by John Meaney
He would have to stop blaming the meds.
*
They flew back next to a couple called Gerald and Virginia (call me Ginny) Hawke, two aerospace engineers in the process of moving from Seattle to Los Angeles, Gerald to take up a teaching position at UCLA and Ginny – ‘for the time being’ – to be a mother: the swelling of her abdomen was scarcely visible.
The meds or forgetfulness must have affected birth-control measures as well as rational thought, because the following autumn, Jacqui would produce a daughter just two months after the Hawkes produced their son. They would become friends, and their children would go to school together; and there would often be joint celebrations at Brody and Amy’s place, Thanksgiving included.
From time to time across the years, Lucas would experience an unfocused feeling, a notion that he was obliged to send the crystal spearhead into the future, just as he had the graphene flake. It was not until the birth of his and Jacqui’s first grand-child, when he decided it was time finally to write a will and work out who should own the crystal when he was gone, that he realised he was carrying the thing forward, at the same rate that everyone else in the world was engaged in time travel.
One minute per minute, one day at a time.
TWENTY-ONE
VACHSS STATION, VIJAYA ORBIT, 2604 AD
Labyrinth was the link, Roger realised, as he and his wonderful ship burst into realspace in the vicinity of his destination, Vachss Station. He had time to spare before contacting the orbital became mandatory. At this distance, it would not challenge him for ten minutes: that was protocol, though one in need of revision, given the existence and unknown intentions of Schenck and his renegade Pilot fleet.
Roger allowed himself to drift in a disjunctive trance, having released conjunction with his beloved ship, needing to think by himself.
It has to be Labyrinth.
The city world itself, when he had been granted a day’s leave from Tangleknot, had prompted him to visit the Logos Library, where Ro McNamara had granted him insight into past events unknown to all but the most dedicated history scholars. And his beautiful ship was grown parthenogenetically with Labyrinth’s connivance, heir to his father’s ship but not identical to it, with latent memories only just becoming accessible to Roger now that he-and-ship were far from home, on their first operational mission.
He had access to knowledge that no one would expect him to have, giving him a different perspective on the events he was caught up in – a perspective predisposing him to take action, he assumed, in ways that Labyrinth itself would approve of.
Perhaps it was the clearly benign nature of the city-world that made questioning its purpose seem pointless; or perhaps even Pilotkind possessed mental blindspots.
Whether this trip had hidden objectives or was simply the jaunt it appeared to be – Jed was clearly not guilty of the original charges, and the Vachss Station authorities just needed to complete the formalities and release him into another Pilot’s temporary, nominal care – he would try to work out later. For now, it was the newly uncovered secret memories that occupied his attention.
The first sequence of Dad’s memory had come to Roger shortly after leaving Labyrinth, as he-and-ship entered the violet-edged vastness that was Spiderblood Drift.
sequence [[[
Fear and hysteria, laughing and crying as he drifts in blazing space amid a billion suns, a thin quickglass suit protecting him from vacuum, while he is overwhelmed by the beauty of the galactic core.
Oh, my love. I’ve missed you.
She is coming, he knows.
My name is Carl Blackstone, and I’m alive!
It is the desperate presumption of a mote, the ego struggling to maintain existence within transcendent immensity, as he revolves and the thousand-lightyear needle comes into view, the jet spurting from the galaxy’s heart, the first time any Pilot or human has seen the thing with a chance of reporting back on its existence.
Everyone else witnessing the jet has been suborned by the darkness.
Or they have died.
]]]
It had been a disconcerting memory-flash, a prelude to a detailed remembrance of events happening to his father ten subjective days before he was set adrift to die.
sequence [[[
Fairwell Rotunda, one of the lobbies within the thirteen-deck structure: that is the rendezvous point. Carl Blackstone watches several tourists admire the deep-orange quickglass opulence, but by the standards of Pneumos City this is something of a dive: the visitors just aren’t used to Molsin’s superior standards.
He likes this world.
Churchgoers are celebrating a quiet ceremony – most likely praying for a safe voyage – in a small group in the corner. Their foreheads are tattooed with three glistening dots that form an equilateral triangle enclosing a golden symbol: γ. This is the five hundred and seventh anniversary, according to his tu-ring, of the mythical event that eventually produced the Church of Equilateral Redemption, a cult so small that Carl is surprised to find the knowledge-base entry.
A woman walks over, presumably Xala, his contact. Her head is shaven, sporting motile tattoos.
‘Devlin Cantrelle?’ she asks.
‘That’s, er, me.’ Carl allows nerves to surface in his voice. ‘Looking to buy—’
‘Passage to Nerokal Tertius.’ Smart-ink unicorns slide across her scalp. ‘The xeno ruins. And you’re a teacher with Gregor TechNet.’
‘How—? Yes.’
Xala’s smartlenses grow opaque, then clear.
‘Orbital ascent in fifty minutes.’
‘You’re travelling too?’ asks Carl.
The others are a family with defeated-looking eyes, a group of dark-suited, hard-faced men playing virtual cards around a table, and a seventh man, scar-heavy, with callused knuckles.
‘Along with them.’ She gestures towards the hard men. ‘The priests.’
‘Priests,’ says Carl.
‘We don’t pry into reasons. Not even yours, Mr Cantrelle.’
‘Um, right. Yes.’
He has already paid for the trip by clandestine transfer. There was always a chance she would simply not turn up; but it looks as though the offer might be real, at least up to a point.
The Admiralty Council has, for good security reasons, placed a strict embargo on Nerokal Tertius. So a black-market outfit offering trips to that location implies one of several possibilities, none of which can be legitimate.
Hence his presence here.
The people in the lobby stir as a presence enters, and the shock makes Carl want to throw up, because she can not be here: it is not possible. Not her.
Lianna Kaufmann was the person he loved, or possibly just worshipped when he was a neophyte, a Pilot Candidate who ostensibly became one of the Shipless during Graduation, while secretly gaining a red-trimmed black vessel with more power and manoeuvrability than he had thought possible. He had been recruited by Max Gould himself while still at the Academy, well in advance of that shaming public ceremony when Lianna saw Carl Blackstone apparently failing to gain any ship at all.
She is wearing a black, gold-edged cape with her black jump-suit. Old school and formal. But there is no time to wonder what she is doing here, because if she sees him the operation is blown. He gestures to the quickglass with the gotta-pee sign (as it’s usually known), and as the chamber opens, he tumbles inside. It seals up fast.
Before she glimpsed him, he thinks.
His tu-ring hides him from internal surveillance – unless Li-anna’s tu-ring has similar capabilities, he is now hidden from her. It also renders a section of the wall transparent, one-way, so he can see what Lianna does next.
Which is to point at a nervous-looking man and say: ‘That’s the one,’ as proctors enter the room, raising weaponised gauntlets. The man tumbles to the floor unconscious. Lianna crouches down, running her hand along the suspect’s clothing. ‘There. And there, woven into the material.’
A smuggler.
&nb
sp; When the proctors have bound him with glistening membrane, they place the prisoner on a frictionless slide-sheet and drag him away with ease, while their officer ceremonially thanks Lianna, who says: ‘My pleasure, and I was happy to illustrate the point. So if we can return to the talks?’
‘This way, Pilot.’
There is much conversation when they have left – not many people get to see a real Pilot, never mind like this – while blood begins to return to certain faces, including Xala’s.
Lianna. Oh, Lianna.
Their friend Soo Lin used to say that strength means swallowing bitterness.
Concentrate.
‘Five minutes to detachment, everyone,’ announces Xala.
The fake priest with the scarred features and hardened knuckles approaches the small family group. ‘Hey, kids. You looking forward to this?’ And, as they shrink back: ‘What are you looking at? Are you trying to insult me?’
It is a good time to slip out of a hiding-place, while no one is looking this way. Carl does so, then walks openly towards the man – mental label Scarface; unkind but that is not the point – to get his attention.
‘You got a problem, my son?’ asks Scarface.
‘Er . . . No.’
Then the cold, psychopath laugh.
‘Three minutes,’ says Xala in a low voice.
Soon enough – as seen through a holoview opened by Xala – the Rotunda they are in has detached from Pneumos City and is rising through gold-and-orange clouds, leaving the sky-city shrinking below. Among the family, the baby is crying and the parents look worried.
‘Um, Miss . . .’ The father approaches Xala. ‘We were wondering. I mean, about the Pilot for the journey. How does—?’
‘Don’t,’ says Xala.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Don’t wonder. Go back to your wife and children.’
‘Oh,’ says the man. ‘Oh.’
Scarface calls over: ‘Pretty daughters you have, old man.’
It is enough to drain the blood from the father’s face and send him to his family, who shrink together as if for protection, really just for comfort. False comfort, tactically speaking.
For Carl to break cover might ruin the operation. If there really is an illegal mu-space voyage taking place, he needs to discover the same thing the father wanted to know: who or what will be flying the vessel. But there comes a point when mission integrity becomes secondary.
He will not allow Scarface to touch the children.
And there is the danger of mono-focus, because if he deals with Scarface then the six other hard men are likely to react. One of them, mental label Greybeard, has a carry-case at his feet that might contain anything, weaponry included. He will need to take them all down as well, while remaining alert to the third danger: that there is someone or something else here, a threat he has not identified. If that threat is automated, it might react in femtoseconds.
Blinking, he cranks up his tu-ring’s weapon displays.
Hoping they will remain unused.
]]]
Roger checked: Vachss Station was still waiting for him to initiate approach procedures. He ought to do just that. But one more segment first, just one . . .
sequence [[[
When the chamber reaches the edge of space beneath its vast extended balloon, impellers kick in and it rises higher, to Congregation Orbital where other ellipsoids like this one, balloons reabsorbed into their quickglass hulls, form a huge shoal, many linked by tendril-like tunnels, while others drift around the periphery, and a small number move alone, approaching or leaving the rest.
Off to one side floats a magnificent, unusual silver vessel, largely teardrop-shaped. Even if he had not seen it before, Carl would have known it for Lianna’s ship, as distinctive as her personality. In the Academy she was consistently top of the class yet remained an individualist.
‘Is that our ship, Daddy?’
‘Shh. Maybe.’
No, child. Not for a flight to an embargoed world.
‘Delta-bands all round.’ Xala is handing out the strips. To the father: ‘Children first, and then your own.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait until we’re—?’
‘Delta-bands now. It’s a condition of travelling.’
Scarface calls over: ‘No one’s making us miss this flight.’ He waits for the father to gulp before adding, ‘See? Blessed are the fucking peacemakers, right?’
None of the hard-faced men disguised as priests show a reaction, not even a smirk. As potential threats, Carl scales them upwards once more. Amateurs use intimidation as a social game, professionals as a tool.
Then he has a delta band in hand, given to him by Xala, while all around his fellow would-be passengers are settling on couches newly extruded from the quickglass deck. As they put their delta-bands on their foreheads and press the tiny studs, their eyelids flutter and they fall into deep, protective coma.
Lying there helpless against anyone left awake.
Time to choose.
He did not expect this, and it’s another form of cut-off: to go along with the risk or blow the whole thing open, when he has not even seen the rogue mu-space vessel – assuming one exists.
Luckily, autohypnosis is a basic part of Labyrinthine education.
‘Thank you,’ he says to Xala, as if grateful. ‘Press here?’
‘That’s right.’
He takes his time lying back on the couch and getting comfortable, while his internal voice talks his divided self through progressive relaxation with definite commands – move your hand – designed to kick in if he senses danger or ambient mu-space – remember to move your hand – before pressing the stud and falling backwards into sleep.
]]]
Roger shivered at the memory of risk, although it predated his own birth by more than a standard decade, therefore his father had clearly survived whatever followed. Only selective mindwipe had rendered those memories inaccessible to Carl, even when conjoined with his beloved ship, who retained these fragments in her own deep unconscious.
It was strange to immerse himself in his father’s memories of Molsin, after his own experiences there last year.
sequence [[[
Golden sleep, and his hand is rising, reaching for the delta band—
Coldness.
—and falls, as they drop straight away into realspace once more. Perhaps they were in mu-space for longer than it seems: perhaps it took time for the suggestion to kick in, to remove the band and come awake while the others slept.
He feels a hand on his forehead, and the delta-band comes off.
‘—are we?’ someone was saying.
It is the father of the family, Carl realises, squinting his way to wakefulness. They are in a cabin formed of something akin to flowmetal, but not a material used by Pilots.
A Zajinet ship. It was always a possibility.
But he had not intended to sleep in coma while surrounded by wakened human criminals, never mind the Zajinet crew, and even the ship itself: Zajinet vessels are mystery.
‘What kind of a ship is this?’ asks someone.
‘Ain’t no kind of ship at all,’ says one of the pseudo-priests. ‘It’s a robbery.’
Someone has already pocketed the funds paid in advance. Do the passengers really have anything worth stealing? Worth setting up a real voyage with Zajinets?
‘No robbery,’ says Xala. ‘That’s not it at all.’
Carl misinterpreted the hard man: it was not a threat but an assessment.
‘We have a little problem,’ Xala continues. ‘Someone isn’t who they claim to be.’
Oh, shit.
He feels the pulse behind his eyes, energy building up. His tu-ring is ready to cut loose.
‘Someone’s not quite human.’ Xala nods to the nearest bulkhead. ‘So they tell me.’
Zajinets could sense Pilots. Of course they could.
Ready.
But the chances of being able to fly a Zajinet vessel, even if he can t
ake out the crew without causing damage to the ship, are minimal. And then there is the family, with children he will not allow to be harmed.
The fake priests are sitting up but saying nothing, analysing the situation.
All except one.
No!
Carl sees it now, the thing that the Zajinets must already have sensed: the shards of darkness, twisting. The sense of something deep and awful controlling what might once have been a normal man; or perhaps there had to be something odd about a person to render them vulnerable to such manipulation.
Greybeard.
It is stronger now, the darkness, as Greybeard stands amid glimmering smartmist, ready to destroy everyone. For the sake of visible persuasion, he grabs Xala by the throat one-handed, while keeping hold of the carry-case he has had all along; but the smartmist is the deadly threat.
Carl should have seen this coming.
But the darkness . . .
It’s a weird, faint phenomenon – and for now, irrelevant.
Everyone is holding still, Scarface included. Even Xala is not struggling, for the one-handed pinch-hold around her throat is to intimidate, not kill. Not yet.
‘No need to speak, sweetheart,’ Greybeard tells her. ‘It’s your weird-minded masters I’m talking to. You hear me, Zajinets?’ Then, to Scarface and the other hard men: ‘Change of plans. We’re going to drop off the case all right’ – he hefts it briefly, his other hand still firm against Xala’s throat, fingers and thumb ready to pinch the larynx fatally shut – ‘but not on Nerokal Tertius. And you bastards are not coming with me.’
As their faces tighten, Greybeard adds: ‘You’ve already been paid, so nothing else matters. Check it now.’
There are glances exchanged and holovolumes opened, and nods among the hard men.
‘I don’t like threats,’ says Scarface.
‘Me neither,’ answers Greybeard. ‘But that doesn’t— Oh, look. One of the xeno bastards is here.’