Omphalos

by Harper J. Cole

  Perhaps it was the innocent nature of Gypsy that made this death hit her so much harder than any other. Perhaps it was the sudden nature of the loss, or the knowledge that she’d been right there and couldn’t do a thing to prevent it.

  Or maybe it was the futility. No heroic sacrifice, nothing gained. A life snuffed out without purpose.

  Annie shook her head. Never mind how it ended. It’s what came before that counts. I ain’t gonna forget you, Gypsy Moth. Gonna tell the world who you were once we get back.

  So, guess my next job’s to make sure we do get back. Let’s get back to work.

  First things first, let’s give that KSD another look over. South dome blew when we jumped here. Pretty sure we’ve got enough left for two more goes, but let’s see if I can’t figure out a way to bump that up to three…

  Annie was well into her plans before realising that she hadn’t moved. Her ubiquitous get-up-and-go had deserted her.

  “Come on,” she scolded herself, “Up and at ‘em!” But a growing sickness in her stomach was the only response. Hunter had ordered her to take some time by herself while Gypsy’s remains were recovered, but Annie hadn’t realised how badly she needed it. There was going to be no quick bouncing back this time, no rapid return to her usual headstrong self. Having realised that, there seemed little to do but sit there and think. And feel.

  Presently, her wristband beeped; she tapped it without looking. “Yeah?”

  “Annie.” It was Hunter’s voice. “We’ve been going over the wreckage. I thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

  “Go on,” Annie replied, bracing herself as best she could.

  “There are no human remains aboard. No remains of any sort, actually.”

  Hope. She stifled it quickly, terrified it might prove false. “Wh- what does that mean? They were thrown clear?”

  “No, we’ve checked the whole area. There was no-one on board the jet.”

  Annie’s head was swirling, her voice a whisper when she spoke. She didn’t mind. “Say it. Please.”

  Hunter understood.

  “Gypsy may still be in danger. But she’s alive.”

  IV

  Solitude vivifies, isolation kills.

  – Joseph Roux

  Gypsy lay in the centre of a labyrinth, and hoped to stay there.

  She was back to what she’d been doing a month ago – hiding from the waking world. Perhaps she had better reason this time, as her adversaries were external and tangible. Even in her dream-state, she was aware that something bad had happened. What it was, she could not say, but she knew the voices that rumbled in the distance did not belong to her friends.

  It’s not safe out there…

  Her dreams themselves were amorphous and inconsistent. The maze that surrounded her was sometimes a dense forest, sometimes an inky cloud. In either case, she was alone, and thought it best to stay that way.

  A hand touched her head, and the armour of sleep lost a protective layer. Was someone calling her name? She wouldn’t answer. In her mind, she burrowed deeper.

  Footsteps on stone, leading away. She was in a bed with thick covers, and it was cold. Gypsy lay motionless, trying to ignore this real-world information, but more followed. There was a hum of machinery, much louder than she was used to on the Bona Dea. A sweet smell tickled her nostrils. On her earlobe she felt the pressure of tiny insect feet.

  Fine, I’m awake. But I don’t need to move. If I pretend I’m still asleep maybe they won’t hurt me.

  They. Who might they be? Gypsy could remember the gangly Matan slugging Annie – Annie! Is she still alive? She must be! – but what happened next was a blur. She had no idea how long she’d been out cold. Was this even still Monosade? Gypsy puzzled over the matter, her thoughts jumbled and confused.

  Why take me and not Annie? Or did they take her? No, the man said Hunter wanted to speak with me. It must’ve been a trick to lure me away from her. What do they want? I couldn’t explain how our tech works. A hostage or … a pet, a toy? Do they want me for something sexual? One side of her face scrunched up in disgust. That couldn’t be it, Matan women look totally different to us. They would’ve evolved to find stocky, hairy women attractive. Wanting to do … that with me would be like fancying an ape or something. Maybe I’m not a prisoner anyway. It could be they’ll let me go if I ask nicely. Or if I just lie here and do nothing. Oh, but what if they beat me or interrogate me? Will there be anything here for me to eat? What if, what if…

  WHAT IF THERE’S NO TOILET?

  “No, no…” she mumbled. “Don’t think about it.” But the repulsive concept was embedded in her mind, and the only way to reassure herself was to open her eyes.

  She did. Just slits at first, waiting for her vision to clear. It took a much longer time than usual, but eventually she was able to confirm that she was alone in her cell.

  For cell it was; the barred gate covering the entranceway left no doubt. It was a stone room, roughly oblong and a little bigger than her quarters on the Bona Dea. An uncovered bulb hung from above her, providing sufficient illumination to reveal a wooden table with two chairs, a computer or television screen set into the wall above her head and a camera placed unobtrusively near the ceiling. Perhaps this last had already informed her captors that she was awake, but if so then the knowledge didn’t spur them into action.

  No guards were visible. The thought flashed through Gypsy’s mind that she had been marooned on a deserted planet, and her stomach tingled in fear. Then she noticed an alcove at the far end of the room, and her priorities reasserted themselves. She clambered groggily out of bed and got to her feet, swaying slightly and nursing her temples.

  Dizzy. Why am I dizzy? Was I drugged? Oh, and I haven’t taken my pills. Gypsy felt a familiar buzzing in her head, a sort of light vibration. This always happened when she missed taking her dose of serotonin regulators for a day. A headache would follow if she didn’t get some pills soon, which seemed unlikely.

  There was something else too; it took her a few moments to identify it. The gravity was noticeably lower than Earth-standard. Seventy percent? Maybe eighty? She had no true frame of reference, the other planets she’d visited all being close enough to normal that one hardly noticed the difference. Gypsy felt in no danger of taking flight as she made her way over to the alcove, but there was a disorientating springiness to her steps, and she had to grab at the alcove entrance to steady herself.

  Thankfully, the alcove proved to contain a bathroom, albeit a small one, with basin, bath and toilet all crammed in together. There was no door, but at least the utilities within seemed to be out of camera view.

  The toilet itself was slightly wider than a human one, but seemed to follow the same principles. The flush mechanism responded satisfactorily when she gave it an experimental turn.

  Okay. The facilities are in order. That’s a positive, Gypsy decided. She clenched her fists in triumph, remembering her mother once telling her that doing so would release endorphins and make her feel better. She even threw in a half-hearted “Yessss…” for good measure.

  It worked, for about three seconds. Unfortunately, the elimination of one concern merely served to usher the next one to the front of the queue. The lower gravity plainly showed that she was no longer on Monosade; this must be Anasade, then. She’d been taken to the stronghold of the enemy.

  I’m lost. There’s not another human on this planet; I bet the others have no idea where I am. Probably given me up for dead already. They’ll fly back to Earth, I’ll be forgotten, I’ll live out my life on an alien world. Alone.

  I can’t cope alone.

  Gypsy’s eyes moistened, but the release of tears would be denied her for now. Footsteps echoed beyond her cell door.

  Moving instinctively, she crossed to the bed. Her plan was to dive beneath the sheets, as though woollen blankets could somehow form an impassable barrier and keep her jailors out. This absurd belief was not put to the test, though – a number of beetle-like insects
with grey, chitinous backs had taken up residence where she’d been lying. Gypsy was reduced to sitting on the side of the bed and pulling a couple of blankets up over her legs as her cell door opened and a quartet of Anasadans trooped inside.

  Three were clad in grey and one in black. Gypsy didn’t take in any further details; she looked down at her feet, ignoring the newcomers and forlornly hoping they would leave. It clicked for the first time that she was bare-footed, and this upset her further – her slippers and socks must still be on Monosade.

  My outfits should be kept together. Everything’s wrong…

  After regarding her in silence for a moment, her black-clad visitor stepped forward, hand held out palm downward in greeting. He proceeded to give a lengthy speech in Matan. Gypsy struggled with the spoken side of that language at the best of times; distressed as she was, she recognised little but her own name.

  She said nothing. The man, who she could only guess to be in charge, repeated his last few words, sounding rather angry. Gypsy’s fear levels went up a notch.

  “Erm…” she croaked, her throat suddenly very dry. “Ko sasa … perenu?” She was fairly confident that the first two words meant ‘I no’, and hoped that the third was ‘understand’. Come to think of it, didn’t perenu mean ‘think’? This wasn’t working. Gypsy waved a hand by her ear and shrugged in a way she hoped was expressive.

  The lead Anasadan began to confer with his colleagues, gesturing at Gypsy occasionally. She bit her lip and fiddled absently with her bra strap, awaiting her fate. There was a pimple on her shoulder which she set about bursting, grateful for the familiar activity.

  Okay, this is fine. I can’t speak their language, so they’ll have to let me go. Even if I understand, I’ll just play dumb. I’m good at that.

  Oh wait, this is where I’m only supposed to say my name rank and serial number, isn’t it? I’ll do that.

  No, maybe just saying nothing is best.

  God, I want to go home. Why won’t they let me go home?

  She sneaked a glance upwards. The Matans were all wearing simple jackets, trousers and boots. If it was a uniform, it was an extremely basic one. Their leader was tall; his dark hair was long at the back but little more than stubble on his face, which bore three parallel scars, as though a wild animal had left its mark there. His irritation seemed to be growing – as Gypsy watched, he cuffed a subordinate about the head none too gently, and gave an order which had all three of them scurrying from the room.

  Gypsy was alone with the leader. He said something she couldn’t understand, and she nodded as politely as she could. She had the distinct impression that he was disappointed by her.

  Thankfully, another figure entered the room, this one female, wearing white trousers and a dark red top. The newcomer crossed over to Gypsy and stood looking down on her while addressing the black-clad man with much less deference than those others had shown.

  Her voice was calm and rich; her eyes, when Gypsy sneaked a glimpse of them, were an orange warm enough to fend off some of the chill of this place. She looked middle-aged, her broad face creased into a perpetually thoughtful expression.

  Gypsy had a sudden flashback to her girlhood. She’d come down with a particularly nasty virus, and her mother had been concerned enough to call a doctor round to their house. As they were poor, the doctor in question was man rather than machine. The details of both illness and treatment had long since faded from memory, but Gypsy still recalled the aura of the visitor as he stood by her bed: kind but detached, authoritative and reassuring.

  Different sex, different species, but the woman who stood over her now had the same aura. Gypsy warmed to her quickly, doubly so when she began speaking in English, her accent rough but far better than any other Matan’s had been so far.

  “Welcome to Chopiko Base, respected Earth genius. Gypsy is the safe one here.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Gypsy instantly abandoned any thoughts of the name, rank, serial number routine, so relieved was she to hear her own language. At once this place seemed less alien. “Thanks, I mean … thank you. Thanks. Yes.”

  “I am Dr. Koli.” Ah! Thought so. “This is Commander Ayakopi. We have thought of your needs.” The doctor proffered a glass of what looked like water. Gypsy took it gratefully, but was confounded to find that her hands were trembling violently. She badly fumbled the glass, managing to steady it only after half its contents had spilled onto the floor.

  “Oh! S-sorry. Let me…” Gypsy knelt down and proceeded to mop up the spillage with the hem of her dress. She was aware of the two Anasadans exchanging glances, perhaps unused to having their prisoners apologising to them. Then Koli placed a hand on Gypsy’s shoulder, making her flinch slightly.

  “Do not be worried. You are the honoured guest. All you need, we will give.”

  “Ah.” Gypsy seated herself on the bed, and tried to make her next question as casual as possible. “Do you think I might be able to talk with my friends?”

  Koli noticeably hesitated. “In time,” she offered. “First, we need your help.”

  “I … don’t think I can help with anything. I’m nothing special.”

  Ayakopi interrupted at this point; requesting that Koli translate, maybe? The two of them went back and forth for a bit, then the commander walked over to the screen on the wall and began pressing buttons from a panel beside it. The screen, which was perfectly square, activated to show what appeared to be a menu, written in white Matan script on a black background.

  Koli turned back to Gypsy, who was sipping anxiously at her drink.

  “We show what you can do for us.”

  Abruptly, the screen filled with images of fire, steel and shadow. A young woman was racing through a shifting maze of deadly traps. Pursuing her was a formless creature, cloaked in blackness.

  Gypsy recognised the scene with an instinctive stab of fear.

  The Zakazashi. Krikili. This could only be the televised recording of the deadly game show that had cost them three lives, including that of Gypsy’s mother.

  She wanted to look away, but found her gaze locked to the screen; a compulsion she could not explain. The woman displayed there was Iris Jones, and Krikili was gaining on her, but he wouldn’t catch her; Gypsy had seen this story play out in person. The deaths didn’t come until later.

  The Zakazashi’s producers had been good at their jobs. The sound design was subtle and the editing was top notch – there had evidently been more cameras hidden about the labyrinth than any of them had realised, and there were some dramatic angles showing the action as Iris bobbed and weaved. Krikili was a supernatural presence in the background, always shown either slightly out of focus or in extreme close-up.

  Abruptly, the shot changed to show the faces of the onlookers, and Gypsy’s heart lurched to see herself and her mother among them, faces taut with dread. As terrible as the memory was, she yearned to be back there, to dive into the screen and have her protector at her side again. But she could only watch and remember as the team from the Bona Dea took refuge behind a sturdy wooden door that dropped from above, Iris narrowly beating Krikili in the race to the barrier. After the monster delivered a parting scare by driving the tip of a scythe-like appendage through the door, it withdrew, and Sandra Rivers hurriedly led her team away.

  “Look now,” said Dr. Koli.

  As the women on the screen retreated from view, the camera panned slowly across to a small side passageway. The next shot showed a room which presumably lay at the end of that passage, and there in the centre of it … a computer, complete with keyboard.

  “Your team missed it,” Koli explained. “In a room before, you got the equations. You remember?”

  “Erm, yes. They were for a Mandelbrot set. I mean, that’s what we’d call it, you’d probably…”

  The doctor smiled as Gypsy trailed off uncertainly. “Yes – the set. Your leader wrote them down. Then she should put them in the computer and it makes a map of the final labyrinth. Only the computer can do this – n
o way for the normal brains to calculate. But you were different. Built the maze in your head and walked it.”

  Gypsy reddened. “Oh, well … that was nothing. I’m no Einstein, just quite good with equations, I guess.”

  “Teach us. Be our Sheko. We need answers to math questions.”

  “Maths,” Gypsy corrected automatically, then came close to laughing in spite of herself. Even now, held captive by an alien race on an alien world, she was still annoyed by US English.

  Koli conversed briefly with Commander Ayakopi, who was looking rather less aggressive now, much to Gypsy’s relief. He reached into a pocket and drew out a folded sheet of paper, which he thrust in her direction.

  She took the page uncertainly and studied the contents. After five seconds of blank staring, she recognised the hand-written Matan characters as mathematical equations. It only took a moment more for full recognition to set in.

  “Oh! These are, these are Kinkawa equations! Ha!” Gypsy had to resist the urge to kiss the yellowing page, for who could have anticipated meeting an old friend in a place like this?

  “You know their properties?”

  “Yes, I did some of my best work on these; it’s what won me the Fields Medal – I was lucky to win it of course, there were dozens of better candidates – but they’re great fun to kick around on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “You can please show us this?” asked Koli eagerly.

  “I’d love to; it’s fascinating. Could I have…?” Gypsy cast about her for something to write with, then trailed off as she saw the postures of the Anasadans. They were leaning forward, eyeing her quite intently. Hungry, they looked. It belatedly occurred to her to wonder why they might be interested in mathematics, a subject which she’d learned from experience put most people to sleep.

  Einstein. Didn’t his Special Theory of Relativity inspire the atom bomb, or something? These people are always thinking about their next war. Do they want to make a weapon of me, use my maths to help make weapons? Kinkawa is only about propulsion in microgravities, really, I wouldn’t have thought that could hurt anyone. But then, I’ve never understood the real world so well as the theoretical one. Anyway, what if they’re giving me something innocuous to draw me in, like a drug-pusher trying to get his victim hooked?