by Craig Askham
“Find yourself a hotel and put it on the company credit card,” he yelled. “Better still, the jet is yours for the weekend. Take it home, or wherever you want. I’ll call you when I need picking up.”
“Benjamin, you can’t be serious!”
He caught up with Too-Much, and went to clap a hand on his shoulder. Somehow sensing the inappropriate gesture before it even happened, the shorter man quickened his pace and Ben’s hand swooshed through the air without making contact.
“It’s the best offer you’ll get all day, Lydia. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” By now, he was having to raise his voice significantly to make sure she heard. In reply, her own voice sounded shrill in the cavernous building.
“Fine, but you’re an idiot.”
“If I die, I leave everything to you.”
“Any chance you can put that in writing?”
“Bye, Lids. See you in a few days.”
Too-Much Product reached the limousine, and held his hand close to the rear door until a handle smoothly materialised from the metalwork. He grabbed it, and opened the door.
“You are the last to arrive, Mr. Hackett. Please, we must hurry.” His voice was respectful, but his tone brooked no argument. Ben took a closer look at him, and realised there was an athletic body hiding underneath the expensive black suit he was wearing. He looked older than Ben, but not by much. His face bore a smattering of acne scars, but he was handsome underneath the stern looks and intense jaw clenching. He gestured impatiently into the car, and Ben held up his hands in defeat.
“Okay, okay. I’m all yours, Too-Much.”
A quizzical look flashed across the man’s face, disappearing so quickly that Ben wondered if he’d imagined it. He climbed into the car and, as the hopefully-a-Stillwater employee slammed the door in his face, he thought he heard the slightest of haughty replies.
“That is not my name.”
Three
As soon as the limousine rolled out of the hangar into the hot, poisonous air of the city, Too-Much launched them smoothly into the sky with nothing more than an impatient flick of his wrist. Although the vehicle’s computer immediately took over the driving, Ben’s taciturn chauffeur kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes fixed firmly ahead as if he was still in control. Glancing out the window, Ben saw immediately that the traffic situation heading into the city still hadn’t improved. It flowed as well as it could, considering it was mostly computer controlled, but there was just so much of it that getting anywhere was never going to be quick. Or so it seemed to begin with. The limo kept ascending through the vertical lanes as if it was going to skim the edges of space, up through the smog until the oppressive haze of the afternoon gave way to the bright sky above the pollution. Modern pagoda roofs gave way to an immobile ocean of smog that could have been the surface of a placid lake, and Ben felt as if the submarine he was in had finally broken the surface of a decaying, submerged world beneath them. There were still cars up here, just fewer of them, and a hefty travelling tariff immediately disappeared from Stillwater’s petty cash account, never to be seen again. A tiny fraction of skyscrapers broke through, only the tallest fifty or so, looking from this distance like a handful of jagged rocks waiting to catch them unawares.
The limo powered forward with a quiet hum from the batteries, reaching the legal limit of two hundred miles per hour in a matter of seconds. Ben should have been pushed backwards in his seat, but instead only felt a mild force pressing delicately on his chest. Technology here was shamefully farther ahead than anything back home, and probably wouldn’t filter its way to America for at least another six months.
“They won’t leave without me, will they? Too-Much?” Despite their speed, progress seemed to slow. Finally, the Stillwater employee removed his hands from the wheel and spun his seat around to face him.
“Why do you call me Too-Much?”
“You have too much product in your hair. What is it, some kind of gel? Makes you look like you just stepped out of the shower. First thing I noticed about you, dude.”
Too-Much regarded him, his expression blank. Without warning, he barked out what might have been something close to a laugh.
“Too-Much! I like it.” He paused, arching an eyebrow as he studied Ben. “You don’t look like the other rich people, Mr. Hackett.”
“Please, call me Ben.”
“No.”
Ben sighed.
“Fine, I’ll bite. Why don’t I look like the other rich people?”
“You have no style.”
“Wow. Don’t sit on the fence, Too-Much. Tell me what you really think!”
“I meant no offence, Mr. Hackett. You just look…normal. Like one of us. It’s a good thing.”
Ben looked down at himself, and couldn’t help but grin. He’d practically ripped off his baggy boarding gear as soon as he’d arrived back in Tokyo, but only gone so far as to swap those clothes for ripped jeans, faded t-shirt and a fake leather jacket. To be fair, the whole ensemble had been designed to look retro and, combined with scuffed brown boots that his skinny jeans were tucked into, had probably cost him more than Too-Much earned in six months. He ran a hand over his boyishly smooth jaw, kept the hand moving upwards until it passed through mousy brown hair that felt like it was verging on becoming greasy, and concluded that he’d probably achieved exactly the look he was going for. The only things the keener-eyed observer might have spotted that clashed with his lazy student look were the broad shoulders and thick arms that stretched the almost-leather of his jacket. It was his getting over Talia look and, until he’d heard from Stillwater, had been teamed up with a perpetual look of self-pity and a distinct lack of attention to personal hygiene. The self-pity, at least, had been dealt with for now.
“I am normal. Just like you. Five years ago, I didn’t have two pennies to rub together. Don’t you read Time magazine, dude? It’s all in there. I’m an eligible bachelor with a heart-warming tale of rags-to-riches. And drug addiction, of course. Don’t worry, I’m reformed. Not going to rob you to buy a crack pipe, or anything.”
Too-Much shook his head, managing to look overwhelmed and bored at the same time. Or constipated, possibly. And his eyebrows needed trimming, Ben noticed.
“Maybe I will also call you Too-Much.”
“That could get confusing,” said Ben. The tops of the skyscrapers were much larger now, mere minutes away. “Too-Much what?”
“Information.” The older man made the amused barking sound again, and turned around to place his hands on the wheel once more. “Don’t need your life story, dude.”
Ben smiled, and rested his head against the window for the remainder of the journey. Five minutes later, they sank back into the smog and joined the teeming traffic of Beijing.
Four
Sorin Costache wasn’t happy at being made to wait. That much was immediately clear to Ben as soon as he hurried through the open door to the briefing room. He paused at the top of the stairs, peering through the gloom past row after row of empty cinema seats, the old-fashioned ones with the worn-through fabric and the bottom halves that flipped up as soon as the backside sitting on it was no longer making contact. Below him, in front of the unused lectern at stage level, four people milled. One of them was Sorin. Ben could tell this because, even in the darkness, he could see Sorin’s lanky frame towering over the other three even though he was pacing away from them, halting, and then pacing back. He was so busy doing this that he didn’t even notice the arrival of the person who was undoubtedly the cause of his impatience. Finally, one of the others gave him a nudge with an elbow and pointed up to the entrance. Fully noticed now, Ben hurried down the steps.
“What the hell time do you call this, Benny?” Ben bristled at the unauthorised use of the name only his parents had called him, once upon a time. Even from halfway up the steps, he could see that Sorin was dressed inappropriately for dragon spotting. His boots were made for the courts of Arunkumar rather than tramping across harsh terrain, any idiot
could tell that just from the clip-clopping noise they made on the wooden floor by the stage. They ended just below the knee, which allowed his pantaloons to billow out like he was some sort of jester. Ben couldn’t make out their colour yet, but he knew without doubt that they would be bright. He silently begged that his companions had a little more common sense in choosing their attire; he was still too far away to see who they were, but one of them was unmistakably female.
“You wouldn’t believe how pleased I am to see you, Sorin. The adventure of a lifetime, and I get to share it with you. Fills me with joy. Honestly.” He laced the words with as much bored sarcasm as he could.
“Adventure of a lifetime, and you’re late for it. Sums you up, chap.” His clipped English accent and cheerful manner whilst admonishing him made Ben even angrier, but there was no way he was going to let Sorin know that.
“Came as soon as I heard, dude. My tiny little tin can just isn’t as fast as your big, manly plane, I’m afraid.”
Ben reached the bottom of the steps, and came to a halt underneath the lectern that looked lonely up on that huge stage without someone resting their elbows on it. One of the others stepped forward with his hand outstretched, and Ben gave it a quick pump.
“Ben Hackett, nice to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, Ben.” Like Sorin, this guy had an English accent. Unlike Sorin’s, though, it wasn’t posh. There was a regional accent in there somewhere, but Ben didn’t know enough about English accents to be able to place it. His gut instinct was to think northern, but he thought that feeling probably just came from his lifelong love of anything Game of Thrones. Tall and well-built, with dark hair shaved close at the back and sides yet long on top, he had the look of an ex-soldier about him in the ramrod-straight way he carried himself. Ben counted at least four loose-fitting layers of clothing wrapped around him, as if he was preparing for a trip somewhere cold. There was a russet robe showing slightly underneath a beige one made from seemingly identical, hard-wearing linen material, and that one in turn was almost hidden beneath a heavier, dark red woollen robe. All three were cinched at the waist by a thick leather belt, and slashed down the middle to give his trousered legs and booted feet some freedom of movement. On top of everything was a brown cloak thrown lopsidedly over his shoulders almost like a poncho, that covered his left side whilst most of his right remained exposed, with a loose hood that could also be drawn up around his neck like a snood. There was an air of Jedi about him, Ben decided. “Richard Trescothick.” He sounded down-to-earth, and immediately likeable. “Or Vantalon, where we’re going.”
“Of course. You should probably call me Akelius, then.”
As Trescothick stepped back, Sorin Costache swept in with his arm around the female that Ben hadn’t gotten a good look at yet. He noticed the sudden grin on Costache’s face before he noticed anything else, and that included the crimson pantalons and slightly more tasteful cream doublet. His olive skin hinted at a Mediterranean heritage that was at odds with his British upbringing, and his stunning light brown eyes brought a striking quality to his softly-bearded features, up until he unleashed his grin-that-was-really-a-sneer, at which point they served only to make his cruelty all the more intense.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said. “But I think you already know my lady friend, Talia.”
Ben’s heart stopped beating, or so it seemed, and the blood in his veins froze solid. Talia. This couldn’t be happening. The smug look on Sorin’s face, however, told him that this was very much happening. She was here, in this huge theatre, with him. Three whole days after dumping him, apparently forever this time.
“Hi Ben.” She looked sheepish, her face nearly the colour of her copper hair. She had beautiful green eyes, but he couldn’t see them because they were pointing at the floor. That hair and eyes combination was what had made it love at first sight, for him anyway. The smell of her hair sprang immediately to mind; juniper berries and something else he’d repeatedly read on her shower gel bottle but could never remember the name of. It almost made him cry that he’d never get to smell it again. Sorin Costache would, though. Ben could feel his eyes boring into him, but couldn’t drag his own away from Talia’s downturned face. It was probably for the best, as there was a decent chance he’d end up planting the mother of all haymakers on the guy’s straight, perfect nose. No. He wasn’t going to get himself banned from this trip for that. He needed to play it cool.
“Hey there, Your Highness.”
Her head snapped up at the use of his nickname for her, spoken so cheerfully. There they were, those beautiful green eyes. The guilty look slipped from her face like an avalanche, to be replaced with something harder.
“You seem chirpy.” It was an accusation, not an observation. As in I only left you three days ago, how dare you not be suicidal?
“You know me, Tarls. Live and let live.”
Somehow, Ben managed to stop his voice from wobbling. He had no idea how, but his own determination buoyed him. He ventured a grin, although it may have looked more like a sneer to the untrained eye, then pointedly turned his face to Sorin’s and let it disappear. Sorin drew himself up to his full height so that he could look down on his love rival, smug grin still in place.
“I do so love your funny names for people,” he drawled.
“You wouldn’t like the one I have for you.” There was steel to Ben’s tone, now. The taller man raised an eyebrow, and chuckled.
“No, I don’t suppose I would.”
Ben looked back at Talia so that he didn’t allow himself to get into a stare down that would have brought an end to the pretend niceties. She stood taller now he’d given her a reason to replace her guilt with indignation, not far off matching his own six feet in height. She was dressed in dark brown leather riding gear, fur-lined and warm-looking. Heavy boots ended just below her knee, and the whole ensemble was a far cry from the ridiculous attire she usually wore when she ventured to Vangura. She looked respectable, unlike the barbarian she liked to play when the two of them had travelled together.
“Well, this is going to be an interesting trip.” The words came from Richard Trescothick and, as Ben looked around to reply, he became aware the older man was actually addressing the fourth member of the group that had been waiting for him.
“Money doesn’t always buy happiness, my friend.” The Russian-sounding voice belonged to another older man who, at first glance, seemed to be short in stature. It took Ben a few seconds to realise he wasn’t short at all, he just seemed to be thanks to the company he was currently keeping. His hair was iron grey and swept back from his thick-looking slab of a forehead, and linked to a short beard that was still clinging on to the original black colour that the hair on his head had been unable to. He was incredibly striking in leather that was stiffer and more armour-like than Talia’s riding gear, black like his beard and liberally dotted with metal studs.
“Wouldn’t know, mate,” Trescothick replied, evenly. “Think I‘m the only non-trillionaire in the room. If someone high up didn’t owe me a favour, I couldn’t afford to be here.”
The grey-haired Russian nodded at Ben.
“Vykron.”
Ben nodded back, assuming the older man had simply given him the Vanguran name he wished to be known as.
“Oi, you lot!” As one, five heads swivelled to the entrance at the top of the stairs, the other side to the one Ben had entered through. There was a head there, pale and possibly framed by a mop of ginger hair. If the head belonged to a body, the darkness obscured it. Nobody said anything. “I’m going to find a dragon. If anyone else fancies it, I suggest they get their lazy backsides up these stairs, pronto.” The head disappeared briefly, and then reappeared as if something had caught its attention but not registered straight away. “Lanky fella in the red ladies’ trousers, what the hell have you come as, Little Lord Fauntleroy? Jesus Christ, mate! Get yourself changed into something more appropriate, don’t care how rich you are I ain’t being seen dead with you l
ooking like that!” Then he was gone again, like a little ginger hurricane. Ben looked at Sorin, whose face had turned the colour of his pantaloons, and offered him as smug a grin as he could muster.
“Don’t, Ben,” Talia warned, and the worry in her voice wiped the grin from his face. He wondered how long her and Sorin had been together, considering how little time had elapsed since the demise of their own relationship. Not so long ago, she would have been defending him. Realising there was an awkward conversation to be had, but not necessarily right here and now, he simply pursed his lips and nodded once.
“Fine,” he muttered, and strode purposefully over to the stairs. “He’ll keep.”
Five
It wasn’t until he was stood in front of the portal that Ben finally managed to push thoughts of what Talia had been getting up to with Sorin to the back of his mind. The portal had that effect on everyone. It was a gateway to another world and, as such, made things like cheating ex-girlfriends seem a lot less important than they had done in the outfitting room and, after that, the changing room. It hadn’t helped that Sorin had been there with him on both occasions, of course; first as they chose similar outfits for their trip, and then again as they stripped off in front of each other and redressed in their Vanguran attire. Stood in front of the portal now, though, it didn’t matter. Only the portal mattered. Familiar fear kicked in, sitting heavy on Ben’s stomach like a weary imp and reaching up to give his heart a little squeeze. This was the worst part; plucking up the courage to dip a toe in the liquid mercury that stretched before him like a pool of cyborg that was seconds away from taking the shape of a T-1000. There were other ways to think of it but, as a big Terminator fan, this was the way that resonated with Ben.
From the changing room, the group of would-be dragon spotters had once again been graced with the presence of the ginger hurricane as he led them to an elevator that dropped them so far underneath the Stillwater skyscraper that it might well have been taller underground than it was above. The doors had opened with a ping, right into an open space that seemed the same size as the building’s entire footprint. In the centre was the portal, held in a perfect circle by the polished concrete surround that made it look like a plunge pool for giant robots. Ten huge cylindrical tubes of brushed metal rose from the floor around the concrete, each seven feet in height, encircling the portal like guardians. Ten horizontal lines of humming blue laser linked the tubes, effectively forming a fence, with only the two tubes closest to the elevator doors breaking the circuit to form an entrance. Organised chaos reigned supreme in this tech-lover’s paradise, with row after row of OLED monitors close to the portal showing readout after readout that the dozens of employees spent their time fussing over with understanding looks on their faces. It was gobbledigook to Ben, even though technology was what had fed trillions of dollars to his starving bank account. There were figures and graphs, digital meters and reports, not to mention everything in between. Nothing on these screens actually explained how they were monitoring the portal, and a large part of him wondered if it was just for show; if it was just an elaborate ruse to convince the paying customers that Stillwater knew what they were doing, so there was no need for them to worry about the portal breaking down and stranding them millions of light years from home. Not that many of them would mind all that much if it did, of course. There were far worse things than being forced to start a new life on a beautiful, medieval-like planet with no guns and air you could breathe unaided without it slowly killing you. There were rumours that some tried to make a run for it once they were through, despite the trackers everyone had embedded in their forearms as part of their contractual obligation. Ben didn’t know what happened to these people, if they made it or not, but he didn’t really want to be one of them. Life was too good here on Earth. Or, if not too good, then definitely too rewarding. He’d come from nothing and, like the billionaire trailblazers that had come a generation or two before him, he was determined to end his life the same way; having given it all away to those who needed it more. It was how he’d been brought up by his mother before the money had even come his way, almost as if she knew it would only be a matter of time. The problem was that, in amongst all the good intentions, there was a little kid with adrenaline for blood, who wanted to have as much fun as possible along the way.