The Crucible

by Mark Whiteway

  Quinn scowled. “Vil-gar?”

  The creature’s mouth twisted in parody of a smile. “In the flesh, as humans say.”

  This manifestation of Vil-gar was anything but flesh. His physical remains were being kept alive by a machine back on Pann while this projection roamed the universe, creating mayhem.

  “What are you doing here?” Quinn asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I brought the Damise.”

  “You did what?”

  “I guided the Damise here. It wasn’t easy either. They’re a surly lot. Distrustful.” Vil-gar cocked his head. “I’m sure you know the type.”

  Quinn caught the verbal sideswipe. At their last meeting, he had accused Vil-gar of mass murder. He could still visualize the recording he had witnessed—the Farish, Vil-gar’s people, forcibly shoved into receptacles and drained of life.

  Quinn redirected his ire. “You realise what you’ve done?”

  “Of course. But it’s clear from your response that you don’t. You should be thanking me.”

  “Are you mad? Thanks to you, we’re trapped on this world along with the entire Elinare race!”

  Vil-gar shook his head. “Why is it humans can never see farther than their noses? Do I have to lead you by the hand and walk you step-by-step?”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did you come to the home of the Elinare?”

  “You know why,” Quinn said. “We can’t combat the Damise’s AI on our own. We need the Elinare’s help.”

  “They won’t give it to you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Vil-gar hopped off the slab. “Oh yes, I do. Keiza already told you the Qan-ho-nah are obsessed with their ‘hole in the universe’ problem, for which their approach is completely wrong, by the way. They’d have sent you away empty-handed, and then you’d have been back to confronting the Damise armada with the handful of ships the AI hasn’t absorbed already.”

  “Oh, and how are we better off now, surrounded by Damise vessels?”

  “You still don’t get it. Those ships up there represent approximately two-thirds of the entire Damise fleet. With a little coaxing, I can probably get it up to around three-quarters.”

  Quinn closed his eyes. “Wait a minute. You’re saying you drew them into the null universe deliberately?”

  Vil-gar raised his head in a gesture that strongly resembled one of pride. “That’s right. I also made their ships invincible.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Well, they’re not stupid! I had to get them to trust me enough to commit the major part of their forces. But none of that will matter so long as their ships remain in this universe.

  “You intend to abandon them here.”

  Vil-gar shook his head. “No, I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. If I simply left, the Damise would break through the planetary barrier, capture one or more of the Elinare, and force them to lay a course back to our universe.”

  “I thought the Elinare’s defensive shield was all but impenetrable.”

  “The Damise will break through in a little less than fourteen of your hours.”

  Quinn sat bolt upright. “Fourteen hours!”

  Keiza had insisted the barrier would hold for ten thousand years.

  “Well, I’m hoping to reinforce the barrier in such a way that the Damise won’t know what I’m doing. If I’m successful, then that could buy more time. But you must escape this world as soon as possible and return to our universe.”

  “And how do you expect us to do that?”

  Vil-gar spread his spindly arms wide. “Do I have to do everything? Besides, Vyasa has already given you what you need.”

  “She has?

  “Certainly. Weren’t you listening?”

  Quinn’s brow furrowed. “‘The despised creature’—I’m guessing that’s you. She also said their ships were now indestructible though at the time, I thought she was just babbling. So the voices she’s hearing aren’t just memory fragments. Somehow, she’s in contact with the Damise despite the energy barrier. I don’t see how that helps us, though.”

  “Knowledge is power, Quinn. If you know what they are planning, you can outthink them. But beware. If they catch you, they will turn their instrument, Vyasa, against you.” Vil-gar’s eyes closed then snapped open. “I have to leave. Did the Badhati give you the badhazani yet?”

  Quinn fumbled in his pack for the dull red jewel. “You mean this?”

  “That’s it. Whatever you do, don’t lose it.” Vil-gar vanished, and his sphere fizzled into nothingness.

  “But what is it? What does it do?” Quinn beseeched the empty room.

  As his questions faded into silence, he began to formulate a plan.

  ~

  Keiza.

  Quinn lay on the slab and stared at the ceiling. Keiza, I know you’re watching. I need to speak to you now.

  He had no direct evidence that she was observing them. All she had said was that the Qan-ho-nah needed her. She was only a single individual, so he found it difficult to believe she could have a key role to play in the defence of this world. She was, however, intimately involved with Quinn and his party, so his assumption was that the overseers of this world would direct her to keep an eye on her charges. If he was wrong, he would just be an idiot speaking into the air, and the only harm would be to his pride.

  The slab hugged his back as he stared at the sterile ceiling. Then the world shifted.

  It was night. He stood in a rain-soaked street, wearing an old-fashioned brown suit. A stream of black water flowed down the gutter and emptied into a drain next to an unlit streetlamp. All the streetlamps were dark. A power failure, maybe? He heard a distant booming and glanced up. Flashes lit up the darkling clouds. Lightning? The booming seemed too steady, too rhythmic to be thunder. A sign creaked over his head, reading Lamb and Firkin in the dim light. It sounded like an old-style public house. Earth, then. But where, exactly? And when?

  Somewhere in all of this was Keiza. If he wanted answers, he was going to have to find her. He started up the street.

  The scene was like a city of the dead. Everywhere he looked were burnt-out and shattered buildings. The windows and shop fronts of the few left intact were dark and lifeless. He reached a junction, looked both ways, and headed left.

  “Oy, mister!” The voice sounded behind him, and a grubby urchin in a flat cap emerged from the shadows. “Whatsa matter? Didn’t cha hear the sirens?”

  “Uh, no, sorry,” Quinn replied.

  “Better getcha self ta the shelters. Jerry’s on ’is way.”

  Jerry… a nickname for the Germans during Earth’s Second World War. The boy spoke with a London accent. Was this the London Blitz? He’d seen enough movies and newsreels for Keiza to construct a scenario from those memories. The symbolism certainly fit—a relentless assault designed to demoralise its victims. But where was Keiza? This is an Elinare simulation. Everything in it has a purpose. The boy had mentioned shelters.

  “Uh, excuse me,” Quinn said. “Could you direct me to the nearest shelter?”

  “Don’t cha know nuffing?” the boy replied. “Bank tube station.” He pointed down the road. “Better be quick about it!”

  Quinn mumbled thanks and trotted off in the direction indicated. Belatedly, he wondered if he should have asked the boy to accompany him. No one here is real other than Keiza and me. He hurried on.

  A steady thrum of engines joined the booming. Squadrons of aircraft moved against the flickering sky. With their stiff bodies and fixed wings, they looked like a flock of dead ravens. A whine split the air. Its pitch fell steadily and ended with a distant thud.

  More whines joined to form a choir. More thuds sounded, as if in applause. The bombers had begun their concert of death.

  The bombing grew more intense, the air shuddering with each impact. A policeman in buttoned uniform and custodian helmet emerged from a s
ide street up ahead, yelled something inaudible, and ran towards him. Quinn took two steps before a three-storey house exploded, showering the street with glass. He staggered backwards as flames took hold. The policeman lay prostrate, his helmet in the gutter.

  Quinn heard ringing. He clapped his palms over his ears then realised the noise wasn't a result of the blast. An antique fire engine with a rounded front end came careening down the street and screeched to a halt in front of the burning house. Men in baggy uniforms tumbled out, rattling hoses or running for the water main.

  One trotted towards him, his rugged face smeared with grime. “You all right, son?”

  Quinn performed a quick self-examination. “Yes, I think so.”

  “You shouldn’t be here. Didn’t the lad tell you? You’re supposed to be at the shelter.”

  The lifelike re-creation of wartime London was an elaborate backdrop designed to lead him inexorably to whatever Keiza had planned. On the face of it, nothing prevented him from running off in the opposite direction, but he had no doubt that some other seemingly chance encounter would send him right back to the place she wanted him to be. Since the whole point of the exercise was to talk with her, he saw little point in fighting the inevitable.

  The fireman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Bank tube station. That way.”

  Quinn nodded. The other firefighters were manhandling the hoses, jetting water against the blaze. He gave them a wide berth and moved up the street. He emerged onto an intersection fronted by once-proud edifices, most smashed beyond recognition. A wide set of concrete steps disappeared beneath the pavement. Over them was the word Bank.

  Starved for space, most cities of old Earth had transit systems that had been forced either into the air or underground. When the Blitz began, London’s “tube” stations acquired a second, unintended role—providing shelter against the bombing.

  As Quinn hurried down the steps, the sounds of bombing diminished. At the bottom, he headed past an empty ticket office and onto a wide platform.

  A heady stench of sweat, carbolic, and piss almost knocked him flat. Laid out on the platform were perhaps three hundred souls covered by blankets—doctors, dockers, lawyers, and lightermen, all reduced to mendicants in the face of all-out war.

  Keiza… Keiza, you’re not going to make me search through all these people… The voice in his head stayed stubbornly silent.

  Quinn sighed and started down the platform. A few glanced up at him through red-rimmed eyes. Most did not stir. He was almost to the end when he heard his name. Sitting cross-legged, her head covered by a blanket, was Keiza.

  He sat on his haunches opposite her. Her face looked drawn—was she playing into her own scenario?

  Her eyes met his. “You wanted to talk?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The people to either side of her paid no attention. Not people, he reminded himself. Simulations.

  “What’s the time?” she asked.

  “Time… how should I know?”

  “Left waistcoat pocket.” She nodded towards it.

  He fished inside, extracted a pocket watch, and read the dial. “Seven forty-eight.”

  “You have eleven minutes.”

  “For what?”

  “To say what you need to say.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  She stared past him. “This is January 11. The year is 1941, Earth calendar. We are sheltering in an underground station known as Bank. The time is seven forty-eight.”

  “What of it?”

  “At seven fifty-nine, an explosive device will detonate directly over this shelter, turning it into a giant crater. One hundred and eleven humans will be expired.”

  Quinn glanced to either side, but the scenario’s denizens still did not react. Keiza hadn’t exactly spelled out what would happen to both of them in this scenario when the bomb dropped, and he didn’t feel like asking.

  “Why not just stop it?”

  “Stop it?”

  “You know—alter the flow of events just as you did with the Alamo re-creation.”

  “That does not serve my purpose,” she said. “Ten minutes.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “I think you’re upset that I figured out you were spying on us.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Then you’re upset because the Qan-ho-nah censured you.”

  The bombing was muffled this far underground but still audible.

  She stared straight ahead. “Bringing you to the Haven was an error in judgement. My people are suffering because of me.”

  “I’m guessing you listened in on my earlier conversations with Vyasa and Vil-gar. So you know Vyasa wasn’t responsible.”

  “But Vil-gar was. I brought you, and you brought him. It’s all the same in the eyes of the Qan-ho-nah.”

  “Vil-gar claims he’s working against the Damise.”

  “You said he wasn’t trustworthy,” Keiza said. “You told Rahada you didn’t care if you ever saw him again.”

  “I know. But now, I’m not so sure.”

  “Why the sudden change?”

  “Well, for one thing, he didn’t need to come down here and reveal his involvement in guiding the Damise to your world. He knew my feelings towards him. He could simply have stayed out of reach beyond the barrier, and we’d have been none the wiser.”

  “He’s a projection,” Keiza pointed out. “He knew you couldn’t harm him. He’s also surprisingly intelligent, considering he’s from one of Pann’s degenerate lower races. How do you know he’s not manipulating you?”

  “To what end?”

  “Well, think about it: when you asked about a means of escape, he didn’t want to help with that. However, he did suggest you work to strengthen Vyasa’s link to the Damise.”

  “Only as a means of learning what they were thinking.”

  “So he says.”

  Quinn wagged a forefinger. “That’s a good point.” He stood up and paced back and forth, clutching his chin as the wretched souls on the platform ignored him. “That’s a very good point.” He turned and faced her. “Tell me. How much time do we really have?”

  “Six minutes.”

  “No, I meant before the Damise break through your energy barrier.”

  She avoided eye contact. “I may have misled you somewhat.”

  “So, less than fourteen hours. Vil-gar was telling the truth about that, at least.”

  “He also said he might be able to extend that time.”

  Quinn spread his arms wide. “You want to just hang on for the deadline and see whether he’s successful?”

  “What do you propose?” she asked.

  “Can your people do anything to shore up their world’s defences?”

  “If we could, don’t you think we’d have done it already?”

  “Then the situation is dire, wouldn’t you say? We have to pursue any resource that might give us an advantage.”

  “Vyasa.”

  Quinn nodded. “Vyasa.”

  “The risks are incalculable.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Your people are highly advanced. Perhaps they can pull her out if the situation gets too hairy.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible,” she said. “And even if it were, I doubt the Qan-ho-nah would agree to the procedure.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they no longer trust me—that’s why! I’m responsible for this entire fiasco. Why would they listen to anything I have to say?”

  “Then maybe we should ignore them and do it anyway.”

  She gave him a look as if he had just suggested she drown a brood of newborn kittens.

  He fumbled for the pocket watch. The minute hand was stopped at three minutes to the hour. He put the watch to his ear and shook it, but it stayed silent.

  He glanced up at her. “How long do I have now?”

  ~

  The station vanished, the stench faded, and he w
as lying once more on the slab.

  The conversation with Keiza hadn’t gone quite as he’d hoped. She’d been like the girl in the ancient music-hall ditty—she hadn’t said yes, and she hadn’t said no. She’d also revived his alarm bells concerning Vil-gar and not just because Vil-gar had suggested using Vyasa. Quinn’s concern was more fundamental. Being the last of his race, Vil-gar was a survivalist, and a survivalist would always tend to support the side with the greatest chance of winning. That was not the Elinare. Even their approach to the hole-in-the-universe problem was completely wrong, according to him. Quinn could see no reason why he would be secretly working for their interests, as he’d claimed.

  Yet the only alternative was to lie back, do nothing, and await the inevitable…

  He rose and passed through the fog into the central room. To his surprise, the others were already awake and assembled around the large table. Rahada and Zothan were conversing in low tones, while Conor was standing near Vyasa, who wore a haunted expression.

  Quinn approached Vyasa and managed a reassuring smile. “How are you?”

  She nodded, but her face remained set.

  “I’d like your help to try something. It might be difficult—painful, even—but it could mean our survival.”

  Her features softened. “I trust you.”

  I wish you hadn’t said that. He swallowed and turned to Rahada and Zothan. “I’d like to investigate the possibility of establishing a link to the Damise.”

  “That’s crazy,” Rahada said.

  “It is also impossible,” Zothan added. “The Elinare barrier prevents any signal from getting through.”

  “Not quite,” Quinn said. “Vyasa hears… voices. They are indistinct and a little confused, but they are there.”

  Rahada scoffed. “They could be anything—a memory shadow, a side effect of her implant, paranoia…”

  Mentioning Vil-gar would be likely to fuel their scepticism, so Quinn chose his words carefully. “I’m convinced the voices are genuine.”

  Rahada’s expression darkened. “I hope you’re mistaken. Because if you’re not, it makes her highly dangerous.”