Absorption: Ragnarok v. 1 (Ragnarock 1)

by John Meaney

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  The man’s eyes flickered to his left.

  ‘No, pal. I serve drinks.’ He raised his massive shoulders then pulled them down, causing them to widen. ‘You drink ’em. That’s it.’

  ‘Please, I think she’s in trouble.’

  ‘Huh. Girl like that in here’ - when he sneered, an old scar twisted the bartender’s pale lips - ‘she’s past caring, pal.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The bartender walked to the far end of the bar, and folded his massive arms.

  Now what?

  All his years of schooling, and there had been nothing to cover situations like this. Teachers lived in a world where clever words were everything, including weapons; but here was reality.

  Oh, shit. Here I go.

  As Roger walked behind the bar, his sleeves stirred and began to flow downwards, covering his hands like slick gloves.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Sorry. ‘ Roger held one hand up, palm forward, not threatening. ‘I just wanted to ask about the woman.’

  The bartender unfolded his arms, and grabbed Roger’s shoulder with painful force.

  ‘Go back around the—’

  Roger’s palm slapped against the muscular slab of the guy’s chest.

  ‘I don’t—’

  And when the big hands pushed him back, strands of quickglass hooking inside the bartender’s flesh pulled the skin outward.

  ‘—think so.’

  ‘The fuck is this?’ The big man took hold of Roger, squeezing and hauling him off the ground. ‘Get this off me or I’ll snap you now.’

  Roger’s bones felt about to give way.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  His free hand slapped against the back of the man’s neck.

  ‘You lose.’

  Quickglass tendrils infiltrated the cervical vertebrae, a narrow filament targetting a ventral junction of the spinal cord. The big man shuddered, then collapsed.

  Roger fell on top of him.

  ‘You saw her.’

  ‘No, I—’

  A stench grew in pungency.

  ‘You just shat yourself,’ said Roger. ‘I keep this in your neck much longer, the paralysis is permanent. Or you can tell me where she is.’

  I really can’t believe I’m—

  ‘Not . . . here.’

  —doing this.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘At . . . Ingram’s Corner, man. You know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No . . . Uh. Drone Dollies. Garber picked her up.’

  ‘Who’s Garber?’

  ‘Pro-procurer.’

  ‘What does he procure?’

  The bartender was beginning to cry.

  ‘Come on,’ said Roger. ‘What does he procure?’

  ‘Girls, man. Drones.’

  ‘Are you talking mindwipe here?’

  ‘They’re far gone when they come here.’ A sob. ‘Like, almost drones already.’

  ‘Drones.’

  But he was not going to get anything more from the paralysed bartender. He formed the command, and the quickglass sucked free from the man’s body.

  When Roger stood, only one of the drinkers was looking in his direction, raising a purple stripe in toast.

  Roger looked at his own untouched drink, and considered knocking it across the counter or throwing it at the supine, sniffling bartender. But he carried on walking.

  Did I just do that?

  Whatever had happened to Alisha was more terrible than he had thought. And he realized, as he came out on to the bright, sleazy street, that he himself was capable of so much more, and so much worse, than his comfortable life had taught him.

  His quickglass gloves glistened on his hands.

  FORTY-FOUR

  LABYRINTH, 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)

  They tried to stop Carl; but they could not.

  His former interrogators, Clayton and Boyle, were perhaps overwhelmed by the thought of their own impending amnesia treatment, Carl’s innocence in the matter they were investigating - Admiral Kaltberg’s murder - and their genuine sympathy at Miranda Blackstone’s death.

  Still, they attempted restraint holds when Carl pushed himself away from the med-drone containing his wife’s body and started to run. But he moved in a torrent of sorrow, a whirlpool of rage, spinning and twisting so Clayton and Boyle and grasping medics were flung aside; and then he was sprinting into the open, summoning a fastpath rotation dead ahead.

  ‘Stop that—’

  Hands reached but he was past them, and then he was into the fastpath and the others had no chance.

  He spun back into reality inside his ship. She reacted immediately, sealing her entranceway and gathering power, her hull reactivating its protective event membrane, sealing it off from fastpath intrusion; and she was already backing away from the dock, turning inside the great vault where other ships floated. Now she gunned for the exit tunnel.

  Only Labyrinth itself could stop them now.

  But the city chose not to act, and within seconds Carl-and-ship burst free into golden mu-space, their minds unitary once more as they flew hard, getting separation from the mass of Labyrinth, before shifting with precision to a chosen geodesic; and then they were gone.

  It was a tough trajectory they followed, to appear in realspace in a short elapsed time, while the onboard duration would be long, a relativistic dilation they both needed, Carl and ship: one to think, the other to cope with her Pilot’s grief, both to make their preparations.

  They flew on.

  FORTY-FIVE

  EARTH, 1940 AD

  Three weeks after her journey across the North Sea - the memory a montage of seasickness, waves and fish-stink - Gavriela was sitting in a snug Oxford pub, a small pressed-cardboard suitcase at her feet, trying to understand how she had come here. Some kind of process had been set in motion, and now she was waiting, scared and happy to be meeting someone she didn’t just know but cared about.

  Will he even remember me?

  In Zürich he had never responded - but she had been too young; now she was a woman who could act when she had to, because opportunities were temporary, and fragile.

  If he doesn’t take the initiative, I will.

  In front of her was a glass of sherry, which she did not like but knew Englishwomen drank, if they entered pubs at all. All around were chattering voices, the sounds bouncing and washing around the dark bar, a sea of accents and too-fast words from which she plucked occasional minnows of meaning.

  In a corner near the fireplace, an intent man was writing in a notebook. While ordering her drink, Gavriela had seen the runes he was inscribing in the middle of dense English prose. Now, from her small round table, she could hear - but not quite follow - conversations about shear forces in Gothic arches, lepidoptera speciation, the difference between polycentric hologenesis and polyphyletism, and Shakespeare’s unspeakable relationship with the Earl of Southampton. Not to mention the paucity of butter rations, the difficulty of obtaining a decent pipe tobacco, and the desirability quotient of Vera Lynn’s legs.

  Two young men in RAF uniform were drinking at the bar. A much older man, from a corner table, watched them, his eyes bereft, perhaps remembering a lost son.

  She adjusted the other chair at her table, and realized that someone had left a book on it. The title was Mesmerism: History and Techniques, by D.A.R. Greene, and it opened naturally at a page where someone had underlined a passage in pencil.

  One may utilize extended fixation of the eyesight upon an object, the text said, such as the traditional fob watch, or indeed any bright object, to induce mesmeric trance. As a dramatic alternative, the patient may be induced to plunge into an altered state almost instantaneously, by interrupting an ingrained, automatic behaviour. This latter requires skill and timing, and has as much in common with a sporting practice, such as lawn tennis, as normal psychological technique.

  It is useful for the p
ractitioner to recognize the exterior signals of trance, viz. rapid fluttering of the eyelids, defocused eyes, and altered skin lividity. In addition, limb catalepsy is a both an indicator and a convincing—

  She read on, lost in the book.

  ‘You can keep it if you like, dear.’ It was the barmaid, clutching more empty beer glasses than seemed possible. ‘I know the gentleman who left it. He’s off to the Army, so he won’t be coming b—I mean, it’ll be a good while before he’s back.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you. Let’s hope he’s all right.’

  ‘Yeah. You Polish, is that it?’

  ‘Um, sort of.’

  ‘Thought so. Got an ear for an accent, I have.’

  Gavriela tried to smile, but the barmaid was already moving on to swap a cheeky comment with the men at the next table - the ones enamoured of Vera Lynn - and remove their empties.

  What if I said I’m German?

  She remembered Professor Hartmann talking about the splendour of German culture, but here Germany was the fount of bloody barbarism spilling through the world.

  ‘Gavi!’

  It was the same intelligent eyes, though the face was older and the curly hair had receded a little.

  ‘Lucas. Oh, Lucas.’ She stood, let her hand be taken in both of his, and reminded herself to speak in English. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Good to see you, I mean.’ He grinned, plunging her memory back to that first day in Zürich. ‘And this is my friend Rupert. Rupert Forrester, meet Gavriela Wolf.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Dr Wolf.’

  ‘Um, thank you.’ They shook hands.

  ‘So you’ll have another sherry? No? And Luke, the usual for you.’ Rupert smiled at them both. ‘Why don’t you catch up, and I’ll take my time chatting to Susie.’

  That would be the barmaid.

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ Gavriela said.

  Lucas looked at the book and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I do hear neurotic people can be helped with such techniques. But how are you, dear Gavi? It’s been a frightfully long time.’

  To her inexpert ears, his English accent was perfect.

  ‘It’s been—Oh, it is so different back there.’

  ‘I was in Denmark when it all fell apart.’ He reached inside his jacket, and withdrew an ID card. ‘This is who I am now.’

  The name read Luke Cross. But he was still the same Lucas Krause who had captivated her attention so long ago.

  ‘You remember my first day at the ETH?’ She pronounced it eh-teh-ha, then caught herself, remembering the English. ‘I mean the ee-tee-aitch. Professor Möller with the wire basket.’

  ‘And Florian Horst the trusted assistant. Did you see him in Copenhagen?’

  ‘No, he and Elke were gone.’

  She did not want to say the rest: that no one knew whether they were in hiding or had returned to Germany. She had thought that Florian detested the Wehrmacht; but she might be wrong. So many beliefs had turned to twisted rubble.

  ‘Oh. Well.’

  ‘Well.’

  There was so much to say between them. Gavriela stared at his face, and no words came to her, none at all. When Rupert returned, they both looked at him.

  ‘So, Luke,’ he said, setting down pint glasses. ‘Have you shared your good news?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Lucas raised his left hand, smiling. ‘Look. At last.’

  It took Gavriela a moment to notice the gold.

  ‘That’s a wedding-ring.’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘He’s on his honeymoon, strictly speaking,’ said Rupert. ‘So we don’t expect you to hang around very long, do we, Dr Wolf?’

  ‘Er, no. Congratulations, Lucas. Well done.’

  ‘And they’ll be gone by the end of the week.’ Rupert tipped an invisible hat in salute. ‘A cross-Atlantic cruise.’

  ‘Not exactly a cruise. And Mary hates the heat.’

  Rupert raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry,’ added Lucas. ‘We’re off to the States to live. It’ll be . . . interesting.’

  The structures of Gavriela’s life had been swept away. This was just one more disorienting transition.

  ‘So.’ Lucas downed half of the pint very quickly. ‘Rupert will show you to your digs. It’s a good place.’

  ‘Digs?’

  ‘Your lodgings,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s all arranged.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You told the officers in Edinburgh that you want to help the war effort, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She had disembarked from the trawler there, and been surprised when policemen seemed to know her name already. ‘I meant it, very much.’

  ‘Then we’ve something lined up for you.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked at Lucas, then at Rupert. ‘You’re not just a friend of Lucas, are you?’

  Those same police officers had plied her with sweet tea, taken her to stay in lodgings - no one called them digs - at a house belonging to the station sergeant’s mother. Finally they had told her about Lucas Krause waiting to meet her in Oxford, and the train journey, lasting overnight, had been an epic of anticipation, as she imagined their reunion.

  But he was off to live in the United States, with his new wife.

  ‘Not just a friend, no,’ said Rupert. ‘Call us distant colleagues, and Luke a very impressive boffin.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’ Lucas took several more swigs of bitter. ‘Gavi’s brain is bigger than mine, I assure you. Razor sharp.’

  ‘That’ll be interesting to see.’ Rupert took a tiny sip of his beer. ‘We’ll find plenty for you to do, Dr Wolf, now our new prime minister’s shaking things up.’

  Lucas tipped back the last of his drink, and put the glass down. Foam slid inside the glass, the motion catching Gavriela’s attention. Bubbles were an interesting phenomenon, caused by—

  No wonder he never looked at me. He didn’t want a physicist to talk to; he wanted a lover.

  Her throat clenched.

  ‘Are you all right, Gavi?’

  ‘Sure, Lucas. Sure.’

  ‘Then . . . I have to go.’

  He stood up; Gavriela and Rupert did likewise.

  ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘And congratulations once more.’

  This time they hugged instead of shaking hands; but there was none of the electric contact that had featured in her imagination.

  ‘Take care, Gavi.’

  He went out, carrying his hat and overcoat, squeezing past the regulars, and disappeared through the blackout curtain. A second later, the door to the street clicked shut.

  ‘You don’t like sherry, do you, Dr Wolf?’

  ‘I—’ Gavriela looked down, then at Rupert. ‘Actually, I hate it.’

  Rupert laughed.

  ‘Do you want something else?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Then I’ll show you to your lodgings.’

  ‘If you call me Gavriela, I’d be happy to walk with you.’

  ‘Um . . .’

  She swallowed.

  ‘I’m sorry. Your customs are—’

  ‘That’s not why I hesitated,’ said Rupert. ‘I’d prefer to call you Gabby, if that’s all right. We thought it sounded similar enough that you’d respond, er, be comfortable with it.’

  ‘Gabby.’

  ‘You’re Gabby Woods, and in the morning you’ll have the paperwork to prove it. Does that suit you?’

  ‘And if you’re a Forrester, what does that make you? My keeper?’

  She knew forest and forester by chance, for they were nothing like the German.

  ‘Luke was right. You are sharp. So, are you ready to go?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Let me take your case.’

  As they were leaving, she noticed again the man sitting alone with his notebook, the pages dense with words but also some runes. Once they were outside, in the darkness of St Giles, she asked Rupert about it.

  ‘He looked as if
he was writing code.’