Limit

by Frank Schätzing

  Hanna searched through the hangars and, alongside various maintenance robots, managed to find four robust grasshoppers with larger cargo holds and higher stilts than the ones used in Gaia. There was no trace of anything quicker, like a shuttle. There were no conventionally driven vehicles here at all; in the mining zone everything was on legs, thereby reducing the amount of dust stirred up and providing better protection for the mechanical components. The beetles’ maintenance interfaces were located in the head and the hunchback, which made the design of the grasshoppers logical. They could get above the blanket of dust and, from there, execute precision landings on the vast bodies; the robots took care of the rest. Hanna had no doubt that one of the hoppers would get him to his destination – they hardly used any fuel – but they were terribly slow. He would be en route for almost two days with one of those things, the cargo hold filled up with oxygen reserves – always supposing he found something of the kind in the station. His suit would provide him with drinking water, but he wouldn’t be able to have a bite to eat. He was prepared to put up with that, but not with the time delay.

  He had to act within the next two hours.

  He paced through the airlock of the habitat and went into a disinfection room, where cleaning fluids were sprayed on him at high pressure to cleanse his suit of moon dust. Then he was finally able to take his helmet off and search the quarters. It was spacious and comfortable enough that you could tolerate several days here, with sanitary facilities, a kitchen, a generous amount of food supplies, working and sleeping quarters, a communal room, even a small fitness centre. Hanna paid a visit to the toilet, ate two wholegrain bars covered in chocolate, drank as much water as he could manage, washed his face and looked for headache tablets. The station pharmacy was excellently equipped. After that, he inspected one of the insectoid transporters connected to the station, but that too proved to be unsuitable for his needs, because it was even slower than the hoppers. He at least managed to find additional oxygen which would assure his survival out there for some days. But on the question of how to finish the job in the near future, he was still at a loss.

  He put his helmet back on and hauled all the oxygen reserves he could find out to the landing field.

  His gaze wandered over to the spiders. The last one in the row was just heaving its tanks onto the freight train, which was loaded almost to capacity, then securing them in place with the rib-like clamps that extended from the sides. From the looks of things, the train would soon be setting off towards the moon base.

  At 700 kilometres an hour!

  His thoughts came tumbling thick and fast. There were still around a dozen tanks to be loaded. He had maybe ten minutes. Too little to destroy the hoppers as he had planned, but he could still take the oxygen reserves with him. Running now, he brought them to the elevator and threw them in. The barred cabin set off at an annoyingly slow pace. He could see the spider’s legs through the crossbars, its body, the industrious pincers. Three tanks to go. He rushed out onto the railway platform and squeezed the reserves between the piled-up globes on a freight wagon. The penultimate tank was passed over by the praying-mantis-like extremities and stowed away. Where would be the best place to sit? Nonsense, there was no ideal location; this wasn’t the Lunar Express, it was a cargo train. Certainly one whose acceleration a human could survive without harm. Beyond that, it didn’t matter how quickly the train went. In the moon vacuum it was no different to being in free fall, where you could leave the vessel at 40,000 kilometres an hour and take a casual look around.

  The last tank was just being secured.

  In front of the tanks! That was the best place.

  He pulled himself up onto the wagon bed, then went hand over hand along the metal globes and under the spider’s pincers to the front, until he found a place which seemed good to him, an empty passage between two traction elements. He squeezed himself in, crouched down, wedged in his feet and leaned his back against the tanks.

  And waited.

  Minutes passed by, and he started to have doubts. Had he been wrong? The fact that the train was fully loaded didn’t necessarily mean it was setting off now. But while he was still brooding over it, there was a slight jolt. Turning his head, he saw the spider disappear from his field of vision. Then the pressure of acceleration followed as the train got faster and faster. The plain flew past him, the dust-saturation around him gradually gave way. For the first time since his cover had been blown, Hanna didn’t feel trapped in a nightmare of someone else’s making.

  * * *

  ‘Lousy grasshoppers!’ cursed Julian.

  They had made it to the mining station with the very last of their strength. Oleg Rogachev, trained to stay standing for so long that his opponent would fall over from exhaustion, was the only one to show no signs of fatigue. He had rediscovered his gentle, controlled way of speaking and was emitting the freshness of an air-conditioned room. Amber, however, could have sworn that her spacesuit had developed a life of its own, maliciously intent on obstructing her movements and exposing her to the unfamiliar experience of claustrophobia. Soaking wet, she slumped in her gear, bathed in bad odours. Evelyn was faring similarly, traumatised from almost being trampled to death and still a little unsure on her feet. Even Julian seemed to be discovering, with surprise, that he really was sixty years old. Never before had they heard Peter Pan snort so loudly.

  It didn’t take them long to discover that there wasn’t a single oxygen reserve in the entire station.

  ‘We could get some air from the life-support systems,’ Evelyn suggested.

  ‘We could, but it’s not that easy.’ They were sitting in the living quarters, helmets off, drinking tea. Julian’s face was flushed and his beard unkempt, as if he’d been burrowing around in it for hours on end on the hunt for solutions. ‘We need compressed oxygen. For that we’d need to make various conversions, and to be honest—’

  ‘Don’t beat around the bush, Julian. Just come out with it.’

  ‘—at the moment I’m not sure how that works. I mean, I know roughly. But that won’t solve our problem. We would only be able fill up our own tanks. All the reserve tanks have disappeared.’

  ‘Carl,’ said Rogachev tonelessly.

  Amber stared straight ahead. Of course. Hanna had been in the living quarters. They had searched the station in constant expectation of being attacked by him, but he had disappeared without a trace. Which raised the question of how, as it seemed no hoppers were missing – until Julian discovered the transport and operation schedules and found out that a helium-3 transport had set off to Peary Base immediately before they had arrived.

  ‘So he’s on his way there.’

  ‘Yes. And from the Pole back to the hotel.’

  ‘Right, let’s follow him then! When does the next train leave?’

  ‘Hmm, let me see … oh, the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘The day after tomorrow?’

  ‘Guys, the Americans aren’t pumping streams of helium-3 on an hourly basis here! It’s just small quantities. At some stage in the future there’ll be more trains, but right now—’

  ‘The day after tomorrow. Dammit! That’s two days of sitting around.’

  Even the satellites were still refusing to offer them any concessions. Amber crouched in front of her now cold cup of tea, as if by pulling her shoulders up she could stop her head falling down to her feet. Some governing authority seemed to have taken up residence inside her skull. She was afraid of cracking up over her fear for Tim, Lynn and the others. But at the same time she felt as though she were looking at the mountainous skyline of a desk weighed down with the demands of her own survival. No one came to help. Applications for grief and sadness lay around unprocessed, the empathy department had all gone for a coffee break, and the answer phone was on in the Department of Examination for Post-traumatic Syndrome, announcing only the hours of business. Every other service desk had closed due to dismissals. She wanted to cry, or at least whimper a little, but tears required a req
uest form that couldn’t be located, and the Dissociation Department was putting in overtime. Escape plans were checked, considered and discarded as her shocked self sat there in the company of five dead people, waiting for one of the neurotransmitters hurrying by to declare themselves responsible.

  ‘And how far will we get with the grasshoppers?’ she asked.

  ‘Theoretically, to the hotel.’ Julian gnawed at his lower lip. ‘But that would take two days. And we don’t have enough oxygen for that.’

  ‘Could we perhaps reprogram the control system for the trains?’ asked Oleg Rogachev. ‘There are some parked outside after all. If we could manage to start one of them—’

  ‘I certainly can’t do anything like that. Can you?’

  ‘Okay, let’s take a different approach,’ said Evelyn. ‘How much longer will our reserves last?’

  ‘Three to four hours each, I guess.’

  ‘Right, so that means we can forget all forms of transport that take longer than that.’

  ‘Well we won’t get to the hotel with that much, that’s for sure. Here, on the other hand, our ability to survive is practically unlimited.’

  ‘So you want to rot in here while everything else gets destroyed?’ cried Amber angrily. ‘What about the insectoids? Those strange crawling vehicles. They’re equipped with life-support systems, right?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re even slower than the hoppers. With them it would take three or four days to get even to the foot of the Alps. And climbing after that would take longer than our reserves will last.’

  ‘The oxygen again,’ said Evelyn bitterly.

  ‘It’s not just that, Evelyn. Even if we had enough of it, we’re still running out of time.’

  Oleg looked at Julian intently. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That we’re running out of time.’

  Julian held the Russian’s gaze. He tried to get the words out several times, then turned his head towards Amber in a silent plea for help. She nodded imperceptibly. Julian opened up the dungeons of discretion and finally told Evelyn and Rogachev the whole truth.

  Rogachev’s face was expressionless. Evelyn was looking at the tips of her fingers, stupefied. Her lips moved as if she were uttering inaudible prayers.

  ‘And that’s everything?’ she said finally.

  ‘Far from it.’ Julian shook his head gloomily. ‘But that’s all I know. Honestly! I would never have brought you all here if I had had the slightest suspicion that—’

  ‘No one is accusing you of thoughtlessness,’ said Oleg coolly. ‘On the other hand, it is your hotel. So, think. Do you have any idea why someone would blow up Gaia, and with an atomic bomb at that?’

  ‘I’ve been racking my brains for hours trying to work that one out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Oleg nodded. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Unless there’s something about the hotel that you yourself don’t know.’

  Or about its architect, thought Amber. Julian’s suspicion came to her mind. She dismissed the thought as nonsense, but the uneasy feeling remained.

  ‘Why the Gaia?’ brooded Oleg. ‘Why a nuclear bomb? I mean, that’s completely over the top.’

  ‘Unless it’s not just about the hotel.’

  ‘Don’t mini-nukes have less explosive force than normal nuclear bombs?’ asked Amber.

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Oleg nodded. ‘On the scale of the largest possible disaster. Which means you could contaminate half of the Vallis Alpina even with a mini-nuke. So what’s there? What’s the deal with the alpine valley, Julian?’

  ‘Again: not the faintest idea!’

  ‘Maybe it’s nothing,’ said Evelyn. ‘I mean, all we have to go on is this detective’s theory.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ Julian shook his head. ‘We have five dead people and a killer flushed out of hiding. Everything that Carl’s done in the last hours amounts to an admission of guilt.’

  Oleg put his fingertips together.

  ‘Maybe we should stop wishing for the impossible.’

  ‘Well, there’s an idea.’

  ‘Patience.’ Oleg uttered a humourless laugh. ‘If we can’t get to the hotel via the direct route, then we should think about making a detour. Do you know what?’ He looked at them each in turn. ‘I’m going to tell you a joke.’

  ‘A joke.’ Evelyn stared at him distrustfully. ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘The joke of my life. My father often told it. A little story he believed led people towards ideas—’

  ‘Well, given that Chucky’s not here—’

  Julian propped his chin in his hands. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘So, two Chukchi are walking through the Serengeti when a lion suddenly jumps out at them from behind the bushes. Both of them are scared out of their wits. The lion growls and is clearly very hungry, so one of the Chukchi runs away as quickly as he can. But the other one pulls his rucksack from his shoulder, opens it in a leisurely fashion, takes a pair of running shoes out and puts them on. Are you crazy? shouts the fleeing Chukchi. Do you seriously think those shoes will make you faster than the lion? No, says his friend, they won’t.’ Oleg smiled broadly. ‘But they’ll make me faster than you.’

  Julian looked at the Russian. His shoulders shook, then he started to giggle. Evelyn joined in, a little hesitantly. Amber inspected the contents in a bureaucratic manner then decided to laugh too.

  ‘So we need running shoes,’ she said. ‘Great, Oleg. Let’s just run home.’

  Julian’s expression froze. ‘Hang on!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We have running shoes!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m such an idiot.’ He looked at them, his eyes wide in amazement that he hadn’t thought of it sooner. ‘The Chinese are our running shoes.’

  ‘The Chinese?’

  ‘The Chinese mining station. Of course! It’s inhabited. We could get there within an hour with the grasshoppers, without our oxygen reserves running out, there are shuttles there, they have their own satellites—’

  ‘And they could be behind the attack!’ cried Amber. ‘Isn’t that what that Jericho guy suspected?’

  ‘Yes, but the people we have to thank for warning us are Chinese too.’ Suddenly, decisiveness was shining in Julian’s gaze again. ‘I mean, what do we have to lose? If there really is a Chinese conspiracy against Orley Enterprises, then bad luck. We can hardly make things any worse. But if not, or if these Chinese people in particular aren’t behind it – then all we can do is win.’

  They looked at one another, letting the thought sink in.

  ‘You should tell jokes more often,’ said Evelyn to Oleg.

  The Russian shrugged. ‘Do I look like I know any more?’

  ‘No.’ Julian laughed. ‘Come on. Let’s pack our stuff.’

  London, Great Britain

  The China theory.

  Ever since they had recognised Kenny Xin in the fat Asian from Calgary, the term had been in frequent use in the Big O and at SIS. The never entirely believed and yet most logical of all explanations, that a Chinese causative agent was causing havoc in Orley’s bloodstream, was experiencing a renaissance. And why? Because of a Chinese assassination attempt.

  Jericho was more at a loss than ever.

  After the initial moment of triumph at having exposed Kenny Xin, joining the small streams of realisation into a river, he had begun to doubt the paradox of the obvious more and more. At first glance, the China theory made sense. Xin had turned out to be the nucleus of atrocious activity all over the world, and all of his actions served the implementation of the planned attack. Admittedly, he could hardly be held responsible for the massacre in Vancouver: although a jet could have taken him from Berlin to Canada in time to murder ten people there, Jericho doubted he had left Europe. It was more likely that he had followed them to London and was observing the goings-on from somewhere close by, like a fly on the wall.
He could have delegated Vancouver, and it was obvious he had helpers, Chinese, for sure. Mayé’s launching pad, the purchase and installation of the mini-nuke, all of it was in Chinese hands. China was said to be the provocateur of the Moon crisis, Beijing resented the USA, Zheng was trying to both fight Orley and get on his side. In short, the China theory conformed perfectly to Secret Service thought processes. In Jericho’s view there was only one thing to say against it: when it came down to it, it just didn’t add up.

  ‘Crikey, you’re good.’ Norrington sounded appalled. ‘It was Xin who shot at Palstein – that must give you food for thought.’

  ‘It does,’ said Jericho.

  ‘The guy isn’t just someone’s weapon, but I don’t need to tell you that! He’s right at the top of the organisation, and he’s a goddamn Chinese Secret Service man. It would be negligent to rule out China being behind all this.’

  Yoyo indicated she’d had enough of sitting around in a cellar, however nicely furnished it might be.

  ‘I asked Jennifer. She said the atomic obliteration of London wouldn’t take place before tomorrow morning, so we might as well go to one of the large offices up in the roof with Diane.’

  In its simplicity, it was the best idea for a long while.

  The two of them went up. London at two o’ clock in the morning was a sea of lights, and it was London: perhaps not the most modern, but for Jericho the most beautiful and charming city in the world. The O2 Arena was gleaming on the opposite bank of the Thames, and the Hungerford Bridge lay to the west, held up by glistening spider’s webs and towered over by the wheel of the London Eye. The orange luminescent moon circled mysteriously in the gravitational field of the Big O. Yoyo leaned back on the floor-to-ceiling window, unleashing in Jericho the spontaneous impulse to grab her in his arms and hold her tight.

  ‘Doesn’t the thing in Vancouver remind you of Quyu?’

  The paleness of defeat had retreated from their features. Red wine and fighting spirit were conjuring up fresh sparkle in their eyes.