Nothing But Blue Skies

by Tom Holt

  ‘Oh well. I’d hoped that we could sort things out so you’d end up with who you really wanted all along. Like me,’ she added, with a hint of surprise in her voice. ‘Not to worry,’ she said briskly. ‘Like they say, worse things happen at sea.’

  Paul looked puzzled. ‘Shipboard romances, you mean?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, right. Look, we’d better get out of this cell. After all, one of the reasons why I came here was to rescue you.’

  ‘It was?’ She could almost hear the click as the connection was made in Paul’s mind. ‘You never did say how you came to be here,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well . . .’

  ‘Or where “here” is,’ Paul went on, uncharacteristically forceful. ‘Or who’s holding me, or what’s going on, or how you got here or anything like that. In fact, you were asking me.’ He looked at her. ‘Karen? And what was all that crazy stuff about if you’re going to be human, do it properly? I don’t understand.’

  ‘No,’ Karen replied. ‘You don’t. Deal with it.’ She stepped back a couple of paces from the door. ‘You aren’t going to understand this, either,’ she said. ‘In fact, there’s a serious risk that if you watch what I’m just about to do, it’ll freak you out so badly your brain will blow out of your ears. You may prefer to close your eyes.’

  ‘This is silly,’ Paul said. ‘Maybe you should rest. Lie down or something.’

  ‘No,’ Karen said. ‘You lie down. On the floor; no, better still, under that bench, because there may be flying masonry and stuff.’ She scowled at him. ‘Under the bench,’ she snapped. ‘Now.’

  He scuttled under the bench like a hermit crab. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Fine. Now, don’t be alarmed, this is actually all perfectly natural—’

  She closed her eyes and felt for her wings and tail. They weren’t there.

  It was one of those last-step-of-the-escalator moments. The jolt was physically painful; the shock of not being in the body she’d expected to be. Suddenly, her human skin felt unbearably tight, like being in clothes three sizes too small. She swore and tried again. The shock was rather worse. That was all.

  ‘Karen,’ Paul called out from under the bench, ‘are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Shut up.’ She closed her eyes again, looked for her third eye; it was there, but she couldn’t see anything through it at all. With all the strength she could muster, she grabbed for her wings and tail, and hurled herself at the wall. It was a very solid wall, and she hurled herself at it very hard indeed.

  ‘Ungh,’ she gasped, and hit the floor.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  ‘Was that it?’ Paul asked from under his ledge.

  ‘Urg.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Paul said, slithering out from his hiding place. ‘You needn’t worry, it didn’t freak me out after all. What was it, some kind of Taekwondo thing? I tried to learn that stuff a year or two ago, but there was a seven-year-old in our class who kept picking on me . . . Are you all right?’

  ‘No,’ Karen muttered. ‘I think I’ve broken my arm. Ouch,’ she added, by way of confirmation.

  ‘Oh.’ Paul looked down at her helplessly. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you’re supposed to do about broken arms. You tie them to something, but I think it gets quite technical. It’s a pity,’ he added. ‘The evening classes I signed up for, Taekwondo and first aid were on the same night, and I decided . . .’

  ‘Paul,’ Karen said quietly, ‘please shut up. You aren’t helping. ’

  ‘I know,’ Paul replied sadly.

  After a brief and regrettable attempt to move, Karen gave up and lay still. Probably she should have guessed earlier, when in spite of all the messy emotions slopping about all over the place, Paul hadn’t slipped up or accidentally banged his head against the wall. Her third eye, all the amazing dragon attributes she’d always taken for granted, didn’t seem to be working. She laughed bitterly.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I got exactly what I wanted. Now I really know what it’s like to be human.’

  That obviously worried Paul. ‘There you go again,’ he said, ‘with that loony stuff. I wish you’d stop doing it.’

  ‘And you know what it’s all about? Being human, I mean. It’s about not having the choice. And you know what? I don’t think I like it very much.’

  ‘Karen—’

  ‘Oh go away!’ As soon as she’d said it she felt guilty for snapping at him, but she couldn’t seem to make herself calm down. Besides, maybe staying calm wasn’t such a good thing after all. Paul was calm - any calmer and he’d be dead - and right now she wouldn’t give ear wax for his chances of getting out of there without being rescued. The hell with calm; what she needed was some good old-fashioned bad temper - preferably blue, forked, high-voltage and aimed with surgical precision right there—’

  No lightning. Not even a teeny tiny flash, or a burp of thunder, or a dewdrop of rain. Of course, she hadn’t really been expecting anything, since she was outside her jurisdiction; except that it was human nature to expect a miracle at times like these . . .

  Human nature. Oh dear.

  Karen slumped, letting the strength drain away, like oil from a British motorcycle. For the first time in her life, she felt completely, utterly helpless: someone else had imposed his will on her, and because he was so much stronger, or cleverer (didn’t matter which; that sort of cleverness was just another form of strength) there was nothing she could do. The sharp pain of pity made her flesh crawl; because there were so many humans, and for them it was like this all the time.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hope we get rescued.’

  Paul nodded. ‘Never give up hope, that’s what I say.’

  Karen didn’t bother to reply. Hope was another of those human things she felt she was better off not understanding - hope in hopeless situations, the mindless abjuration of the truth in favour of anaesthetic self-deception. It was that kind of hope, she knew, that secured the tyrant and bound the addict to his needle, and she really didn’t think it was going to help much. It would be nice, though, if Paul were to leave it at that. There was no situation in human experience that could-n’t be made worse, even if only by a little, and Paul blithely informing her that it was always darkest before dawn and that every cloud had a silver lining would make things a lot worse, particularly since having only one good arm would make it difficult and painful to smack him unconscious.

  Instead, she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t a pretty ceiling. It probably knew that, because she was sure it was scowling at her. Now, if her arm wasn’t broken she could try climbing up on Paul’s shoulders and ripping off the plasterboard with her fingernails till she’d found where Mr Willis had hidden the transmitter or other gadget that was stopping her from using her third eye or changing shape. And if she could only get the use of her third eye back, she could use it to force the broken bone to knit together as fast as arc-welding; or if she could change shape she could turn herself into a goldfish (which doesn’t have an arm to be broken) and then immediately into a dragon, which would fix the arm problem and leave her ready to take out her snit on the walls. But she couldn’t; and the worst part of it was, it was her fault that she’d broken her arm, it was her fault that she’d come quietly and allowed herself to be locked up in here, it was her fault that her father had been kidnapped in the first place. It was possible even for a human to be rendered completely helpless through no fault of her own, but when you were the sole author of all your misfortunes, that was a bitch . . .

  The door opened.

  Karen tried to jump up, but that turned out to be a really bad idea; instead, she flopped down hard on her bum and yelped with pain as the shock jarred her arm. When she’d finished doing all that, she had the leisure to look and see who’d joined them.

  ‘Susan?’ Paul said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Karen’s mouth dropped like the ramp of a cross-Channel ferry. Bewilderment
- must’ve caught it from Paul, never knew it was contagious before - and a surprisingly sharp twinge of jealousy; even though she didn’t love him any more, not one little bit, why did it have to be her of all people who’d come to rescue them? Assuming that that was why she was here. Big assume.

  ‘Be quiet, Paul,’ Susan said, not looking at him. Instead, she seemed far more interested in Karen. ‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve hurt yourself.’ She knelt down beside her, looking not worried but concerned.

  ‘Broke my arm,’ Karen mumbled. ‘Look, what are you doing here?’

  ‘My job,’ Susan replied. ‘Does this hurt?’

  ‘Aaaaaaaa—’

  ‘That hurts. Okay, we’ll have to take it easy. Not to worry. Put your other arm around my neck and I’ll help you up. Paul, come here. I need you to keep the door open.’

  Karen’s arm tweaked her like hell as she stood up, but damned if she was going to let Susan know that. ‘What do you mean, your job?’ she said. ‘You’re an estate agent. Come to measure up, have you?’

  Susan shook her head. ‘Let’s head for the door,’ she said, ‘nice and steady.’

  ‘Not till you tell me what you meant by—’

  ‘All right.’ Susan adjusted her grip slightly on Karen’s good arm. ‘Your father assigned me to look after you,’ she said.

  ‘My father?’ Something was hurting, apart from her arm. ‘You mean you’re a—’

  ‘Yes,’ Susan snapped, dipping her head slightly in Paul’s direction and giving Karen a not-in-front-of-the-children scowl. ‘It was a week ago, before you ran off; your father thought you’d been acting strangely, guessed you might be thinking about doing something bloody stupid. When you came down here, I followed you, to make sure you didn’t get yourself into any really bad trouble.’ She shook her head. ‘I failed. My fault. I underestimated you. Guess I’d forgotten just how unbelievably irresponsible you can be sometimes.’

  ‘You under—’ Something occurred to Karen, and she didn’t like it. ‘Do I know you?’ she said. ‘Back home, I mean.’

  ‘Of course you do. We’ve known each other since we were so high.’

  Karen grabbed Susan’s wrist, but she gently eased out of the grip. ‘All right, then,’ Karen shouted, ‘who are you? Go on, tell me.’

  ‘Later. When we’re not so busy. It’ll just make things awkward if you know now.’

  ‘But—’ Karen would have carried on asking, but Susan was manhandling her through the cell door. Dragonhandling. Whatever. ‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘Oh, do you know about the—?’

  Susan nodded. ‘Disabling field. Clever idea. After we’ve got you out of here, I’ll have to make sure it’s completely trashed. Can’t leave something like that lying around, can we?’

  So cool, so confident, so damned bloody superior. Karen was beginning to feel very bad about this. ‘Three guesses?’ she suggested, as they emerged into the corridor outside.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please your—’ Karen stopped and looked round. Then she closed her eyes. Much better. ‘Just a moment,’ she said, as she found the splintered ends of the bone. Fixing them took just under three seconds and didn’t hurt a bit.

  ‘All right now?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Splendid. It’s all right, Paul, you can let her go now.’ Susan’s eyes were closed too. ‘Straight ahead,’ she said, ‘then second left, third right—’

  ‘No,’ Karen interrupted.

  ‘What do you mean, “No”? It’s a straight run to the lift shaft, and that’ll take us right to the back door.’

  ‘No,’ Karen repeated. ‘Or at least, you two go on. I’ve got to stay here.’

  ‘Why?’

  Karen sighed. ‘I’ve got to find my dad,’ she said.

  Susan’s eyes opened with a snap, like over-sprung roller blinds. ‘He’s here too? Your father?’

  ‘Long story,’ Karen said. ‘Long, embarrassing story. You two go on, I’ll fetch him and catch you up.’

  ‘Hold it,’ Susan said. ‘What makes you think he’s here in the building? I can’t see any sign of him.’

  ‘You can’t either? Splendid. That’ll make him much easier to find. It’s this shielding,’ she explained. ‘Makes him invisible to the third—’ She leaned closer, so Paul couldn’t hear. ‘To the third eye,’ she hissed. ‘So, when I’ve found a big space where I can’t see anything, that’s where he’ll be. Simple, isn’t it?’

  She turned to walk away. Susan reached out to hold her back, but she pushed her hand gently away with what had recently been her broken arm. Paul noticed that, and for a moment he simply couldn’t understand how someone could do that with a broken arm. He opened his mouth to ask about it, but decided not to after all. There was a slight but significant risk that he might get a straight answer, and if what he’d been listening to ever since Karen arrived was anything to go by, he was fairly certain he didn’t want to know. The absolute truth, according to Paul Willis, was like some awesome, beautiful mythical beast - a unicorn, say, or a gryphon, or a dragon. It was both inspiring and entertaining to contemplate it at a safe distance, but you really wouldn’t want one in your living room.

  ‘I’m still on duty, remember,’ Susan was saying. ‘I owe it to your father to look after you. So we’re coming with you.’

  (Gosh, Paul thought; so Karen’s got a powerful, manipulative father too. We do have something in common, after all. Wonder if he owns newspapers too.)

  Karen shrugged. ‘That’s up to you,’ she said. ‘But really, I’d far rather you got him out of this mess first. How’d it be if you took him away, then came back and looked after me? Deal?’

  ‘Certainly not. Your dad didn’t say anything to me about any humans. Besides, he’s the megalomaniac-psycho’s son, for pity’s sake. Can you say hostage?’

  Karen laughed. Paul went bright red and looked away.

  ‘It’s not quite like that,’ Karen said. ‘Trust me, I know. All right, have it your own way. After all, there’s two of us, and we can tell which parts of the building have got that wretched dampening-field thing. If we stay clear of them, we’ll be all right.’

  Susan looked up and down the corridor again; nervous habit, endemic among security types. ‘Let’s hope so,’ she said. ‘But I’d feel a whole lot happier if we got out of this - this leisurewear, and into something a bit more practical, if you know what I . . .’

  Karen grinned. ‘Blue body-stocking and a red cape? Forget it,’ she added quickly, ‘human joke. Anyway, anything’s better than standing about chatting in corridors like a couple of diplomats. Follow me.’

  Susan frowned. ‘Is that a good idea? So far, you’ve exhibited the strategic and tactical instincts of a pacifist lemming.’

  ‘Yes,’ Karen admitted. ‘But he’s my dad. Follow me, or go away and water something. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  Against his better judgement, Paul cashed in his remaining few shares in courage. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  The two girls looked at him and grinned. ‘Good,’ they said.

  Fifty yards or so down the corridor, they came to a pair of fire doors. As soon as they were through, the doors swung shut and a lock clicked. Another pair of doors twenty yards further on did the same thing. Something in the walls started to hum. It was at that point, as Karen closed her eyes and saw nothing but the insides of two eyelids, that it occurred to her that the verb to rescue only really means anything when used in the past tense.

  As the anaesthetic gas started to take effect and the world began to melt into blobs and streaks, interior decor by Salvador Dali, she reached out with an arm that was much, much shorter than she’d remembered, and grabbed Susan by her arm.

  ‘I must know,’ she drawled, having to fight in order to shape each word (it was like trying to carve the Elgin marbles out of cottage cheese with a chisel made of overcooked pasta). ‘Who are you?’

  Susan looked at her. ‘You
mean you haven’t guessed?’ ‘Nope.’ Karen shook her head. It stayed on, though her neck felt like it had stretched about a yard. ‘Norraclue. Tell me.’

  ‘I’m your cousin Gndva-S’sssn, you idiot. S’ssssn. Susan. Geddit? ’Spose I coulda made it a bit more obvious if I’d had my real name tattooed on my forehead in fluorescent green, but I din’t think it’d be nesessessr . . .’

  ‘Oink?’

  Susan - S’sssn; of course, how dumb can you get? - sneered at her. She appeared to have twelve lips, which made it easier. ‘You’re drunk,’ she said. ‘Go sleep.’

  So she did.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Painting the ceilings?’ the soldier said. ‘At a time like this?’

  Gordon gave him a sympathetic grin. ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘But that’s what it says on my worksheet, and if I don’t get it done today, I’ll flamin’ well cop it from the Big Chief. More’n my job’s worth, that. So, if it’s OK with you fellas—’

  The soldier rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ he said. ‘All right, if you insist.’ He stood up, switched off his monitor and grabbed his jacket. ‘I suppose it won’t kill me to take an early lunch,’ he said, ‘even if we are in the middle of an artillery duel, with a bunch of crazed terrorists roaming loose. When will you be finished by?’

  Gordon ran an appraising eye round the room, clicked his tongue. ‘An hour,’ he said. ‘Maybe an hour and a quarter. Tell you what, mate; call it an hour and a half and I promise I’ll be through by then.’

  ‘Whatever,’ the soldier sighed, buckling on his ammunition belts. ‘Just, please, make sure you don’t move things about any more than you can help, okay? It may look scruffy to you, but I know exactly where everything is.’

  When he’d gone, Gordon slumped down in the chair and breathed out a long sigh of relief. There had been times when the inspiration that had struck him as he hid in the janitor’s cupboard - grab some overalls, paint, brushes, ladders and stuff, pretend to be a maintenance man - hadn’t seemed quite so inspired after all; quite apart from the physical strain of having to put on an Australian accent (murder on the jaw-muscles if you weren’t bred to it) it was a naive idea, an American-cop-show idea, an urban folk-myth that the man in the brown overalls is invisible and sacrosanct, and that everybody obeys him without question because he answers only to the System. Fortunately, it had worked just fine so far, as those crummy old urban folk-myths so often do.