Context

by John Meaney

  ~ * ~

  18

  TERRA AD 2142

  <>

  [4]

  PhoenixCentral.

  Blue glass pyramids, in which hundreds of personnel worked. Other buildings were black and silver, tensegrity-framed polyhedra larger than cathedrals, their dark window facets concealing complex inner architecture from the blazing sun. In front of them ran a yellow runway, around which air-cars hovered.

  Beyond, sere red desert lay baking beneath a cloudless sapphire sky.

  And it was hot.

  Ro shaded her eyes against the light: high above the horizon, a small dot was growing steadily larger.

  ‘Are sure you—?’ The voice behind her was cut off.

  I don’t need a bodyguard.

  Sound of a gull door descending. Ro continued to watch.

  Speck, glinting as it adjusted yaw, then pitch.

  White, glimmering.

  And then it was very fast, reflected sun blazing and its delta wings clearly visible, and the mu-space ship was hurtling down towards the yellow strip. Faster, and faster, then suddenly it was hanging raptor-like before the swoop, talon-skids extended as it glided in to land.

  My God.

  Smoke billowed and a screaming filled the air as friction-deceleration slowed the huge ship. As it passed Ro’s position—and she appreciated for the first time how big it really was -a hot pungent Shockwave buffeted her exposed skin.

  Nicely handled, Pilot.

  It came to a halt beside the extended passenger complex.

  Behind her, a dull tapping: her assigned escort, Flight Officer Neil, was trying to attract her attention from inside the air-taxi. She ignored him.

  Ground vehicles, like attendant insects, swarmed around the big delta-winged ship. Scorpion-tailed grab-cranes shifted passenger crates onto fluorescent orange flatbed TDVs. Thermoacoustic drives whispered into life, and the flatbeds slowly bore the encased, comatose travellers to the complex’s Awakening wing.

  Full med facilities awaited them, just in case, as did UNSA’s LitIg8 AI: ready to offer an out-of-court settlement (via any injured passenger’s Every Ware proxy) at the first hint of neural damage.

  Small white TDV, with a silver scorpion tail.

  Ro swallowed.

  She watched as the tail extended, daintily dipped over the ship, and rose again with a dark blue ovoid clutched within its pincers.

  The Pilot’s cocoon.

  The vehicle drew closer, and stopped only two hundred metres from Ro, by the nearest pyramid complex: a rearing construct of dark blue, almost purple glass. The cocoon, lowered to the ground, split open. A slender, near-emaciated Pilot stumbled onto grey tarmac as attendants rushed to help.

  Twin sparks of sunlight where his eye sockets should have been.

  Mother—

  Like her, like all Pilots, this man’s eyes—rendered useless by the neuroviral rewiring of his visual cortex—had been surgically removed, replaced by high-bandwidth I/O-buses: the main interface to his ship’s sensors.

  But in mu-space he could see, know the joys of that fractal continuum in ways unaltered humans could not dream of.

  It was the first time Ro had watched a mu-space ship in action, and suddenly the magnitude of the Pilots’ suffering, of Mother’s sacrifice and that of the father she had never known grew massively clear, overwhelming her. And the unfairness, for she could not understand how society—how anyone—could allow this to happen, without searching for another way.

  But the loss of a few individuals’ realspace eyesight was insignificant compared to the economic benefit of travel to the stars.

  Dart, my father. If only you had lived. . .

  Then she was stumbling, half-running along the tarmac, away from the landed Pilot and his helpers, away from everything, away from the air-taxi she could hear coming to life behind her, rising in pursuit.

  It was cool inside the air-taxi, and she leaned back on the soft bench, while Flight Officer Neil held out a chilled glass of water. Ro took it, gulped the water down.

  ‘I don’t need a bodyguard,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Ah ... I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize how stressed I was.’

  ‘With good reason.’ He leaned forward, and tapped the control panel unnecessarily. ‘Command: resume journey.’

  ‘Acknowledged.’

  As the air-taxi rose to hovering height, Ro noticed for the first time that FO Neil was about her own age, in full dress blues with platinum award strips. Perhaps just a little too clean-cut, the chin with a hint of fragility ...But she was staring at him, and he blushed minutely before looking away. His profile was about perfect.

  Was my escort selected for his looks?

  But she could think of no reason why the UNSA authorities should pay that much attention to the visit of one lowly intern. Unless they were worried about undue publicity following Anne-Louise’s death. Certainly no-one other than the police had attempted to interview her.

  ‘My mother,’ she said suddenly, ‘was a Pilot too.’

  ‘Really?’ A tone of polite interest. ‘Oh, yes. I believe I knew that.’

  Something...

  Bringing her senses to bear: on pupil dilation, skin lividity, respiratory rhythm. And the conclusion was obvious: he knew something of her past, had intended her to see the returning Pilot.

  As a test of her reactions? But what relevance could that possibly have to anyone at UNSA?

  Slowly blinking her jet-black eyes, she wondered if they had any idea how different she was from other people, and a wave of coldness which had nothing to do with the taxi’s air-conditioning shivered across her spine.

  Mother. I wish you were here.

  She was out of her depth.

  Flight Officer Neil stalked back and forth in the reception room, and Ro needed no special perception to see that his anger was real.

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  They were in a small reception room, with a young junior administrator—a civilian—behind the main desk, trying to look busy, constructing a FourSpeak report amid a sheaf of holoplanes, while avoiding Neil’s gaze. Ro clasped her arms around herself and looked outside. On the tarmac, despite the late morning heat, fit-looking men and women in white jumpsuits were running past in cadence.

  Pilot Candidates.

  She turned away.

  In the grey-walled corridor beyond Reception, a white-haired woman with a deep tan was walking briskly past. She was dressed in a pale blue suit: business-conservative cut, but expensive shot-silk fabric. Two nervous-looking aides stumbled along behind her, trying to keep up.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Neil was at Ro’s shoulder. ‘I can’t believe they brought you all the way out here for this.’

  Behind the desk, the young administrator swallowed and said, ‘I think the, er, Mrs Haverley’s condition changed suddenly.’

  ‘A medical emergency?’ asked Ro.

  Neil frowned, and Ro heard his subliminal repressed remark as though he had shouted it aloud: There will be if someone’s not careful.

  ‘The person you were about to see’—Neil glared at the receptionist—‘is off home because his wife’s giving birth. I don’t know—’ He stopped, then added: ‘I’m not fully briefed on this. You were here for counselling?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Which begged the question, why was he here to escort her?

  To observe me. She was suddenly sure of that. But why?

  ‘My God. It was your roommate who was killed in DistribOne, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Her name was Anne-Louise.’

  ‘I’m sorry ...Ah, they probably had you seeing Dr Haverley to check you’re OK.’

  ‘Concerned about me?’

  ‘Or avoiding a lawsuit. I— Were you close, you and Anne-Louise?’

  ‘I’d only just met her that morning.’

  But I saw her there, bruised corpse with a dark swollen tongue...

  Neil’s hand
was guiding her to a seat, and she held a comforting certainty that his concern at least was real.

  ‘You should go home,’ he said, ‘to DistribOne.’

  ‘No.’ Ro felt suddenly calm. “There’s something I’d like to see.’

  Open to the sky: blue mats, broken white walls. Perhaps it was a mistake to come here.

  It felt like sacrilege, wearing her boots, but Ro walked to the mat’s centre, knelt down and sat back on her heels. Seiza position. She could feel the echoes of warrior training: so many hours—hundreds of thousands of hours—filled with effort and energy. Ancient fear pheromones still lingered: faded scents of sweat, of occasional spilled blood.

  Mother had trained here, and Gramps had been her sensei.

  Ro clapped her hands in the traditional manner, and bowed to the dojo-spirit.

  Some of UNSA’s own military police had kicked down one of the walls, according to Neil, after demolition cranes had pulled the roof away. No-one trained here any more.

  Fifteen years earlier, aikido/Feldenkrais—spatial awareness training—had been in vogue for all serious athletes. Now, although Zürich Hight School still sent its most promising Pilot Candidates to be taught by Karyn McNamara, most UNSA centres were phasing out the practice.

  Ro bowed once more, palms on the ripped blue mat, then stood up.

  She walked away without looking back.

  Neil was waiting for her, on a vacant red-sand lot between two dark glass buildings. Sweat patches showed on his uniform.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ro. ‘You should’ve gone inside.’

  ‘No problem. Actually, I have heard about your mother. Something of a legend around here.’

  Ro smiled.

  ‘And,’ Neil added, ‘in the aikido world too, is that right?’

  ‘Ranked judan by the Kyoto Honbu.’

  Neil whistled, and Ro was impressed that he understood. Where other arts had abandoned the old belt rankings—after so many self-awarded high grades had rendered the whole concept laughable—aikido had reverted to traditional practices, and typically it now took a decade of hard work to earn a first dan. As for tenth dan, there were three tenth-degree black belts in the world, and Mother was one of them.

  ‘UNSA service’—Neil gave a self-effacing grimace—‘is a family tradition for me, too.’

  Ro just looked at him.

  ‘My brother Neal,’ he said, ‘was a fighter-shuttle pilot.’

  Ro smothered her reaction with a tight cough: easy enough in the hot dry air.

  ‘Neal Neil?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. Did I mention my first name’s Armstrong?’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Exactly. Come on, let’s get inside.’

  As they walked together, boots scrunching softly on the sand, he added: ‘I had a Puritan ancestor called Punishment. Joined the militia, never got promoted beyond two stripes.’

  Ro gave a small groan.

  ‘And his cousin Trauma, got as far as maj—’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ro. ‘I think I’ve got that one.’ She stopped before the glistening black glass door. ‘So you were kidding about your brother.’

  Their two reflections, distorted, stood together in the glass.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Shading his eyes, Neil looked back towards the dojo’s broken shell. ‘That’s all true.’

  ‘You said he was a pilot.’ Something in Neil’s tone made Ro ask the question: ‘What happened?’

  ‘His name’—Neil’s smile switched on, then off—‘made him fast with his fists ...and his brain. Excellence-grade honours from VirtU, then a masters from Jakarta. But he wanted to be a top gun.’

  Ro held her breath.

  ‘It was a training run.’ Neil stared into the distance, but his thoughts were focused inwards. ‘Mach nine, and he ploughed into the Tibetan Alps, for no good reason that I ever learned. End of story.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Neil held up his hand, and the black glass door slid open.

  ‘He was twenty-six years old.’

  They went inside, into cold air. Ro shivered as the door slid shut behind them.

  In the high-ceilinged museum complex, a space capsule hung, the exact colour of an old copper coin, protected by its covering of clear laminate. It was an Apollo craft, rescued from the Smithsonian’s ruins—three decades before, during the Week DC Burned—and Ro could not imagine the bravery of the men who had flown inside.

  Beyond another display, Ro saw the woman she had spotted before: tanned, white-haired, with a pale blue suit of understated elegance, undoubtedly expensive.

  ‘Your mother’—beside Ro, Neil pointed to another exhibit—’went up in something like that.’

  Dear God.

  It was not the full ship: just the Pilot’s cabin, cut open to the public gaze. Freed of the foamy cocoon material, its revealed interior was cold and spartan. The VO ports were two plain sockets in the turquoise ceramic bulkhead—and the Pilot would have been plugged in via high-bandwidth fibres attached in place of her eyes.

  The tanned woman was walking towards her, but Ro’s attention was riveted by the display.

  I was born in one of these.

  Ro shivered.

  Slender robot arms, like praying mantis forelimbs, were angled against the cold bulkhead. For no good reason, the sight unsettled Ro.

  ‘Myosin-activation strips.’ The woman’s hand was elegantly manicured, though her fingers’ knuckles, as she pointed at the loose-hanging strips, were swollen with age. ‘In lieu of exercise. Not too different from today’s setup.’

  Her voice was crystal clear, devoid of accent.

  ‘It looks,’ said Ro, ‘like a medieval torture chamber.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  The woman emanated a sense of presence, and when she laughed Ro found herself smiling in response.

  ‘My name’—the woman held out her hand for Ro to shake— ’is Ilse Schwenger. I worked with your mother.’

  Neil, behind Ilse Schwenger, was standing almost to attention.

  ‘Not a Pilot, then,’ said Ro.

  Neil winced. Whoever this Schwenger was, he knew her. Was aware of her importance.

  ‘Ach, no. Just an administrator, who was able to help Karyn at... an opportune moment.’

  It was you.

  Ro knew who this woman was.

  You got Mother her ship.

  When Dart Mulligan had been lost in mu-space, Pilot Candidate Karyn McNamara—his lover—had undergone the viral rewiring, and persuaded Ilse Schwenger, then a divisional director, to upgrade a newly commissioned ship: a solo search and rescue mission. The designated Pilot had been bumped off the schedule, and Karyn—Mother—had taken his place.

  And she was already pregnant with Ro.

  Mother had never said exactly what occurred, but there had been blackmail involved, and Machiavellian intra-UNSA politics. Mother and Gramps furnished material which Schwenger utilized to destroy her enemies’ careers, while advancing her own.

  And Mother had gained the ship she needed.

  ‘Walk with me.’ Schwenger took Ro’s arm.

  ‘All right.’

  They strolled past a Long March rocket. Neil followed.

  ‘You look,’ said Schwenger, ‘a great deal like your mother.’

  Several years younger, Ro realized, than when you met her.

  Less experienced, more easily manipulated.

  ‘But I don’t have my mother’s eyes.’

  The Pilot, three inches high, stood up in the tiny open-topped ship and said: ‘Entering mu-space now!’

  Shaking her head, Schwenger replaced the toy on the glass-topped counter.

  ‘Tasteless. But what the visitors want.’

  There was a single attendant, a superfluous youth: the souvenir shop’s AI could handle everything.

  ‘Uncle Cho might find it amusing.’ Ro tapped her golden strand, and placed the order. ‘When will it be delivered?’