by Dave Barsby
“Cut the sales patter,” Rogdo tells him. “I need a Level Three upgrade for a B-22A Hypermat Worm Drive. And a four-metre by two-metre carbon resin plate.”
“Ah, Level Three for B-22A, eh? You’re in luck. I’ve got one left in stock. But I have to warn you, there was another customer interested in it this morning.” The owner starts flicking through some literature, pretending to be disinterested in us.
“I’m not an amateur buyer,” Rogdo tells him, “so cut the crap. I’m not haggling. How much?”
“Ah, I tell you what. I can see you’re a man who knows quality. I’ll throw in the plating for free, and I’ll even get my men to install it for you. Ninety thousand. How’s that?”
“A hundred thousand if you can install it in the next six hours.” Rogdo proffers a bunch of notes at the owner. He snatches them from the Captain’s hand and starts counting.
“Hey, no problem! In a hurry, eh?”
“Just go to dock forty two seventy six, tell the Gubarian that Rogdo sent you. You have six hours. And no snide comments about the ship.”
“Hey, we get all kids of crap in here, don’t worry about it.”
We exit the oily, dingy shop. I have a deep-rooted feeling the owner is not to be trusted, but Rogdo insists that much money will buy his loyalty.
The sidewalk is busy with human traffic. We are in the second-hand section of the orbital’s main shopping arena, and all the special offers tantalise the human’s bargain radar gene and draw them in like sirens singing to oblivious sailors.
We fight through the crowds to the sidewalk’s edge, allowing us a little space to rest and talk. I lean on the barrier and look down at the green, fertile floor of the orbital some two hundred metres below. To the left and right, the earthen ground curves up towards the silvered ceiling, a horizon gone awry.
“Bolland,” Rogdo says, resting his back against the barrier, oblivious to the beauty of the view. “This is where you get to show me why I’ve kept you on all these years. How long will it take you to replicate a Cloak-cloak?”
“Oh, well,” Bolland puffs, then he stops short. “Before we get to Narkis? I’m not so sure of that.”
“Bolland, before we get to Narkis, I want you to have replicated a Cloak-cloak and taught all of us how to do it so we can make some of our own.”
“That’s…I don’t think you understand. The cloaks themselves are simplicity. Photopolymer fibre is available freely…just there for example.” He points to a discount store offering knitting goods at very low prices. Sure enough, photopolymer fibre is one of the listed special offers.
Rogdo bustles us inside.
“So, what’s the problem?” he asks.
“Well, first you need to weave the thread,” Bolland continues, picking up a ball of twine, inspecting it and replacing it with distaste. “Then sew it all together. That’s not too tricky if you know how. No, the real problem is the software. Without that, you’ve just got a glittery, reflective coat.”
“But you can do it, right?”
“Never actually tried…ah, here’s some.” Bolland hands over a shimmering ball of what looks like mirrored string to Rogdo. “Never tried writing software like that,” he continues, following Rogdo to the counter. “Lots of tricky parameters, you see. How to react around shadows, or if the fabric is creased…things like that. Very, very complicated.”
“But you can do it? In ten days?”
“I can try. It sounds impossible, but I work best under pressure. The great thing is I only need to write it once. Then I can make copies and download them into each cloak.”
“What will you need to make this happen?”
“Aside from a miracle? Some sewing needles, buttons, things like that. On, and a top-of-the-line console with the latest ASM operating software. About three hundred grand to you and me.”
“Okay. Now, how much of this will we need to make a Cloak-cloak?”
“With hood, gloves, boots and everything? I think about seven or eight balls will do it.”
We reach the counter and Rogdo places the ball of twine on it. A young, pretty assistant smiles falsely at us, clearly bored with her job.
“How much are these?” Rogdo asks.
“Hundred tabs each,” we are told.
“Hundred each?” Rogdo balks.
“This is good quality stuff,” the assistant says, casually fingering the edge of the fibre. “Very popular with the rich and famous.”
“How much do you have in stock?”
“Ten on display.”
“You have more? In a warehouse?”
Blowing a bubble of gum, the assistant checks on her computer with obvious reticence. “We’ve got plenty in stock,” she tells us. “How much do you want?”
“How much do you have?”
She leans in close, chewing loudly and speaks with clear disdain. “Mister, we have 4,712 balls of photopolymer fibre in stock. We have enough. How many do you want?”
Rogdo thinks for a moment. I’m sure I can actually see the cogs in his brain turning. The assistant blows another bubble.
Rogdo takes out a huge clump of money and carefully places it on the counter. “All of it,” he says.
“I…I…I…”
“And do you have a machine that weaves by itself?”
The gum bubble pops in shock.
Rogdo’s plan is, as far as I can tell, another highly ambitious, flawed scheme that is bound to end in upset, consternation and fatalities.
We have all spent the last ten days knitting, sewing and weaving while Bolland has been working furiously and without sleep on his computer program. I have several pin-prick blisters on my fingertips. We arrived at Narkis two days before the scheduled rendezvous. Security checks in upper orbit proved to be a joke because the automated gun batteries have long run out of ammunition. They wanted to fire at us, I’m sure of that, but they just clicked and whirred at us in as menacing a way as possible.
We headed deep into the southern hemisphere, to the locale where eight years ago Rogdo handed Westcott over to his captors. It is a complex string of gorges, ravines and canyons cut deep into the heart of a four hundred mile seam of dusty-brown rock. It looks out over a barren, parched valley, all moisture long since dried.
After hiding the Diablo IV in a large, hidden cave (where Drift managed to scrape the roof and bend a landing strut), Rogdo delivered his plan in more detail, showing us locations, vantage points and stratagems.
The initial meeting point is a wide slash in the wall of rock, a forty-yard river of sand and grit that winds in a curve to the left. Further back to our right is a slit, a crevice no more than three yards wide that snakes and meanders for a hundred yards or so. It opens out into a large, rock-strewn, ovoid arena with several exits into the valley. It is here we will make our last stand, here where we must lure our enemy.
Our one advantage is in the Cloak-cloak technology we have adapted. Four of us will be in the firing line on the ground, adorned in the devices, while Dirk will take up a sniper’s vantage point and Bolland will be secreted away to monitor and affect activity via a console. But not only do we have four of the devices to wear, we have also fashioned huge sheets of the fabric.
I am perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the arena, hammering a final bolt into a sixty-yard swathe of Cloak-cloak fabric. The bolt in place, I drop the fabric, letting it unfurl down the side of the cliff. In the distance behind me, at a cliff-edge that overlooks the distant valley, Dirk unfolds the accompanying piece of cloth and lets it drop. When activated, it should hopefully look like a passage through to the valley.
We have used such concepts throughout the arena. With Bolland controlling the cloaking sheets from a computer, we can alter the composition and form of the arena as often as we like. With luck it will confuse the hell out of the enemy. With less luck it will confuse us as well.
I nervously glance down into the arena again. Rogdo and Hiaelia are struggling to drape a piece of fabric over an outcrop
ping of rock twice their size.
It is an ingenious idea – the enemy won’t know where to go, what is real. Is that really a space of open ground, are those really paths to safety? The only tricky aspect is that, unless they have a photographic memory as good as my implant, my comrades won’t quite know what is what either. And that’s before we get into the problem of locating each other while cloaked. I have a terrible feeling in my gut I’m going to shoot an ally who’s unknowingly in my line of fire.
“Can I come down now?” I shout. “Please? I really don’t like it up here.” It’s not that I’m scared of heights per se, but when there’s no safety barrier all it takes is a slight gust of wind. Truth be told, there is only one thing I am truly afraid of – anything that can bring pain or death to myself. So it encompasses quite a broad spectrum, I never said I was a hero. Quite how I’ll fare when the laser bolts start flying is anybody’s guess, but at present I’m hedging my bets on ‘cowering’.
Dirk takes me in four limbs and uses the others to effortlessly stroll down the cliff-face. To be borne up by a giant multi-limbed caterpillar at a ninety degree angle is scarier than falling.
“I believe that’s everything,” Rogdo says once we have gathered together. “We all know what to do?”
We nod, but I am not too confident. Rogdo has devised an exacting plan relying on a large and specific chain of events. It doesn’t take into account any complications, spontaneity or forward thinking by the enemy. I suspect that after the third event in Rogdo’s chain it will be a free-for-all.
But for now, we are set. All we have to do is hope Bolland completes programming the software in time, and wait for the action to begin.
“How are you feeling?” Rogdo asks me. It is the night before our appointment, and with fear beginning to grip me I have opted to sit, alone in my thoughts, in the cave outside the ship.
The software is complete and running flawlessly, the cloaking sheets are all firmly affixed, we all know our starting positions and I have even engaged in a bit of target practice with a small but effective pistol (I am, naturally, terrible).
The Captain squats down next to me as I shiver, my legs tucked up to my chest.
“Nervous,” I confess.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
“Really?”
“Fear of death gives you an adrenalin rush, keeps you alert. The first time you don’t get nervous about going into battle, that is when you’ll die.”
“We…we can do this, right?” I ask. I desperately need reassuring.
“Whatever happens, it’s the right thing to do.”
“How does the new experience feel?”
“Doing the right thing? Heh. Kinda feels dirty.”
“How’s everyone else holding up?”
“Well, they’re more subdued, you can see that. Hiaelia hasn’t broken wind in a long time, Dirk has given up cooking. We’re all nervous about tomorrow; you’re not the only one.”
“Yeah, but they’re trained professionals. What skills can I bring to this?”
“Self-doubt? Sorry,” he whispers.
We pause for a moment, listening to the mournful call of the wind deep in the cave. A whirling dervish passes the mouth.
“The big question is,” Rogdo begins, “…if we win, what’s going to happen then?”
“Things have changed,” I point out.
“You’ll still have a bestseller to write,” he says.
“Not sure about bestseller,” I mention. “All this will just smack of a tacked on ending, and people will be complaining about new characters turning up late in the day and-”
“Just tell them,” Rogdo answers. “Tell them these things happen. Life isn’t a three-act play.”
“Yours is an entire series of novels.” I point out. “By the way, how did it happen? You and the Princess?”
“Yeah,” he snorts. “You like her, don’t you?” he asks, seeking approval.
“She’s improved,” I confess.
“She has. That was it. We just started tolerating each other more and more. On planet Bob I…I went to berate her and instead…kissed her. I don’t know why. I mean, obviously there was the physical attraction there from the start. But, it was an impulse, no thought behind it. Then I realised: she wasn’t trying to fight me off. It…” He looks at me. “…just happened, you know?” He laughs to himself. “Some many mysteries in the universe, but the biggest mystery of all…” He points to his heart. “In here.”
“That is so cheesy,” I tell him.
“I know,” he grins. “I’m not one for words. How would you describe it, then? That feeling inside?”
“I don’t know,” I confess. “Never felt it. Infatuation, but that’s not the same.”
“Then how do you know it was infatuation?”
“Because I got over it.”
“Ah,” he nods slowly. “You know, chances are most of us will die tomorrow.”
“I know,” I tell him. “But so will they.”
“We all have to go sometime,” he says. “Most people just keel over or die in their sleep. We get to do it saving a beautiful princess. Stuff of legends.”
“It will only be a legend if there is someone left to tell it,” I point out glumly.
“You will,” he says, patting me on the shoulder and standing. “You will.”
He walks back up the ramp, into the Diablo IV to have what may be the last sleep of his life.
20. REVENGE
“I think I can see something,” Bolland calls over the communicator from his position high atop the rocky cliffs. “Wait…yes, yes, definitely them. Twenty…twenty five plus one Princess. Two are on mobile units. Quad bikes, I think. You’ve got five minutes.”
Five minutes. That is quite possibly all that remains of my life. As it stands, if the Cloak-cloaks fail I will be first in the firing line. At least if the plan goes awry it will be mercifully short.
We are all in position, tensed and ready. Dirk is covering the entrance to what has been dubbed ‘The Arena’, Hiaelia is cloaked and lying deep within the scrags of rock. Drift is currently circumnavigating the approaching posse to come up behind them, while Rogdo is lingering near the crevice entrance, ready to lure the enemy to the arena. I have drawn the short straw and am sitting uncomfortably in front of the meeting point. Thank God for the cloaking technology.
I see the dust particles thrown up by the quad bikes before the welcoming committee comes into view around the bend. I will have to wait a while before making my move, let the dust settle. If any sand particles stick to the cloak my position will be exposed.
It takes a couple of minutes before the enemy has reached the meeting point and halted. During this time, Rogdo constantly reassures me everything will be fine, and my bowels constantly assure me things will go wrong.
The dust slowly settles, revealing the full extent of Westcott’s small army. They are all tough bruisers, each the kind of man it would take four of me to bring down in a fist-fight. In the centre is Westcott himself, proud and arrogant. To his left is the shiny woman, svelte and menacing (and surely sweating to death in that outfit). She is clutching a compact machine gun in one hand, and has a retractable sword strapped to the outside of each forearm. Really, bringing swords to a gun-battle just seems unnecessary. I suspect that, combined with the outfit, she was going for the cool vote with her choice of weaponry. She should be on an ultra-hip action movie set.
To Westcott’s right is a man roughly the size of Gronk. Slung haplessly over his right shoulder is the Princess. Her ankles and wrists are bound to each other behind her back and a gag is in her mouth (it really completes the fetish outfit). She is sporting a few bruises and small cuts, some tears in her clothing, but otherwise she seems relatively unharmed. I suspect she received her injuries through her own doing. Why don’t people learn that by struggling you’ll only do harm to yourself? Either way, it is a relief to see that she is alive, and that all this preparation hasn’t been a wasted opp
ortunity. Over the comms I hear Rogdo breathe a sigh of relief when he spots her.
“Flavian!” Westcott shouts. His voice echoes back and forth throughout the canyon. “Show yourself!”
“Drop the girl first!” Rogdo shouts back, secreted just inside the crevice.
“I’m in position,” I hear Drift whisper in my ear. I begin to edge forward to the war party, always aware the slightest sound or mark in the dirt will give me away. I take a strong grip on the second Cloak-cloak I have wrapped and activated around my body.
Westcott orders his men to spread out a little, then nods to his Neanderthal lackey. The beast does exactly what Rogdo ordered and throws the hapless Princess to the ground. She lands heavily with a grunt and moan of pain some four yards in front of Westcott. I creep up to her. In the distance behind Westcott’s men, I can see a small rock floating by itself. Drift is ready.
“Well?” Westcott calls to Rogdo. “Show yourself, scum!”
“Don’t panic, Princess,” I whisper, hovering right next to the fallen Larisa’s ear. “Don’t move, don’t make a sound.” The way her body freezes shows acknowledgement of my instructions.
“Ready?” Drift asks, having heard me reassure the Princess.
“Ready,” I respond, equally quiet.
The floating rock shoots off across the canyon floor, clattering into the far wall. Evidently having never seen any VR movies, Westcott and all his lackeys fall for the ruse and turn in the direction of the sound, some firing a few bullets for good measure.
I quickly remove the second Cloak-cloak from myself and drape it over Larisa. “They can’t see you,” I quickly whisper as the thunder of firing guns reverberates. “Stay still until we come for you.”
I start edging away from her position. The Cloak-cloak is working perfectly – I can see only barren floor.
Having satisfied himself that the flying rock is dead, Westcott orders a cease fire and faces forward once more. He is startled, he is shocked. Indeed, he is flabbergasted.