Absorption: Ragnarok v. 1 (Ragnarock 1)

by John Meaney

  ‘So, please come in. Herr Doktor Freud is expecting you.’

  The maid showed her to a small drawing-room, the cupboards decorated with Delft plates and jugs. There were two high-backed armchairs, one of them occupied. The man rose, and shook her hand, sniffing a little.

  ‘You must be Fräulein Wolf?’

  The voice was higher than expected, and his eyes were bright with energy.

  ‘Yes, and I’m pleased to meet you, Herr Doktor.’

  Several minutes later, they were seated - he at a reassuring angle, rather than facing her straight on - and she was telling him about the shards of remembered dreams.

  Then she paused.

  ‘Transparent people?’ Doktor Freud prompted.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, wide awake in the everyday world. It’s as if the dreams are trying to break through. And there’s pain inside my head.’

  ‘Such small derangements, or neuroses as I prefer to call them, are perfectly common, dear Fräulein. I notice you’ve not mentioned your father.’

  ‘Papa? No, he’s got nothing to do with it. There’s a crystalline woman, a stranger whose name I almost know, and sometimes hints of a young man . . . No. I just don’t know.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  After a few silent moments, Doktor Freud nodded.

  ‘With your permission, it is time to try something different. Just one moment.’ He stood and crossed to the drapes, then pulled them closed, leaving a slit of daylight. ‘Yes, this will do nicely.’

  There was a glass paperweight on a shelf, and he manoeuvred it until it sparkled, catching the sunlight.

  ‘Now focus only on the brightness, that’s right, Fräulein, and now your vision begins to defocus as you relax, so deeply relaxing now’ - at some point his voice had slowed to an odd cadence, rising and falling in unusual ways, like waves - ‘as you go deeper and deeper inside your unconscious mind, where you can tell me clearly what you see.’

  The room looked odd as her eyelids flickered, then she was in a dreamlike state, understanding she could move if she wanted to, yet feeling so odd, with no desire to do anything but remain like this, in a stillness beyond sleep.

  A hand - the Herr Doktor’s - took her wrist and raised it, then let go. Her arm remained suspended, catatonic with no sensation of gravity.

  ‘And the part of you controlling dreams,’ came his odd voice, ‘as I address you now, the Id, can relate in every detail what you see.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ came a tiny voice from Gavriela’s mouth.

  ‘As you agree to do that now.’

  She sank inside her dream.

  There is a leafy avenue. A young man escorts her - his suit has oddly wide lapels, and his tie is a long strip, not a bow - and then he stops, removing his hat.

  ‘There they are, ma’am. You want I should introduce you?’

  The language is . . . for a moment, she’s not sure. It’s her second tongue, that’s all she knows. Her escort is indicating two gentlemen farther along the sidewalk, strolling this way.

  ‘No need, thank you. The professor and I are old friends.’

  ‘You know Professor Einstein?’

  The young man’s voice is hushed.

  ‘Why else would they have asked you to take me here?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘I’m not familiar with Princeton, that’s all.’

  ‘Then, um . . . Do you want me to wait for you?’

  ‘You’ve been kind, but there’s no need.’

  ‘Um . . . Okay.’

  After a trembling moment, the young man - with an awed glance back at the approaching figures - is on his way.

  Overhead is a plane. Automobiles are parked along the street, bulbous and closed in, their design strange; and yet she accepts it all.

  ‘Gavi.’ Professor Einstein’s moustache is greyer than before, but his eyes still sparkle.

  She trembles as she kisses his cheek.

  ‘Kurt,’ continues Einstein, ‘allow me to make introductions. Herr Professor Gödel, meet Fräulein Doktor Wolf.’

  Of course they are speaking German now, so comforting.

  ‘We’re discussing the existence or otherwise of time,’ adds Einstein.

  ‘In the context of entropy?’ asks Gavriela.

  Gödel raises his eyebrows; Einstein grins.

  ‘A lifeline,’ says Gödel, ‘is a fixed geodesic in a four-dimensioned continuum.’

  ‘There are six million murdered Jews,’ she says, ‘that you can’t have a conversation with now.’

  Einstein half-smiles, as if he expected this.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Gavriela adds. ‘I feel so stuck in the past at times.’

  Gödel opens his mouth to speak, but the world is spinning away, is gone.

  In the gloom, Herr Doktor Freud leaned closer.

  ‘Back into the dream, that’s right, as you go back—’

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘—more deeply now.’

  The wheelchair responds to a tiny gesture of her fingertip. It’s just as well, for she’s capable of little else. Whining softly, the motor engages and carries her closer to the desktop, then stops.

  Her skin is old and blotched with brown, her hands fragile memories of youth.

  ‘Tell me,’ she whispers.

  ‘Sure, Gran. See here?’ The bearded man is pointing at a glass pane containing a picture, like a cinema screen, but the glowing picture is in focused colour. ‘There’s the event.’

  Three scarlet dots shine in a starfield.

  ‘Finally,’ she whispers.

  ‘What do you mean, finally?’ asks the young man.

  ‘Never mind.’

  Beneath the screen, a simple folded card bears the label: Property of Project HEIMDALL. Please leave running.

  ‘No.’ This is a woman’s voice from behind her, not friendly. ‘I’d like to know. What did you mean by that, Dr Wolf?’

  Gavriela causes her wheelchair to rotate on the spot.

  Surrounding the young woman are flickers of darkness, and her eyes are hard.

  ‘I’ve led a long life,’ says Gavriela.

  Turning away from the inevitable has never been her style.

  Like a bubble spiralling up inside a brook, Gavriela returned to wakefulness. She blinked several times at Doktor Freud.

  ‘I don’t know what you did, Herr Doktor, but I feel marvellous. ’

  ‘You remember nothing?’

  ‘Not a thing. Should I?’

  ‘Um . . . No, that is fine. So thank you for coming, Fräulein.’

  ‘Are we done?’

  ‘If you feel good, then we are.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you so much, again.’

  She almost floated out of the house, seen out by the maid. Once out on the street, she walked in a way that felt like dancing, unable to stop smiling.

  It would be several hours before she regained a more normal emotional state.

  Freud stared for a long time at his rough session notes. Then he carried the loose pages to the burning coal grate, dropped them atop the coals, and used the poker to rake the fire. Smoke rose from crinkling paper as it curled into black charcoal, an echo of the phenomenon his patient had described - twisting blackness - an hallucination not unknown to him.

  He pulled out a handkerchief that was monogrammed SF - a present from a buxom client who reminded him of his mother - then dabbed his forehead.

  Finally, he sat down at the table, opened a notebook, unscrewed his fountain-pen, and began to write.

  Returning to my previous experimentation with the techniques of Monsieur Mesmer, I successfully induced in Fräulein S a state of deep trance. In this state she was able to recount her dreams, in a detailed and entirely unconscious manner, remembering nothing on waking.

  As to the nature of her

  He paused, used blotting paper to dry what he had written so far, and read over the words.

  ‘No.’

  After tearing th
e page from his notebook, he dropped it onto the fire, sending it to charcoal oblivion.

  Back at the table, he began again.

  April 1st 1926.

  Today, as a result of a session with Fräulein S, I have made the decision to abandon the techniques of Mesmerism, which I feel are inappropriate in the process of exploring and comprehending delusional neuroses.

  He stopped. After a dab with blotting paper, he closed the notebook up and resealed his pen. From his waistcoat he took a small pill-box, opened it, and regarded the white powder within. Then he shook his head, and put the pill-box away.

  Getting up quickly, he left the drawing-room, ignored the maid looking at him in the hallway, and went upstairs to the bedroom where he was staying.

  His host, Herr Scholl, had given him a present earlier. Now, he had to look at it again.

  Unwrapped, the painting was on his bed. The artist was young, unknown to Freud, but the man’s psyche was dark: that much, anyone could tell from the swirl of shadows and deep reds. As he stared, he thought he heard a distant echo of discordant notes: da, da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da.

  ‘I will not share my client’s delusion.’

  The painting was surely not flickering. That was impossible.

  ‘I refuse to.’

  Biting his lip, he hefted the painting, and carried it downstairs. In the hallway he stopped to address the maid.

  ‘Under no circumstances,’ he said, ‘tell Herr Scholl what you see here.’

  The maid stared at the painting, then quickly made the sign of the cross.

  ‘You have my word, sir.’

  They stared at each other; then Freud nodded.

  ‘Very well.’

  He carried it into the drawing-room, tore it from the frame, and dropped it into the fireplace. For a short time, he thought he could hear a scream; but then it was curling up and burning.

  The last part to ignite was the lower corner that bore the artist’s signature - A. Hitler - then it, too, was gone.

  Freud wiped his face, then took his pill-box from his waistcoat pocket.

  Out in the hallway, the maid was saying the Lord’s Prayer, over and over.

  FIFTEEN

  FULGOR, 2603 AD

  Throughout the tutorial, Roger tried not to think of this morning’s message from his parents.

  ‘We’ve arranged everything with the department administrators,’ Dad had said. ‘You’re cleared to take a five-day break from studies.’

  The semester had only just started, so Admin could not have been happy - but so what? Besides, it wasn’t just the thought of a holiday that thrummed inside him.

  ‘Your offworld trip is already logged,’ Dad had added.

  Offworld! That could mean anything, but perhaps what he really intended was—

  ‘So, Roger Blackstone.’ Dr Helsen was focusing on him, dragging his attention back to the tutorial, here and now. ‘I’d like to say something about your model of entropy flow in the Calabi-Yau dimensions.’

  ‘Er, yes, Dr Helsen?’

  ‘Nice work. Very well done.’

  He blinked several times, while Rick raised an eyebrow. Praise from Helsen, for anyone other than Alisha - this was a new phenomenon.

  ‘So.’ Helsen turned to Alisha and smiled. ‘I’m wondering whether you could assist me in something.’

  ‘Uh, sure, Doctor.’

  ‘We like to bring in extracurricular guests to give lectures, and Mr Blackstone’s work has given me an idea. There’s someone I’d like you to invite, all right? It’s not her speciality, but I believe she would do a fine job.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. In that case’ - Helsen looked around the group - ‘very well done, and I’ll see you all tomorrow. And Alisha, here are the details.’

  She gestured; Alisha nodded to confirm receiving the data.

  ‘Have a good day, all.’

  Dr Helsen left first, smiling. Everyone else looked at each other before getting up. They remained in place as the quickglass chairs melted back into the floor.

  ‘Holy crap,’ said Rick. ‘Is old Hatchet Face actually in a good mood for once?’

  ‘Looks that way.’ Trudi raised her hands. ‘Do we mind? I don’t.’

  ‘Serotonin. A relaxed brain.’ Stef looked serious, then: ‘Maybe she’s had sex.’

  Everyone laughed or snorted, apart from Alisha. As the group broke up and began to drift out of the room, Roger drew closer, and touched her arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘She wants me to deal with a Luculenta.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They waited until everyone else had left.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Alisha, ‘she pretends she wants to help me, but there’s something . . . I don’t know. She has her own agenda.’

  Roger nearly said: Doesn’t everybody? But glibness was uncalled for.

  ‘And so soon before my—Before I go to the Institute,’ added Alisha.

  ‘The—? Oh, the Via Lucis Institute.’

  ‘For upraise, yes. At the end of semester.’

  ‘So . . . Will you be coming back?’

  There couldn’t be much for a Luculenta here.

  ‘I don’t know. After upraise, everything is self-guided, with the help of whatever friends and allies you make. That’s why making contacts like this Stargonier woman is so important.’

  ‘Stargonier?’

  ‘The Luculenta that Helsen wants me to cajole into being a guest speaker. So look . . . If I can meet her in person, will you come with me?’

  He felt as if the floor were tipping.

  ‘You want my company?’

  ‘Aren’t you the expert on realspace hyperdimensions?’

  ‘Is that why you want me along?’

  Her smile was a mystery.

  ‘What other reason can you think of, Roger?’

  She was still smiling as she walked away.

  Bloody hell.

  Roger was in awe.

  A huge orange column rose into the sky - all the way up. It was formed of twisted quickglass braids, hence its name: Barleysugar Spiral. From the ground, as you tilted your head to stare upward, the column narrowed to a geometric point; but that was an illusion, for it continued past the atmosphere. Down at the base of the great shaft were separate areas for departures and arrivals. Lozenge-shaped flowdrones followed travellers as they walked to or from the lounges.

  Mum and Dad were already waiting when Roger arrived.

  Will they find a way to tell me?

  All night he had kept popping out of sleep, wondering where they were going, not daring to accept what he hoped was true. There had been so much temptation to call an aircab and fly home, where they could talk safely, unsurveilled. But he was an ordinary human student, or supposed to be, so it was more convincing to act insouciant, unmoved - or pretending to be unmoved - by the prospect of a family holiday.

  ‘This is pretty exciting,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’m excited.’ Mum squeezed his arm.

  It had been a while since Roger had seen her this relaxed. It was startling, this notion that his parents had been leading stressful lives while he had failed to notice.

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Excited.’

  ‘You’re a good boy.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  He smiled, with a feeling of indulgence, flavoured with a soupçon of sadness.

  ‘Well.’ Dad looked down at an angle, then at him. ‘I guess someone’s grown up.’

  Presumably because Roger no longer acted resentful at being addressed like a kid.

  ‘It had to happen,’ he said, ‘sooner or later.’

  ‘Better late than never,’ said Mum.

  All three of them hugged.

  So where are we going?

  He was going to ask - that was natural behaviour - but in such a public area, Dad’s answer might not be the true one.