Rocket Fuel

by Andrew McEwan

  Morgan decided to make a run for it. ‘They'll want you alive,’ he reasoned.

  Henry was silent. There was a fatalistic glint in his eyes, a yearning for simpler days.

  Lumping Jack though, was not about to give in. There was too much at stake.

  Frozen Hound switched herself off. One of the dog's ears stood erect and Morgan blew in it, folding the extraordinary animal in on itself, hiding it in a space that was no space, a universe that didn't exist...

  There was a chance, he knew, of bypassing the stranglehold on the engines.

  And that was enough.

  *

  He'd happened upon the wreck quite accidentally. Blind to his surroundings, Mordy had wandered into a dense aisle of trees, their sweating coolness making the ground slick underfoot, the air tangy. A bird flew out of nowhere, startling him, and then his boot struck metal.

  Even in the dark he could see the hull was badly corroded. A faint aura of displacement lingered about the wreck, which had met its end, he supposed, far overhead, crashing to earth, here digging its own crude grave. The forest had since grown around it, concealing the spot.

  He wondered at its crew, its pilot. Gingerly he lowered himself inside.

  It smelled of other worlds.

  He wished it could fly, take him away. He discovered a bent chair and sat in it, picturing its previous occupants, their calculated deaths...

  ‘I know it sounds old-fashioned,’ he said eventually, ‘but I'd really like to see you again.’

  ‘You will.’

  He looked surprised. ‘How? When? I don't know anything about you. Where do you come from? How long are you staying?’

  ‘I have no past,’ she said abruptly. ‘Just a present, maybe a future.’

  Mordy was incredulous. ‘You know how old I am? Twenty-six! I design interiors, which I loathe. There's nothing I'd like more

  than simply to pack up, go away, forget my life - become like you, Droover. A person without a past...’

  She swallowed, danced in her chair. ‘What's stopping you?’

  ‘You can't be serious; I've commitments.’

  ‘Break them.’

  And he did. And there she was.

  Eighteen - Jigsaw Moons

  The new Sally Droover wasn't taking anything for granted. Her dreams paraded, imagery from a dissolving brain. Really, it flowed out her ears, stained the pillow. But the engineer had returned for her, smirking like a horny leprechaun.

  He lifted Sal, threw her over his shoulder and capered along the dim passage. She bobbed erratically, dribbling phlegm, a pain in her stomach. The darkening walls passed on either side, narrowing toward some distant point, shading grey to black to emptiness: the void, less the stars, less the planets and moons and satellites.

  To begin with his footfalls were silent, then, as her eyes drifted shut, melting, her ears caught the crunch of dry leaves, the slap of soles on wet pavement, the familiar ring of steel gantries, catwalks, deck shielding. Through the transparencies of her mind Sal descried a hatchway, and beyond it sunlight, greenness, flowers...

  It was heaven, Sally reckoned, and she liked it.

  It smelled of other worlds.

  Luna and Callisto; Thebe, Sinope, lo, Atlas, Janus; Mimas and Phoebe; Miranda, Umbriel, Charon...all of those and others, a regular bouquet.

  Pieces of moons assembled in her skull, inverted, blossomed, gave her this vision: of a place within a place, an interior whose global boundaries interconnected, spliced from longing, shaped from a hundred birthday parties...a jigsaw of juxtaposed fantasies.

  It contained her, but Sal wasn't satisfied.

  Byron put her down gently.

  ‘Where are the angels?’ she inquired.

  ‘What do you think I am?’

  ‘Crazy...’

  He smiled. ‘Now there's gratitude for you.’

  She hugged her knees. ‘Where are we? I mean, actually.’

  ‘The main fuel-tank.’

  ‘You're lying!’

  ‘Nope.’ He rummaged in a baggy pocket for tobacco and papers, the latter red with yellow polka-dots. ‘Ernie grows his own,’ he explained. ‘The paper - like much else - he recycles. Old comics mostly.’

  ‘You're serious.’ Sally looked around. Close by bubbled a stream, water running (Do I believe...) uphill.

  ‘It takes some getting used to,’ Friendly admitted. He waved his lighter. ‘Abdul's dead.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The air tasted vaguely of retrograde. ‘You mentioned Ernie...’

  He nodded. ‘He's around somewhere.’

  ‘Living?’

  ‘Of course living.’ The cigarette-smoke rose awkwardly, like it were confused, undecided.

  ‘How did I get here?’ A rush of questions suddenly crammed her head.

  ‘How does an engine travel between stars?’ he replied. ‘Ask yourself the answer.’

  She laughed.

  *

  Uncle Stylo stepped out of the elevator and walked past the rows of clattering typewriters, their attendant fingers busy, hammering inky letters onto the page. He pushed through the ornate door and heard it close behind as he approached the bulky desk, the woman sitting on it to glance up from a sheaf of coloured reports.

  ‘They don't make good reading,’ she told him.

  Stylo unbuttoned his jacket and dropped into the leather seat, dislodging a pencil balanced on one arm.

  The woman swivelled.

  ‘What don't you like?’ he asked.

  She avoided his gaze. ‘Mainly,’ she hesitated; ‘the Research Section's handling of Droover.’

  He accepted the implied criticism. ‘Kate, right?’

  ‘Right...’

  ‘Mordy's with her.’

  ‘You trust him?’

  ‘He's reliable.’ Stylo weighed the statement and found it wanting.

  ‘I'm not sure - everything's so complicated.’ She dumped the reports. They splashed over the desk, slid to the marble floor.

  A tense silence lingered...

  ‘You worry too much, Amy. The situation's under control.’ He stood, stepped round the front of the desk, leant back on it. Reaching behind him he grabbed a pencil from amid the varihued litter and spun it in his fingers, all the while smiling at Amy Jones, who was static, patient, thinking of the crew, her duty to them.

  The man's smile broadened. He raised the pencil to her throat and dragged its blunt end slowly downward till it met the zipper of her blouse, whiting her skin. There it halted. He pushed from the desk. She remained passive. The pencil moved once more, counted off the plastic teeth, descended, their clicking like that of the typewriters dimly echoing through the heavy doors, far and near and measured.

  His smile, she decided, was sickening.

  The pencil passed below her breasts, exposing them, and lodged in her navel, where he gave it a twist. Then his greedy mouth was on her, nipping at flesh.

  *

  The SS Usufruct drifted ever closer, its darkened mass that of a warship, its silence foreboding. John Silver watched the craft's progress from the station, mouth dry and eyes strained to pick out the merest detail, while on the orbital's screens the unfamiliar beast provoked a riot of colour - an expansive contrast of visuals. In no way was it trying to disguise itself. Neither did he intend to stand in its way; but still there was no coherent message.

  'Dangerous,' was all Silver and his colleagues had to go on right now. The warship would be nose to nose with the orbital station in minutes.

  And then?

  ‘You're convinced?’ Mortimer queried.

  Silver licked his lips. ‘Yes...it all fits. They wouldn't be out here for anything less.’

  ‘Rocket fuel,’ said Mortimer. ‘Shit.’

  ‘And there,’ Silver concluded, indicating Bid-2, its scarred, mountain-grey surface, ‘lies maybe the only source outside of Europa. A million times as much!’

  ‘You think they're sided with Topica?’

  ‘It's probable...’

 
‘But we can't be sure.’

  Silver spun around. ‘No, but the ball's in their court. We'll see.’

  ‘Yeah - whether or not they blow us apart,’ the older man finished.

  Time was passed...

  ‘Did they find the girl yet, Mort?’

  ‘No...’

  ‘She couldn't have just vanished.’ Silver paced, eyeing the flickering screens. ‘Why don't they do something?’

  ‘They're looking. It's okay.’

  ‘Jesus! Not our people...Them,’ he pointed. ‘Could they have got her out?’

  Mortimer was confused. He inhaled deeply. ‘No way.’

  ‘But she's gone.’

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘Where, Mort?’

  Their expressions locked. ‘It's weird,’ came the reply, ‘but I think Friendly paid us a visit.’

  ‘Byron? Undetected?’ Silver liked it. ‘Why not? There's more here than retrograde, uh?’

  The stakes were high, he told himself, and mounting, literally, the planet over which they hung contributing to the plot, as did the Usufruct...

  *

  They faced each other across the dark expanse of a fibrous carpet, its tangled pile like charred grass. Morgan smiled his jolly smile and folded his arms, rested his weight on one hip, said, ‘Please, no autographs.’

  Nobody laughed.

  There were six in the room: four with weapons drawn, a fifth whose teeth appeared uneven. Himself.

  index iii - THE ECLECTIC CITY

  Credo quia absurdum, thought Sally: I believe it because it's impossible. Our forefathers were wise...

  Byron strolled toward her, looking concerned.

  ‘Where does the light come from?’ she asked, stealing his air for her own words.

  ‘Ah, Droover,’ he said, teasing. ‘Do you need answers to everything?’

  ‘Just the relevant bits,’ Sal came back. ‘Well?’

  ‘I haven't a clue,’ Friendly admitted. He waved his arms. ‘I think it's got something to do with retrograde though.’

  ‘What about Ern, he must know?’

  Byron sat down next to her, plucked a blade of grass, chewed it. ‘He's disappeared...but that's normal.’

  ‘Normal?’

  ‘Okay - maybe normal's the wrong word.’ She was gazing at him with mock severity. ‘What can I say?’ he pleaded.

  Sally rested her head on her knees. The flora around her was pungent, tangible, yet completely lacking shadow; or rather what shadow there existed was diffuse, spread too thinly. Of a sudden she felt as if she'd spent her entire waking life afraid, numb, a frozen bulwark erected against a false ogre, what she understood to be loneliness, and was only now seeing the world - the pristine world - as it really was.

  If that made sense. Sal couldn't be sure...

  Of what?

  ‘Byron.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Are we inside or outside?’ she wanted to know.

  He took his time replying. ‘It's a matter of scale,’ he said. ‘On a planet you can be outside, in open air, but still contained within an atmosphere. The same applies here. If you believe it, then it can grow, be any size, infinite - unlike a planet, which is spherical...’ He paused, stumped.

  ‘Go on,’ Sal encouraged; ‘you're getting there.’

  ‘Right - better to talk in terms of an OUT side and an IN side, hm? You follow?’ She nodded. He went on, ‘So, this, the inside, one word, can be either OUT or IN, depending on how you perceive it.’ He rolled a cigarette.

  ‘Like an alternate reality? Isn't that deluded?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Which?’ Her skin felt strangely tight. Were the shadows, the shade's scattered remnants coalescing?

  Maybe.

  ‘Not an alternate reality,’ said the engineer. ‘A rediscovered one; like an old painting that's hung on the same wall, in the same gritty draught for years, taken down and cleaned, and there beneath the accretions is a whole fresh dimension of forgotten subtleties. What the painter intended, his original ideas, but obscured by repeated abuses and near total inattention. Only the layers of neglect, the alterations and sloppy past repairs, have some relevance too.’ The roily was lit, poised between smug lips like a token of expertise. ‘They make a picture in their own right.’

  ‘And the delusion, that's real?’ Sally pressed.

  Byron blew smoke at her. ‘Does it matter? Yes? Then it's as real as anything else you'd care to mention.’ He seemed rattled, perturbed.

  ‘It's funny,’ she said; not, as she'd hoped, surprising him. The smugness was pretend, self-mocking. He'd beaten her to it, asserted his familiarity with the perverse, his ability to cope with its more erratic turns.

  She fell onto her shoulder, crushing daisies, and wondered what the punchline was...

  *

  ‘“Yes,” replied the alien; “but can you eat it?”’ Mordy's face was blank.

  ‘You don't get it,’ said Kate, feeling foolish. She shook her head.

  ‘You lost me,’ Mordy told her, ‘I'm sorry.’

  *

  ‘Universe B.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Oh, I read it somewhere. I was thinking out loud.’

  Byron shifted her weight. He was carrying Sal piggy-back, like Europa did Sarpendon, who, if myths indeed be true, was slain by Patroclus as his father Jove looked on, warned not to intercede lest all the inhabitants of heaven do likewise whenever one of their offspring was threatened.

  ‘How far have we come?’

  ‘Who can say?’

  ‘The sky, Byron, is growing dark.’

  Death and Sleep, twin brothers, carried Sarpendon's dishonoured corpse away...

  *

  Amy responded. She needed him, what he could give. Hers was an addiction only Stylo understood. But she hated him, hated herself as she lay sprawled over his desk, face pressed into a mass of scrunched paper, the sheets she had dropped, their sharp folds like accusations, each biting her sore breasts: teeth like his, as uneven. She cried out, not wanting to, knowing how much he liked to hear her pain, kneading her twisted spine with his palm as she tried, despite herself, to wriggle loose.

  Stylo gripped her thigh roughly, forcing it back, the knee to her chin as he entered her...again, this a diluted rape; first of her bruised, vulnerable psyche, second of her physical self, hooked and cheapened by his lust.

  But she needed him, what he could give. And take away. And refuse her.

  Amy Jones couldn't risk that. She was Stylo's to do with as he wished. He possessed her, kept her soul in his genitalia, a drug, his semen, Amy was dead without.

  ‘How much does Mordy know?’ she questioned later, housed in a blue couch, his apartment.

  ‘Enough,’ answered Uncle Stylo. He counted the hours to her next fix and plotted its administration.

  ‘But not all...’ she said, the strength in her voice that of well-being, present control, the man opposite - contradictorily - in awe of her.

  ‘No, only we know that.’

  Amy didn't believe him. Greed had got her where she was, and his greed was greatest.

  ‘I have to go out.’

  Stylo shut his eyes. ‘Go ahead...’

  Into the city.

  It altered as she passed through, a shape among shapes, few more permanent, less actual. She went to a cafe whose towering walls swirled moltenly, refreshed herself, a drink of such crispness that it dried her mouth; and across the clockface table a man, tall and angular, his reflection in the watery dial as the minutes seeped away.

  He didn't talk, wasn't real. His eyes were windows onto twin kitchens, identical, the menu posted in each.

  She'd ordered the drink off his luminous sheriff's badge. It was delivered via his thumb after the glass had grown from the table. There were other places whose taste was less refined. Amy avoided those, they reminded her too much of Stylo.

  She left amid a glow of orange light. She toyed with the idea of going up to the surface.

  It was the
same everywhere, she thought, the same hollow eyes staring out of pallid, unsuspecting faces. No wonder Stylo had been able to channel such power, these expressions, of easy bliss and complex wrappings, wanted nothing of responsibility, were glad, ignorant, happy for him, for any to carry the burden, even if it led to their ultimate extinction. Although that was perhaps their unconscious motive. They were bored.

  Amy forgot them, became blind to them as they surely were to her. She climbed into a vacant sedan and pointed it toward Bench 9, the last stepping-stone in a series that crossed from Radio to nowhere... and back.

  The city was a thousand cities from a hundred ages. He could program its architecture, arrange the layout of its nebulous streets. It was beyond description. Behind its illusory walls its citizens roused and slept, ate and performed, their lives introspective, shy even; for all the resources that lay at their disposal, they were trapped.

  And Stylo was no different. He struggled as they struggled, but inevitably lost. So he organized a fiction, designed a character, implemented a scheme, and watched as it overwhelmed the vague borders of his mind.

  He was, at the seat of his awareness, Lumping Jack. He was, in spirit, Research Section Five. He was, for all intents and purposes, Ernie - both writer and illustrator, consumer of fact and producer of that fiction which was killing him. His life and lives, and the explosion in his head, all his own intricately crafted lies.

  Was it megalomania? He'd succeeded in transmitting his syphilis onto the engineer, but at a cost. It worked against him now, clouded the waters of his healing well, those same he'd hoped would restore him. But to what? The past, yes, but not his past, his personal, pined for history. It was bigger than that. It was more substantial by the hour. He'd witnessed it himself in the desert. He had used his creation as a kind of whipping-boy, substituted its reality for that of the world's, and now it was using him, Stylo. His arrogance had grown independently. Like Ernie's body, his mind developed tumours, morbid humps typical of his disease.

  General Paralysis of the Insane; a slippery slope, his mental deterioration, one he'd thought to escape...

  Only it was catching up with him. The madness coiled about his arms and legs, compressed. Yet the grip, he sensed, was his own. It held him together. It slowly destroyed.