by Eric Brown
He was awoken, hours later, when the crawler lurched, tossing him between Hupcka’s bulk and the door. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. It was dawn. The bright ellipse of the gas giant’s upper hemisphere spanned the far horizon, casting its opalescent light across the plain. He must have been asleep for almost six hours. They had climbed from the plain and were skirting the foothills to the west, the purple grass spreading like a sea far below.
Hupcka glanced at him. ‘I didn’t want to worry you unduly, Josh. But a couple of hours ago we discovered we had company. Look.’ He passed Bennett a pair of binoculars and pointed. ‘Halfway across the plain, at about two o’clock.’
Bennett adjusted the focus. At first all he saw was a dancing blur of purple grass. Then he caught a flash of something. He steadied his hand and centred the speeding object. It was a balloon-tyred vehicle like their own, swarming with green-uniformed militia.
‘A council patrol,’ Hupcka said. ‘Perhaps they’re taking your crash-landing story with a pinch of salt, checking further afield for the ship.’
‘Where’s Miriam’s crawler?’
‘When we saw the council militia we decided to take action. The other crawler moved down to the plain to follow at a safe distance. If the militia looks like getting anywhere near the ship, they’ll attack and provide a decoy.’
‘And if the militia see us?’
Hupcka nodded. ‘It’s a possibility. If they move our way, or start firing, then Miriam and the others will move in.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t worry. This is routine stuff. We’ll get you to the ship in one piece.’
Bennett nodded, fear tight within him. He was, he realised, not cut out for the role of a man of action. He liked the mentally anaesthetising effect of living on the edge of his wits, but when things got out of hand - like the fire-fight yesterday, or the possibility of conflict now - he had to admit that he wished he was elsewhere.
But do I wish I was back on Earth, with Julia, he asked himself? It came as a surprise to realise that he would rather be in the thick of the action.
Hupcka glanced at him. ‘Once we reach the ship, how long will it take you to lift off?’
‘Five, ten minutes. No more.’
Hupcka nodded. ‘Okay.’ He lifted a radio microphone and shouted into it in French. A crackling voice replied. Hupcka shouted again, clearly issuing orders.
‘We’re getting close, Josh. I’ve told Miriam to move in and attack the militia.’
Bennett turned in his seat, raised the binoculars and found the rebels’ crawler far below. As he watched, it closed in on the militia crawler and opened fire with a hail of laser charges. Explosions bloomed in the plain around the first vehicle as it took evasive action and swerved from left to right. One green-uniformed militia-man tumbled, loose-limbed, over the side. They returned fire, and the lasers illuminated the dawn with quick flares of electric blue.
‘Hold on, Josh! I’m going for it.’
Hupcka turned the wheel of the vehicle and they veered off down the incline, Bennett swaying in his seat. At this distance, without the benefit of binoculars, the militia crawler and the rebel vehicle were reduced to the size of scurrying insects.
Bennett held on as the vehicle bounced and juddered over the uneven terrain. Five minutes later they hit the plain and accelerated. Bennett turned and adjusted the binoculars. The crawlers were far behind, their progress lit by the bright flares of explosing laser charges.
‘The ship!’ Hupcka called, staring ahead. ‘Two minutes, Josh! Get ready to board.’
Perhaps half a kilometre away, squatting on the plain where they had left it, was the slick tear-drop shape of the Cobra resplendent in the morning light of Tenebrae. Bennett turned and looked for the enemy crawler. He judged that the two vehicles were a couple of kilometres away, and closing.
They slewed to a halt in the shadow of the Cobra and Bennett jumped out. He took Hupcka’s hand in a fierce grip, words of either encouragement or farewell beyond him.
‘I’ll see you in eight months, Josh. Good luck!’
Bennett ran towards the Cobra, slapped the sensor panel on the hatch and dived inside. Seconds later he was on the flight-deck, throwing himself into the command couch and touching the surrounding console to life. He typed in the command for immediate lift-off - he’d worry about the phase commands when he was in orbit. The main consideration was to get into the air and out of the range of the militia lasers.
The Cobra’s take-off system cycled into life, seeming to take an age to process Bennett’s commands. Through the viewscreen he made out two tiny vehicles on the plain, approaching at speed. As he watched, a third vehicle emerged from beneath the ship’s nose: Hupcka. The rebel halted his crawler and stood, lifting a laser rifle to his shoulder and taking careful aim.
The militia crawler accelerated, heading straight for the Cobra. Seconds later the first explosion rocked the ship. A spray of soil erupted from pits gouged in the ground just metres away. He abbreviated the take-off program, dispensing with half a dozen checks. He would be airborne in a matter of minutes, with luck.
Below, Hupcka was firing at the militia. Their crawler swerved on a slalom run across the plain, miraculously avoiding Hupcka’s laser charges. Only two militia-men remained alive and fighting. One of them stood and levelled a laser-cannon at the ship. Seconds before the Cobra lifted, the bolt exploded beneath the nose of the ship, swatting it with mighty force. Bennett yelled and closed his eyes.
The ship lurched, falling, and he could see how it would end in failure, the ship damaged beyond hope of repair. Then the boosters kicked in and fired, catapulting the Cobra forward, and it was all he could do to wrest the controls from the pre-programmed routine and direct the ship across the plain at a grass-cutting height. He swerved to avoid the militia’s vehicle, and the crawler veered and rolled over as the Cobra swept into the sky.
He tried to regain his composure. He slowed his breathing and steadied the ship in a stable hovering attitude. Far below, Miriam James and the other rebels were running towards the last two militia-men. He made out Hupcka, raising a fist in a victory salute, and then he lifted the Cobra away from the plain. He let the program take over, relinquishing control with relief, and set the system for phase-out.
Five minutes later the roar of the engines ceased suddenly, and the milky light of the upper atmosphere was replaced with the grey marble effect of the void. Bennett sat and stared at the streaming stars, amazed at the fact of his escape in the quiet aftermath of the attack. He set the computer to revive him from suspension in a little under two months, so that he could make the necessary systems checks. Approximately two months after that, he would be on Earth.
He sat for a long time in the command couch, letting the shakes leave his body, his thoughts quieten. He had never really gained from looking ahead before now; the future had always promised nothing more than the same old events, reordered. But now he had a goal, and people were relying on him to succeed, and he looked ahead to the search for the softscreen in Calcutta with confidence and hope.
* * * *
18
Rana Rao stood for a long time beneath the cedar tree across the road from the luminously white, scaled-down copy of Sydney Opera House. It rose between a grand representation of the White House and a half-sized imitation of the Feynman dome on Mars. The street was lined with similar kitsch examples of architectural folly, a parade of tasteless ostentation Rana found sickening.
She moved from the shadow of the tree and into the glow of the street lighting. She found it hard to believe that she was, perhaps, just metres away from the man responsible for the crucifix killings. Soon he would become a real person, with a real identity: name, profession, perhaps even a family who loved him.
She stepped from the pavement and crossed the road, her hand straying involuntarily to the polished butt of the pistol beneath her jacket. The opera house was set in a couple of acres of landscaped lawn. As soon as she stepped on to the wide gravel path, spotlights
activated to light her way.
She paused before the door and took a breath, then reached out and touched the door-chime. The soft notes of Beethoven’s Fifth sounded from inside - appropriate, given the design of the house. She waited, conscious of the staring eye of a security camera positioned above the door.
A voice issued from a grille, rich and urbane. ‘Good evening? May I help you?’
‘Lieutenant Rao. I’m from the Calcutta police force.’
‘One moment, please.’
Seconds later the door swung open automatically and standing perhaps two metres away, arms folded across an ample chest, stood a man who bore not the slightest resemblance, apart from being male and Caucasian, to Ahmed’s description of the killer. He was not thin-faced and silver-haired, but had a well-fed face and a dark head of curls.
He gestured for her to enter and walked ahead of her. Rana followed, swallowing a sense of despair, and wondered how she should proceed.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said, surprising her. He was crossing a large, circular lounge fitted with sunken sofas, throw cushions and discreet lighting. A soprano’s voice quavered on a high C.
Rana blinked. ‘You have?’
He reached out to the wall and the aria modulated. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He indicated one of the below-floor sofas.
Rana descended three steps and seated herself, feeling at a distinct disadvantage.
The man loomed over her, holding a com-board. ‘I have the file here,’ he said, ‘but I’ll fix you a drink first. Coffee, or something stronger?’
‘Ah . . .’ She was about to say that she thought there had been some mistake, but the man misinterpreted her hesitation.
‘Of course. I’m sorry, I should have realised. You’re on duty. Coffee it is, then.’ He murmured into a wall-speaker. ‘Two coffees, Raisa.’
Within seconds a maid entered the room bearing a silver tray and two small bone china coffee cups, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. She stepped into the sunken bunker and placed the tray on a small table in the centre.
‘Thank you, Raisa.’ The man joined Rana in the bunker, sitting across from her and pouring the coffees. ‘White, sugar?’
‘White, no sugar.’ She could only watch the man in silence, wondering how to proceed.
‘I was rather hoping that Commissioner Singh might have called for the report personally,’ he was saying. ‘We have a lot to discuss on the security front which I’m sure you’ll understand I cannot broach with his staff.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Rana began, ‘I am not here to collect the report. You see, I am calling on residents in the area as a matter of routine.’
The man looked surprised, but made a sophisticated show of apologising. ‘But my dear, I am so sorry. You see, I was expecting the commissioner or one of his staff. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Ezekiel Klien, chief of security at Calcutta spaceport. And you are?’
Rana swallowed. ‘Lieutenant Rana Rao, Homicide Division, Calcutta police force.’
‘Homicide? And how might I be of assistance?’
‘It’s just . . .’ she began, falteringly. ‘I’m making a series of routine door-to-door enquiries. Last night there was a murder committed a kilometre from here. The killer was seen leaving the scene of the crime.’
‘How appalling. If I can be of any assistance, any at all . . .’
Rana took a breath to steady her nerves. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that there had indeed been some misunderstanding. Ahmed must have lied about seeing the killer enter this house, or mistaken the house itself.
‘I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions, Mr Klien? Routine things I’ve been asking everyone in the neighbourhood.’
‘Of course. By all means.’ He sat back and sipped his coffee.
Rana took a gulp of her own coffee to moisten her dry mouth. Her hand shook, setting up a nervous rattle of cup on saucer. She would have to drastically revise her questions. She had planned to ask him if he knew the identities of victims of the crucifix killer, and if he could account for his whereabouts on certain dates, but such a line of interrogation would hardly be appropriate in the circumstances.
‘We have reports that a man was seen in the area last night.’ She went on to describe the man Ahmed had seen enter this very house.
Klien nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. At perhaps ten last night someone did come to the door. It was a man very much fitting your description. He was lost, had no money, and asked if he might call his wife to pick him up. I was busy with the report at the time, so I gave him ten rupees and directed him to a public com-screen kiosk. He left and I thought no more about it. You don’t think . . . ?’
Rana shrugged. ‘We’d like to question the individual to eliminate him from our enquiries,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you’d allow a computer artist to come round and take your impressions of the man?’
Klien gestured, the very epitome of accommodation. ‘By all means. I’m in most evenings after eight.’
Rana finished her coffee. ‘Thank you for your time and the coffee, Mr Klien. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.’
‘Of course not. I’m delighted to have been of some assistance. I only wish that I could help you further.’
Before Rana could protest that she really must be going, he leaned over and poured her another cup of coffee. He poured himself a second cup and sipped delicately.
‘Tell me, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been with the force?’
She smiled, pleased at the change of subject. ‘Almost eight years now. Most of the time working with street children. I was promoted to Homicide a few weeks ago.’
‘Homicide . . . Isn’t that Vishwanath’s department now?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘We’ve worked together in the past. I rate Vishwanath very highly, Lieutenant.’
‘I’m enjoying working with him.’
This time when she finished her coffee she placed a hand above the cup. ‘I’m afraid I must be getting on, Mr Klien. Thank you again.’
‘Not at all. I’ll show you out.’
He rose and escorted her from the lounge and into the hall. The door swung open automatically. He placed a hand on her elbow as she stepped through the door. ‘Good night, and take care, Sita.’
She stopped, her stomach lurching. She turned and stared at him. ‘What did you say?’
He was smiling, as if mystified. ‘I’m so sorry? It was Sita, wasn’t it? Or Rita?’
‘Rana,’ she murmured, ‘Rana Rao.’
‘Of course - Rana. Well, good night, Rana.’
He stepped back, still smiling, and the door swung shut after him.
Rana made her way slowly away from the house, trying to regain her composure. She had been sure, for a second, that his slip had been deliberate. He had intentionally said her old name, to see how she might react. But how was that possible? How might he know of her old identity? He was head of security at the port, though. Perhaps, when she ran away all those years ago, he had worked for her father? But how did he know now, having never met her, that she was the person once known as Sita Mackendrick? She told herself that she was being paranoid. There was a very simple explanation. He had misheard her name, as he claimed. He had made a genuine mistake, thought she had said Sita. It was a common enough name, after all.
She made her way to the main road and caught a taxi home.
Back at her apartment, she considered her meeting with Klien. After expecting so much to come from her investigations, she felt disappointed. At least, she told herself, there was the lead of the silver-haired man to follow up. She would tell Vishwanath, when she started her shift at twelve tomorrow, that her interviews had elicited descriptions of a silver-haired man in the vicinity of the murder scene last night.
She went to bed but could not sleep. She tried to work out how Klien might have recognised her, and known her true identity, after all those years.
&n
bsp; At dawn she got up, tired and frustrated, her mind still racing. She made herself a strong pot of coffee and sat by the window overlooking the park, huddling around the cup and taking the occasional sip.
The knock on the door startled her; she jumped, spilling coffee over her bare knees. All visitors should have buzzed her from the outer door; how had they entered without being let in? She wondered if it was one of her neighbours. Or maybe the security sergeant with her softscreen, entering at the same time as one of her early-rising neighbours left for work.
Pulling her wrap more tightly around her, she crossed the lounge and opened the door. She stared, surprised, and stepped back.
A thin-faced, silver-haired man stood on the threshold. He gave her a smile of disarming charm.
