Engineman

by Eric Brown

  They left the smallship and followed the bodyguard through a side chapel and into what once might have been a vestry. The room was furnished and decorated as luxuriously as any penthouse lounge, with thick carpeting, c-shaped settees and tables equipped with drinks. Hunter was not present. The bodyguard showed them to a settee, and for the first time since entering Notre-Dame Mirren realised how bedraggled he was, his flying suit stained with dirt and sweat.

  Hunter entered as Dan was pouring a couple of brandies.

  “I’ll join you in one of those, Monsieur Leferve. I think this occasion deserves celebrating.” He raised his glass. “You can’t imagine how relieved I am to see you both fit and well.”

  He stood in the centre of the room, something confident and dominant in his stance—the entrepreneur about to realise an ambition. His disfigurement glowed ruby in the concealed lighting.

  For the first time in hours, Mirren had a focus for his antagonism. He felt the brandy burn a path to his stomach. He said deliberately, “So much for your damned assurances, Hunter. I thought you said we’d be in no danger?”

  Dan glanced at him, as if in warning.

  Oddly, even as he addressed Hunter, Mirren felt treacherous. He was aware that some part of him considered the danger—and maybe even the deaths -worth the reward.

  Hunter pursed his lips around a mouthful of brandy and considered his reply. “You might find this hard to believe, Mr Mirren, but I am confident that the killings of your ex-team, and the attacks on your two selves, had nothing at all to do with this project.”

  Dan glanced up from his drink. “It does seem a bit coincidental, doesn’t it?”

  “A bit coincidental?” Mirren laughed. “More like bloody obvious!”

  “Gentlemen, I assure you that these deaths are in no way linked with the project. First, no one but myself, yourselves and Caspar Fekete knew anything about my offer. I told no one, and I presume that you didn’t either-”

  “We could have been observed at the Gastrodome the other night,” Mirren pointed out.

  “I made quite certain that no such thing could have occurred. We were not observed or overheard. I had men ensuring that our discussion was conducted in absolute privacy.”

  “But can you trust all of them?” Dan asked.

  “Implicitly,” Hunter said in a tone that brooked no argument. “And there is another reason why these deaths and my work are unconnected. Christiana Olafson was killed two days ago, the day before I approached you. No-one but myself knew my motives in contacting you and your team.”

  Mirren considered. “Olafson died in a flier accident,” he said. “But what if it was just that, an accident? Whoever it is that wants us dead would then be spared the trouble of killing her, so they started on Elliott and Caspar.”

  Hunter was vigorously shaking his head. “I’ve had my people investigate that so-called accident. It was no accident. Olafson’s flier was sabotaged. She was murdered a day before I approached you at Orly.”

  Mirren laughed without humour. “Then why has each member of my team been attacked, in three cases killed? Who the hell’s doing this?”

  Hunter gestured. “I wish I knew... I can only assure you that I have my best people working on it. I assure you also that the killings end here. In less than two hours you will no longer be on Earth.” He consulted his wrist-watch. “The Sublime is about to undergo a test phase-out. Perhaps you would like to observe?”

  They left the lounge, made their way through the chapel and into the main body of the cathedral. They halted beside a bank of computers. As they watched, a group of technicians walked up the ramp and entered the smallship. Behind the delta screen above the nose-cone, Mirren made out the figure of the pilot in the command web. The ramp lifted and became a seamless section of the ‘ship’s flank. A silence settled over the gathered scientists.

  Mirren then experienced something deeply poignant and moving as, for the first time in ten years, he witnessed the miracle of phase-out. The smallship, a solid form just seconds before, gradually lost its definition, and faded. The carved knights and saints of the stonework could be seen through its outline; then it pulsed back again, only for it to diminish just as rapidly. For perhaps thirty seconds it shuttled back and forth between this reality and the nada-continuum, flickering like the image on a spinning coin. Throughout this process of displacement, the air was alternately sucked in and blown out of the space occupied, and then vacated by the ‘ship, creating an eerie whistling sound effect in the cathedral’s stonework. Mirren gasped for breath one second, and the next was battered by a raging gale.

  Then the Sublime vanished with a disconcerting finality which left the eye searching for the ‘ship in the middle distance and the senses wondering if it had ever existed. At this moment, The Sublime, the Infinite existed apart from the space-time continuum, its actuality translocated to the null-space of the nada-continuum. Mirren imagined it hanging becalmed, awaiting the mind-power of an Engineman to push it at ultra-light speed through infinite space.

  Mirren looked at Dan and smiled, speechless in the aftermath of such wonder.

  Minutes later, the ‘ship made its re-entry into space-norm. The process of phase-in was identical to that of phase-out; the Sublime showed itself briefly, disappeared, appeared again and then flickered in and out of visibility until establishing its solidity in the nave of the cathedral.

  Hunter was smiling to himself. He turned to Mirren and Dan. “Perhaps you would care to board the ‘ship, gentlemen? I’ll show you around and you can freshen up before phase-out.”

  The usual complement of Alpha Enginemen aboard a smallship was five, to allow for injuries, illness or just poor performance. The minimum number of Enginemen required for a run like this one, all the way out to the Rim, was three. As they walked towards the ‘ship’s ramp, Mirren turned to Hunter. “Have you arranged for a third Engineman?”

  Dan glanced quickly at Hunter, who cleared his throat self-consciously. They had halted at the foot of the ramp, a tableau stiff with tension. Hunter said, “The third man is your brother.”

  Mirren shook his head. “I almost told him yesterday,” he whispered. “Part of me wanted to. It would have been the right thing to do.” He looked at Hunter. “But why Bobby? There’s hundreds of other Enginemen in Paris-”

  “Ralph,” Hunter said, something like compassion in his tone. “This is very hard for me to explain, and even then I doubt you will be satisfied.” He paused. “I was instructed by the people I am working for to ensure that Bobby Mirren pushed the Sublime from Earth out to the Rim—the choice of Enginemen to accompany him, as back-ups should anything happen to your brother in the tank, was left up to me. It seemed the obvious thing to do to hire you and your old team. I intended to approach you about Bobby before now.”

  “They want Bobby to push the ‘ship?”

  “I honestly don’t know why. They were secretive as to their motives. There are many aspects of this mission that they could not trust me with, for fear of my being captured and interrogated. I am merely the middleman in this operation.”

  “Who are ‘they’”? What do they know about Bobby, his illness?”

  Hunter considered, his halved expression pained. “I am supposed to tell no-one about my employers,” he said. “I know this might sound melodramatic, but I assure you that the consequences of the wrong people finding out would be catastrophic beyond your wildest imagining. You’ll learn the reason for everything—my secrecy, why they need your brother—in due course. All I can beg of you is to trust me.”

  “But the flux might kill him...”

  “I’m afraid that’s a risk that must be taken.”

  Dan said, “Like I told you yesterday, Ralph, Bobby would want to flux.”

  “Where is he?” Mirren asked.

  “In the ‘ship.” Hunter gestured up the ramp. “He knows nothing about the mission at the moment. We thought perhaps you might be able to tell him...”

  Mirren closed his eyes.
He considered everything Hunter had divulged, balanced the amount of trust the off-worlder required against the privilege of experiencing the wonder of the flux. He knew in his heart that he had to let Bobby flux, knew that Bobby would want nothing else, yet at the same time he balked at the thought of the oblivion to which he might be consigning his brother.

  “Bobby is in one of the rear berths,” Hunter said. “I’ll take you.”

  Mirren allowed himself to be ushered up the ramp. They took the elevator pad to the ‘ship’s second level, then passed down a corridor between the half dozen berths, each comprising a comfortable bunk, a vid-screen, computer terminal and a viewscreen through which to watch the swirling cobalt void of null-space.

  Hunter indicated the sliding door to Bobby’s berth, then tactfully withdrew. Mirren stopped himself from knocking. He palmed the sensor. The door opened. He stood on the threshold, staring at his brother as he swung himself in the sling. He was wearing his customary Satori Line silvers, his hair as unruly as ever.

  His expression appeared troubled.

  He inclined his head. “Hello? Is someone there?”

  Either a draft or the vibration of the opening door had alerted him. Although he could see no one now, he looked in the direction of his visitor, so he would be able to see that person tomorrow. “I know you’re there,” he said, panic in his tone.

  Mirren stepped into the cabin, shutting the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bunk, a matter of centimetres from his brother’s swinging legs.

  He reached out and touched Bobby’s moccasin.

  Instantly, Bobby proffered his hand. Mirren grasped it.

  “Ralph! What’s happening?” he said, his words slurred so that Mirren had difficulty making them out. “They drew letters on my hand to tell me that I was safe. Then they put me in here. It’s the berth of a smallship, isn’t it?”

  Mirren signalled assent on the palm of Bobby’s hand.

  Bobby said, “What’s happening, Ralph? Why did they bring me here?”

  I don’t know where to begin... They want you to push this ‘ship, Bobby.

  Bobby sat upright, suddenly animated. “Who are they?”

  I don’t know. The mission’s fronted by an off-worlder called Hunter. We’re going out to the Rim to bring back some people... I’m sorry, I honestly know no more than this. He paused there, considering. I would have told you yesterday, when we spoke. I wanted to tell you, but at the same time... I don’t want to see you kill yourself, Bobby.

  Bobby said, “I object to you using the word ‘kill’, Ralph. The word’s meaningless. I would be giving myself to the flux. Giving myself gladly.”

  But can’t you see—from my point of view you’d be risking your life?

  “But from my point of view, Ralph, I wouldn’t be. That’s what matters, not your... your guilt.”

  Mirren looked up, into his brother’s staring eyes. What do you mean?

  “Ralph, Ralph... Do I really have to tell you? You’re guilty that it was me who contracted Black’s—not you, who’d pushed more ‘ships for many more years than me. You’re guilty that you can’t find it in yourself to believe. You’re even guilty that over the years we’ve drifted apart.”

  I’m sorry!

  “Don’t be. It was as much my doing as yours. You remember that old line about the Middle Way between emptiness and compassion? Well, I was never very hot on the second.”

  Mirren blinked away the tears. You’re not the only one...

  Bobby squeezed Mirren’s hand. “Ralph,” he said. “You’re wrong to think that if I remained alive we might... I don’t know—be as close as we were as kids. That’s all in the past. We’re as close now as we’ve ever been.”

  Mirren returned the pressure on his brother’s hand.

  “Ralph, if you didn’t let me flux, if you denied me that, just think of the guilt you’d carry then.” He smiled. “So, are you going to let me join your team, or not?”

  Mirren signed: I don’t really see how I can refuse.

  “Thanks,” Bobby said. “You’ve made me very happy.”

  * * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ella surfaced from unconsciousness in gradual stages, sense by sense. She recalled the militia at her father’s villa and the brutal attack. After that, she. had a vague recollection of a hospital, an operating theatre, green-garbed military medics—like images from another life. At the same time she experienced a surge of paradoxical well-being that she did not understand.

  She felt a cold, hard surface beneath her. The air was heavy with the rich stench of oil and petrol. She heard the occasional whine of an engine and the laboured blatt-blatt-blatt of a helicopter’s rotor blades. She opened her eyes. High overhead was a lattice of grey girders supporting a sloping corrugated tin roof. To her right was a wall of expanded-concrete bricks, and to her left the cavernous expanse of an aircraft hanger. A dismantled flier stood at the far end of the chamber, before a tall sliding door.

  She was amazed to find that she could sit up without difficulty. What had been the searing agony of bullet wounds and broken bones was now no more than a dull ache. She was wearing a pair of baggy green hospital trousers and her own red t-shirt. She slipped a hand underneath the waist-band, fingered the closed wound on the inside of her thigh. The shoulder of the t-shirt was holed where the bullet had entered and exited. She pulled down the collar and bared her shoulder, peering awkwardly at the stitched flesh, white against her olive tan. She rotated her arm. The joint was tender, but not painful. She touched the line of her jaw. In her memory it was the vicious kick to her jaw that had offended her, an act that seemed more vindictive than the impersonal round of rifle-fire. She opened and closed her mouth experimentally. Her jaw was tender, numb, but again there was no real pain.

  She climbed to her feet, and only then noticed the manacle around her ankle. She was chained to a big iron ring bolted to the oil-stained concrete three metres away. Looking down each side of the hangar, she noticed at least two dozen similar shackles. She limped across to a barred window in the concrete-block wall, dragging the chain.

  The flat tarmac of a military airbase extended for kilometres. A line of palm trees marked the perimeter. Beyond, low foothills undulated on the horizon. Ella guessed they were the beginnings of the Torreon mountain range, and that she was being held at the Marquez airbase, about a hundred kilometres south of Zambique City.

  The base was intermittently busy, transport helicopters taking off and landing every five minutes. Other military vehicles, jeeps and fliers, raced across the tarmac. The only militia she could see were a few hundred metres away, going in and coming out of the control tower and an adjoining building. They wore the same jungle-green uniforms as the bastards who had attacked her at the Falls.

  She understood, then, the reason for the odd sensation of euphoria which surged through her still. She recalled her father’s message, her painting in his study. Hard though it was to conceive exactly why—because he had found out that the Organisation was responsible for the genocide of the Lho, perhaps?—it did appear that he had converted. “I have seen the light, Ella. I need to see you.” He needed to confess, seek forgiveness, share in the joy and certainty of conversion?

  Ella rejoiced in the knowledge that he had seen the light, had changed—and regretted only the possibility that she might never share that joy with him.

  For the next hour she remained crouched beneath the window, every sound from outside setting her nerves jumping. At one point a platoon of militia quick-marched past, and Ella retched involuntarily. She laid her head back against the wall, regaining the even tempo of her breathing. She wondered if this was a ploy on the part of the Organisation, leaving her alone in a limbo of uncertainty, softening her up for the inevitable interrogation?

  She looked down at the leg-iron. It was a measure of her fatalism that she had not considered trying to escape. She bent her leg and gripped the thick iron collar of the manacle. It was loose about her ankle,
but her heel stopped it from moving any further. She spat on her fingers, massaged the saliva into her heel, and pushed on the manacle. She gave up when blood trickled from the resulting abrasion.

  I believe, she told herself. I believe that life awaits me after this life, so why am I so afraid?

  Fear is natural, she reminded herself. A simple survival mechanism. A trick biology plays to perpetuate the flesh.

  But what awaits me transcends the flesh...

  It was—she laughed through her tears—little help.

  Ten minutes later the hangar door opened and three figures stepped through. Two guards escorted a tall man in the dark green uniform of a Danzig officer, the three stripes of a sergeant on his cuff. The guards halted some way off, and the sergeant approached. He halted and stared down at her with ill-disguised contempt.