by John Meaney
On the back, inscribed in careful copperplate, were these part-faded words:
From your Jaunty Jack,
Love always.
14th Sept. 1940
She stared at it for a long time, then put book and photo aside, switched off the light, and lay back, wondering if it had always been like this: years of peaceful idyll that no one appreciated at the time, interwoven with periods of desperation when violence and contingency ruled life and death, and certainty was vanished from the world.
THIRTY-ONE
LUNA, 502022 AD
Gavriela woke in her pliable, crystalline body, stretched in a way her older organic self could not have imagined, and rolled off the bier, onto her feet. The familiar vacuum was a comfort. The wall-mounted weapons tempted her, but she walked past them into the main hall.
Roger and Kenna were manipulating a many-dimensioned maze of silver lines that floated above the conference table. Trick perspectives and something more granted it an exotic, impossible architecture. Here and there, points radiated five, six … up to nine straight lines that shimmered like this: each pair of lines appeared to form a right angle, no matter which pair she focused on, so that after a time, the mutual orthogonality appeared to spread, to be a natural feature of all the lines simultaneously.
A refracted spectrum slid across Kenna’s smile.
—You can see why we need Roger.
Gavriela put her hand on Roger’s shoulder.
—I knew there had to be a reason.
—Thanks, Gavi. I love you too.
The complex image, had it been topological and not geometric – graph rather than shape – would have matched some long-gone memory, some resonance from Gavriela’s past. It resembled …
—What’s the importance of computation, Kenna?
—In what we do? Nothing and everything.
—It seems I knew … Was I at some kind of nexus? The people I met were key, weren’t they? Not just pioneers, but important in the course of human—
Kenna held up a glimmering hand.
—You were in a closed profession where everyone knew everyone else. Don’t speculate beyond that.
—But I was at the beginning of—
—Yes, and that is why speculation is so dangerous. The wrong information surfacing to your conscious mind back then would be disastrous.
Gavriela waved at the surrounding hall.
—To all of this?
—No, to you. The universe is more robust.
Roger, with a series of control gestures, collapsed the silvery graph into a fist-sized ball, then to a bright point which he twisted out of existence.
—So what now?
Kenna touched them both on the upper arm.
—Why don’t you take a walk out on the surface, both of you?
A walk with Roger on the surface of the moon. There was nothing that Gavriela wanted more; but Roger gave a crystalline frown.
—Are you trying to get rid of us, Kenna?
She could as easily have banished them back to unconsciousness, but Roger was right: Kenna had some purpose in mind.
—Our newest member is about to arrive. You two can come back and meet him, but it would be best if I greet him alone on waking.
Gavriela looked at Roger, at the minute interplay of light behind his transparent face.
—Let’s take that walk.
The pain of a thousand blades coming down, the intricate agony of slivers cut from him, reducing him, with no way to deaden the torture because sharing his full, untainted self was all, the reason for putting himself in death’s way. It ached, it hurt, it burned across millennia—
Sharp pulled himself awake.
—Greetings, good Sharp.
Oceans of agony ebbed, pulling back until he could function once more, though his memory of pain was permanent. Rolling his eyes, he saw his antlers had become like glass, sculpted transparency, while the rest of him … He held up his clear hands, bending all four thumbs, wondering why he was not afraid.
When he sat up, the crystalline being in front of him had her mouth curved in the first expression he had learned from Rekka: smiling, the human counterpart of sweetbloom-scented humour.
—You’re not a human.
—No, good Sharp. But I am friend and ally to them, as I am to you.
—Truth.
There was no air in this place, but the resonance of scent still operated, and there was no tinge of falsehood in Kenna’s communication.
—I died.
—You did, and most courageously, my friend.
She held out one hand. Little taller than the humans Sharp had known, she barely came up to his chest. He took her hand in his, and allowed her to lead him out of the chamber, along a corridor where he had to bow his head to pass beneath each archway, taking care not to scrape his antlers, finally to come out on a balcony that overlooked a sere, grey landscape beneath a black, star-decorated sky.
Two small figures walked there, hand in hand.
—Humans?
—And friends. They spend periods of time here. For now, they sleep for long periods also, while they live their ordinary lives.
Stars refracted in his antlers as he shook his head.
—And will I sleep as well?
—No, Sharp. You and I remain awake.
He stared at the distant human pair.
—For ever?
—At least until the final days.
The landscape looked timeless, static for eternity.
But that was illusion.
THIRTY-TWO
MOLSIN, 2603 AD
Celebration exploded throughout Deltaville: streamers and holobursts in the halls and thoroughfares, fountains flowing with goldenmead shandy and indigoberry beer, exotic jantrasta confections free for the taking from extruded quickglass tables; and everywhere the pounding music, spontaneous dancing, and couples in corners engaged in snogging.
Beside Roger, Rhianna Chiang said: ‘It’s a madhouse full of fun, don’t you think?’
‘Sure.’
Tannier looked no happier than Roger: hard-faced, checking the crowd and surroundings, mapping the geometry of ambush.
‘Plush clothes do not a partygoer make,’ said Rhianna. ‘Lighten up, why don’t you? I’m going to chat to Faubourg.’
As she made her way over to the famous fop, Roger stretched up to ask Tannier, ‘You think she knows?’
‘That we’re here on business? It doesn’t matter. Once we’re on camera, she’ll make sure it all goes the way it should. That’s what professional socialites do.’
‘You don’t like her, then.’
‘I’ve met her kind, put it that way.’
It seemed to Roger, from the manner in which officials and others had acted on their arrival in Deltaville, that being a celebrity meant everybody wanted something, if only to be seen with you. Why anyone would seek such a parasite-ridden existence, he had no idea.
‘Come on.’ Rhianna returned with Faubourg alongside her. ‘Big smiles, because we’re about to visit the baby.’
‘It’s a big deal,’ Tannier told Roger.
‘To somebody, at least.’
‘My dear chaps.’ Faubourg waved a limp wrist. ‘How delightfully rough-edged you both are.’
‘Er …’
An amber saucer-shape formed beneath the four of them; then slender quickglass tethers, splaying out to the surrounding walls, began to rise, carrying them upwards. Once they were above the partying crowd, the tethers moved along the walls, bearing them horizontally. That was when the public holoviews became filled with their image: Rhianna and Faubourg waving naturally, Tannier and Roger looking like powered-off mannequins.
Just wave at them.
He stopped looking at the images, knowing he must be the least photogenic in the quartet and not caring. In fact, the more he stood out as awkward, the more likely Helsen would be to spot him – if she were watching, if she had not escaped to a more distant city.
The
damned thing moved slowly, but finally they reached an outer wall. It was no surprise when the saucer merged into the rearing quickglass. A moving bubble enclosing the four of them, becoming the interior of a complex, baroque sky-barge as they floated free, heading at stately speed for the newer, smaller mass of D-2. She remained darker and much smaller than her mother city, but already she was changing: spreading out, with less redness than before showing in her hull.
‘It’s so exciting, and such a privilege.’ Rhianna turned to him. ‘Don’t you think, Roger?’
‘Er, absolutely. She looks … nice.’
‘Well said, sir.’ Faubourg’s voice slid into their exchange. ‘She has a nascent beauty, ready to flower, and you can see it in the lines of her …’
Roger tuned out, grateful for the conversational rescue. He wondered if Tannier was analysing their situation as he was, in term of angles of approach and fire-vectors, of system robustness against subversion in the quickglass that formed the sky-barge, in the walls of D-2 herself.
Did the goat know, as it was being tethered, that the tiger was out there, hunting?
Finally, as they flowed into D-2’s outer hull and stepped out into a hemispherical chamber, Rhianna said: ‘Relax now, you two. We’re off camera until we eat.’
‘You did perfectly fine,’ said Faubourg.
‘Cheers.’ One corner of Tannier’s mouth twitched. ‘We didn’t, but thanks for pretending.’
‘Any time.’
A party of four was here to greet them: Professors Dalywn Kort and Eda Langfeld, lead scientists on the urban-birth team, along with Friss Reejan, Lady Mayor of Deltaville, and Ward Kalshin, who seemed to be famous mostly for being rich, unless Roger read the situation wrongly. As everyone touched fists or shook hands, appropriate to gender, it was Ward Kalshin who stopped, looked at Roger’s cocked fist, and said: ‘You’re Fulgidus. My word.’
How can you tell?
Tannier stared at them.
‘I am, sir,’ said Roger. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise, and my condolences. I hope we do everything possible to make you feel at home here.’
The words seemed pompous but well meant. Compared to the behaviour of other worlds, every sky-city in Molsin had been exemplary in its willingness to accept refugees. Still, anyone looking at the newscasts surely felt fear.
To avoid being haunted by trauma, Roger had pushed away the memories using every psych technique he possessed. When the quickglass towers walked … But that was behind him.
Except that this occurred to him: in dealing with the memories that way, he had perhaps underestimated the continuing threat of the Anomaly. Or perhaps it was simply that the darkness was a vaster danger in its own right, so that even the Anomaly had to relinquish centre stage in the part of Roger’s mind that dwelled on fear.
To Kalshin, he said: ‘Everyone’s been good to us, sir. It means a great deal.’
‘Not at all. And I think first names would be appropriate, don’t you, Rhianna?’
‘Absolutely, Ward. And it’s good to see you again.’
The two scientists, Dalwyn and Eda if they were using first names, drew close.
‘Were you there when the Anomaly manifested?’ asked Dalwyn.
‘I was, yes.’ Roger made himself exhale, forming the mental image that was his trigger for calmness. ‘I was on a rooftop in Lucis City when the towers went wild.’
‘The city walked,’ said Eda. ‘Is that right?’
The thrashing, writhing cityscape became vivid in Roger’s mind.
‘Luculenti were absorbed in the thing,’ he said. ‘You have no idea what they’re – what they were capable of.’
‘Ah.’
Advanced though Fulgor had been, its quickglass tech had never matched Molsin’s. But whatever the city’s inbuilt systems had lacked, the nature of the gestalt organism controlling it outweighed the limitations.
‘That is what puzzled us, the speed and power of the urban mass.’ Dalywn looked at Eda. ‘The phenomenon must have begun in The Marrows, all the same.’
Eda nodded, then looked at the dignitaries.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Would you like the short tour before we eat?’
‘Marvellous idea.’ Faubourg checked his cuffs and ruffles. ‘Absolutely marvellous.’
There was a softness to the walls of the chamber where they dined – on camera apparently, though no holoviews showed in here – but the banquet table was ornate and solid enough, the food delivered through quickglass capillaries; and as far as Roger was concerned it was genuine haute cuisine. Faubourg and the others agreed, though in their case every word was a performance, the truth irrelevant.
Friss led a toast, goblets of goldenmead raised all round, to the newborn city’s health and longevity.
‘Health and longevity,’ the group echoed, then sipped.
Or in Tannier’s case, quaffed a goblet’s entire contents.
‘You know your body contains none of the atoms it consisted of seven standard years ago.’ Dalwyn pointed at the food. ‘Since you’re going to rebuild yourself anyway, the finest of ingredients are definitely in order.’
‘Very good, Professor. Perhaps our companion here’ – Faubourg gave a languid gesture in Tannier’s direction – ‘can rebuild his brain with little goldenmead atoms.’
Stillness held the table … then Tannier fell back in his seat, laughing uproariously, and a heartbeat later, everyone else joined in.
Perhaps Faubourg wasn’t so bad after all.
After four courses which tasted wonderful – Roger had to make sure to leave food each time, leaving room for what was to follow – Friss announced a special treat. Unlike the other dishes, composed inside D-2, dessert – she called it first dessert – was to be something brought over from Deltaville for the occasion.
‘Oh, goody.’ Faubourg clapped his hands. ‘Delightful.’
Tannier winked at Roger.
Then a silver case was melting open, and the party passed around the prepared bowls, chill to the touch. Roger put his fingertip into his dessert, then licked it. Explosions of ecstasy rushed from his tongue, and his toes curled as his back arched.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
There was laughter all round.
‘That,’ said Friss, ‘is pulseberry orgasmousse. Enjoy, everyone.’
But whether the cameras were on him or not, Roger pushed the bowl away.
Rhianna looked at him.
‘One burst of taste is enough,’ he said. ‘You can’t improve on that.’
‘Interesting philosophy.’ Faubourg dipped his spoon, then tipped his head back for the first mouthful. ‘Oh, my word. Mm.’
Only Tannier, among the others, had the self discipline to resist clearing the bowl. But it was not distrust of overwhelming sensation that held Roger back from enjoying the orgasmousse further – it was knowledge of its origins.
Is Friss playing some game here?
Or was it just what it seemed: a celebration with one of the most expensive delicacies available? But the received conceit – if not the literal truth – was that only the world of Pickover IX supported the correct growth environment for flavourful pulseberries, and the gravitational and atmospheric conditions for forming the delicate foam-filled structure of the finished dessert.
A dessert that, according to connoisseurs, degraded in taste after some twenty standard hours in realspace.
That’s so stupid.
What kind of idiot strategy were the authorities pursuing?
From her hidden room at the far end of Deltaville, Petra Helsen watched the holocast. Young Blackstone, clearly bait, was looking uncomfortable among the urbane, cosmopolitan dignitaries; but his reaction to what seemed a simple dessert caught her attention.
The wall sucked open, and a clean-shaven Greg Ranulph came through. His own chamber, smaller than hers, was equally hidden.
‘Do you know what that dish is?’ she said, pointing at the holo.
Keepi
ng systems access to a minimum was part of her strategy for remaining undetected. She did not want to simply ask for data on a whim, especially not if there was a chance Greg might know.
‘The pudding? It has to be orgasmousse.’ His gaze seemed ambivalent. ‘It’s supposed to be intensely pleasurable.’
She had turned down his requests for sex. Perhaps he thought this was some kind of teasing game.
‘Just tell me,’ she said.
Without the beard, he did look better, but so what?
‘That’s all I know.’
‘Blackstone thinks otherwise.’
‘Who? Not that young Pilot from the multiversity?’
They had known what Roger Blackstone was, just as he had recognized their nature.
‘That’s the one.’
‘I don’t really— No, that’s it. You can only cook the dish, make it, whatever … on one planet. Don’t ask me which one, but the point is, it doesn’t stay fresh.’
‘So they vacuum-froze … You’re saying they can’t do that.’
‘Not when it’s served the posh way.’
From her seat, Helsen reached up, took hold of his big, square-fingered hand, then drew it down between her thighs, and commenced rubbing.
‘You’re a genius, Greg.’
‘I …’
‘Come here.’ She tugged open his clothes. ‘Lie down.’
‘I …’
Pulling her own garments apart, she straddled him, sliding down onto his hugeness, settling and tightening up.
Yes. I can use you.
Beginning the ride, hard and rhythmic.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘But … why now?’
‘Because’ – her pelvis was thrusting as he began to buck – ‘someone’s broken the blockade.’
‘Pilots …?’
‘Oh, no.’ Grinning, she rode him, squeezing intensely. ‘Zajinets for sure.’
‘Ah!’
‘Yes, exactly.’
Riding harder now.
Galloping toward crescendo.
THIRTY-THREE