by Ian Whates
The doc’s betrayal and their brush with near death had shaken them all, especially coming so soon after Anna’s death. It transpired, of course, that Nate had never fallen foul of an alien infection. That was all of the doctor’s devising and, had it not been for Leesa…
Pelquin felt a pang of guilt when he glanced at Nate. How could he ever have doubted his oldest friend, even for a moment? They all knew how sound travelled on the Comet and how easy it was to overhear others’ conversation even when you didn’t want to. The doc must have heard enough to glean what he needed.
His gaze moved back to Leesa. Now there was an enigma. He still had no idea how her body had manufactured an antidote – when asked she’d simply shrugged and said ‘it’s just something I can do’ – but without that handy little talent they would all have been dead. Perhaps he should press the girl about it but that would go against the grain; as he’d once explained to Drake, everyone on board the Comet was entitled to their secrets.
He glanced across at Bren – acutely aware that there was unfinished business between the two of them that needed to be resolved. She caught his eye and smiled, but it wasn’t their personal situation she chose to comment on. “Everything that’s happened does leave us sorely light on crewmembers, even after we pick up Monkey,” she said, looking significantly at Leesa.
Pelquin nodded. “That’s true.”
“And Leesa did just save all our necks back there…”
A fact that nobody was about to dispute, and one that had already been recognised in the decision to increase her entitlement from a half share of the spoils to a full one – with Anna and Doc out of the equation they could afford to be generous. “Also true.” He shifted his gaze to their stand-in mechanic. “Well, what do you say? We could dump you back where we found you on Babylon or, if you’d prefer, you could sign up and join the crew formally on a long term basis. Your choice.”
Leesa didn’t hesitate. “No contest; count me in,” and she smiled, which was something of a rarity and an expression she ought to try on for size more often, Pelquin reckoned.
“It’ll be good to have two mechanics aboard,” Nate said.
“Yeah,” Bren agreed. “Especially when the other one is Monkey.”
Even Pelquin grinned at that. There was a fair bit of smiling and laughing going on despite all that they’d been through; and with good reason. They were alive for starters. Added to which they’d brought back a momentous haul of Elder artefacts, even after the lorry load pilfered by the doc’s associates – presumably agents of Jossyren, although he wasn’t about to start making accusations he couldn’t prove. There was enough here to make each and every one of them wealthy. At least, there would have been. By the time First Solar had taken their cut and he’d settled all the legal matters arising from their unauthorised take off the last time they were at New Sparta, he wasn’t so sure. They would still turn a decent profit no doubt, but ‘wealthy’ might be a bit much to hope for; which was why he was willing to discuss the composition of the crew. It looked as if the Comet was going to remain a place of work for all of them for a while. And their home. Important that. Above all else, the Comet was their home.
The bustle of New Sparta’s streets always seemed alien to Drake when he first returned from a trip, as if his brain rejected the relentless urgency of those around him. Even La Gossa with all its crowds and traffic jams had been less pressured, less stressful in comparison. After all, traffic jams never go anywhere in a hurry, whereas on the streets of New Sparta everyone was in a hurry and everything happened at break-neck speed. Except for Drake, who refused to be harassed out of his own preferred pace; and today that pace was a stroll.
He had filed his report and had no further interest in the Comet’s haul beyond the commission he would eventually be due, passing all such responsibility onto the bank’s lawyers and accountants, but he’d still made an appointment to see Terry Reese in person.
She must have wondered why, so he decided to put her out of her misery immediately upon being ushered in. “I was wondering if now might be a good time for me to take a holiday,” he said.
Reese stared at him as if he’d asked for something scandalous. “A holiday, really?”
“Yes. Unless I’m mistaken, I think I am owed some time…”
“Certainly you are; a considerable amount, come to that. It’s just that I can’t recall you ever asking for time off before. Normally I have to force you to take some.”
He smiled. “Perhaps I’ve learned the error of my ways.”
“I was under the impression you did that the day you first joined First Solar.” He refused to rise to that particular bait and stayed quiet. “Of course you can have a holiday. You know we always recommend a few days off following an away trip in any case. How long did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” He made a quick calculation, factoring in travel time. “Three weeks ought to cover it.”
“Then let’s say four weeks just to play safe. I think the bank can survive without you for that long, and you can always come back to work before then if you find yourself at a loose end. I’ll book you out starting tomorrow; will that do?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
He turned to leave, but was stopped by Reese saying. “Drake, tell me one thing. Should I be worried?”
He looked back, taking a second before answering, not wanting to lie to this woman who had taken a chance on him and so facilitated this new life. Only when he was certain that he wasn’t did he say, “No. No need for you to worry at all.”
She nodded, accepting his word. “That’s all right, then.”
Drake left Terry Reese’s office still troubled, not so much by anything that had been said as by what had remained unsaid. In his final assurance to her he had omitted one word, a small but invariably significant one. The word was: yet.
Mudball’s attention was focused inward, still working at what was proving to be a tricky assimilation. This cache guardian had been powerful and was defiantly stubborn; but at the end of the day Mudball was the stronger and the newcomer was being steadily absorbed. It had hampered him, prevented him from acting in the face of the doc’s treachery as quickly as he might have, but fortunately the auganic had stepped in to save the day. This was the biggest addition yet, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the physically diminished size – something which was essential if he wanted to continue working with Drake. Tiny puffed-up and vaguely cute genpet was one thing; a man-sized sphere of furry xenobiology complete with tentacles was decidedly less likely to be invited onto client spaceships to go cache hunting.
Still, it was getting to the point where he wouldn’t need Drake for much longer. Another addition as strong as this, two at the most, and he would be complete. A shame really; he’d grown fond of this human. He would almost regret it when the time came to kill him.
Leesa was surprised to get a message from Drake, especially such a cryptic one: “This might help you.” The note was accompanied by an attachment. Whatever this was, it was heavily encrypted.
Leesa smiled. If there was one thing she enjoyed, it was a challenge.
She had very little to go on, only what she’d seen of a deliberately reserved individual during the brief time she’d spent with him since joining the crew. Yet why set her a puzzle unless she was equipped to solve it? All it would take was a word – she just needed to identify the right one. She started with the obvious: Mudball; Drake; Firstsolar; Solar; Bank, Banker, Representative, Suit; Grey; Cane: Walkingstick; Handsome… Now where had that last come from? She shook her head and kept going.
Over the course of the next hour she attempted every word, contraction and combination of potentially relevant words she could think of, all to no avail. Eventually, frustrated and annoyed at not being able to second guess the banker by now, she took a break. She wandered into the galley, to find Bren there.
“My,” the other woman said, “you do look serious.”
> “Sorry, just preoccupied. I’m trying to break an encryption.”
“Oh?”
“Something Drake sent me. I’ve tried everything I can think of.”
“Name, job, stuff personal to him – that sort of thing?”
“Yes, yes and yes. Tried it all, but the message remains stubbornly coy.”
“Hmm…”
“What?”
“Well, probably nothing, but I was just thinking. If you asked me to describe Drake, one word that would instantly spring to mind is ‘observant’. What if you’re not looking for something personal to him at all but rather something that’s personal to you?”
Leesa froze, staring at Bren. “Thank you.” With that she turned and hurried from the galley.
She got it at the second attempt: techorg didn’t work but auganic did.
After all that, the file’s content was something of a disappointment. It consisted of just four letters and a space: Hel N.
“Not even a proper word,” she muttered. Perhaps it was a name, or a clue to a name that required her to figure out what that final ‘N’ stood for, but either way it meant nothing to her; more frustration.
Was that entirely true though? Hel N resonated with something somewhere, at the very back of her mind, as if this was a piece of the puzzle that ought to fit but wouldn’t. Instead it lingered at the margins of her awareness, shadowing her thoughts and refusing to be ignored. Hopefully, this was more than just wishful thinking; perhaps if she gave it time the cryptic message might yet be of value.
Leesa went to bed still absorbed by the issue, hoping that ‘Hel N’ might at least unlock a dream or two.
It unlocked something, no question about that; a memory that had Leesa sitting bolt upright in the dead of the night, eyes open and mind racing. Starting with a blank slate as she had when waking on Babylon, she’d thought herself prepared for anything and that nothing in the universe could surprise her, but this…
“Now I know you, banker man,” she whispered, as if this breath of sound could be carried across the vastness between stars to reach his ears by the power of her will alone. “Now I know you.”
With that, she tucked down again, a smile upon her lips, and she slept so soundly that no dream troubled her for the rest of that night; nor did she need one to.
Russell Tavistock was fairly typical of a common class of traveller – dubbed by the media ‘the Grey Swarm’ – men and women of a certain maturity whose last marriage or relationship had dissolved, whose children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren were too busy getting on with their own lives to concern themselves with their oldest relatives; people who had done their bit and were now taking things easy, who had enjoyed their last rejuve or perhaps never bothered with such things; who had built up a nice little nest egg which they were utilising to travel and to see the stars, visiting the worlds they’d always dreamt of seeing but had never found the time for until now.
Despite the industry of organised cruises that had sprung up to cater for the mature sightseer, many still preferred to set their own tempo and so took a more individual approach. Tavistock knew all this and was not in the least surprised to find himself processed by the port’s arrivals system smoothly and efficiently, being gently spat out onto the street within minutes of his arrival.
It was a mild but sunny afternoon. He took a moment to stand and blink as if a little confused or perhaps simply to get his bearings. In fact he was merely savouring the unfamiliar sense of freedom, of being somewhere at his own volition. After a quick scratch of his beard, which had begun to itch a little, and a flex of his back, he shuffled over to the rank of waiting taxis and asked the first in line to take him to his hotel, the Balam Tree. He didn’t even mind the somewhat circuitous route the driver took; everyone had to make a living.
Check in was automated though there was a real live Person With Pulse available if you preferred – the Balam Tree was one of the better hotels in Victoria – and within minutes Tavistock was able to close the door on the rest of the universe, safely ensconced in his own comfortably appointed suite.
After removing his jacket, he took out a small, slender and surprisingly contemporary perminal from an inside pocket and used it to conduct a thorough sweep of the room, searching for electronic bugs. He didn’t honestly expect to find any but was determined to be as careful as possible while here. Only once the sweep had drawn the expected blank did Drake feel able to relax.
He kicked off the shoes with their built-up heals, spat out two cheek inserts that had distorted the normal contours of his face and then, taking a small aerosol, he carefully sprayed along the base of his beard. After a couple of seconds delay the whiskers pulled off easily, without taking any of his skin with them. Exposure to a small UV palm torch removed the grey from his hair and returned it to its natural brown – he hated wearing wigs, particularly for a protracted period. Contact lenses popped readily from his eyes and the application of a simple cream – massaged gently into the skin – returned a young and healthy complexion to his cheeks and forehead, effectively knocking years off him.
When are you going to make the call? Mudball asked, which reminded Drake that the little alien was still sealed in his pouch.
He replied, patience, patience, while reaching behind his shoulder and loosening the seam, feeling his companion manoeuvre into a more comfortable position.
It was a risk his coming back to Brannan’s World; he knew that. He had history here and more than one person might remember him. Had he taken the trouble to sit back and assess things in his accustomed fashion, he would doubtless have rejected the whole idea of returning as preposterous and foolhardy, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d acted on impulse – an approach that was novel to Drake, certainly in recent years. Perhaps the very thing that made Brannan’s dangerous was what had called him back: he had history here.
There was no point in putting this off any longer. He thought of Laurena, the ravishing beauty who had invited him to call her, and then he thought of Alexis in both guises: the young woman who had approached him at the reception and the child she’d been when he lived here. That inevitably woke memories of her mother…
Two numbers, two choices; calling one would mean reconnecting with a past that had once meant everything to him, while the other was all about the present, the here and now. Throughout the journey to Brannan’s he’d deliberately shied away from analysing which of the two was the stronger lure, which of them had really called him back here. Only now, as he picked up the perminal and felt its slender moulding in his hand, was he sure.
Having checked himself in the mirror to ensure that no sign of Russell Tavistock remained and that he really did look like Corbin Thadeus Drake once more, he took a deep breath and made the call.
His contact request was accepted almost at once. “Drake, what a wonderful surprise!”
He smiled, matching the expression of the vision of beauty that grinned back at him from the display. Yes, he could see surprise there, but also delight; definitely delight.
“Hello, Laurena.” She could easily have refused his call. He’d deliberately made it an open one, which meant that she would have seen his face clearly before accepting. Had she done so, there was always that other number… But here they were, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“In Victoria, at the Balam Tree. I’ll be in town for the next few days,” or maybe a few weeks, depending on how things panned out. “I was just wondering whether you were free for dinner tonight.”
Her smile broadened significantly. “I am now.”
Yay, at last! said Mudball.
We’re meeting for dinner, that’s all, Drake insisted. “Excellent!” he said out loud.
Yeah, right, course you are. Can I watch, can I?
Without missing a beat, Drake finished making arrangements for the evening. At the same time he casually reached his left hand to the back of his neck, as if to scratch
an itch. What that hand actually did was push Mudball gently down and press shut the pouch seal.
I’m guessing that’s a no, then.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ian Whates lives in a quiet Cambridgeshire village with his partner, Helen, and Honey, a manic cocker spaniel. He currently has two published novel series: the Noise books (space opera with a twist) via Solaris, and the City of 100 Rows trilogy (urban fantasy with steampunk overtones and SF underpinning) via Angry Robot. Some sixty of his short stories have appeared in various venues, two of which were shortlisted for BSFA Awards, while his work has received honourable mentions in Year’s Best anthologies. His second collection, Growing Pains (PS Publishing), appeared in 2013. Ian has edited a couple of The Mammoth Book of… titles for Constable and Robinson and the on-going Solaris Rising series for Solaris, one of which found its way onto the 2014 Philip K. Dick Award shortlist. In his spare time, Ian runs multiple award-winning independent publisher NewCon Press, which he founded by accident in 2006.
Ian has served a term as Overseas Director of SFWA (Science Fiction Writers of America) and spent five years as chairman of the BSFA (British Science Fiction Association), stepping down in 2013. He remains a director of the latter.
The Gift of Joy ~ Ian Whates
Introduction by Ian Watson
Eighteen stories of distant futures and disturbing tomorrows, of strange new worlds and others that are uncomfortably familiar. Intelligent science fiction and quirky fantasy, packed with excitement, surprises, humour, and warmth
“Darkly funny tales of the unexpected, with a deft science-fictional turn of the knife.” —Ken MacLeod
“Planetary escapades and vivid battle action rub shoulders with charming yet eerie rural tales and with perilous urban nightmares.” —Ian Watson
