Absorption: Ragnarok v. 1 (Ragnarock 1)

by John Meaney

  They flew into a huge hollow space where dozens of ships were floating: bronze or silver, decorated with lustrous cobalt, shimmering indigo, deep swirling green.

  Roger wondered what Alisha would make of this - if she were able to retain her sanity in this universe.

  ‘See?’ said Mum. ‘It’s not impossible.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s what you said earlier, as we flew.’

  She did not understand, obviously. He was about to ask whether it was normal to see apparitions as one voyaged through mu-space; then he realized the answer was no.

  Gavriela.

  The mirage had a name. Or was this some delusion created by the shock of entering the continuum after so long away? Yet his body was almost vibrating with energy, filled with a sense of rightness and supreme capability; and this place was the opposite of shocking: it was where he belonged.

  Perhaps there were neurocognitive effects all the same, so the rational choice was not between talking and keeping silent, it was between confiding in his parents or in a medic, here in Labyrinth.

  =No, that is not necessary.=

  He looked all around.

  =Only you can hear me at this time.=

  About to speak, he closed his mouth, deliberately touching the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, quelling the desire.

  =You are most welcome here, Roger Blackstone.=

  A powerful sense of humility descended through him. He bowed his head.

  Then Dad said something unsettling.

  ‘On Fulgor, you’re used to keeping everything a secret, son. Realize that it’s not so different here.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Roger pointed to his own eyes. ‘Do I usually walk around like this?’

  In fact it was refreshing to see his parents with their natural, glittering, obsidian eyes revealed.

  ‘Your true nature is a matter of course. My job is not.’

  ‘I . . . understand.’

  ‘We’re not under surveillance, but this is a complex place and . . . Not all our operations are carried out on human worlds.’

  ‘You mean, you spy on other Pilots?’

  ‘Not me personally, and that description is too crude. Think of peacekeeper intelligence officers on Fulgor, how they monitor their own as well as strangers.’

  ‘All I know is Fighting Shadows.’

  He meant the holodrama saga that was as much soap opera as action thriller.

  ‘Good enough.’ Dad smiled. ‘I find the series quite addictive myself.’

  ‘So we maintain your cover?’

  Mum smiled at the spy jargon.

  ‘Yes.’ Dad looked at her, but his own smile dissipated. ‘Okay, Roger. I’m still a consultant and trainer on Fulgor, big corporate and political negotiations a speciality. The additional tweak is that I’m a Pilot living incognito because of personal failure. And I don’t have a ship.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’ll disembark in private. No one will see us.’

  They were now gliding into a narrow tunnel, barely wider than the ship, shining blue and purple.

  ‘And if anyone asks,’ added Dad, ‘we travelled awake in a passenger hold inside a large vessel. You don’t know the Pilot’s name, and you never saw the ship’s exterior.’

  ‘All right.’

  Then they were docking, and as Dad had said, when they left the ship it was via a series of halls, empty apart from the Blackstone family. Finally, they came out into a public place, something that might have been a sweeping mall magnified a hundred times, opening out into a vaster space beyond.

  On one of a thousand balconies, they stopped.

  ‘Will you be all right sightseeing?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Of course, dear.’ Mum winked at Roger. ‘We’ll go shopping.’

  ‘She’s joking, son. See you both later.’

  At that, Dad turned away, his face hardening in concentration. Then a rectangle of empty air was rotating - somehow - and when Dad stepped inside, his image swirled around an impossible axis, and the enclosing rectangle twisted out of existence.

  ‘There are different levels of, well, reality,’ said Mum. ‘Including different timeflows, so please don’t try to use this technique without training.’

  ‘Technique?’

  ‘Fastpath rotation. Call it a shortcut. A doorway to a tunnel to another doorway.’

  Roger looked around. Several hundred people, Pilots all, were going about their unknowable business. Any who knew Dad would consider him a reject from society. How could Dad stand that? How could anyone swallow their pride so much?

  But Roger had some education in Pilot history, studies at home - in their Fulgor house - where surveillance could not reach. He had studied the works of Karyn McNamara, the first true Pilot, the first to be born in mu-space. She hadn’t been much for the adulation of others.

  ‘They say that people lead lives of quiet desperation - but I prefer to live in quiet triumph. The simplicity of shibumi in work and family life, that makes us human.’

  He knew the old term for elegant minimalism, an austere aesthetic that he admired but thought he was too weak to follow.

  ‘So where do you want to go, Mum? Is this one of the major sights?’

  ‘This?’ Mum looked around the cavernous, vaulted space. ‘It’s just a minor place, tucked out of the way.’

  ‘Uh . . . Right.’

  ‘Let’s start with Borges Boulevard,’ she said. ‘But we won’t travel its full length.’

  ‘Why not? Is it too long?’

  ‘You could say that. It’s infinite, in fact.’

  ‘That’s not poss—’

  But of course it was possible, in this place.

  Finally, they stood at the top of a slender ramp that arced down to a magnificent white gleaming road. It shone and flowed, a white river sparkling as though with diamonds, carrying people and goods on its surface, in a myriad intricate currents. And its length, supported on silver spans, arced across vast spaces whose far ends were misty, sweeping forever through Labyrinthine magnificence.

  ‘Welcome to your real home, son.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, Mum. This is so—’

  ‘I know.’

  Then Roger said something that came straight from the subconscious.

  ‘I would die to protect this place.’

  That caused Mum to frown.

  But she said nothing, since a group of Pilots was passing by, conversing in rapid Aeternum. And a few moments later, a female voice called down from an overhead balcony.

  ‘Miranda Blackstone, is that you?’

  ‘Laura?’

  Mum’s smile was glowing, and Roger could see how she must have looked when younger, say about his age now. She waited for the woman, Laura, to descend on a floating disk.

  They hugged, then:

  ‘This is my son, Roger.’

  ‘No! But you’re so—Well. I’m pleased to meet you, Roger.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  They shook hands, the ancient ritual strange to Roger.

  ‘We have so much to catch up on,’ said Laura. ‘There’s a new trade hall that I’m heading for right now, and we can have a meal there: lunch, breakfast, dinner, whatever.’

  Was there no standard time for the city? Or perhaps it was obvious that the Blackstones were newly arrived from realspace, from some arbitrary timezone on a world with an arbitrary rotation period. He could learn so much just by talking to people - but Mum and Laura looked brimming with words, anecdotes and reminiscences waiting to spill out, tales of people and places that had no relevance to him. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear; but the best way for old friends to catch up is alone.

  ‘I’m perfectly happy,’ he said, ‘to wander the city by myself.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Laura. ‘I mean- Miranda?’

  ‘No, I . . . Is that what you’d prefer, Roger?’

  ‘Definitely. Why don’t you two go off and catch up?’

  ‘If you’re
certain, then.’

  ‘Here.’ Laura pointed, and Roger’s tu-ring flared orange. ‘Directions to where we’ll be. Or just ask anyone. We’ll be in the Keynes Centre, just off Feigenbaum Flowbridge.’

  ‘I love the names.’

  ‘You’ll grow used to them.’

  There were so many places to stroll. After an hour of dazzling, mind-bending sights, he settled down for a cup of jantrasta in a golden building where he sat on the ceiling - from the perspective of the atrium he had entered by - watching others walk up walls or along landings that turned through paradoxical angles. For a moment he was struck by the sight of a wide-shouldered young woman in a black jumpsuit, with some kind of firearm tagged to her hip. She looked at him, broadcasting a sense of physicality; and they smiled at each other, in a moment of connection that might have led somewhere, if the universe had been different.

  Then several other Pilots similarly dressed joined her, she nodded, and they departed together, heading in the direction of Hilbert Hall. A fleeting near-encounter that would never have a follow-on: just one of the many odd things that seemed to happen the more he opened his senses to this place.

  ‘Military,’ said a voice behind him.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Those people in black.’ It was a shaven-headed man who was standing there. ‘They’re military, or the closest thing we have to it.’

  ‘Uh . . . Right.’

  ‘You’re wondering how I know you’re new here.’ The man smiled. ‘Believe me, it shows. I remember how it was for me.’

  He was blocky, his sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms cabled with muscle.

  ‘There’s no shame in it,’ said Roger.

  ‘My point exactly. My name’s Max, Max Gould.’

  ‘Roger Blackstone.’

  ‘So you live on a realspace world? Er, you mind if I join you?’

  Max sat down - or up, whatever you called it, since when you craned your head back, there were upside-down people walking above you - and ordered a drink. It rotated into existence in mid-air, just above his outstretched hand, and he grasped it.

  Roger had failed to manage the procedure so smoothly.

  ‘I live on Fulgor, if you know of it,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes. I visited Petrurb, years ago. Love the quickstone buildings.’

  ‘That’s in Tarquil,’ said Roger. ‘I learned to speak Quitalan in school, but not very well.’

  ‘Hmm. So how are you finding Aeternum, using it for real? You sound practised enough.’

  ‘If I stick to Core Aeternum, I get by. So far.’

  ‘Taking on new upgrades gets ever harder.’ Max sipped, put the cup down - or up, whichever - on the table. ‘Anyone who’s been on a high-distortion geodesic knows how it goes, especially a hellflight.’

  ‘Catching up on a century’s worth of language changes . . . That must be interesting.’

  ‘I’ve only done it once, to that extent. All I can say is, I’m glad I had the experience, and I’m far too old to repeat it.’

  ‘Wow.’ Roger wondered what it would be like, not just to fly a ship, but to follow time-distorting trajectories that took you out of synch with everyone you knew at home. ‘I can’t imagine.’

  He looked inside his cup. Empty. A refill might be nice - except that he was conversing with a stranger who had simply sat down, seemingly open but with enough personal power to mask an ulterior agenda.

  Dad had said his cover needed to remain intact. So far, this Max had asked nothing about Roger’s family; but it was an obvious way for the conversation to go next.

  ‘Anyway.’ With an abrupt wrist-twist, Max caused his drink to rotate from existence. ‘It was nice talking to you, but I have a meeting I need to attend.’

  He stood up, and held out his hand.

  ‘Er, right.’ Not sure of the protocol, Roger stood also. ‘Nice to—’

  They clasped hands.

  Max’s grip was unbreakable.

  ‘What—?’

  Something, a dislocation in space, revolved around them. Fastpath rotation. Then Max released his hold.

  They tumbled into a steel-lined vault.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Max. ‘You’re fine.’

  ‘Where the hell have you taken me?’

  ‘You know the meeting I said I have to attend?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘This is it.’ Max gestured, and a portion of wall melted away. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  It was a maelstrom of black chaos, a thunderstorm in a cell, a whirlwind of black nothingness: a hypergeometric storm, at whose centre slumped a small figure bound in a flowmetal chair.

  ‘What is all that?’ Roger took several steps back. ‘What’s going on in there?’

  The blackness battered against some invisible barrier as if trying to get out.

  ‘So you do see it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘All I see,’ said Max, gesturing for the wall to reform, ‘is an exhausted prisoner, seated in an otherwise empty cell.’

  The darkness continued to rage, as the gap dwindled, the wall shutting out the maelstrom once more.

  ‘Who are you? Is Max Gould your real name?’

  ‘More or less, and I’m a friend of your father’s. From your reactions, you perceive the threat more easily than he could have. Many times more clearly.’

  ‘Threat?’ But he could not help looking at the wall, wondering whether it could hold against the massive forces behind it. ‘What threat?’

  ‘It would be best for Carl,’ said Max, ‘if you didn’t go into details of what you’ve seen.’

  ‘Best for Dad how? How could this cause him trouble?’

  ‘There’s a possibility it might trigger, well, some odd and dangerous reactions. I cannot explain further, but understand I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘As you have so far?’

  ‘Exactly so. Now, shall we go and see him?’

  ‘See Dad?’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  They swirled into a conference chamber, where Dad leaped from a chair at their appearance.

  ‘Roger! What are you- How did you get here?’

  ‘We had a nice chat,’ said Max. ‘He’s a fine young man.’

  ‘Thank you, Commodore, but I happen to know that.’

  Roger noted the rank: Commodore.

  Perhaps he needed to remain quiet for now.

  ‘Right. So, Roger Blackstone.’ Max’s eyes were compelling. ‘Since you have the makings of a fine Pilot, exactly what purpose are you about to devote your life to?’

  ‘Does everyone have to have a single purpose?’

  So much for remaining quiet.

  ‘No, Roger. Some people stumble through their days not knowing what they want, hopeless and dissatisfied. Do you want to turn out that way?’

  ‘No.’ He looked at Dad, who was statue-still. ‘Is Max - Commodore Gould - trying to recruit me?’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Max. ‘Are you interested?’

  Was Roger the only one to see faint glimmers of golden sparks, deep inside Dad’s eyes? Did Max understand how much danger he was in?

  But of course he did. He was almost certainly Dad’s commanding officer, or whatever they called it.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Dad. ‘And you don’t want me to resign.’

  Stone-faced, they stared at each other.

  ‘Very well,’ Max responded at last. ‘On his next trip here, you’ll take Roger to see us officially, and we’ll give him the proper tour. Give him enough information to make up his mind. Good enough?’

  Dad continued the hard stare; and then he nodded.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And you’ll keep everything to yourself’ - Max turned to Roger - ‘because that’s a basic requirement, and it’s for everyone’s safety.’