by E. M. Brown
BUYING
TIME
PRAISE FOR ERIC BROWN
“Necropath was a real success for me: the depth of the characterisation; a very alien, yet deeply sympathetic life-form; the authenticity which Brown gives to the society on Bengal Station. This is a place that you can see, hear and virtually smell.”
SF Crow’s Nest
“The writing is studded with phrases I had to stop and reread because I liked them so much.”
Fantasy Magazine on Xenopath
“Eric Brown’s Helix is a classic concept – a built world to dwarf Rama and Ringworld – a setting for a hugely imaginative adventure. Helix is the very DNA of true SF. This is the rediscovery of wonder.”
Stephen Baxter
“Helix is essentially a romp – a gloriously old-fashioned slice of science fiction... What gives the novel a unique spin is its intertwining parallel plots. It’s smart, fun, page-turning stuff, with an engaging cast and plenty of twists… A hugely entertaining read.”
SFX Magazine
“He is a masterful storyteller. Eric Brown is often lauded as the next big thing in science fiction and you can see why...”
Strange Horizons
“SF infused with a cosmopolitan and literary sensibility… accomplished and affecting.”
Paul J. McAuley
“Eric Brown is the name to watch in SF.”
Peter F. Hamilton
“Helix is equal parts adventure, drama and wonder. Sometimes they work alone, providing a raw dose of science fiction. Other times, Brown uses them in concert to spin an irresistible blend that pulls the narrative along almost faster than you can keep up. However it’s served, Helix is a delightful read and is an excellent reminder of why we read science fiction: it’s fun!”
SF Signal
“Classic science-fiction components and a general reverence for science make this tale of intergalactic travel a worthy, occasionally awe-inspiring read... Brown’s spectacular creativity creates a constantly compelling read... a memorable addition to the genre.”
Kirkus Reviews
“Brown concentrates on stunning landscapes and in the way he conveys the conflicting points of view between races... No matter how familiar each character becomes, they continue to appear completely alien when viewed through the opposing set of eyes. Brown has a casual and unpretentious style and... the accessibility, the tenderness between characters and more importantly the scale of wonder involved are what makes this highly enjoyable escapism.”
Interzone
“There is always something strikingly probable about the futures that Eric Brown writes… No matter how dark the future that Eric Brown imagines, the hope of redemption is always present. No matter how alien the world he describes, there is always something hauntingly familiar about the situations that unfold there.”
Tony Ballantyne
“Eric Brown joins the ranks of Graham Joyce, Christopher Priest and Robert Holdstock as a master fabulist.”
Paul di Filippo
Published 2018 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-78618-104-6
Copyright © 2018 Eric Brown
Cover art by Pye Parr
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
PROLOGUE
HE WAS DAZZLED by a white light and felt a sudden heat in his head. He reached out for the wall to steady himself as he crumpled to the floor, his consciousness dwindling. He was aware of nothing else until he awoke in a hospital bed, hooked up to various bleeping machines.
Anna sat beside the bed, leafing through a fashion magazine and looking supremely unconcerned at his fate.
He wondered if he’d suffered a heart attack.
CHAPTER ONE
January, 2017
RICHIE PREPARED THE evening meal, then poured himself a glass of Burgundy and waited for Anna to arrive home from work. He moved into the lounge and crossed to the picture window.
It was a week since his hospitalisation. He recalledthe white light, the sudden heat in his head: he’d passed out and awoken a day later in hospital. A neurosurgeon told him they’d run every test and scan imaginable, but had found nothing physiologically amiss. An idiopathic cerebral episode, he’d said, which Richie had interpreted as meaning that the specialists didn’t have a bloody clue what had happened to him.
He’d taken it easy since getting home, easing himself back into work over the past couple of days. Anna had told him that it had been a sign, that at his age he should be drinking less and watching his diet. Richie had put it down to overwork, and told himself that he was as fit now as he had been ten years ago.
Still, it had been a sobering experience. His father had died of a massive cardiac arrest just months before his sixtieth birthday. Maybe he should heed Anna’s words.
He dismissed the thought.
Dusk was falling and a full moon was rising over the copse on the horizon. The first snow of the year had fallen unexpectedly that afternoon, and he’d stopped writing at three and watched it through the study window. The grey sky and gently sifting snow had suited his mood, that indefinable melancholy which always afflicted him in the yawning hiatus between the travesty of Christmas and the perpetually belated coming of spring. It did not help that the script he’d just finished rewriting had changed from something he would have been proud to see under the by-line of Ed Richie to a piece of utter hackwork, thanks to the input of an inept director and an actress with a hypertrophied ego.
Now he stared out at the transformed countryside. A landscape blanketed with snow usually engendered in him a certain optimism. What was familiar, predictable, was metamorphosed into something other. A perfect record of passage covered the land, pristine and unblemished, and in the past it had spoken to him of fresh starts, new opportunities. He wondered whether that had been a carry-over from childhood, when snow betokened the wonder of Christmas and the joy of the new.
Now he could only see the slush that the snow would soon become.
A gritter had trundled up the lane an hour earlier, broadcasting salt, so the road from the station would probably be passable. He wondered if Anna would call from Leeds and use the snow as an excuse to stay the night at a hotel; he hoped so. He would enjoy a meal alone, then his usual Friday night pint with Digby at the Black Bull.
He drained his wine, poured himself a second glass, and returned to his station before the window. The snow was still falling – bigger, puffier flakes now – and the fields across the lane were covered, silvered in the moonlight. From far off he heard the high insistent barking of a fox.
The telephone rang in the hall. He hoped it was Anna, ringing from Leeds to say she wouldn’t be back. As he picked up the receiver he felt a niggling guilt.
“Ed, I haven’t dragged you away from anything?” Digby Lincoln’s baritone resounded down the line.
“Only the contemplation of my mortality on this witheringly bleak January evening.”
“Ah. How are you feeling, after…?”
“Surprisingly well, as a matter of fact. I’m on some pills to lower my blood pressure, which was rather high. Otherwise… fit as a fiddle.”
“That’s good to hear. You gave us a hell of a fright.”
“Gave myself a bit of a fright, too. But I’m fine now.” He chang
ed the subject. “How’s Caroline?”
“Caroline’s Caroline, Ed. Never happier than when complaining about the vicar or the harridans at the local WI. Anyway, that’s why I’m ringing. She just phoned to say she’ll be late back from some meeting or other, so I won’t be at the Bull until around nine-thirty.”
“I’ll have them in.”
“Good man,” Digby said. “Let’s have a bit of a late one and make the most of Bob’s disregard of the licensing laws, hmm? I’m celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” Richie echoed. Then, “Oh, you got it?”
“Just back from a meeting in London with that fuckwit Traverson. Well, that’s how I always thought of him. Strange how one’s opinion can change, isn’t it? No, on reflection, Ed, he still is a fuckwit – irredeemably old school. I’m sure the BBC wheel him out and dust him off to put the kibosh on any project that whiffs of radicalism.”
“I feel a ‘but’ coming…”
“But for some strange reason he likes my outline and has commissioned six scripts.”
Richie was genuinely pleased. “Great stuff. The beer’s on me.”
“Hell of a surprise,” Digby said. “You know how much I’ve invested in this project. This means a hell of a lot to me, and with Traverson’s backing I can scale back work on the execrable Henderson’s Farm.”
Richie smiled to himself. For the past five years Digby had made a very good living from knocking out thirty-minute scripts, at fifteen grand a time, for ITV; provincial hackwork, he’d said, that not only prostituted his talent but made London producers reluctant to commission more serious work from him. What he failed to mention was that the dozen episodes a year kept him and Caroline in luxury and earned him more than the Prime Minister’s annual salary.
Richie, scrabbling around the studios for crumbs – writing three episodes a season of the godawful Morgan’s Café, and a few radio plays for the BBC – was envious. And now Digby had his own hard-hitting prime-time drama to look forward to.
Perhaps, he thought, the Theakstons should be on Diggers tonight.
He heard the grumble of Anna’s Range Rover as it crawled up the drive. “That’s Anna. See you tonight, Digby, and congratulations.”
He was replacing the receiver when the front door opened and Anna stamped into the hall.
He leaned against the wall and watched her struggle from her raincoat. “And how was your day?” he asked.
“Shit, if you must know.”
He winced. He would be walking on eggshells tonight. “Care to elucidate?”
She stopped in the process of unwinding her scarf. “As if you’re really bothered.” She looked at the phone. “And who was that?”
“Digby. He got the commission he’s been working on.”
“Great,” she grunted. “How is it that the talentless slob is rolling in it while you can hardly make ends meet?”
“Digby isn’t talentless,” he said. “For your information, he’s a damned fine writer. It just happens that he’s been working on a crap show. Also, he works hard at getting scenarios out there.”
She hung up her dripping coat. “Well,” she said pointedly, staring at him, “why can’t you do the same? We could do with a few extra thousand. Then you might be able to afford that Caribbean holiday you promised me six months ago.”
Six months… Was it really that long since Anna had moved in with him?
She saw the glass in his hand. “And I hope you’ve poured me one of those?”
“Right away,” he said, moving to the kitchen and adding sotto voce, “my little Gauleiter.”
He poured Anna the last couple of inches of some cheap Bulgarian plonk he’d opened yesterday, then filled his glass from the Burgundy. He took four huge mouthfuls and doled out the dinner: chicken chow mein with egg fried rice.
They ate in the oak-beamed dining room, warmed by the wood-burner which Richie had had the foresight to light just after the snowfall began.
Anna’s ill-temper communicated itself through lack of eye contact and her silence; then later, through comments. She started with: “Jesus, this is like vinegar,” hoisting her glass. “What is it?”
Richie lifted the bottle of Burgundy and showed her the label.
“Well, I don’t like it. How’s yours?”
“I must admit, it is rather on the tart side.”
“I don’t want any more. You can finish the rest of it. Get me a glass of water, would you? I’ll have a gin after the meal.”
He dutifully fetched a bottle of Perrier from the refrigerator and resumed his meal.
“So, why was work so bad?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“No, go on.”
“No, I said you don’t want to know.” She looked at him over a forkful of noodles. “I know you couldn’t give a damn about what I do.”
He shrugged, let it go. The meal continued in silence.
Anna was tall, blonde, forty-two, and attractive. She wore expensive clothes very well and had a certain elegant hauteur, which was what had attracted him a little over six months ago. They’d met at a party arranged by the production company of Morgan’s Café. Anna was the accountant hired by the company, and the party, with copious champagne, was one of the many corporate freebies CoromandelCable had written off as a tax expense. Ed and Anna had hit it off immediately; he liked her wry sense of humour and her intelligence – although she worked in a dry-as-dust profession, she had artistic sensibilities and left-of-centre political leanings. He’d asked her out for a meal the following day, ringing her at work, and had suggested a weekend in the Lakes a few days later. The sex, he recalled now with chagrin, had been amazing.
A month after first meeting her, he’d suggested she move into his moor-side barn conversion twenty miles north of Leeds, and for the first three months everything had gone to script.
Then Anna had started griping about his apathy.
Now she hung her fork over her meal, stared at him and said, “Jesus Christ.”
Shocked out of his reverie, he looked up at her. “What?”
Surprising him, she said, “Sultanas.”
He smiled, genuinely nonplussed. “What?”
“You’ve put sultanas in the chow mein.” She said sultanas the way you’d say arsenic.
He kept his calm. “I always put sultanas in chow mein.”
“You know I hate sultanas.”
“I…” Did he? He shrugged. “Sorry… Look, just leave them to one side.”
“You did it deliberately, didn’t you?”
Her stare was glacial and she had her mobile jaw clicked to one side in an expression that almost frightened him. “You put the bloody sultanas in the chow mein to provoke an argument.”
“Anna, for chrissake… What’s to argue about? If you don’t like them, leave the damned things.”
“You did it deliberately.”
“Look, I forgot you didn’t like them. I cooked this on auto, hardly thinking.”
“I don’t believe you. You used them deliberately to provoke me, to push things.”
He sighed and took a huge gulp of wine, trying to calm himself. “I don’t want to argue,” he said, ashamed that he hadn’t spoken more forcefully. The words had come out in barely a whisper.
She pushed the plate away. “You don’t want to argue. Why am I not surprised? That’s you all over, Ed. You just don’t want to communicate, end of.”
“No, Anna, I just don’t want to argue.”
“That’s the contradiction. For a so-called writer, you’re signally inept in the communication department. I’ve never met a more emotionally inarticulate man in all my life.”
He stared at her, feeling himself starting to shake. “What do you want me to talk about?”
“You. Your emotions. Us. What you feel about me.”
“You know what I feel about talking about emotions. It’s a trite concept –”
“Christ, just listen to yourself.” She paused, marshalling her words.
“Do you know what I wondered, not long after we met?”
He centred his wine glass on its coaster. “No, what did you wonder?”
“I wondered if the only thing you wanted from me was the sex. I told myself I was being ridiculous. Now I think I was right.”
“Anna…”
“And now that our sex life is dead,” she cut in, “you’re about as communicative as a corpse.”
“And whose fault is that?” he snapped.
“What?”
“I said –”
She interrupted, “You think it’s my fault? My fault we don’t make love like we used to? Have you everconsidered, you conceited bastard, have you ever considered for one fleeting second that I feel nothing for you because you’re not only apathetic but emotionally constipated? How can I bring myself to feel anything for someone who sits in silence most of the time, never tells me how he’s feeling, and never – not once – tells me what he feels for me?”
He was on the verge of saying, “I’m sorry,” but that would have been an admission of guilt.
She pushed her chair back and hurried from the room, a hand to her mouth.
He sat in the sudden, resounding silence. The tick of the grandfather clock in the hall was very loud. He heard her moving about upstairs. He raised the wine to his lips and drank, drained the glass and poured himself another. The Burgundy was fine, rich and velvety. He felt only slightly guilty at his deception, then told himself, no, that was a lie. He didn’t feel in the slightest bit guilty about giving her the dregs of the Bulgarian.