I knew, though. I had done the reading and scoped out the terrain during our approach. According to the guidebooks, all the Objects retained attenuated atmospheres comprised mostly of nitrogen. These were far too thin to sustain human life. However, each and every visitor was supplied with their own personal air supply, tailored to the biological needs of their specific species. Again, nobody really knew how or why, but it was an endearing and hospitable quirk. Those of us who were still alive were now each encased in invisible, human-shaped bubbles of air, held in place and kept fresh by machinery presumably buried deep within the stone depths of the Brain. I had heard many theories to explain this accommodation on the behalf of these ancient monuments—that it was a service designed to welcome pilgrims; that it facilitated inter-species interaction; that the Objects themselves had been created by a benevolent deity of some description—but none of those explanations had convinced me and, at that precise moment, I cared little for any of them, simply being profoundly grateful that, upon emerging from the ship, I had not suffocated.

Biting down hard against the pain in my arm, I crawled over to a young woman sprawled on the smooth canyon floor a few metres from where I had fallen. She looked to be somewhere in her late teens or early twenties, with glistening black hair and a bright summer dress festooned with red and yellow butterflies. A solid, wardrobe-sized hunk of machinery had crushed her chest and pelvis. She couldn’t move and her eyes were wild with panic. Her breaths came in short, agonised sips. Her eyes begged for salvation and deliverance, but all I could offer in that dark, lugubrious chasm was my companionship. Not knowing what else to do, I held her hand and stroked her hair, and tried to comfort her as she passed.

Seventeen: Sal Konstanz

SEVENTEEN

SAL KONSTANZ