar. No background on why the muscle had been there.

      It looks bad because you ran off, his mother

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