Patchwerk

by David Tallerman

  An idea, then . . . something simple-seeming, until Florrian tried to put it into practise. There had to be a way to make it work, he knew. So he probed against Palimpsest’s resistance, testing ideas, negotiating, teasing through tantalising glimpses of worlds inconceivably far from his own until finally, impalpably, reality changed. Florrian opened his eyes . . .

  . . . to darkness. To roiling gloom that hung heaviest towards the ceiling, in weird defiance of expectation. But this was no normal fog. He’d had to search hard, contorting his request to find something Palimpsest would accept. What looked like a dense, billowing dust cloud was in fact plant spores, light-absorbing organisms bred in a far-distant reality for perhaps just such a purpose as this. He had thought he’d understood for an instant, glimpsed their world in frozen tableau as perhaps Palimpsest glimpsed it.

  His next request was easier. It took no effort, no noticeable time. Again he imagined the sensation of change, like the faintest breeze brushing the fine hairs of his neck. Florrian bent down to pick up the device at his feet, felt straps of heavy-duty fabric and a mechanism of plastic and glass and pulled it carefully over his head. As the lens slipped over his left eye, half of the world was reborn in shades of green and blue, speckled by dots of gold with pinprick fire-red hearts—what could only be the light-dampening spores.

  Heat vision goggles. Not difficult to find. He’d sensed that the reality that offered them up was not so dissimilar to his own.

  Florrian could see no sign of Dorric. There were the constellations of the plant spores, darker shapes of deep evening blue that must be luggage racks, stripes of rusty orange flecked with gold high up towards the ceiling that might be pipes or bundles of wire. But nowhere a glowing outline large enough to be a man.

  Now, though, he realised he could hear footsteps—the sound of a man suddenly more concerned with not walking into a wall than with being quiet. Sure enough, a moment later he heard Dorric’s voice, taut with anger: “Damn you, Florrian. You’re becoming a genuine irritation!”

  Florrian resisted the urge to answer. Let Dorric stumble around in darkness and silence; let that twisted mind bask a little in its own company. He had a feeling that even Dorric’s steely confidence couldn’t function in a vacuum.

  There was a sound like fat sizzling and then a wound of brightness opened before Florrian’s eyes, so that he had to fight not to claw off his goggles. His nostrils filled with the stink of charred mould, and it took him a moment to realise it must be the odour of hundreds upon thousands of spores suddenly incinerated.

  From somewhere in the glimmer-pricked darkness, Dorric chuckled horridly. “Did I hit you? Shout out if you’re dead!”

  This time Florrian had no desire at all to reply. Because there was an edge of panic in Dorric’s voice, and Florrian found that he liked hearing it there.

  “Come on, Florrian,” Dorric cried. “You’ve been dead once and it doesn’t seem to have inconvenienced you much. Why don’t you just give up?” The strain in every word was unmistakeable; Florrian tensed, awaiting another mad attempt at his life. If Dorric fired wildly enough, wasn’t there a chance that one of those shots would connect?

  Yet no shots came. Dorric had enough self-control left, perhaps, to realise that all he was doing was masking the sounds that might give Florrian away. Florrian had hoped it might take him a little longer to reach that conclusion—for he couldn’t stay where he was. Even in the profound gloom he’d created it was possible to make out the darker outlines of things. Florrian wasn’t invisible, and he hadn’t made his own life easy either. It was a struggle to extract any sense from the patchwork blues and greens around him, difficult to judge where the entrance—and Dorric—might be.

  It was Palimpsest, once again, that saved him. There was no mistaking its profile, its sheer idiosyncrasy—and so familiar was it that even at a distance Florrian could tell one aspect from another. He knew its front faced the door and that he was looking at its left side, from somewhat behind. In his flight from Dorric he’d circled much of the way around the room. That meant the exit should be ahead and to his right.

  Florrian set out again, treading lightly. In a flash of inspiration he grabbed at the first luggage rack he passed, hauled out a strapped shoulder bag and flung it hard as he could to one side, where it landed with a satisfying crunch. Sure enough, a knife of light sliced the inky air—and though this time he had the forewarning to avert his eyes, Florrian got a sense of where it had come from. As he’d thought, Dorric had retreated towards the entrance.

  Well, that was all right. Only one of them knew where the other was, only one could see, and that about balanced the odds in Florrian’s mind.

  However he only needed to travel a short distance to realise that wasn’t quite true. First he glimpsed a shape to his right, lurid blots of red and yellow floating upon the green-blue backdrop. It was a person-shape: Dorric, perfectly still, his back turned. Then, too, the spores were diminishing; he’d given little thought to the area they should cover and Florrian could see a thinning perimeter close ahead. Dorric was standing on its margins, obviously unwilling to penetrate deeper.

  The goggles were no more use, so he pulled them off and tucked them high in the nearest rack. He could have used Palimpsest to summon more spores, but that would only give away his proximity to Dorric. He might have tried for the exit, but Dorric was close enough that Florrian instinctively felt the risk too great. In any case, he couldn’t. It had to end now, and it had to end like this.

  Florrian crept forward, edging up on Dorric’s turned back, watching for any small movement. He thought again of Palimpsest, wished it would give him a weapon of his own: a wrench, a knife, a damned pen, anything. But no, no more tricks; no more smoke and mirrors. He was on his own now.

  It was agonising to move so slowly: painful to watch and listen so intently. His thoughts were breaking down, forming more slowly than they should. Was he wrong to reject Palimpsest’s box of tricks? But he was close enough now that he’d be as likely to sabotage himself as Dorric, and this powerful new body of his demanded to be used.

  Florrian strove for some mental discipline. He could barely think, could only feel. Every time he tried to imagine, to plan, muscles ached to respond. He would punch for Dorric’s neck, he thought, kick for his knees—and he felt the motion in his forearm, in his calf. Another step. Almost close enough. Then, while Dorric was off balance, get him to the ground, grab for an arm, pin it . . .

  Dorric turned.

  He did not look surprised—and it was evident in that moment, painfully clear, that he had been waiting. Like the predator he is, Florrian thought. Why chase around in the dark when he need only stand here, waiting for his prey to come to him? Dorric was a good spy, much better than Florrian was. Not a hundredth the scientist, but a better spy. It seemed unfair, Florrian thought, that their contest should come down to that, after everything.

  He watched as the edges of Dorric’s mouth crept up, in a smile that only grew and grew. “Oh, Florrian. All that power and this was the best you could come up with. I can’t say it hasn’t been interesting knowing you. But all told I think I’ll enjoy killing you more.”

  Florrian held Dorric’s eyes . . . watched the dancing madness there, the sheer, unfettered joy. He didn’t look at Dorric’s outstretched arm, didn’t look at his hand. He’d seen enough of the weapon there. Florrian knew what it was about to do. He didn’t need to see it happen.

  Florrian only released Dorric’s gaze when the other man’s eyes unfocused and he gave a small, strangled gasp. Then his face went stricken and pale. Dorric tried to put a hand to his own neck, the hand holding the weapon, but it was as if a weight was drawing him unsteadily towards the ground, folding him at the joints as though he were made of paper.

  Florrian tried hard not to enjoy the sight, but he couldn’t resist the thought: Now you’re surprised, you bastard.

  Karen, meanwhile, looked down at the slumped body at her feet, and then at the fire extinguishe
r she held in her hands, which had acquired a noticeable dint. “Did I kill him?” she asked. She sounded concerned—but not entirely so.

  Dorric gave a long twitch and groaned extravagantly. He tried to get up and sank back instead.

  Florrian ignored him. It was so good to see Karen, so utterly good, unlike anything he’d felt: a giddy rush of happiness pouring from his heart and coursing through his veins. It was like a dream come true, and equally as impossible.

  Only it wasn’t quite Karen. He saw that now. Her skin was darker, though not so dark as his own, her hair quite black, her eyes nearly so. He knew where Palimpsest had found this body she now wore, and how in that reality he had known her by another name: Karam.

  Finally he remembered her question. “I’m fairly sure you didn’t,” Florrian said.

  Karen considered. “Should I hit him again?” she asked.

  Dorric made another attempt to get up, failed once more, and when he lolled this time it was with a sort of helpless, mulish resignation.

  “No need,” Florrian said. He thought a request to Palimpsest and was relieved when a length of neatly coiled cord materialised at his feet; he’d half expected to fall afoul of the machine’s intricate morality once again.

  He glanced up at Karen. She was staring at the rope, and he had to suppress a smile at the oval of shock her mouth had formed.

  Florrian bent down, planted a knee between Dorric’s shoulder blades and hurriedly bound his wrists one to the other. Dorric didn’t try to resist or even complain. Once Florrian had his arms bound firmly together, he started on Dorric’s ankles, making sure that the rope was just tight enough to cause him discomfort without any actual harm. When he was certain Dorric wasn’t going anywhere, he let himself meet Karen’s gaze.

  “You made that rope appear out of nothing,” she said.

  Florrian tapped a finger to his forehead. “Palimpsest and I have been working out a new interface.” He considered her steadily: her new face, so alike and yet so different from the old. “Out of everything it’s done recently, though, I wouldn’t have thought a bit of rope would be what you’d want to talk about.”

  “I was dead. In this reality, I died.”

  She said it as calmly, he thought, as anyone could have. Only the slightest, strangled edge gave away what she must be feeling.

  Florrian hesitated. Now that the question was there between them, he found himself hunting for some lie, a fiction less bizarre and impossible-seeming than the truth. “Yes,” he said, “you were dead. We brought you back, Palimpsest and I; copied you from another reality in which I knew you were alive. Well, Palimpsest did most of the work, of course . . .” He realised he was rambling, trying to find some words that would make the shock and horror vanish from her expression. Then again, perhaps that was entirely too much to ask.

  “It can do that?” Karen asked.

  “It appears so.”

  “Bring the dead back to life?”

  “That’s not exactly what happened. Your body here was dead, but elsewhere your consciousness was alive in a living body. Palimpsest simply copied that version of you from there to here.” It all sounded horribly mechanical; and Florrian shuddered at the realisation that he might have gained a new insight into how Palimpsest perceived.

  “Dran,” Karen said, “are you telling me you’ve cured death?”

  Florrian shook his head. “It worked for us because Palimpsest had already salvaged our minds before they could die. Our consciousnesses were safe and so Palimpsest could restore us.” Something else occurred to him then, something he should have realised much earlier. “If it hadn’t, I doubt that our memories of this reality would have lasted much longer. The process was only ever supposed to be temporary, and Palimpsest had already twisted it beyond recognition.”

  We probably didn’t have long left, he realised. Was that the real reason Palimpsest had returned him to this reality; not a response to his dying prayer as he’d imagined? Had all of the day’s adventures been nothing but a holding pattern, while Palimpsest decided what best to do with its creator’s fragile consciousness?

  “We’re going to need to talk more about this,” Karen said firmly. She looked at her hand, turned it over, studied it intently. “A lot more.”

  At their feet, Dorric mumbled something incomprehensible and tried to flop onto his side. This time, rather than rely on Palimpsest, Florrian went to a nearby luggage stack and fumbled through a couple of hold-alls until he found what he was looking for. When he knelt down, Dorric stared back at him; there was terrible rage in his eyes. “I could,” he mumbled, “the things I could . . .”

  “Oh, shut up,” Florrian told him. He stuffed a sock into Dorric’s mouth, ignoring his attempts to spit it out, and then strapped it into place with the belt he’d found.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Karen asked, in a tone that suggested she might have a few ideas of her own.

  “Nothing,” Florrian replied. “Let them find him. Let him drive himself crazy trying to find me, or trying to re-create Palimpsest, or whatever the hell he wants to do.” He calmly held Dorric’s furious gaze. “It won’t help him. I’ve got his measure now.”

  He crouched, tucked his hands beneath Dorric’s arms and dragged him into a corner hemmed in and hidden by unused storage racks. They’d find him eventually, but not before Florrian himself was off the TransCon and out of reach. In any case, the European authorities would not be quick to follow up on the wild claims of an American corporate scientist with known military connections; they’d waste a day at least, dredging through every last scrap of red tape they could find.

  When he returned, he knew that Karen had anticipated his thoughts. “It’s finished,” she said. “You’re free.”

  How Florrian wished that were true; perhaps more than anything it was that useless hope she’d interpreted in his features. “Not yet,” he said. “I still remember parts of those other lives we stepped into. What happened to those realities? Did I fail? Perhaps there are realities where Dorric won, where he has Palimpsest, where he knows what it can do. If even one version of Dorric manages to corrupt one version of Palimpsest, then he could bring the entire multiverse crashing down. Who’s going to stop him, and how?”

  “It’s a lot to think about,” she said. “A huge responsibility.”

  For once Florrian saw immediately the meaning behind her words. Here it was, another all-consuming obsession gaping beneath him, ready to swallow him whole.

  “I’ll need help,” he said. But then, he’d known that already. Wasn’t that part of why he was on the TransCon in the first place? “I have someone meeting me at the other end; an old friend. We’re going to take Palimpsest deeper into Independent Europe. If I’m lucky, that might just buy me enough time to figure this mess out.”

  “I’d tell you that you should destroy it,” she said, “but it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

  Florrian nodded. Too late—and even if it wasn’t he doubted very much if he could. It wasn’t the thought of the power he suddenly possessed; it was fear, pure and simple. He knew what every good scientist understood instinctively: that something once discovered could never be undiscovered. And so the discovery became not an achievement but a responsibility, to be borne forever.

  Forever. But did it have to be alone? “Will you come?” Florrian asked.

  Karen looked back at him steadily. He’d thought the question might shock her, but she didn’t appear shocked.

  “As your wife?” she said. “It’s too late for that as well, Florrian. Honestly, there’s a part of me that wishes it wasn’t, but it is, and we both know it.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re right. Just like you were right to leave when you did. Just now, if I could choose you, choose us, over Palimpsest, then I think I would . . . but it’s not that simple. I can’t unmake it, and as long as it exists, I have to do everything in my power to make sure it’s used responsibly.”

  “You always had the best of moti
ves,” Karen said—and though the sentiment had every potential for sarcasm, the way she said it was not sarcastic at all. On the contrary, it was as genuine as anything she’d ever said to him. Yet it was also thick with resignation. Good motives didn’t and hadn’t and never could a good husband make, and he’d had so many other fronts on which to fail.

  Perhaps, though, there was something to be salvaged from that: from accepting what he couldn’t be. “I’d like you with me,” he said. “Not as my wife. As my partner.” It sounded wrong, yet Florrian could think of no better word.

  Then it came to him: “Like this,” he said. “Like today.”

  “Today?” she replied. “I started out as your enemy’s lover, trying to convince you to give up your greatest work without a fight.”

  “That’s true.” Florrian tried for a smile, was surprised when he managed it, more so when he found that he meant it. “And you had your reasons. But I was thinking more of the other parts.”

  “Oh.” Karen returned the smile, and he thought how strange it looked on that somewhat alien face, like something recognised from a dream. “Those parts.” She considered. “You know, you’re a fine scientist, Dran Florrian, but you’re not much of a spy.”

  “I’ve reached the same conclusion,” he said.

  “If I let you out of my sight, I doubt you’ll last the week.”

  “A week would certainly seem optimistic,” he agreed.

  “And I’m not going to be safe back home, am I? I can’t go back to my work, not once Harlan gets free.”

  That he hadn’t thought of, but she was surely right. Florrian wanted to reassure her, for he knew that Karen’s job meant everything to her; but any reassurance would have been a lie. Instead, he offered her his hand. “So, partners?”

  Florrian gazed at the woman before him, the woman forged anew as he had been, and tried to read her not-quite-familiar face. He felt he knew her and yet was sure he didn’t. And maybe, he thought, that was how it had always been, even when they’d been at their closest. Maybe that was how it always had to be.