Far from the Light of Heaven

by Tade Thompson

  It seems weaponised robotic pets are not allowed in interstellar travel, under any circumstances. Maxwell does not believe this or accept it.

  He goes for a trip around the world before his flight. Incognito. There are two basic ways to be anonymous. One: you can use considerable riches and resources to mask yourself. Two, and significantly cheaper: you live as an old, poor human. This makes you invisible far more effectively than SmartDifrax.

  He starts by inspecting his mines. He tells the executives he is leaving, unsure of what response he expects, unsure of why he does it. He has never been sentimental, and he does not feel emotional about it. He goes to the well-run ones and the mediocre, the fledgling ones and the ones at the end of their usefulness. It becomes an obsession to reach all of them, even the mountaintop processing plants that he has no permits for because the materials are of unknown effect on humans or the environment.

  He does seven interviews, damage control by his people, which he coasts through without any strong feeling. In his mind, he is no longer in or of Earth. His future is in the stars.

  He trains for his flight, resistance training to stave off osteoporosis, endurance training to increase his lung capacity and make more efficient his oxygen dissociation curve. His team of trainers, his pharmacologists with designer fat-burning chemicals, plaque-dissolvers and muscle enhancers, get this done in record time. He makes continuity plans for his various financial concerns. He sells off Mars. He considers it contaminated by Gwendolyn anyway. His staff knows not to mention her name or even allude to her. One of his aides becomes rich from compensation when Maxwell punches him in the gut for slipping up.

  Most of the time, Maxwell floats above it all, held up in the cloudiness his assistants afford him, but on rare occasions something bothersome rises to Olympus.

  “Sir, there is a problem with this ticket.”

  “Which one?”

  “Vitality Daniels, on the Ragtime.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You quoted the weight at 300kg.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this person… they’ve rarely found plus-sized people to be—”

  “Pay triple, tell them to shut up.”

  “It’s not them, sir. Is this person healthy?”

  “I can vouch for their health.”

  By this time, just as the Ragtime owners screen Maxwell, Maxwell screens them.

  Lagos was established by mainly Black Afrofuturists. Space is the Place. With considerable effort, all their fiscal and human resources and a rich, funky cultural history mixed with African myth and mythmaking, they willed the space station into being. More than a few white supremacists liked the idea of a large proportion of Black people leaving Earth. They were disappointed when Lagos flourished. Maxwell doesn’t mind. He sees cash, not race. He is an equal-opportunity exploiter. He recognises the creation of race as a construction convenient to commerce in the first place, never based on reality, but that doesn’t mean he is vocal with these thoughts. Wealth comes from, among other things, being politically protean. Gwendolyn told him once that he would have owned and sold slaves, and she was right.

  The Lagos solar system has one viable habitat, Bloodroot, and one failing one, Nightshade. It seems the convention is to name them after plants. Sanguinaria canadensis. Satellite photos show a city made of whorled streets; plant heavy, green, peaceful. Reports say two other planets in the solar system might support life. Maxwell is more concerned about supporting commerce. It bothers him that the government in Bloodroot is modular and flat, with no visible head. How do they get anything done? Fucking communists. More business is done on the Lagos Space Station than Bloodroot at this point, but Maxwell’s experts say this is on the verge of change; plus, Bloodroot is only 1% occupied. A visionary such as himself has a lot to offer such a colony.

  For a price, of course.

  “They’re ready for you, sir.”

  Wolf by his side, Maxwell proceeds to the laboratory.

  A gentle-looking gigantic man stands naked, smiling at Maxwell. He is six-six and sports an enormous belly.

  “Vitality Daniels,” says Maxwell. “Thank you for accompanying me on this trip.”

  “It is my function, sir,” says Vitality.

  “Begin,” says Maxwell.

  Vitality lies down on a slab. Tools descend at the end of robotic arms. The wolf growls, but Maxwell calms him. A cutting device slices Vitality open from chest to groin. Gripping tools pull an opening apart, exposing his chest and abdominal cavities. No blood. An excavation that takes minutes.

  “Go on, old friend. Set to,” says Maxwell to the wolf.

  The wolf whines briefly, then leaps neatly into the space in Vitality. It curls into a ball, makes itself as small as possible, and fits. The tools seal the opening, spray it, leave no scar.

  Vitality stands again.

  “How do you feel?” says Maxwell.

  “Fantastic.”

  “Shut down.”

  Vitality’s eyes film over and his head hangs down, inert.

  Maxwell whistles.

  A barn owl comes flying through the corridors and lands on his shoulder. Its head does a three-sixty turn before it comes to rest on Vitality Daniels.

  “Not long now,” says Maxwell.

  You can’t just leave the solar system if you’re as rich as Yan Maxwell. Entire economies will collapse if the departure is not managed well. Arrangements must be made. Assets sold or the management delegated.

  Most importantly, court cases. There are always ongoing court cases. Very rarely does he have to make an appearance in court, and his entire legal team keeps everything under control; that said, leaving the solar system presents some challenge as he is clearly leaving the jurisdiction of every court. He has to petition each judge individually and sit for a few police interviews. It is painstaking because it has to be done case-by-case.

  There are one hundred and three cases from all corners of the world. Apart from active cases, Maxwell settles a thousand cases a year. Left to him, it would be a drag-out fight with each one, but his lawyers advise discretion and he’s paying them a fortune, so he does what they say. Until the Gwendolyn business, he had no public litigation persona.

  His assistant reads off names of business concerns, most of which he does not even remember he has. Experimental Outpost in Colombo. Observatory in Akure. Exotic Matter Laboratory in the Tehani Mining Community. They sound nice but it’s been years since Maxwell has been a part of them, if ever.

  The conversations go the same way.

  “When will you be returning?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Who will pay any fines due?”

  “My administrators.”

  “Can you check in every year?”

  “I’ll be asleep for ten years.”

  “Yes, but can you check in?”

  “While unconscious, your honour?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No, I cannot check in.”

  “Your assets will be liquidated if—”

  “I know.”

  “If this case ends in a custodial sentence, instructions will be tight beamed to the nearest Bridge Authority where you will be incarcerated for the full term.”

  “I know.”

  A week before take-off, the Ragtime calls Maxwell on his direct line. The voice is completely neutral, and Maxwell has difficulty understanding the gender presentation but doesn’t ask. Some of these AIs get offended and he doesn’t have time to phone the company to ask.

  “Sir, I just wanted to call and say it’s a pleasure to have you on board for my maiden flight. If there are any special considerations you have, please tell them to me and I will—”

  “Let me stop you there. I have a mountain of paperwork to get through. You need to get to the point swiftly. In the time we’ve been talking, the GDP of Nigeria passed through my businesses.”

  “Of course. I have to ask one last time if Vitality Daniels is negotiable. We woul
dn’t ordinarily—”

  “Quadruple the normal price. Build a bespoke pod for him if you have to, and charge me. I don’t want to discuss this again.”

  “Thank you, sir. I—”

  “Goodbye, Ragtime.”

  Maxwell hangs up.

  He does not visit Gwendolyn.

  He does not phone Gwendolyn.

  He does not write to Gwendolyn.

  Fuck Gwendolyn.

  The day arrives and they leave the quarantine house at Kennedy. Vitality walks ahead of Maxwell, both before any other passengers. The owl stays on Maxwell’s shoulders. The shuttle is attached to a carrier aircraft and the runway stretches to infinity. This is what will take Maxwell into orbit where the Ragtime is parked. He had wanted to buy all the seats, but the space agency refused and very nearly rescinded Maxwell’s ticket. It’s apparently a mission with objectives and shit, some experiments on board. Planners with integrity. He isn’t used to refusal. It happens, but not often enough to acclimate him. At least he is the first. He paid good money for the privilege.

  He touches his barn owl on the beak and it flies off. Maxwell smirks. He has programmed it to follow Gwendolyn. Take no action, just follow and stare with those owl eyes. He wonders how long before she’ll have it shot down. That or go insane. He hopes it’s the latter.

  Watching the bird fly, incongruous because it’s daytime, Maxwell says, “Fin, Fin, come back to me. This is Ragtime One.”

  Momentary confusion.

  Back in the bar.

  Back in the desert.

  Back, back, back, back in the sleeping pod, floating.

  “Fin, Fin, come back. Ragtime One,” says Shell in his IFC.

  Ouch. Motherfucker. That kind of yank causes a splitting headache.

  “Fin here, Ragtime One, go ahead.”

  “Fin?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need a gun.”

  “Say again?”

  “We have vermin. I need a big fucking gun. Print me one. Right now. I’m coming to get it. Ragtime One out.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Ragtime: Shell

  Shell can feel herself sweating, and, unlike when she’s working out, this feels clammy.

  The moss is everywhere, but it seems to be dying and every surface she touches puffs up dust. She calls up the monitor in her IFC and the bacterial contamination is still growing. It’s not the mutt. Frances. Silly name. She keeps tabs on the wolf’s locator and it’s obviously hunting down mutants. The trail of bacteria is taking Shell further and further aft, which makes her uncomfortable because of the missing section and probability that any other section might just decide to detach and float away.

  A few bots and dying animals mark the wake of the wolf. Frances isn’t fucking around.

  Shell presses on. Look at her, a regular beau sabreur, rushing off to save her crew from faecal contamination. Maybe people will write songs about her after she’s dead. She feels a different kind of wetness on her face. She starts seeing globules in the air and stops herself by clutching a dusty grab rail. A problem with the water recycling system? Is this water from the toilet system? Gross.

  “Ragtime,” says Shell.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Status of water recycler.”

  “Status nominal, Captain.”

  “You always say that, creep.”

  “Please repeat.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  The drops are turbid, not a good sign. Greyish, but that could come from the moss. Maybe the blood of something Frances killed? She puts her helmet on. She checks the timer she set up and there’s just over a day left for survival.

  We are not going to make it.

  The thought bounces around in her skull and echoes, heavy with truth, plausibility and dread.

  Whatever. They aren’t going to die of an infection if Shell can help it. Suffocation, maybe. She moves into the next node, and the air is considerably wetter, too much to be from any experimental organism that Earth scientists came up with. The suit will protect her, and hopefully the disgust factor won’t make her vomit into her helmet.

  She passes the junction to the torus and the experimental wing, and there is more. Close to the seal, she spots the source. There’s a hole drilled or blasted in the wall that breaches all the way to the bioreactor. This fluid is algae rich. From the indicator, the source of the high bacteria count is within that hole.

  They aren’t specifically pathogenic bacteria. It’s mainly coliforms, gut bacteria, which can cause disease when they’re not confined to the gut. Shell checks the integrity of the seal to the late and lamented Node 7, and it seems to be holding.

  She dips and pushes into the hole, avoiding the edges. It’s all dark except occasional flashing warning lights. The temperature sensor warns her that it’s hot and humid outside her space suit. The place is in a ferment, which is boosting the bacteria numbers. The fucking hole she is in looks like some giant’s colon. In the beam from her helmet light, it leaks fluid, which just breaks off and floats in the air. There’s a hissing from somewhere, like a gas leak. She hopes to hell it isn’t atmosphere leaking. So many ways to die on the Ragtime, so little time.

  Bacteria count going insane, indicators warning it’s above the safety margin. Shell sees a lump of something and moves towards it. It looks like meat. She touches it, brings it close to her visor. It is meat – with jagged, irregular edges. No blood, not fresh. She wishes she could take off her helmet to smell it. She turns all around her and deeper in the hole. It’s a service shaft for the bioreactor, it seems. And there’s more meat. She follows the shaft, not understanding the directions or combinations of characters on the walls, or the arrows. This part of the Ragtime would ordinarily be sealed off.

  There’s a large obstruction in the passage ahead of her, and she gasps when it becomes clear. It’s a body, probably one of the missing passengers. It hangs in the micrograv, very murdered. For one thing, it has been flayed, mostly the arms and legs. The head is preserved and strangely serene, as if the guy did not die in pain.

  Chunks of muscle are missing, hence the lumps of meat she found, but they don’t account for the amount that is gone. The left thigh has been ripped to the bone. The abdomen has a jagged wound through which fluid leaks out. It’s distended, so this might be a rupture. Very little blood. This guy died in the passenger pods and was brought here. Shell touches the wounds. Frances didn’t do this.

  She takes a sip of water.

  She thinks of herself covered in all this… contaminated fluid and worried about the safety of her passengers. And crew. No water to decontaminate.

  She is contemplating all this when she hears a noise up ahead. She focuses the torch.

  Shell blinks to clear her vision, because she can’t possibly be seeing what she thinks she’s seeing.

  There is a man, alive this time, floating, facing her, maybe even staring.

  The fuck…?

  “Hey!” she pushes the corpse out of the way. It floats behind her, shedding spherical drops of fluid and flecks of human tissue.

  He is tall, taller than she, and coated in dark green, something skintight, with goggles that glow a gentle red, and the suit is broken in patches over his belly and legs. The exposed skin doesn’t look healthy and seems to be breaking off and ulcerated.

  “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?” One of the passengers, maybe? Must be.

  He crouches and the light in his goggles intensifies briefly, then goes out. “My name is Brisbane. Just stay out of my way and everything will be fine.”

  “Did you kill this man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed something to eat.”

  “You needed something to… What?”

  “I don’t have time for this.” He turns and propels himself away with his long arms.

  Shell starts to go after him, then stops herself. She needs to plan. Who the hell is this? There’s usually no breathable
atmosphere here, so how the fuck has he been alive without a space suit? Doesn’t matter. He did not seem afraid, and she will not go after such a man without the proper accessories.

  “Fin, Fin, come back. Ragtime One.”

  “Fin here, Ragtime One, go ahead.”

  “Fin?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need a gun.”

  “Say again?”

  “We have vermin. I need a big fucking gun. Print me one. Right now. I’m coming to get it. Ragtime One out.”

  Shell turns and starts back the way she came in, dragging the corpse along with her.

  “Ragtime.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Who the fuck was that?”

  “Captain, I am so sorry.”

  “Oh, you’re back to normal now, you motherfucker? You’ve killed us.”

  The ship pauses. “I was… prevented. I’m so sorry.”

  “Start at the beginning, asshole. You have until I drag this cadaver to the medical node, and I swear to god and all the saints, if I am not satisfied, I will remove every processor from your Pentagram before the rest of us die. Talk. Use short sentences with monosyllables.”

  Transmitting through Shell’s IFC, Ragtime begins to talk.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Lagos: Beko

  Beko works to John Coltrane. Nothing else will do, so it’s either silence or Trane.

  It’s quiet on the station. She’s dealt with the miners for now. Her on-off lover sent her a rare stone that pulses with starlight from the asteroid belt where he lives and works. And a love letter, on paper, which one doesn’t see a lot of any more. Fancies himself a poet.

  Still nothing from the Ragtime or Lawrence Biz. It’s in her belly like a tumour, growing, eating away. Nothing else she can do about it, but that doesn’t make the feeling of dread go away.

  She replies to Campion’s brothers. She can’t think of anyone else she can delegate the task to. Awe is brilliant in his way, but timid. He’ll make mistakes just because he’s afraid of her. She doesn’t mind. She needs a distraction.

  Dear Messrs Campion,