Revelations

by Nigel Foster

  “We’re here because I had to be,” she corrected. “We look around. Then I go Up and listen to my empathic voice, I guess. That sound like a plan?”

  < Sounds like desperation to me, Ishmael said in her mind.

  > Stop being so nervous.

  < Easy for you to say. You were never dead. Ishmael thought about saying that he knew she was deep down terrified. But what was the point? Deep down terror before an operation was standard for Kara. She fooled herself that it was concern for her people. Or simple pre-combat nerves. Maybe they should have a chat when alone in the Up. Or maybe...

  Kara had long ago learned to compartmentalise her emotions. No room for fuzzy sentiment on a battlefield. Now she deliberately filed Sex With Greenaway under "Pending". It would stay there until there was time, and a safe place, to consider what it meant, if anything.

  That was the sensible, the professional thing to do.

  It didn’t work.

  Kara thought that perhaps Anson was falling in love. Once, that would have signified the end. Love meant vulnerability and a lack of freedom. Love meant a man sacrificing himself to save Kara on the battlefield. Love meant guilt. Now she knew a slight amusement, of the giggly kind, and a flutter of excitement. Even as she was about to go Up, while Death watched with interest.

  Kara had never allowed sexual affection to grow into love. And so had no way to recognise the symptoms.

  Last night, in bed, he’d asked her why she’d been so quiet as they walked back from the riverbank to the house.

  “You mean what was I thinking?”

  “Aside from possession by an entity and wild sex, yes.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “It’s why I asked.”

  “I was wondering how soon before you could go again.” Which had been true, if not the whole truth. And Greenaway had taken it as a compliment. Yet it was also what she usually wondered after very good sex.

  But she’d also exulted in her power over him, with or without an entity to help matters along. And how wonderfully fulfilling he’d felt inside her, so yes, also enjoying her own submission because it was her choice whereas Anson Greenaway was hooked.

  So no, it didn’t matter if he was falling in love because she was still in control and anyway about to leave Earth. Comforting to think of a lonely figure waiting for her return... and she gasped, turning it into a cough, as the lurking terror rose up before she forced it back deep into her subconscious. What if I die? With no one to mark my death? No one to know what happened? Missing In Action, still the saddest, bleakest epitaph of them all. Good to know one person would mourn and never forget her, maybe still be waiting when he died.

  * * *

  The front door was leaning half off its hinges, looking as if it was caught somewhere between two different states of being and wasn’t sure which way to go. The table that Marc had talked about, the one he used to live beneath as a child and pretend was a fort, a ship, an SUT, was on its side, with black stains on the rough surface. Kara thought the stains were probably dried blood and hoped that Uncle Jeff had died quickly, before he saw what they’d done to his home.

  She led the search through the house, remaining for a moment in the empty bedroom Marc had used. Could she feel a faint sense of his presence, still there, recorded somehow in the old stone blocks of the walls? Or maybe just an echo of his own personal sweat, the scent of his pheromones and his personal bacterial microbiome? A vague impression of his personality, still alive, linked to this room by years of emotion, memory and experience.

  Or maybe wishful thinking.

  “What are we looking for?” Greenaway asked. “Or even what?”

  “I don’t know,” Kara admitted. “Only that we must.”

  And with that Greenaway had to be satisfied.

  * * *

  An hour later he called a pause.

  “Sure you’ve never been here before? You know your way around.”

  “Never.” She knew that she sounded guilty, and tried to inject a note of confidence into her voice. “Marc described it.”

  They were exploring the woods around the house. Signs of pointless violence: a sapling twisted to death; the blackened remains of a fire built around a large pine, intended to destroy it. And two bodies that seemed to have been turned inside out.

  “Something got angry,” Greenaway said as they walked away. “The carrion crows and furry creatures will enjoy. Any ideas?”

  “The birds.”

  “Noisy.” All the birds in the area were screaming out their songs.

  “Only here. Nowhere else we’ve been. Only silence.”

  He thought for a moment. “You’re right. I’d assumed they were frightened away. But obviously not.”

  “Maybe it’s a celebration. Or they’re warning us to stay away.”

  “Birds didn’t kill those two. What did?”

  “Marc’s entity?”

  “You know so much about Marc...”

  She ignored the invitation to confess. “Maybe it liked Jeff...”

  “Now, why would you think that?” He stopped walking and looked at her. “Did Marc tell you?”

  < He’s guessed. He knows.

  > Shut up.

  < He can’t hear us, you know? And neither can his AI.

  Greenaway leaned against a small oak. “I’m guessing a data dump of Marc’s memories. AI to AI, just before he went to that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.” He’d been seized by an unprofessional need to comfort her. Quoting crap poetry covered up the weakness. He hoped.

  Kara shrugged. “I’m not going to deny it.”

  < We’re going to prison for this. And other stuff. It’s all your fault.

  “Did Marc know?” he asked shrewdly.

  “Marc was just about to walk naked into netherspace. His AI was okay with it.” She remembered her tears. “It was only his last few months. Something to remember in case he never came home.” And then, with an it’s-done shrug: “No, Marc didn’t know. I copied his mind.”

  All city states had laws against stealing another person’s memories. Of more relevance to Kara, people she respected considered it dishonourable. Taking memories without consent was one of the few taboos in an anything-goes world.

  “I think his AI wanted to be remembered,” she added. “Just in case.”

  “You’ve a psychic connection, right? Aside from the simulity training?”

  Kara nodded, aware of what Greenaway was doing and grateful for it.

  “Would Marc mind if he knew?” The assumption that he was still alive.

  “He’d be furious. But then he’d shrug and say welcome to a sociopath’s world. Enjoy. And you can buy me dinner.”

  Greenaway shook his head. “Kara. You know that we have to use whatever we can to win.”

  Kara nodded, even if using Marc’s memories felt close to betrayal. “There’s a place where he lay on the ground for a while, during his hallucinatory experience. We’ll try there.”

  He wasn’t there. It was early afternoon when she called a halt.

  “Maybe it was just important to be here,” Greenaway said. “Or have the SUT brought here.”

  “Maybe it’s time you showed me how this SUT works.”

  “Your own AI already knows.”

  “Even a Wild SUT?”

  < The knowledge transfer happened when we arrived.

  > Should have said.

  < Don’t worry, Kara. I’ll look after us.

  * * *

  Back at the mill house they found a tall woman waiting for them. She was enveloped by a long grey cloak, wore a skull cap over blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes were a pale blue like a late afternoon sky in winter.

  “My name is Cleo.” She spoke directly to Kara, her voice commanding. “I represent the Exchange. Might I help?”

  Kara sensed formality was needed. “You might, and I would be grateful.”

  Cleo smiled. “That’s the equivalent of in
viting a vampire inside. It’s a contract, can’t be undone, yadda-yadda.”

  Kara looked surprised. “You’re not...”

  “What you’d expect?” She took off the skull cap and scratched her scalp. “Bloody thing itches like a bitch.” She fiddled with the bun and hair cascaded down in waves. “Anson been telling you how cold and unfeeling I am?”

  Anson opened his mouth. No words came.

  “He said you’d always been helpful,” Kara said carefully, wanting to laugh at her lover’s stricken face.

  Cleo blinked hard and her eyes became a much deeper blue. Shook herself then let the cloak fall to the ground. Beneath it she wore a simple business suit with a ruffed white blouse. Now she was an attractive woman in her forties, with a definite sexual allure.

  Greenaway found his voice. “Why? For fuck’s sake, why!”

  Cleo’s smile was of amusement and power. “Kara understands. I think?”

  Kara did. “Hiding one’s true self so others don’t feel threatened. Oh, yeah. I’ve done that. But with you, with I guess the Exchange, to impress the natives.” She paused a moment, staring hard at Cleo who held her gaze, the smile now watchful and guarded.

  < She’s data dumping! Ishmael sounded panicky. < I can’t stop it!

  > Don’t try.

  She had it then, and staggered a little as information poured into her mind. The world appeared to slow and she saw it as if through thick glass as her mind went into overdrive.

  The pre-cogs from Altai were not the only psy-gifted human tribe. Others existed who had an affinity with nature elementals. These last were entities from netherspace but not the boojums Kara had experienced. They owed nothing to human or alien emotion. And their human contacts would go on to cause the legends of the Irish Tuatha, the Fir Bolg. Would be seen and feared as nature spirits by other humans until, like their pre-cog cousins, they learned to hide in plain sight...

  “You’re Fae,” Kara all but whispered and rejoined the world outside. “The Exchange...”

  “I’m also here,” Greenaway said, sounding angry. As anyone would when a mentor shows no contrition for being fake.

  “Devas,” Cleo said, turning to him. “Nature spirits. Fairy folk. You must have heard.”

  He had. And understood. “So why the admission? Just for us?”

  Cleo shook her head. “The world’s changing. It’ll need to grow up, with a new type of leadership.”

  Kara told Ishmael to file the rest of the data dump under pending. “Why are you here?” she asked Cleo.

  “To see that you go Up safely.”

  Kara barely heard her. The dam that had contained her empathy burst and she knew Cleo’s emotional life. The deep pride, verging on arrogance, of the Fae. Also the fear of discovery. Understood they were very long lived, and the sadness at burying so many partners, so many children...

  “For fuck’s sake!” Greenaway burst out. “If the Earth could accept aliens, then surely...”

  “Only because they are alien,” Kara said. “They don’t look like us. Do pre-cogs have an easy life? Do they mix?” Haven’t I always been an outsider? She had Greenaway’s emotions now and hid a smile.

  > Can you filter this somehow?

  < I can try. But you already guessed...

  > Just do it.

  Cleo’s emotional torrent died away and Kara was left wondering what had triggered the release. Then she knew. “You’re telepathic,” she accused.

  “Somewhat,” Cleo said. “Probably not the way you imagine it.”

  “Makes sense.” Greenaway sounded sour. “Be good for trade.”

  Kara thought for a moment. Was telepathy any more strange than pre-cognition or extreme empathy? Any more strange than quantum entanglement, which also seemed to be mirrored by time itself? Weren’t they all aspects of information exchange, and wasn’t that what the universe was supposed to be? “Whatever, this can wait. Important thing, vital thing is to find Marc. Any ideas?”

  Cleo shook her head. “I’ve only been here a few times. Never saw much except the main room, while Jeff plied me with wine. What?” as she saw Kara stare at her.

  “Wine,” Kara said.

  “It’s a bit early...”

  “No!” Greenaway all but shouted. “Not what Kara means. It’s his wine cellar!”

  They had to go outside the mill house to find the entrance: a trapdoor that at first seemed to be part of a lumber pile next to the old mill wheel. It opened easily enough, showing a flight of steps that vanished into gloom. As soon as Kara set foot on the stair a light came on. She moved slowly down, unaccountably nervous instead of feeling the excitement and relief she’d expected.

  They reached a dimly lit room – too much light is bad for some wines – about fifteen by fifteen metres square and four metres tall. There were eight rows of floor-to-ceiling wine racks, with enough room for an elderly, portly man to walk between in comfort.

  < Portly – I like that. Too much port. Clever.

  > Shut up.

  “Maybe this is what the Glasgow thugs were looking for,” Greenaway said.

  “Ssshh! Help me search.”

  They found Marc at the far end, amongst the Pinot Noir: naked, cold to the touch, unconscious. His left hand gripped a ten-centimetre narrow strip of wood, so tightly there was blood on his palm. His face was drawn, the skin translucent. He reminded Kara of a painting she’d seen at London City’s National Art Archive, where once-priceless paintings slept until society rediscovered them. There’d been several portraits of dark-haired holy men with cadaverous faces and sunken eyes staring at something that Kara never would, never could see. Marc’s eyes were closed, yet there was still the same sense that he part inhabited a different world. She took a deep, shuddering breath like the rhythm of a tribal drum.

  “You two always manage to surprise me,” Greenaway said wonderingly. “Despite everything else that’s going on.” He sounded as calm as he would have been ordering a drink in a bar, but Kara thought she could detect a slight wobble in his voice, a glistening in his eye. “The universe is more amazing than I thought.” He reached out to remove the strip of wood – marked with four irregularly spaced lines and notches – from Marc’s hand.

  “Don’t,” Kara said urgently. For a moment she remembered straining to attention as her sister Dee had measured her height.

  “But...”

  “It’s a talisman. Links him to this reality.”

  “You gave it to him?”

  “I’ll explain later. It’s just...” but there was no good way to explain something she sensed but couldn’t justify. “Maybe it’s still keeping him here.”

  Greenaway shrugged. “If you like. But it gets a med-spray.”

  Marc was light in their arms and easy to lift. He smelt of ozone, as from the sea or after a thunderstorm. No signs of waking until they got him into the open air, when he stirred slightly and gave the lightest of sighs. The SUT had med-aid, so they carried him there, with Cleo helping. Just before they reached the SUT Marc sighed again, muttered something and opened his eyes.

  Eyes that writhed with all the colours of netherspace and hell, far more than Henk on the RIL-FIJ-DOQ when he and Kara were having sex. Far more than Kara’s had last night.

  All three avoided looking at Marc’s face as they strapped him to a bed – no crude bunks in a Wild SUT – in a simply furnished cabin, with the med-aid plugged in and humming a reassuring tune. Marc still clutched the strip of wood.

  “Maybe you’re right about that talisman,” Greenaway said. He paused, listening to something. “The SUT’s AI says he’s in no immediate danger.”

  “So I take him with me,” she said to Greenaway as they emerged into the deepening twilight.

  “One way or another.”

  “Even though I’ve no idea where to go?”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “What if he doesn’t wake up? Isn’t sane?”

  “This is your very own not-to-reason-why moment, Kara. Embrace
it.”

  “Bastard,” she said affectionately. “And thank you for last night. And today.”

  He smiled. “Thanks for having me.”

  She grinned and held his gaze. “I hope you’ll come again.” “So do I, Kara.” He bent, cupped her face and lightly kissed her.

  “I’d stay if I could,” she said and broke away.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” from Cleo.

  Kara looked blank. She wanted to go Up as much as anyone. But the small matter of Gliese-supplied foam that protects SUT’s in nether- and real space?

  Cleo and Greenaway glanced at each other. Greenaway went first.

  “Wild SUTs don’t need foam. The hull’s sufficient.”

  “And Wild SUTs don’t need call-out fees,” Cleo added. She made an impatient gesture.

  Kara said, “Why the foam?”

  “The foam doesn’t only protect you from netherspace,” Cleo said. “It also protects netherspace from you. And the Wild aren’t considered a threat. Our SUTs are never attacked and anyway, the hulls are better protection than foam.”

  Kara could only stare at her.

  “Netherspace is an underlying dimension of raw creation,” Cleo explained. “Very susceptible to outside, human or alien ideas and emotions. The boojums aren’t the same as entities, they’re created whenever a sentient being enters netherspace. The Gliese foam dampens down the human presence, their emotions. So no new boojums are created, unless the foam fails. But the existing ones can sometimes sense the presence of humans. They’re intrigued and sometimes violent. But like I said, a Wild SUT won’t have any problems.” She kissed Kara a brief goodbye and discreetly walked away.

  Kara looked at Greenaway. “It’s all a great big crock of shit. All of it.”

  “Has been ever since the first alien scared the crap out of a caveman. There’s clothes, equipment for all three of you on board. If you have a breakdown, there are two spare star drives on board. Good luck, wrap up warm, come back safe. What did you mean about Paris?”

  Kara smiled. “Yours to discover.” She kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “Sod off before I forbid it.”

  “Marching to my front like a soldier. That’s another reference.” She bit her lip. “Tell the truth I’m scared.”