Kinder des Schicksals 4 (Xeelee 9): Resplendent

off his tiredness, he stared into the
sliver of sun on the horizon. Sol was so big and red it didn’t hurt
his eyes, even when he gazed right into it. The sun never moved, of
course, save for its slow rise as you walked towards it.
    The sky of Mars had changed, across a million years. Symat knew
that Mars’s sky had once had three morning stars, the inner planets.
But Venus and Mercury had long been eaten up by the sun’s swelling,
Earth wafted away, and Mars was the closest of the sun’s remaining
children.
    And that sun never shifted in the sky. These days Mars kept one
face turned constantly towards the sun, and one face away from it:
one Dayside, one Nightside, and a band of twilight between where the
last people lived.
    Something briefly eclipsed the sun. He stopped, blinking; his eyes
were dry and sore. He saw that he had passed through the shadow of a
spire.
    He walked on.
    Soon he entered a city. The buildings were tall and full of
sunlight, and bridges fine as spider web spanned the canal water. But
there were no people walking over those bridges, no flitters skimming
around the spires, and red dust lay scattered over the streets. It
was like walking through a museum, solemn and silent.
    One building bulged above his head, a ball of smooth, fossil-free
Martian sandstone skewered on a spire of diamond. Clinging to the
bank of the canal Symat gave it a wide berth: even after all this
time human instincts remained shaped by the heavier gravity of Earth,
where such an imbalanced structure would have been impossible.
    Time had made its mark. Right in the heart of the city one slender
bridge had collapsed. He could see its fallen stones in the water, a
line of white under the surface.
    Before he reached the ruined abutment on the canal bank he came to
a scattering of loose stones. He gathered together a dozen or so
cobbles and peered up resentfully at one of the more substantial
buildings. Its flat windows, like dead eyes, seemed to mock him. He
hefted a cobble, took aim, and hurled it. His first shot clattered
uselessly against polished stone. But his second shot took out a
window that smashed with a sparkling noise. The sound excited him,
and he hurled more stones. But the noise stopped every time he quit
throwing, reminding him firmly he was alone.
    Dispirited, he dumped the last of his cobbles and turned back to
the canal. On its bank, he sat with his feet dangling over blue
running water, water that ran endlessly from the world’s cold side to
the warm.
    Symat was very thirsty.
    The canal bank was a wall of stone that sloped smoothly down to
the water. It would be easy to slide down there, all the way into the
water. He could drink his fill, and wash off the dust of Mars. But
how would he get out? Glancing down the river he saw the ruins of
that bridge. The bank beneath the abutment was broken up; surely he
could find handholds.
    Without water he was going to have to turn back. It was a defining
moment in his odyssey.
    Without letting himself think about it he pulled off his boots,
pants and jacket, and slid down the smooth sloping wall. The water
was so cold it shocked him, and it was deep; he couldn’t feel the
bottom. When he came bobbing back up he was faintly alarmed that he
had already been washed some way towards the stump of the bridge. The
current must be stronger than it looked.
    With a couple of strokes he reached the canal wall. It was smooth,
but by pushing his hands against it he was able to resist the
current. Feeling safer, he ducked his head and scrubbed his hair
clean of dust, and took long deep draughts of the water. It was
chill, for it was meltwater from Nightside, and slightly sparkling;
Mars’s water was rich in carbon dioxide.
    Refreshed, he felt his energy return. There were more cities
strung out along the canal like pearls on a necklace. He could hide
out for days, and how that would make his parents worry.
    But he was starting to feel cold, deep inside. Time to get out. He
pushed off from the wall and let himself drift downstream. When he
reached the ruined abutment he grabbed at projecting stones. But they
were all slick with some green slime, and slid maliciously out of his
hands. Scared now, he shoved himself at the protruding stones. He
managed to halt his slide down the river, but only by clinging on
with all his limbs, like a spider, and the water still plucked at his
legs and torso.
    He was getting very cold, and tiring quickly, his muscles aching.
He had walked along