by Rob Rowntree
Alan fought down an urge to turn and walk away. No, this was his responsibility, his burden. Stepping over the threshold, he smiled broadly.
Jimmy lay propped in a raised bed. His face, though drawn, was clean, save for a little drool easing from the left side of his mouth. Someone, a nurse probably, had helped him into a nice blue sweater – Jimmy liked blue – before combing his hair.
Jimmy’s eyes twitched in their sockets, a nervous response one doctor had remarked. Back and forth, back and forth in a never-ending loop. Then—
“Alan my brother.”
Tears threatened as they always did; Alan rushed forward to hug his brother. Cheek pressed firmly against Jimmy’s head, Alan wished the world away, wished away the years.
Ten years after he retired, his promise to take care of Jimmy felt hollow. Soon after leaving the service, he had resolved to visit once a month and for the first year he’d managed it. Every time Alan saw Jimmy, guilt consumed him and drove him to tears. Alan thought this would wane, that exposure would dull his response, but this hadn’t happened. The visits lapsed, becoming bi-monthly, quarterly until this year. Ashamedly, he admitted his failings. Jimmy deserved better.
He released Jimmy and sat in the chair provided. Jimmy’s eyes twitched more slowly, expectantly.
“Jimmy. Oh crap, I never know what to say. ‘How have you been’ seems so inappropriate. You look well, though.”
Jimmy interrupted with the lunge of a shoulder, all he could manage since the accident. He lunged again and Alan suddenly understood that Jimmy wanted him to look in the direction indicated.
Turning, Alan saw the holo-show, Cosmic Journey. Jimmy said, “Alan, Alan, Alan.” Another lunge in the show’s direction.
“No Jimmy. I explained on my last visit, I don’t do that anymore. Just landed a job at the Solar Museum, a glitzy PR job, really. Have to shepherd VIPs around the exhibits. Not as exciting as Deepship piloting, but it’s a steady job.”
He glanced at Jimmy’s head, at the cleft in his skull. If only he’d been less impetuous, but at eight...
The spade spun in the sunlight, its blade slicing into Jimmy’s head. Ashamed, Alan recalled the excuses, he wouldn’t leave me alone, kept following me around, I didn’t mean to... Later, Alan wanted to hide, to run; and he did. He ran to the stars, leaving parents to slowly fade away under a mountain of debt in an effort to keep Jimmy going, keep him alive.
Jimmy’s mouth creased a little, “Alan my brother.”
Alan bit back tears. God, he should stop this; not doing either of them any good.
Alan chatted about his house and garden, his friends and the remaining members of their extended family. Through the meal, now delivered, he kept his chit-chat small as a nurse fed Jimmy. Once she’d left, Alan found the courage he’d lacked and said, “Jimmy, would you like to come and live with me?”
Jimmy’s eyes almost stopped their incessant twitching.
Alan, more determined now, continued, “It’ll be nice. We could bring in some drop-in-day-care, fix the place up.” Smiling, he added, “Have some girls around. We’d muddle through, right?” He turned away, forcing down a lump in his throat, knowing damn well the care he could provide would not be as good as the Lodge’s. Choices, they always tell you there are choices, but when the choices on offer are nothing or not much, you’ll always take not much.
Jimmy shook in the bed. Alan reached for the emergency cord, heard feet running down the corridor. Jimmy grew more agitated, and bounced up and down, drool spilling, eyes dancing in their sockets.
The nurses arrived and stopped dead.
“Do something,” Alan shouted.
“Mr. Abrams, everything is okay. He’s laughing. This is Jimmy’s way of expressing himself. Whatever you’ve told him he’s mighty happy about it.”
Turning back to Jimmy, Alan saw a real gleam in his eyes. “Won’t be much, kid, but I promise we’ll cope. Listen, I’ll pop down and see Mr. Pickering now. Sort out the paperwork. I’ll come back to say goodnight. Don’t forget though, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Alan my brother.” Jimmy reached into the air towards Alan.
***
Back in the main lobby of Mountain Lodge, the sculpture he’d seen earlier once again caught his eye. Ignoring the stares from the receptionists, he walked over. Perhaps they felt he should be hurrying to see Pickering. Pickering could wait some more.
The sculptor’s name, Avram Stowe, meant little to him. Alan recalled several news-bytes and the odd entertainment-buzz, plus some talk of Stowe being a latter-day Henry Moore. To be honest, art never really did much for Alan, though he did acknowledge that this artist knew his subject matter well.
Alan stared hard at the work. Titled Lost Dreams, it demonstrated subtle use of warped light against the brass relief. From a solid base, the object rose to the height of three men, its blocky base giving way to a frothing, foamy sea, gradually disappearing to emptiness as light warped away. And in that space floated a Starship. No, the Starship.
Its lines were perfect, a needle-like body sweeping forward from a bulbous rear. Stowe had even replicated the fuzzy wake of the blue-space drive and etched in the detail along the accommodation needle.
Something deep inside Alan stirred. The representation imparted a sense of lost reality; he thought of it like one might imagine an old lover, nostalgia tinged with longing.
“She’s beautiful isn’t she? Did you serve on her?”
So enmeshed in his appraisal of the piece, Alan hadn’t noticed Pickering leaning nonchalantly against the nearest wall. The man’s pinched features reeked of bureaucratic boredom and bitterness.
“No, this is the Joshua Peterson. She’s from long before my time, last of the really large Deepships. I doubt we’ll ever see her kind again. The battered scow I served on couldn’t hold a candle to this. Never have the kudos of this either.” He paused, seeing the ship in his mind and added, “The mystery.”
Pickering smiled as if praising himself. “We were lucky to get her,” he said. “Avram Stowe wanted a more worthy home for the sculpture, but we persisted.” The acid grin remained.
Alan paid little attention to the smirk, instead he waxed lyrical about the work of art. “It is a wonderful piece. I remember the last time we talked you mentioned your interest in space exploration. A shame the industry dried up and you missed your chance.” Alan was goading him, aware Pickering once applied to join the service but family and illness prevented him. Alan stood back from the sculpture and said, “One hell of a piece and a nice epitaph for a great service.”
“You are right, of course, Mr. Abrams. I sympathise with those who think it should be in the foyer of a grand museum, or in the departure lounge of some suitable terminal. Truth is, I simply had to have it.”
Pickering left his lounging post and sauntered over to Alan. Alan noticed the sharp suit, fancy Italian shoes, and the measured pacing of Pickering footsteps.
Nearer, Pickering raised his left arm indicating their intended direction. “Shall we, Mr. Abrams?”
“Please, lead on.” Walking side by side along deserted corridors, Alan said, “I’m guessing the statue must have been expensive. I’m surprised Mountain Lodge’s budget allowed for such frivolity.”
“It’s true that one might view it as an over indulgence.” Alan wondered on whose part. “However, as I hinted at earlier, things were expedited by a little...what shall I say, negotiation. I think it best to leave it at that.”
You’re anxious, Mr. P, Alan thought, and hoping I won’t pry too much. Without a word and moving on, Alan decided to look into Avram Stowe and whether or not Stowe had any Mountain Lodge connection. There probably wouldn’t be anything, but information is power, forewarned and all that shit, and he always needed an edge. Didn’t everybody?
Pickering’s office hid beneath subdued lighting, a faint odour of disinfectant distracting Alan as he thought of what to say. He wanted to make the opening gambit, but Pickering stole his high ground
.
“Mr. Abrams, Alan, as you know Jimmy has been with us a long time and is well liked and thought of by the staff and those that look after him. He’s kind of a tradition around here, with his Cosmic Journey and dramatic laughter. A shame if that relationship needed to be interrupted.
“The board have been quite firm with me on this and although you have brought the fee arrears up to date, they feel that without assurances the termination of Jimmy’s contract may become an option they’d have to explore. Do I have those assurances, Alan?”
Alan caught the veiled threat; he remained silent and stared at Pickering. Clearing his throat, balked by the underlying disinfectant, he said, “Naturally I wish to ensure Jimmy’s well-being. In order to do so, I want to pay three months right now.”
Shaking his wrist free of his sleeve, he continued, “However, you will no doubt know that I can’t afford to keep Jimmy here indefinitely. My new job doesn’t pay well enough and it would be unfair of me to lead the board into believing otherwise.”
“Are you saying you wish to terminate Jimmy’s contract with three month’s notice from today’s date?”
“No, no. It’s merely a stop gap until I have a better understanding of my own and Jimmy’s requirements.”
“It can be so very expensive,” Pickering said. “But I’m not sure the board will be happy with this arrangement. Of course you do know the suites and rooms here at Mountain Lodge are highly sought after and the board have a duty to the stock-holders.”
Suppressing what he’d like to say, Alan responded with, “In a couple of days I’ll be able to give you firmer assurances. It’s the best I can do. And Pickering, I would like you to ensure the board accept my unusual proposal.”
“And why would I do that, Alan?”
“As a courtesy, not to me, but for Jimmy. After all, he’s been with you a long time and is well-liked and thought of by the staff as you succinctly put it. Surely he deserves that?”
Suddenly more amenable, Pickering said, “You are probably right. The board like to have good relations with their guests, it adds to the prospectus.”
Pickering stretched over the desk offering his wrist-ident for the financial transaction. Alan brushed his forearms. Jimmy had three months.
Alan said, “You know, Pickering, crewing Deepships only seems like an exotic profession, but like many other professions within a short while it becomes routine, dull. One thing that makes it work for the crew is the bonding, the comradeship. That’s what made it special.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do. One last thing. I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by my given name, Mr. Pickering.”
Pickering shifted in his chair and rose from the desk, a piqued look replacing the earlier attempted affability. He said, “If that is all, Mr. Abrams, I bid you goodnight.” The timbre of his voice quivered.
Leaving the office and heading for the lobby, Alan felt overwhelmed by a sudden tiredness; the day’s journey followed by the emotional turmoil and the meeting with Pickering had taken a toll. Alan went to say goodnight to Jimmy.
***
Wind tugged at the tiny bubble as it bore Alan back to Broken Ridge. Beyond the hull, darkness suppressed yet manipulated the snowy landscape into glistening mounds and sugary slopes. Although beautiful, it failed to hold his interest. Yes, he really was tired.
Nagged by the fact that Pickering still needed some attention, Alan shut out the view and activated the vehicle’s communication console. Through a set of links, he quickly established a connection with Solnet. “Search. Avram Stowe.” He waited for a response.
Moments later, a reply came back, “There are six million four hundred thousand and five entries. Do you wish to refine search?”
“Yes. Search Avram Stowe, Lost Dreams and Mountain Lodge Rest Home. Please send the results to my personal buffer.” Alan waved his wrist near the console, heard the beep and disconnected.
Long days drained him. Once he reached his hotel, he’d have a quick drink in the bar and head to bed, maybe grab some room service before sleep.
The bubble raced on.
***
Hotel bars always smell the same, a mixture of alcohol and stimulants, the odd waft of perfume, a stale undertone of seediness.
A long bar ran across one end of a large room and privacy-screened booths hugged the walls, the buzz of conversations indicating occupants hidden behind flickering membranes of semi-translucent energy. Arranged across the floor area before the bar was a mix of gaming tables and vitu-action pads – the kind you looked goofy on, Alan thought.
Alan took a stool near the end of the bar, ordered a beer and a single-malt chaser. For a time, he’d lived out of places like this. A nostalgic tug brought back the years he’d spent hiding from his responsibilities, his family. Worth it? No, because he could have acted then. He’d had the money to cope, to support his family and Jimmy. If he had acted sooner...
“Hey Abrams, don’t start without me.”
Not now, please, thought Alan as Gibson, the nervous passenger from the airship, walked out of a booth and strode over.
“Hi Gibson. How’s it going?” He tried to sound casual and polite.
Gibson smiled. “Great. Been here a while. Got myself a little party going on over there.”
Alan looked into the booth Gibson indicated and saw a couple of young women, blurred by the privacy screen, draped over the velour seating. They looked attractive and augmented, not Alan’s idea of fun, but Gibson seemed pleased. “So I see. Look, I’m kind of beat. Can we do this another night? It’s just that—”
Gibson interrupted, “This is a hell of a town. You grew up here right? Wow, like it’s got everything. Can’t understand a boy ever wanting to leave.” He winked at Alan.
“All a long time ago, Gibson. Young men have dreams.”
“I got dreams too, and they’re over there in that booth. Care to join us?”
Odd behaviour for a business man on a field trip, Alan thought. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps they all did this. Alan didn’t care.
“Hey, Gibson, how did your ‘little bit of business’ go? Get everything sorted out?”
“Little bit of business?”
“On the airship, you said—”
“Yeah, I gotcha. Head hunting, really. I’ve not really gotten started yet. It took me a while to catch up with my prospective employee. Need to hire a professional.”
Alan laughed, “Prospective employee? Hell it must be nice to have people wanting you so much they’d send somebody out to fetch you.”
“You’d be surprised,” Gibson said. “Quite a few folk turn you down and it’s generally not the money. They often cite some moral ground or family commitments. I remember one guy declining an offer because we wouldn’t provide extra yearly funding for his pet dog. Some sort of fluffy, gene-spliced affair. I think he loved that dog, if you know what I mean.”
“Fluffy, gene-spliced dog!” Alan raised his bottle. “Well here’s to them and their moral fortitude, and their fluffy dogs. I envy those guys.”
“Well, Alan, here’s the interesting thing. I’ve only just caught up with my prospective employee and I’m unsure of his intentions.”
Alan put his bottle down slowly, “Now you’re kidding right?”
“Depends on how you define kidding, my friend. I was kind of hoping you might be able to help me here. I’ll send the girls away. Let’s talk.”
Chapter Two
Conway
Smiling, Gibson said, “Alan, I’d like to offer you a job.”
Alan cradled his beer, the privacy-protected booth, cramped, hot and a little surreal. He returned Gibson’s smile, albeit glibly, “Thanks Gibson, but I already have a job.”
“Yeah, that’s right, shuffling tourists through a dead museum.”
“With one difference, that’s V.I.P tourists, Gibson. V.I.P.”
They both laughed, Alan finding his less spontaneous than no
rmal. Harry Gibson, nervous tourist one moment, suddenly now a head-hunting employer, worried Alan, but until anything firmer came his way Alan decided he would wait in judgement on his new friend. He took a sip of his beer.
“Okay, Alan, to business,” Gibson signalled for a waiter before continuing, “I’m just an intermediary here. My job is to get you to agree to talk with my employer ‘face-to-face’ so to speak.” He paused as a waiter arrived carrying a holo-console, “Thank you, you can place it on the table,” Gibson said.
“Gibson, this all sounds a bit underhand. Why not give me the spiel and let me think it over?”
“I know it’s odd. It’s just that my employer wants you to be convinced of the serious nature of his endeavour; he feels it best done if he can talk directly to you. Other than us flying to Sydney, this is the quickest way to achieve that meeting.”
Staring at the console, Alan said, “Look, naturally I’m interested in anything that’s more stimulating than the museum job, but I don’t want to jeopardise my sole means of income on some speculative venture. What’s the crack, Gibson? I’ll talk to this guy if you give me something to go on.”
“How would you like to go Deepship piloting again? Earn bucket loads of money, regardless of the success or otherwise of the mission.”
For a few seconds Alan thought, yes, I’d love to, to fly deep missions again, but equally he felt Gibson must have it wrong, or be joking. Deep space exploration was over, an expensive dream that Earth had outgrown. “Nice Gibson, but nobody is flying those missions anymore. The Exploration division is gone.”
“Hey, hold up, who’s talking about government institutions? My employer is private enterprise all the way. Has a vessel ready to go. I’m signed on. Let’s just talk to the guy and then you can decide. If it helps, I’d sure like to have you along. We need a good Mud-skimmer.” Holding a hand up to Alan’s next question, he continued, “Later, let’s just talk to the man.”
The console hummed to life and an image began to form. “Good evening Mr. Abrams, my name is Haliwell Conway and I’d like to talk to you about a dream.”