Filaria - Brent Hayward [42]
Approximately five hours, estimated Mereziah, after abandoning his station, the pod that he clung to shuddered to a complete and utter halt.
Silence.
Everything around remained as it always had.
“A good ride,” he said to no one, and he nodded, trying hard to hold onto his hope. “A good, long ride . . .”
Glimmers of slick pseudopods groped the shaft wall for purchase: the track was actually germinating. Budding. If he were to continue up, he had no choice but to completely re-couple the pod.
As he searched the curved wall for a more stable track, a glare of light from what must have been a great mass of parasites directly opposite him illuminated the vicinity in harsh contrast —
“Ahh!” Mereziah closed his watering eyes, knuckling them with one hand. But what had he seen on the other side in that split second? A huge pod? Fleetingly, he’d been able to view across the gulf of the shaft, and it sure had looked like a pod there, the largest pod he had ever seen, so vast it defied imagination as it hung, inert, from an entire group of parallel tracks. If Mereziah had not been hanging by his belt straps he might have dropped to his death from surprise.
Father had long ago told him and his brother about lift pods of huge size, but Mereziah had not believed the tales, not even as a young child; in his experience, he’d only ever seen singles, doubles, the occasional family-size.
But this one — if what he’d seen had indeed been a pod — could have carried a dozen or more.
He was unable to conceive of a monster such as this in motion, and decided that what he thought he’d seen had to be sort of a nonfunctioning anomaly, grown over the centuries, a mutated tumour in the wall of the shaft.
But supposing a huge pod could exist, could actually carry people, move up and down . . . Several full-time attendants would be needed merely to maintain its course, let alone help it out should it become stuck — which would surely happen almost instantly. What were the odds of tracks remaining aligned for any functional distance? Darkness had fully closed back in on him; the red light atop the single pod was extinguished. Surely, with its mad passenger inside, the pod he rode under could be left for an hour or two while he made his way around the shaft to investigate the monstrosity on the far side. He would return when he was done, re-couple the stalled pod, and continue his ascent. Simple. A short detour, maybe a wonder to behold.
Mereziah unbuckled himself, decided not even to tell the passenger he would be temporarily abandoned, and without hesitation began the trip around the slow curvature of the shaft. Webbing here was certainly similar to that which strung his own station, track to track, and in loops between, dense and familiar enough for his footing and hand placements to be secure. Against the calluses on his palms and feet, the strands were like old friends, but eyes of the dead looked up at him from that dark and distant bottom, preparing to judge him and the rash move he’d made. He should not be here, they implied. This station was not his. Mereziah wanted to shout out justifications for his actions but motives seemed selfish and petty. His mother’s eyes watched him on this frivolous escapade. He would explain to her that he’d had no choice.
Before long, Mereziah could hardly see the slim pod he’d left behind. He was calm once more. Squinting over his shoulder, he fancied he could make out the dimmest sliver of yellow, leaking from the window — which remained in the open position — and he wondered if the passenger could see him out here or if the madman even knew or cared that he had once again been left alone. Did the traveller, for that matter, even know he’d been accompanied?
In truth, Mereziah suspected that the man knew more than he let on.
Half an hour or so later, miniature under the looming bulk — which remained quite real — Mereziah was somewhat out of breath but otherwise feeling good and clear-headed. Intermittent glimmers of phosphorescence allowed him to confirm that the pod