by John Meaney
‘And our destination is . . . ?’
‘The place where we’re going,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t they teach you nuthin at this here multiversity?’
‘Loads of it.’
‘Someone your father knows.’ Mum was the voice of reason. ‘He’s got spare bedrooms. Well, spare rooms, but no actual beds.’
‘No beds?’
‘Also no gravity.’
‘Ah.’
In the departures lounge, a human staff member greeted each traveller or group and escorted them to a chamber were they awaited a bubble-capsule. Dad chatted with the uniformed man, pleasantries concerning tax reforms and speedball league results. Roger used to be impatient with conversations about nothing; now he envied his father’s easy touch with strangers.
An ellipsoidal capsule arrived, empty. An opening melted in place, and Dad led the way inside. As they sat, the capsule was already sealed and beginning to rise.
‘Nice to get away from it all,’ said Dad.
Roger nodded, hoping he understood correctly, wondering what had changed Dad’s mind.
‘You could sit on your father’s lap,’ said Mum. ‘Just as you used to.’
‘Technically, that’s a correct statement.’ Dad winked at him. ‘So long as you don’t want to, that’s fine.’
‘Uh-huh. I’m disadvantaged because of my upbringing,’ said Roger, ‘but what’s your excuse?’
‘A difficult childhood.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yours, in point of fact.’
According to the status display, they were five hundred metres above ground, rising ever faster in viscous orange quickglass, spiralling upward from the world.
At the apex, Barleysugar Spiral mushroomed into a large complex of observation lounges, restaurants, boutiques and souvenir shops. Consistent with their cover as a family on holiday, the Blackstones dined beside a view window showing black space and the great glow of Fulgor below, creamy-gold with clouds.
Then they returned to their waiting bubble-capsule, and awaited the moment to eject.
When the planet’s rotation had taken them to the correct relative position, their bubble popped free of Barleysugar Spiral and drifted away, its initial orbit at the same distance from Fulgor’s surface. Then impellers drove it upward, increasing their orbital radius gently.
Inside the capsule, they looked out, saying little.
‘Frequent travellers grow jaded by the view,’ said Dad at last. ‘That’s a mistake.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Roger.
For another twenty minutes they watched the changing stars - changing relative to them - while soft music played, almost beyond awareness. Then they were approaching a spiky white-and-silver orbital habitat.
‘So what’s this guy’s name?’ asked Roger.
‘Varlan Trelayne, and his wife is Helena. You’ve met them, but you were five years old.’
‘Ah. Okay.’
‘Contact in one minute,’ announced the capsule.
They said nothing more until quickglass kissed against quickglass: they had docked.
Inside the habitat’s first chamber, a large man was floating. He looked pleased.
‘You haven’t changed a bit, Miranda.’
‘Neither have you, Varl.’
‘If only that was a compliment, eh? Hey, Carl.’
They touched fists, nodding.
‘And this is Roger.’
‘How do you do, Mr Trelayne.’
‘Good to meet you.’
Roger was prepared for You’ve grown since I last saw you, but there was none of that. He was prepared to like the man already.
‘So, everyone,’ Varlan went on. ‘Let me show you around.’
As they drifted through the chamber, Mum asked: ‘How’s Helena?’
‘A little . . . under the weather. She might stay in her cabin.’
The atmosphere changed.
So what’s that about?
Tension lines deepened on everyone’s face. Caused by something in the past? Or whatever they were up to now?
Then they were in a larger spherical chamber, and the inner doors were sealing.
‘All right,’ said Varlan. ‘We can speak freely in here.’
‘We should visit you more often.’ Mum raised a hand, rotating in midair. ‘Does Helena miss company?’
‘In general, yes. But something like this . . . She worries.’
Dad said: ‘I don’t like using you for cover.’
‘Uh-huh. Is anything happening that I should know about?’
‘Only one thing.’ Dad tapped his tu-ring, transmitting data. ‘There’s a trader called Xavier Spalding, who may know what we are. Or at least suspect.’
Roger stared at him, fully alert.
Spalding?
That was Alisha’s family name.
‘All right,’ said Varlan, checking his own tu-ring. ‘I’ll get my people to take a look, and we’ll catch up when you return.’
‘Good. Roger’s just started at multiversity, so continuing a normal life is one desirable option.’
Varlan was fetching a collection of drink-bulbs.
‘Normal life, eh? I’ll drink to that.’
He offered the bulbs. Mum and Dad chose tangwine. For a change, Roger did likewise.
‘It’s Helena’s own concoction,’ added Varlan.
‘We’re really sorry,’ said Mum. ‘About being here, I mean. The wine’s terrific.’
‘All right. So when did you want to do it?’
Dad regarded his drink-bulb.
‘Just as soon as we’ve finished this.’
Ten minutes later, they were drifting outside in vacuum, nothingness in all directions.
It’s unbelievable.
Scared and amazed, Roger tumbled slowly, conscious of the quickglass suit enclosing him, such a thin layer, wholly responsible for generating his oxygen, for protecting him from space. Mum and Dad floated nearby, their expressions invisible.
Peaceful and vast, the universe was all around.
Isn’t it always?
Everyday life was such an illusion.
But part of him was thinking of Varlan’s whispered words, back at the habitat. Mum and Dad’s suits had sealed up first. He had followed, letting a quickglass blob spread around his waist like a rope. Then it began expanding to cover his skin; but his head was still bare when Varlan leaned close.
‘Your dad and I have been friends a long time. His job is important.’
‘Yes.’
‘So was my own father’s. He was a good person, but his problems got in the way of his priorities. Or do I mean that the other way round?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Be your own man,’ Varlan had said. ‘They should have taken you long before.’
Then Varlan had withdrawn to another chamber, while an outer wall puckered then opened. All three Blackstones tumbled into space.
Drifting.
And then it happened.
There was a burst of darkness against the stars, then a sharp-edged shape was hanging before them: black, dart-shaped and edged with scarlet.
I didn’t realize.
It looked dangerous.
My God.
And powerful.
Oh, my God.
And it was Dad’s.
Once they were aboard - Dad in the control couch, Roger and Mum behind and to either side: this ship had no passenger hold - their quickglass suits melted off. All three of them removed their smartlenses, revealing their jet, black-on-black eyes.
Then acceleration was pressing them comfortably back; the holoview was a crescent hanging before them in the cabin.
‘Son?’ Mum asked. ‘Are you ready for this?’
Dad looked intent.
‘I don’t think so.’ Roger looked at her. ‘Mum?’
‘You’ll be all—’
Transition.
Golden light was everywhere.
SIXTEEN
EARTH, 1927 AD
&nbs
p; Gavriela breezed into the hallway, shopping bags in hand, and pushed the front door shut. From the back, Frau Pflügers called: ‘Is that you, Gavi, dear?’
‘It’s me. How are you doing today?’
‘Did you find nice shoes?’
‘On Bahnhofstrasse, yes.’
‘Then come in the back and show me, while I make tea.’
Frau Pflügers had not answered Gavriela’s query about how she was doing. That meant either the arthritis or the fluttering in her chest was back.
‘I’m going to the girls’ place later.’ Gavriela meant Inge, Petra and Elke. ‘Oh. What’s this? A letter for me?’
‘From Berlin.’ Frau Pflügers placed the kettle on the stove. ‘Isn’t it your mother’s handwriting?’
‘Actually, no.’
She picked up the envelope, then noticed the way Frau Pflügers was wincing as she fetched down the tea caddy.
‘Wouldn’t you like me to do that?’
‘Please, Gavi. An old girl like me needs to keep busy, didn’t you know?’
‘You’re not old.’
‘Ha.’
Domestic ritual settled them: three dark spoonfuls of tea into the pot; the pouring of water; tugging the tea-cosy into place; waiting for the tea to draw; and then the pouring. Chatting about nothing very much while they drank. Afterwards, Gavriela rose and headed for the sink, but Frau Pflügers stopped her.
‘I’ll do the washing up. You’ve got a letter to read.’
‘But I want to—’
‘Go on now.’
So Gavriela took the letter upstairs to her room, settled in the small chair by the window table, and opened the letter. It was nicely handwritten on creamy paper.
Dear Fräulein Wolf,
I am sorry we have not met in person, for Erik has told me so many stories of you. He is often laughing about
Gavriela blinked.
Her brother was telling someone stories about her?
I am sorry we have not met in person, for Erik has told me so many stories of you. He is often laughing about the games of chess you played with your own rules, and how the pieces are called the Baker, the Housemaid and so on. And how castling is performed by - but I apologize, because of course you know all this, but you do not know me. My name is Ilse Heckler, and I care for Erik very much.
In fact I love him! There, I’ve said so in writing. My Christian family would not approve, but I very much hope your wonderful parents do. We have met, and they have been so very kind to me.
And no one had told her.
Only last week, there had been a letter from Mother, with no mention of a Fräulein Ilse Heckler. And these words implied a relationship that had been going on for some time.
So they might not approve of what I need to tell you. I know they have not informed you of poor Erik’s state since the
For a moment she had to stop reading.
So they might not approve of what I need to tell you. I know they have not informed you of poor Erik’s state since the attack. The doctors fear he will lose his left eye. Certainly his sight on that side is gone forever, though I pray for a miracle.
Several weeks ago, he was set upon by thugs, of which there are too many these days. The family do not wish to worry you, but I feel you would want to know. I’m so very sorry to make your acquaintance in this way, and hope that we can be friends.
Please do write back, so I can keep you informed of Erik’s progress, for I know that he is dear to you as he is to me, though of course in a different way. And I write my feelings so boldly! I am neither so confident nor unconventional in everyday life.
Yours truly,
Ilse Heckler
Gavriela set the letter aside.
For the past few weeks, since seeing Herr Doktor Freud, she had been feeling wonderful; and now it appeared that Erik had been suffering, terribly injured, all this while; and with no one to tell her otherwise. Until this Ilse had thought to do so.
She wanted to go downstairs and talk this over, but Frau Pflügers was not well. Or was that an example of mistaken thinking, just as her own parents had held back this awful news?
The only thing to do was catch a train to Berlin.
Rubbing her face, she got up, walked in a small circle, and stopped. Then she went to the dressing-table, took a small amber brooch from a drawer, and carried it back to the window table. There, she placed the brooch in sunlight, sat down, and focused on the glowing amber.
Somewhere inside herself, she remembered Herr Doktor Freud’s voice, the odd intonation and tidal cadence; and her eyelids were flickering, then closing; and her chin dipped.
She slid deep inside a dream.
She is floating in space, in golden space. There are stars, black and intricate, obsidian snowflakes. Nebulae are crimson: streaks of blood on gold.
A black dart edged with scarlet is moving through this shining void.
And then she is inside, or seems to be. Three people sit in the control cabin, and their eyes are of jet, lacking surrounding whites. In here, the perspective is not quite right; while outside, the effect is stronger: everything is insane, and all she can perceive is a simplified projection.
She has no idea how she knows this.
In the cabin, the older man in the centre, forward of the others, appears to control the ship. Neither he nor the woman are aware of her. But the younger man—
He turns to stare at her.
‘Have I dreamed of—? This is impossible.’
Strange washes of energy overlay the sounds, words in an unknown language she somehow comprehends; and she wishes she could answer, but the world is dragging her back, and she reaches out, trying to hang on, but invisible hooks take hold of her and pull.
The world slammed into being all around her, then seemed to shrink and grow steady. This was her room in Frau Pflügers’ house, with its dark wooden furniture, white lace doilies everywhere. Solid, yet not as comforting as it should be.
Because the letter in her hands was real, whether it told the truth or lied.
SEVENTEEN
LABYRINTH, 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)
Golden space, the odd perspectives burning new paths in Roger’s brain. The ship protected them from the worst effects of fractal time, but even inside the cabin there was amber light, and the certain knowledge this was another universe.
And off to one side was a wraith-like figure, sharpening in focus - a young woman he did not recognize yet felt he knew - and he spoke without thinking.
‘Have I dreamed of—? This is impossible.’
Beside him, Mum was staring - at him, not the apparition. Could she not see it?
Then the young woman flung her hands out, as if trying to hold on to some support, while an unknown force grabbed her and whisked her out through the bulkhead; and then she was gone.
Mum smiled as the ship slowed, and the forward view filled the cabin.
Home.
Labyrinth, finally.
This was how she appeared from the outside, the fabled Labyrinth: stellate and complex, bristling with shining towers in all directions, fractal and grand, with a core that curved beyond the hyperspherical. It was a cathedral, a sculpture, a maze. It - she - was a living city-world in the ur-continuum of mu-space, a place that grew and evolved in mysterious ways even during the early days, when Pilots were her supposed architects and builders. Now her relationship to the citizens who lived within was more complex but closer than ever.
She was rooted in the spacetime geometry of this continuum, the only universe whose dimensionality was not an integer, the ur-continuum beneath and beyond all others: mu-space.
And she was the Pilots’ home.
No reception committee waited for them.
Dad-and-ship as one threaded their way among the flock of vessels outside the city - all the ships bigger than this, none of them looking half as powerful - and entered a tunnel that was wider than a building, a canyon with sapphire sides sprawling with constructs that migh
t have been architecture or machinery or art: there was no way to tell.
