Crises and Conflicts: Celebrating the First 10 Years of NewCon Press

by Ian Whates

  We stayed intermittently in touch, but as my migratory tendencies became more pronounced and life, presumably, caught up with Eckhart, we drifted apart. I had been delighted, therefore, to spot him across the auditorium one evening at the free-fall theatre in the capital. After the show (which I recall being oddly static, at least, in narrative terms), we joined each other for a late supper on the riverbank. Eckhart had the grilled sole; I the duck.

  I had little to report since we last met, and, besides, much preferred listening to Eckhart’s stories. His career in the civil service had followed a steady upward trajectory, and this evening his conversation was full of his new appointment as under-secretary to the governor of Wright’s World.

  “I doubt you’ve heard of the place,” he said. “I know I hadn’t.”

  I had to admit that I had not.

  “No wonder. It’s well off the beaten track. About as far away from here as you can get.”

  I cut a thin sliver of flesh, perfectly pink. “Is that not risky?”

  “In what way?”

  “A danger of disappearing off the radar—”

  “Ah, but think of the opportunities! A place where a man can really make his mark.”

  I listened with interest and increasing fondness as he spoke of his ambition, his desire to succeed, to prove himself. He had plans for Wright’s World: he spoke of development, exploitation, inward investment. He was putting together a strong team, bonded and citizens, and was particularly pleased at the interest of the latter, who could take their talents wherever they chose. He had goals and strategies. As he spoke, I recalled the humbleness of his background and the unlikeliness of his success, and I wished him well. We parted on good terms, and, as I paid the bill, Eckhart extended an open invitation to come and visit. “It will shake some of the cobwebs from you,” he said. “This city is static. Immobile. It’ll kill us all.”

  And since that was how I felt about the capital, now seemed to be the time to get in touch. It took a day or two. I had no problem finding Eckhart through the governor’s office, but the man himself proved difficult to pin down, and, when finally we spoke, he was non-committal about the possibility of a visit. Nonetheless, by exerting some of my charm, I was able to acquire the desired invitation. I am without compunction when it comes to inviting myself. A guest who is conscious from the outset that he or she is not particularly welcome can, with a little effort, quickly make him or herself an asset. Eckhart sounded tired, distracted. I would restore him to himself, as he would perhaps restore me, a little.

  The flight, which lasted three weeks standard, was on a small but decently appointed liner. I spent the time observing the other passengers, all of whom were travelling for work or trade purposes, some of the former intending to settle. I had known little about Wright’s World before deciding to visit, and indeed it seemed a well-kept secret: distant enough not to tempt the masses, and therefore small enough to attract the more adventurous and ambitious. I learned enough about the mining and logging operations to put a little of my own cash that way. Accounts of the current political scene were of the usual kind (although I was pleased to see that Eckhart featured prominently in recent years), and there was some travel journalism of the limpest sort that did little to entice the reader. I was chiefly absorbed in the accounts of the earliest settlers, who were blessed with some lyrical writers well able to evoke the world’s rugged, mountainous beauty. The attraction of these more remote regions was very strong and, in this way, I kept myself busy. In time, we descended upon Wright’s World.

  I was met at the spaceport by Eckhart’s secretary. She was polite and self-effacing, opening doors for me, organizing my baggage, saying little. I was not surprised to see the tell-tale indigo marks like bruises upon her flesh, about the wrists and the temples: this woman was jenjer, genetically engineered, capable of high function but requiring regular medication to prevent her metabolism from shorting out. Her bond would be pricey, but Eckhart, I recalled, liked expensive things and never bought cheap.

  Politely, unobtrusively, but firmly, she directed me out of the spaceport and towards the car. We spoke little on the journey to the hotel. Eckhart, she explained, when I asked, was out of town that day on business, but hoped to join me that evening for dinner. When I assured her that I would be comfortable, she nodded briskly and departed. If she said her name, I have forgotten it, or never heard.

  I unpacked. I explored the room. I lay upon the bed and dozed for a while, enjoying the fresh unscrubbed air, the wisp of wind upon the curtains, and the soft heat of the world’s sun. When I woke I showered at length under the copious water and, thus refreshed, I left my room and went outside.

  To call the main conurbation a city is inaccurate – frontier town would be closer to the mark. I could see little in the way of industry, although the main logging and mining operations were of course further out. The town itself, whilst small, had a tidy aspect; the air was clear, the light white and pure-seeming – a pleasant change from the core worlds where I habitually spent my time and money. I could well understand Eckhart’s desire to settle here. The buzz and clamour of the core worlds were very wearisome. Nonetheless, despite my appreciation of the change of pace, I had by late afternoon exhausted what the centre of the town had to offer, and I returned to my room to wait, perhaps, for Eckhart.

  He came mid-evening, still in his day suit, bearing a large leather briefcase and a harassed manner. Over dinner (unfussy but pleasant enough), it became clear that Eckhart was a changed man.

  I struggled at first to put my finger on what it was. Certainly he had coarsened – he checked his watch throughout the evening, and would sometimes finish my sentences, lapses of manners which he could never have committed in the past. As the uncomfortable evening progressed (or declined), I came to the conclusion that Wright’s World had been something of a disappointment. I attempted to draw him on this, but he closed down discussion abruptly each time, and brought dinner to an early end, declining a suggestion that we moved on elsewhere. At the door to my hotel, we exchanged goodbyes, and then he hesitated and I caught a flicker of the old Eckhart.

  “You’ll forgive me for stationing you here,” he said. “I have been travelling for most of the past year, and look set to be off again shortly. But I hope you’ll be a regular visitor at my home when I’m in town. Come tomorrow. Come to dinner. The governor will be there.”

  I did. The governor and I got along famously, and he went to great lengths to tell me what an asset Eckhart was. I was pleased to see my friend so valued. And when the governor learned how far this old college friend had come to see his aide, Eckhart’s schedule was quickly changed, and he found himself back in town for the foreseeable future. After that, it was only sensible, he said, for me to become a house guest. I accepted the offer with alacrity, for my own comfort, yes, but also because I was anxious to find out what troubled my friend.

  I settled easily into his home and routine. Under closer observation, more of the old Eckhart emerged – the wry humour, the shrewd eye for the people around him – but blanketed with a kind of brooding disappointment that I had not associated with the younger man, who had always been on the lookout for opportunity. His house, which was in one the town’s smarter districts, showed evidence of numerous projects started and then abandoned partway through: a half-plotted garden, a library, a large wooden deck providing a view out into the foothills but not safe to stand on. Growing bored with the town and my own company, and keen to draw him away from his house, which seemed to reinforce his mood, I suggested numerous times a trip away, perhaps up into the fabled mountains, but he said that would be impossible. On the fourth or fifth occasion that I made this suggestion, he lost his temper.

  “For pity’s sake,” he said, “not all of us are free to spend our days idling! I have to work!”

  I was embarrassed. This was the first time in our friendship that he had ever referred to the difference in our circumstances. I believe he was embarrassed too by this la
pse in courtesy: the next morning, he was friendlier than he had been for a while, and said that although he could not leave town at that time, I should consider myself free to travel around.

  “It would be a shame to come this far, and not see the mountains,” he said. “You should do some flying too. You can’t come to Wright’s World and not fly. I’ll get one of the staff to set it up for you.”

  I took the hint and agreed, with enthusiasm that I did not feign. I was tiring of town life and thought the mountains might refresh me. I did not ask whether or not he had flown in all his time here.

  It proved an excellent decision. As the little shuttle lifted and I saw the town below fall away, I felt my spirits rise. After all, I had come here to escape the terrible weight that seemed to descend upon one after too long in the core worlds. I could only hope that, with some time to himself again, Eckhart would find that my stay had relieved some of his own strain.

  For a whole day the shuttle followed the coastline south along ragged shores and pristine sands. Shortly after dawn of the second day, we reached the silver-streaked triangle of a river delta and struck south-west into the interior.

  As we went deeper into the mountains, the landscape took a turn to the dramatic. We powered through deep-cut valleys, with the peaks rising on either side, blue-grey and green; valleys steeper and mountains more vertiginous than any I have ever seen. I am well-travelled, made the mandatory grand tour that all my class made in their youth, and have seen some of the most arresting sights in the Commonwealth. I have not seen anywhere to match this wild land tucked away on this distant world. I could understand what had pulled Eckhart here. I could not understand how he had soured.

  We came in time to a small town at the confluence of two rivers. Here, Eckhart had arranged accommodation for me, of a necessarily Spartan but sufficient kind, and had also hired the services of a guide to take me further up along the Red River and into an area said to be the most dramatic and beautiful on Wright’s World.

  Let me take a moment to describe my guide. His name was Yarrow, and he was a native of the area, descended from those original settlers who had come out here several generations ago. I do not believe he had even ever gone as far away from his place of birth as the main township. He was at once an advert and a warning for provinciality, being coarse, dirty, unpleasant, often drunk, and knowing the region like no other. His company amused me greatly.

  With this unlikely companion, I began my journey upriver by flyer. This machine is worthy of mention: it was so ancient that its continued use surely broke numerous regulations, and yet Yarrow manifestly cared for it in a way I believe he had never cared for any living soul, man, beast or jenjer. I felt entirely safe aboard this contraption flying above what must be one of most remote regions of the Commonwealth.

  We travelled without much in the way of conversation. Occasionally Yarrow would direct my attention towards some natural feature of particular magnificence; mostly he allowed the landscape to speak for itself. It needed no advocate. I cannot think of a place more startling, more remote, and more beautiful than those peaks and valleys along the Red River on Wright’s World. And I had not yet experienced them in full.

  We reached a place where the river passed through a deep gorge. A suspended bridge of slats and a single rope linked one side to the other. Here I took flight. I plunged nine thousand feet and, as the river rushed to meet me, the automatics on my glider took over, and I skimmed above the surface of the water, light as a mayfly. Afterwards, I lay on the bank and stared at the bright sky, thinking I had never felt more alive. But there was more to come. Yarrow, sitting beside me, gave a crooked smile.

  “Here,” he said and withdrew from his pocket a small grubby packet, which he passed to me. “This’ll give you wings.”

  I took the drugs without further comment. Spare me any murmurs of disapproval: we have all done this from time to time, if bored, or in need of something to push us through to the end of the day or into the next morning, and we live in a world in which one in five people with whom we deal uses these substances as a matter of course. They are the bridge upon which our world rests. Within ten minutes I felt the acceleration, the rush, and, as this heightened state – in which one seems to have access all at once to all that is and has ever been – came to its peak, I walked to the edge and took off for the flight of my life.

  That night, I was unable to sleep from the afterglow of the high. I stared at the unfamiliar stars, which seemed to merge together, and I reflected that this must be how the jenjers spend their whole days. How I envied them, and this constant bliss. Why did we not all live this way, all the time, open to the universe in its manifold glory? What, exactly, was preventing me from choosing this? As I lay in the darkness, a whole new life opened in front of me. I could come here, live here, be in this state forever. Build a house, here, at this place. I could spend all my days doing this and feeling this. What could be better? Why would I do anything else? Why would I be anywhere else?

  The next morning, back to my ordinary self, I woke to the smell of coffee stewing in the pan and the smell of bacon. As I ate breakfast greedily, I became aware of Yarrow watching my every movement with his shrewd dark eyes.

  “What is it?” I said at last.

  “Only that if you liked yesterday, there’s another spot further up. Off the beaten track, you get me?”

  Out of bounds, he meant. Private property, I assumed.

  “Deeper valley,” he said. He tapped his pocket. “Better flight.”

  “I’m interested,” I said.

  “It’ll cost.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  And he did not. We got back into his flyer and went on to the place he had suggested. He was right. The jump was better. I went twice, three times – I forget now. They merged into a continuous high.

  Later, Yarrow set our camp close to a tiny wood cabin that showed clear signs of habitation. Perhaps I should have queried this – we were trespassing, after all, and surely wanted to keep our presence here a secret – but my mind was full. We ate, and the sun disappeared, and I lay down to sleep.

  I was woken in the middle of the night by the sound of a woman speaking. I continued to feign sleep, but I opened my eyes a very little to be able to see her.

  I saw her only in profile. She was beautiful – or had been once; about thirty, fine-featured, with long dark hair hanging down. When I looked more closely, as well as I could in the darkness and through half-closed eyes, I could see how tired she was, with her shoulders down, hunched over our small fire. She had the giveaway marks at her temple.

  She and Yarrow spoke softly to each other, with familiarity, but little discernible affection.

  “Where’s your man?” he said.

  “Went upriver weeks back. I guess I’ll see him again when the leaves start to fall.”

  “Good for us.”

  “I guess so.” She sighed. “Is she asleep?”

  “I should think so. Long day.”

  I closed my eyes, softened my breathing, and tried to picture the day’s flights. At length, the woman left. But my head now was full of her. Who was she? What was she doing here? This was plainly a jenjer on whom some considerable expense had been lavished once upon a time. She would stand out back in the main town; she would be at home in the core worlds, the capital. She was surely very high functioning. Who could afford to maintain her out here? Why would she be here at all?

  “Pretty piece, isn’t she?” Yarrow said, when he saw that I was awake, and looking back towards the house. His tongue ran moistly across his lips. “Expensive.”

  In the house, the single visible light was extinguished. “Who is she?”

  “Abbey? She’s the ranger’s wife. Gets lonely out here in the wild.”

  “Yes, but – you know what I meant, Yarrow.”

  He gave me a sly look. “Your friend Eckhart never mentioned her?”

  “The under-secretary is a busy man.”

  “Und
er-secretary, eh?” He laughed. “A fancy title. But he wasn’t beneath falling for a jenjer. When she was a little younger, mind, and still had her looks. She was his aide. Swore undying love for him. He believed her, like a fool.”

  Like a fool... “What happened?”

  “What do you think happened? They’re all the same, those creatures. She had a lover already, didn’t she, same kind as her. They had a plan to go off together into free space. She was going to fleece Eckhart for every penny. I think she’d even got her paws on official money. That’s what I heard, anyway. So what was the under-secretary to do?”

  What else could my friend do? Discovering her duplicity, he would have been obliged to act decisively, and punitively. There could be no mercy: what message would that send to her kind? So he had sold on her bond, sold her into exile, out here, to get by as best she could. I wondered now who owned this piece of land. The governor? Some other wealthy and influential friend, ready to prevent Eckhart’s reputation being destroyed by scandal? We’re all allowed one bad mistake, after all, and Eckhart was such an asset.

  Yarrow was whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

  “What happened to the lover?” I said.

  “Eh?”

  “The man, the one she intended to leave with?”

  He looked at me blankly for a moment. “Oh, him! His bond got sold on to the military. He’ll be a hero now, no doubt.” He grinned without fellow feeling. “Rather him than me.”

  I had done and seen enough. On my instruction, therefore, we set out on the return journey very early the next morning. I did not see the girl, Abbey, again.

  I left Yarrow at the river confluence, and made my own way back to town. When I arrived, Eckhart was somewhere else, on the governor’s business, but I did not wait for him to return. I had no desire to remain on this world any longer. I left grateful and profuse thanks for his hospitality and for the trip of a lifetime, and extended my own invitation for him to visit me in the core worlds whenever he had the chance. I said that I would pass on my address as soon as I had one, but I never have. I took flight, for somewhere else.