*
Relieved of the Cocoon 41, Kaptu made quick work of the return journey off the tower and back through the sewer system. He removed his bodysuit at the perimetre fence and placed it in a led lined laundry bag. In its place he put on a grey shirt and a pair of brown suede pants. He strolled then through the streets of Paris for a time, happy to be in amongst people again. Off the Rue De Charlie, there was an alley with a red door and an illuminated sign that read “The Spanish Club”. The door opened to narrow steps leading down into the basement. The stairs were old and grimy but the music coming up them was irresistible Flamenco guitar; the playing was not quite perfect enough to be a recording and was all the more interesting for it. He headed down the stairs into the bar and the first thing he did was confirm that the music was indeed live. There were two guitarists upon a small corner stage, their faces mostly hidden as they intently leaned over their instruments. All that Kaptu could really make out was that one was a woman with black hair tied in a ponytail and the other a man with spiky ginger hair. Although the musicians barely acknowledged each other, they were playing completely in unison. Kaptu turned his attention to rest of the bar and saw that the audience scattered amongst the dimly lit tables were absorbed in the performance. He did not pay the audience too much heed, for it was enough that they did not resemble police or fugitive poachers. He sat down at a table that was near the stage and that kept his back away from the door. The waiter came soon afterwards.
‘Something to drink?’ the man asked in a high pitched voice.
‘It’s you who will be ordering from me,’ replied Kaptu. He revealed from under his arm a bottle of Johnny Walker red label.
The waiter’s eyes widened upon it. ‘Is it real?’ he queried with his voice barely holding together.
‘Bring some glasses and I’ll let you find out.’
The waiter hurried away to the bar. Kaptu watched him closely, wondering if he was on his way to summon the police. A rich applause from the audience drew his attention back to the stage. A flamenco dancer stepped up onto the stage in front of the two guitarists. Her movements were precise and elegant, her dress and long black hair flowing in unison. She danced with tremendous energy and precision and the whole bar was enthralled. The waiter returned to Kaptu’s table with three glasses and a tall, grey haired woman accompanying him.
‘Hello,’ the woman said. ‘I’m the manager. I’ve been told you’ve got something worth pouring.’
Kaptu put the whisky bottle on the table and the manager inspected the label carefully with a jeweler’s loupe magnifying glass. She looked Kaptu over with equal thoroughness. ‘You’re not from here, are you?’
Kaptu shrugged. ‘I’m here now.’
‘In Paris, having alcohol that predates the world liquor ban can have one of two consequences: you can either be rich or rich and dead. Just last week a barman a few blocks away had his head removed from his shoulders over a case of Budweiser beer.’
‘That is not surprising to me. Why would people pay good money for something if they can kill for it instead?’
The manager sat down at the table and opened the bottle of Jack Daniels. She poured out three equal measures and handed the bartender his first. ‘Take yours with you,’ she said bluntly. Left alone with Kaptu, she said, ‘You’re from Asylum City, aren’t you?’ She smiled, saluted him with the glass and drank. ‘Yes, that certainly is the real thing. I won’t ask you how you got it, or how you got your freedom or where you’re going. Only a handful of people have made it to Europe from Asylum City and probably all of them have passed through here at one stage or another. I take pride in it.’
‘I will say at least one thing is true,’ said Kaptu. ‘I’m just passing through.’
‘There are empty rooms in the building if you’d like to stay.’
‘I don’t know what value you place on old liquor, but if the bottle covers the cost of a room, you’ve got a deal.’
The manager smirked. ‘I would recommend Room 48. It has the best view of Paris.’
‘Including the Eiffel Tower?’
‘No, but there are other rooms facing that way. I didn’t mention them because some people consider it bad luck to face that way.’
‘It’ll suit me fine,’ said Kaptu.
The manager refilled her glass. ‘My name is Hannah.’
‘My name is Z.’
‘We’ll let it be known you’re my Scottish cousin. That will explain your extended visit here.’
‘But I don’t sound particularly Scottish.’
‘None of my Scottish cousins ever have. And people know better than to point that out.’
Kaptu returned his attention to the beautiful flamenco dancer. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Natalie. You’d better behave yourself. She’s a cousin from Scotland, too.’
11 Space licence
Mas was pumping her arms, trying to get more speed into her legs. She leapt onto a brick wall, her finger tips just catching the top and with clenched teeth she frantically wriggled and fought to pull herself up. She was heaving for air, her body shuddering with the strain. She managed to hook a leg on the wall and paused a moment to rest before continuing the battle. She got her whole body at last on top of the wall and then lowered herself down the other side with some degree of gentleness. Her arms, drained of strength, gave out and she landed unceremoniously on her back in a pile of cold mud. She spat some grit out of her mouth and lay there exhausted.
The school director moved up to her, putting hands on hips. ‘Are you alright?’
Mas nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Come on, that’s enough for today.’ The director extended a hand. ‘Let me help you up.’ The man was in his sixties but in good shape and easily pulled Mas to her feet. ‘We’d better get back. The class will be waiting for us.’
They walked in silence across the obstacle course and passed the swimming pool of cold dark water and into the tin sheds that constituted the Boudreaux Astronaut Training Academy’s learning centre. Through the doorway of the seminar room the director and Mas separated. Mas went to one of the vacant plastic seats at the back of the room. The director went to the front of the classroom. A much younger version of him was hanging on the wall in a large portrait between two French flags, resplendently attired in the blue blazer of the International Space Union. He looked over the class of twenty muddy, exhausted candidates and ran his fingers through his thick silver hair. ‘Our colonies on Mars, the Moon and the Saturn and Jupiter Space Stations are not as far away as you might fear. You are dirty and tired at the moment but the start of your journey is underway. We’ll begin afresh again tomorrow. Pick up your homework pack at the foyer. Tonight you will be calculating entry trajectories for a Venetian landing. Classes begin 8am sharp.’ With that he turned and marched out the room. A sigh of relief marked his departure and tender muscles were rubbed as the pain from the obstacle course was at last acknowledged.
‘Holy crap,’ said the young woman beside Mas, massaging her shoulder painfully. ‘I don’t know what planet he’s been living on if he thinks we’ll be starting fresh tomorrow. The vindictive bastard. And ignore that little feel-good speech he makes at the end. He does that every time. Let me tell you of a little calculation I’ve made myself. It would take eight hundred years to ride a bicycle to Venus. That is the pace I am travelling at on my inter-planetary journey.’ She paused for a breath. ‘And this is your first day?’
‘That’s right,’ said Mas. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Two months.’ The young woman gestured to the students just starting to pull themselves off their chairs. ‘Some of them have been here two years. As a collective I’d say we have about as much chance of reaching Mars as Mars has of reaching us.’
Mas smirked. ‘Why are you here if you feel that way?’
‘Most of us have rich parents. They’d rather be able to say their children are astronaut trainees with Pierre Prian than une
mployed no-hopers.’ She blew a kiss at the wall portrait. ‘Dear old Pierre has forged a whole second career on such sensibilities.’ She gripped her back and groaned as she stood up. ‘Some of us like to go for a drink after class. You’re welcome to join us.’
‘Sure. I’ve got something to take care of first.’
‘If it’s homework, you don’t have to worry about that. Pierre never remembers it. That’s a part of beginning afresh again.’
Mas stood up too – surprisingly straight and easy. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘I’m Hillary, by the way.’
Mas replied, ‘Hi, I’m Norah Lee.’ She left the classroom in pursuit of Prian. He had left the sheds through a backdoor and was walking slowly with hands in pockets across the training centre’s muddy compound, looking very much like he did not have anywhere in particular to go. All the same, he was not in any mood to stop as Mas called out to him. ‘Mr Prian, I would like to try your obstacle course one more time,’ Mas said.
‘It will still be there tomorrow,’ Prian replied without looking back. The pilotless helicopter that he used each day to commute to and from his hilltop chateau was emerging from in the distance as it did every day at this time. ‘Go home and rest,’ he added.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Mas. ‘In fact, although I have signed up for one month tuition, I’d rather graduate today.’
Prian stopped in his tracks and looked back at her. ‘I like your spirit, young lady, but it takes more than willpower to get through an obstacle course.’
‘In truth, I was having to use my willpower not to finish it.’
Prian chuckled with her supreme self-confidence. ‘You were holding yourself back before? Alright, why don’t you show me how good you are now then?’ He gestured to the obstacle course. ‘I’ll be happy to see it.’
‘Fine, but first you should make the course regulation. You know as well as I that the genuine astronaut certification course is twenty metres longer than yours and has a one minute less cut-off time.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, and the electrified wire is lower and the wall a good metre higher. You even have obstacles missing. You couldn’t afford the laser hurdles?’
Prian went pale. ‘If you want authenticity, there are other schools that offer that.’
‘I don’t want any kind of school. I want to sit my Astronaut Grade One trials and I need a school director to nominate me.’
‘Only after the two month program and the final exams have been completed.’
‘Like I said, I want to graduate today.’
Prian frowned. ‘Plenty of my students are rich, but you can’t buy your way to being an astronaut. Trust me it’s been tried many a time.’
‘I just want to buy my way to the trials. I’ll take it from there.’
‘And you think I’m easily bought?’
‘I think you need money, but it is not entirely your fault. How could you have known that while you were up in space observing black holes a new one would be opening up on Earth with your name on it. By the way, how is your ex-wife?’
Prian shuffled uncomfortably, looking around at nothing in particular. ‘I’m not as cheap as you might think.’
‘Your bank balance will tell you how cheap I think you are. The money has already been deposited. The sum is fixed. All that is negotiable is how it came to be there. Hiring a hitman to take care of your ex is the best I’ve so far been able to come up with. Do you like it? I’m sure I could make it stick.’
Prian’s frown was spreading such that his whole face was becoming scrunched up like a pug. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I understand why you’d find me unfamiliar,’ said Mas, stepping forward and looking up at the helicopter as it gently lowered towards them. ‘I’m your first astronaut.’
12 Organisations
In the Ministry of Culture there was a door marked Office for Wine and Whisky. Phillipe Dumont was the officer on duty and he was not sure what to make of Kaptu Z. He scrutinized his ID carefully. ‘You belong to the Hurt World Agency of the United Nations and you want more whisky?’
‘Three bottles.’
‘And yesterday you took one?’ Dumont was inquisitively flicking through files on his desk screen.
‘I’m on an undercover assignment,’ said Kaptu. ‘One bottle has got me in. Three more bottles will keep me there.’
‘Any more details than that?’
‘Confidentiality is important.’
‘I am the French Government.’
‘I know, and the best part.’
Dumont delved through files some more.
Kaptu’s attention strayed to the vintage whisky and wine advertising posters decorating the walls. There were happy faces and sparkling glasses of alcoholic drinks in a time that had long since passed - although, perhaps not for Dumont and his department. His bloodshot eyes and bulging waistline hinted that perhaps not all of the Paris stockpiles were being accurately accounted for. Finally, he looked up from his screen, his voice measured. ‘Your name comes up in an incident in Switzerland. Apparently, they are still repairing the damage. And you have your HQ confused. They think you are in Portugal.’
‘They don’t think anything. I’d say they are trying to set up another trap for Mas. It will have to be convincing if they want to get close to her again.’
Dumont felt his neatly bearded chin. ‘We are in charge of the biggest cellars in France and our usual requests for liquor are for state banquets or state funerals. To my knowledge the only requests from police agencies have been for senior retirements, not operational matters. I am going to grant your request nonetheless. Hurt World has an A1 Integrity Rating, which of course is the highest possible. I warn you, taking wine for corrupt purposes will see that fall.’
‘It is whisky I want.’
Dumont wrote a rapid message on the screen and signed it Officer for Wine and Whisky. ‘There will be a case waiting for you at the reception,’ he said. ‘A thirty day Explain Clause is attached. It means you have thirty days to provide an official explanation to the French Government as to how the grant has been used. To put into context how we value our old liquor, if you had requested a sub-nuclear missile, you would have had fifty days to explain why.’
‘Thirty days will be plenty of time,’ said Kaptu.
Dumont slid his ID back across the table. ‘I look forward to hearing more about how our whisky has helped heel the world.’
‘Sure,’ said Kaptu, getting up from his creaky wooden chair. ‘I have to go.’
He left the office and took the elevator to the ground floor. He leaned with his elbows on the reception counter like it was a bar and smiled at the receptionist. After a few minutes, the bottles of whisky came in a non-descript black briefcase. Kaptu left the building and took a taxi to Port De Bercy where Natalie from the Spanish Club was waiting. Kaptu had not seen her in the light of day before and liked her freshness. They daylight suited her. Her blue eyes and pale lips were the centre of an intriguing, expressive face. She was wearing a light blue miniskirt and her hair was hanging freely over her shoulders. She was leaning back on the steel barrier of the Seine River, holding a bulging paper bag, which she held up to greet Kaptu with. ‘I’ve brought the cheese and crackers,’ she said. ‘Have you brought the illegal one hundred year old whisky?’
Kaptu gestured to the briefcase. ‘Two bottles for the Spanish Club and one bottle for us.’
Natalie smiled. ‘Normally I would rather break an arm than have a picnic. So, it seems today is a special day.’
They set up their spot on some cobbled steps overlooking the river. Natalie produced a knife that did not seem to have been made with cheese in mind: it was a big blade and she used it to cut large slices.
‘So, how did you get out?’ she asked as she handed Kaptu a piece. ‘I mean, from Asylum City. Some people would do anything.’
Kaptu filled the two glasses that had also
been in Natalie’s bag. ‘It will take a few of these to loosen up my tongue enough to talk about that.’
‘By then it may be too late. I’m trying to work out if the person I’m drinking with is insane before the whisky goes to his head. Of course, most the men in my company inevitably go crazy anyway. It’s the performer in me that seems to encourage it.’
Kaptu passed her one of the glasses and smiled. ‘I’ve noticed that.’
‘It’s how I got out. Asylum City has scientists and doctors and designers but it was because I could dance that I was granted a visa into Europe.’
‘Was it Hannah that sponsored you?’
‘No. She helped me to get away from the man who did. A very powerful man. A friend of sorts.’ She shivered and took a quick gulp to settle herself. ‘If he wants someone dead, that’s what will happen.’
‘He does not know you’re here?’
‘You cannot escape from him by hiding. You can only escape from him if he gives you permission.’
‘Then you are not quite free.’
Natalie frowned and gazed out over the river. ‘You walk around Paris with briefcases of whisky and you ask people if they are free. I have a bad feeling about you.’
‘Are you concerned that I may be another friend?’
‘No, I don’t fear that.’
Hurt World One and the Zombie Rats Page 22