Mappa Mundi

by Justina Robson

  “Uh, yes, yes.” She was shaking. She'd thought for a moment that he really was shadows made flesh. It had seemed magical, wonderful. As she faked a professional smile and tried to smother the giveaway emotion he might see in her eyes—you fool, you pathetic shithead, she snarled internally to herself—she couldn't help but feel the disappointment cut her to the heart.

  There had been a time when she'd believed in such things, been a girl with a destiny, a special person, caught in the reality of her own imagination so strongly that it had turned her whole life towards the effort to discover the truth about the world of human meaning. Still, there was no reason not to take advantage. She wasn't so lacking in self-worth that she couldn't at least see how to have an interesting time, if not the one her imagination wanted.

  Under the dark hands of the trees on Fishergate, Natalie put her hands on either side of Jude's face for the second time that day and kissed him, standing on tiptoe, as she'd wanted to the first time; kiss the darkness that hadn't come that long-ago day, welcome it like a long-lost friend, despite its promise.

  Fifty yards behind Natalie, dodging two kids on a bike—one on the seat with his hands in a genial strangulation grip on the front lad, who was pedalling so slowly that he was almost tipping it over—Dan couldn't see a bloody thing. She'd gone along the darkest bit of the road, like a nutter, asking for the local rapist to pounce, and that long-striding s.o.b. had gone in after her, accelerating to the kind of speed that Dan would have had to run to keep up with, and so far no one had come out the other end. Worse than that, it was starting to rain again.

  He was going to give up and circle round the block to approach the other side of the church when he saw another man standing still on the corner, where the last house cast a long shadow. He, too, was looking fixedly at the trees and his figure had a heaviness and a still confidence that Dan didn't like the look of at all. The man wore a long, thick coat that was too hot for the weather and a wide-brimmed hat that cast the face in even deeper shadow. If he had noticed Dan he gave no outward sign of caring that he was there, nor did he waver when a clutch of students strode past within spitting distance, on their way into town.

  It was a foolish thing to do but Dan couldn't stop himself. Shrugging into his jacket more deeply and shaking hair out of his eyes, he stepped off the pavement and grubbed around in his pocket, only then realizing he'd stopped smoking again three days ago. It was too late, though. The man had seen him coming and was starting to turn his shoulder, the hat brim angled to guard against any chance of eye contact. Dan pushed forwards faster, almost tripping over the curb. He caught his balance just in front of the figure and stood taller. He was tall, he could do that. He wished he hadn't, but his mouth was already continuing the pretence.

  “Got a light?”

  The man grunted in the negative and Dan saw a smooth-shaven jaw twitch side to side as he tried to see around and over Dan. Dan weaved an opposite pattern. The man stepped aside smartly and said, in a voice of rasping grit that hadn't a human feeling in it, “Sorry, mate. I don't smoke.”

  “Okay,” Dan hesitated foolishly. He glanced at the man's face and felt sick. The flat stare was drinking him in just like Ray's did, only this one was even emptier, bigger, like a thousand Dans wouldn't be enough to fill it up. There was something weird about the eyes. They seemed focused and full of intent, but inanimate at the same time with a dullness that had scoured out their insides, numbed to pain or pleasure or anything Dan could imagine feeling. They made Dan's skin want to slide off his back and slink into the drain cover to escape.

  The dead gaze flicked away, towards the trees.

  Dan knew there was no way this person meant any good. He had to make sure that if he was watching Natalie or that American they'd get away. Would Natalie have had time to leave yet? Dan dodged around in front of the man, pretending doggy friendliness that hadn't noticed any hostility, blocking his view of the church.

  The response was instant: two hands came out of the man's pockets. They lay on the front of Dan's shoulders with all the muscle tone of defrosted fish. The indifferent voice said, “Look, I don't know what your game is, mate, but I'm minding my own business and I'd like it if you got the fuck out of my face.”

  The hands shoved Dan backwards with a casual force that made his collarbones bend. He staggered back, doing a kind of quickstep, and hit his shoulder and head on the lamppost behind him. His shadow danced and its head lolled, rag doll-silly. It gave him the idea, not a brilliant one, of acting drunk—drunks might get smacked around but they didn't get blamed long-term, or remembered.

  “Lend us a fiver?” he asked plaintively.

  Shit. Shit! Why had he said that, why? Now he was being looked at with the beginnings of a genuine interest. With hardly any sign of movement the man's right fist darted out and punched Dan straight in the stomach. The man had a long reach and Dan was at the end of it, but it still landed like a horse-kick.

  Dan doubled up, gasping, holding himself. He was convinced his solar plexus had ruptured or a broken rib had punctured a lung. At the same time he tried to look up in case there was more coming. Natalie had better have gone. He wasn't sticking around for any more, but his legs wouldn't take him away, even though he was trying for real now. He tasted his own stomach acid and saw a Kit-Kat wrapper floating in the gutter that made him try and smile—something ordinary in this horrible minute.

  “Get lost before I lose my temper.” Without another look at him, the man—all heavy overcoat, like it was just a bit of clothing over a couple of rigged dustbins, moving smoothly, oiled to silence—stepped out of the dark into the street light. He began walking towards the church at a fast march. Dan was powerless to stop him, but in an instant he heard the footsteps stop and the man swore under his breath; he had a cultured accent, the intonation of the kind of thug that is only produced by a good school, where a dirty word sounds out of place and never comes out right.

  Huddled against the garden wall, looking back over his shoulder, Dan saw by the line of the shadows that nobody was standing under the trees. He cowered there, retching on nothing, gasping, until the crisp sound of the man's new shoes had faded out far away against the background of cars and voices.

  Rain was falling harder now, bouncing and sparkling off the road. A group of girls on a night out passed him by in a perfumed clatter of high heels and one of them said, “Is that you, Dan Connor?”

  He saw it was Edie Charlton and grinned, straightening up and trying not to let his face warp as a fierce stab of agony shot through his midriff.

  “Hi. I was just, uh, checking the road signs here. Little hobby. This is still YO2, and nearly outside the walls, did you know that? Amazing. It's part of my extensive research into postal districts and the distribution of urban decay.”

  The nurses giggled, because they were from the Clinic and the District Mental Health Unit and all knew him well. Edie took hold of his arm. “We're for Lendal Cellars. Are you coming? Come on now, don't be shy. You'll find more nice lads down there than in this gutter.”

  “Aye, and don't be selling yourself round here, these bastards haven't got any money anyway!” cried another girl at the top of her voice. Amid a vague fog of Pernod and Obsession they piled up on both sides of him and, laughing all the time at his dizzy stupidity, they dragged him with them into town.

  Dan looked in every opening and down every turning, but of the clean-shaven dustbin in the coat, of Natalie or that American, there was no trace.

  On the other side of the low churchyard wall, in a bed of soaking weeds, with the American agent's body heavy on top of her and his hand loosely over her mouth, Natalie had to admit surprise. She waited a minute and then touched his palm with her tongue. He took his hand away.

  “I have to say,” she ventured in a whisper of conscious irony to the ear that was conveniently located next to her mouth, “this is faster than I usually go on a first date.”

  “There was a guy following me, or you, or both of us,
” he whispered back, “but something distracted him.”

  “Oh yeah. Of course.” She ignored the feeling of water seeping slowly up around her back and neck and concentrated instead on the tough muscle sliding against her legs as he started to get up. It beat the sensation of whatever she'd encountered on the carpet the other day. “I'm sure he hasn't gone yet.”

  “Yeah, he has.” He didn't notice what she'd meant.

  Natalie thought crossly, That could have been the best ten seconds of my life. And it's over already. The part of her that wasn't a wise-ass felt faintly disgusted at the sentiment. Genuine emotion scared her.

  They stood up in the almost complete darkness and brushed themselves off.

  “I'm sorry,” he said and sounded it. “That was kind of dumb. I'm so jumpy tonight. I don't know why. Probably he wasn't following. There's no one even there.” He looked around quickly.

  “No, don't apologize.” She reached down and collected his case, which was sticking out of a clump of nettles. “Is this what you're looking for?” She thought he was smiling and then she heard him laughing very quietly. In a second she was laughing, too. She handed him the case. “I hear you Yanks use any excuse.”

  “Busted,” he admitted. “But really. I think he was someone from your Clinic.”

  “Yeah, I'm sure you're right. After all, this is serious. National security. Top Secret.” Saying it made her feel silly. She knew she had to take this much more seriously, but she couldn't.

  “It is. It is.” He was calming down now and so was she. Natalie took a few deep breaths, but not for any cleansing effect.

  “Oh, your jacket,” he began, making a half-hearted brushing motion that didn't connect.

  “No, that's okay.” She held up her hand. “It's not really all wool, it'll be great, just needs to dry.” The trees were dripping more heavily now. They could hear rain pattering hard against the canopy, like being in a tent. “I think it's that way.” She pointed at the flagstone path.

  Jude waited for her to go first. He kidded himself it was because he wanted her to show the way, since she obviously would spend lots of time hanging out in the corners of local graveyards. He knew it was because she'd unaccountably kissed him like he was the last man on Earth and he was waiting for her to do it again. He felt as though the situation had made something slide out of position in his head.

  “Okay.” His heart was hammering. And that stunt with the wall—had it really been necessary? Of course it had. Lost the tail, hadn't he? Anyway. He had the case, although part of him would have liked to lose it then and there. He thought of the file and he knew where the slippage had started; in a world of such things, nothing could be real.

  Water ran freely down Jude's face. They were standing in the stark black and white dapples of the church security light, near the gate. Everything in this goddamned country smelled of water and mud. He glanced at Natalie. She was looking at him patiently, face tilted up, doll-pale in the glare, two points of white shining right in the iris of her eyes as they closed down, centres blacker, zeroing in on him. The left side of her mouth was still smiling, the right was wry; she wanted to like him but she thought he was playing with her.

  He said, “Anything ever happen to you that was really impossible?”

  She pressed her lips together, evening out her lipstick to give herself time to think, and both sides of her face united in genuine interest.

  “Like what? Meeting a spy and being thrown into a graveyard?” She coughed and laughed breathily at her own sarcasm.

  Jude realized he must have really crushed her. He felt a fool. A real fool. He hoped he hadn't hurt her. He shook his head.

  “Like…” But if you couldn't say a thing like that at a time like this to a psychiatrist, then when? “You had a dream, but part of it turned out true. I mean, like an object was in the dream and you never saw it before, but when you woke up it was still there.”

  Left eyebrow shot up in surprise, right edged down with mistrust and he had to smile.

  “No. Not like that.” She became self-conscious and flattened her expression in a practised way.

  “But something? Or have you come across it, you know, in your research?” He didn't want to sound nuts or begging but he was both at the moment. The rain fell on his head. He felt water run down the back of his neck, making him shiver with its ghostly touch.

  She thought hard. “No, nothing that you couldn't say wasn't just your imagination playing tricks on you. Nothing laboratory tested. But tell me more. I have a lot of material on this kind of paranormal event…”

  Jude shook his head, scattering water. “This is going to sound too dumb to you. You're a scientist, much more advanced than I am. Paranormal. Christ. That's exactly what I don't want to know about. As if the rest of it wasn't bad enough.”

  “Not a believer?” She shrugged and ran her hands quickly through the short spikes of her hair. Her mascara had run in the damp and formed two dark half-circles just under her eyes, making her look vulnerable and vampish at the same time. “C'mon. I promise not to tell anyone, and it's the least you can do after what you've done to my jacket.”

  He grinned. “I guess so.” It was strange, her taking it seriously like that, but he was relieved.

  They began walking again, passing through the heavy, rotten arch of the lych-gate and into the street. A few yards later they emerged onto a broad, well-lit road full of people walking in both directions, umbrellas twinkling with droplets, raincoats rustling.

  Jude started talking because it was easier now they were walking and he could avoid eye contact that might make him doubt his sanity.

  “Okay. You're right. Just before I came out here I had this dream, I guess it was. Someone came and—” but he missed out the kiss part for some reason he didn't understand “—and when they were gone I woke up and there was a bunch of papers on the bed.”

  “Papers?” she glanced up at him eagerly. “Really? What did they say?”

  “I don't know.” It sounded so ridiculous.

  “You're kidding. You didn't look?”

  “I thought you were supposed to cynically give me an explanation of how material objects don't manifest out of thin air. To assure me that I was hallucinating.”

  “Hah!” She grinned. “I always try to do the unexpected. And you probably were hallucinating, unfortunately, although I've always hoped that one day I'd find a patient who wasn't, I mean, that it was real. Still got them?”

  Jude stopped. They were on the edge of some main square, standing in the light from a travel agent's window advertising cut-price winter sun excursions to Florida. He held up the case. “D'you want to see?”

  She looked deep into his eyes and then whirled around suddenly in a pirouette. “Shit, you're serious!” The fact seemed to delight her and he found himself smiling in a dumb way, starting that laugh again, because the whole world was nuts.

  “Ah, you got me,” he said, pretending it had been a joke, to see if she really did believe him or not.

  People brushed past them on both sides and someone muttered not very quietly about idiots blocking the pavement. Jude let the case back down and started moving again. A few moments passed and he looked down at her.

  She fixed him with a frank stare. “Speaking as a professional, you're an awful liar. And I'm friends with one of the best liars in the business, so I know the breed, and you, you couldn't lie your way into an under-twenty-ones night. So let's get something straight before we go on. You don't try to lie to me and I won't really lie to you. I believe you about the file. You'd better show it to me. But—” she pulled the wretched disk out of her inner pocket and flashed it in front of him “—this is bad news. I didn't believe you about it at first.” She put it back carefully and steered them both down a smaller street where colourful lights were strung and restaurants alternated with small, exclusive boutiques displaying single shoes or fur coats to the drizzle.

  They slowed down and Natalie took his arm. She spoke as quiet
ly as she could and he listened hard for the verdict.

  “Let's see now. Where to start. First of all, it's written in Mappacode, which is a specially derived language, requires a licence, and is only known by a very small number of programmers. But, of course, that doesn't mean someone couldn't have leaked it and hacked it—but then, they must have all the right compilers and those exist only on specific, nonlinked military machines, so if it was leaked it's taken a lot of trouble.”

  They turned a corner and had to skirt a small audience who'd gathered around a suitcase circus and were watching an old man juggle fire. Jude noticed it with another part of his brain. At any other time he'd have been delighted to find oddities like that but now it was only wallpaper.

  “Second thing. It's not well done. Whoever wrote this isn't good at it. I'd guess that it's a botch—pieces of other programs copied and edited together. I'm sure of it.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I've found sections of stuff I wrote inside it, that's why. You see, there are different areas of expertise. Some people work on the electrochemicals and the blood-chemistry side, some people on the nonphysical elements—nobody is an expert on everything. I write at the memetic level—the level of concepts. And at the patterning level…” She paused.

  “The physical side of thoughts,” Jude filled in. At least his memory was functioning clearly. He'd studied hard on the way over here and he was clear on the technicalities, if not on the fine detail of the subject. It was a gift he had pride in.

  “Yes. That's my area. And some of my code is in this bastard thing. I even know the date I wrote it and where it lives inside the genuine article—it's an emotional patterner, a tool for studying and editing emotional responses to, and emotional causes of, specific memes; it tells me what the subject feels and what they're likely to do next as a result. Well, it would in theory. Anyway…”