by John Meaney
It came down fast, the iron-shod end. The wet crunch seemed distant.
‘—right.’
Like stepping on a snail.
Eira stood at the edge of a mist-cloaked lake, at the border between two worlds. She had slipped in and out of trance dozens of times since pre-dawn glimmered; now, as a vast prow rose shadow-like in mist, she moved entirely into dreamworld. It was hard to look at, this immense, other-worldly ship, for it belonged to the realm of ghosts, and its hull was formed of dead men’s fingernails: so many dead to create a vessel one hundred times the size of anything the living might build.
And he was on board: her brother Jarl, slain by Ulfr out of mercy but still dead.
—Oh, my brother.
His shade moved from ship-deck to lakewater in some fashion she could not see. Then he waded closer and stopped, ankle-deep but not wet. He was grey, and if Eira squinted she could see through him.
—Sweet sister, it is not your time to sail on dread Naglfar, not yet.
She nodded.
—Are you … well, good Jarl?
It was a strange thing for a trained volva to ask. The dead could not be well; nor could they answer such questions. But Jarl was her brother, and she loved him.
—You will be with me soon enough, dear Eira. But that is not what you wish to ask.
The time of her death was in the Norns’ hands: her death and everyone else’s.
—I don’t know what to ask.
—Yes, you do.
Old Nessa had trained Eira well, with love and harshness; but the discipline was slipping from her now.
—I miss you, by the gods.
A shake of a spectral head.
—My own feelings are a memory.
Eira shivered. She placed her palms on the bronze ovals that cupped her breasts, worn outside her robes. The narrow supporting chain made a chinking sound, muted by corpse-mist.
—I don’t know what I seek.
—Things will happen, my sister. No need to search for them.
To be a seeress was to live with ambiguity; but this was Jarl, for whom her feelings were certain.
—Tell me, please, what I …
A distant sound filtered through fog: a muted whimper, or something more.
—The answer is yes.
Jarl was aboard the vast, dread vessel again.
—What do you mean? Why are you—?
—Forgive him, sweet Eira.
Something was happening beyond the mist. Something behind her.
—I don’t know what you—
—He did right by me. He honoured me.
Then it sounded clear: a woman’s scream.
—Jarl?
But the vessel known as Naglfar was slipping back as the mist roiled and thickened. The dead were gone. The world was cold. Now, from beyond the mists, there was more to hear: the roar of men; a crescendo of hooves; the clash and thud of weapons; the crackle of buildings set alight. And the screams of children dying.
FIVE
LABYRINTH 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)
Roger would have liked to return to Ascension Annexe on leaving the Admiralty complex; but he had company – Clayton and Clara – and her existence was the one thing he had kept secret. Dad’s legacy: the one wonderful thing that survived, beyond memories of a loving upbringing.
It was Clayton who summoned the fastpath rotation that took the three of them into a palatial apartment suite. The first surprising thing was the ease of the rotation; the second was Clayton’s saying: ‘This is your new home, and we hope you like it.’
Clara looked at Roger – her expression saying, you’re not as surprised as I am – then her face blanked.
‘It’s what we call a safehouse,’ added Clayton. ‘But then you’d know the term.’
‘I’m a big fan of Fighting Shadows.’ But this was Labyrinth, not Fulgor. ‘Er, it’s a holodrama series. Was.’
One more fragment of a global culture lost. For Roger, the present had been severed from the past. His future was a landscape seen through the thickest of lenses: distorted, unknowable.
‘Why would you need a safehouse,’ he added, ‘right here in Labyrinth?’
‘Good question,’ said Clara.
Was that an edge to her voice?
Clayton, looking at Roger, said: ‘I’m asking for trust here. This needs to be secret, so you’ll have to stay inside.’
But it was not Roger’s trust he was asking for – it was Clara’s. At least that was how Roger read the subtleties of communication: the tonal emphasis, the implied semantics of words unsaid.
‘You think I’m in danger,’ he said. ‘From someone with access to classified information?’
Clayton blinked – perhaps because he had not expected Roger to work that out – and the corners of Clara’s mouth twitched.
‘That’s a good assessment,’ she said.
After nodding, Clayton gestured to the sofa and chairs, which moved closer.
‘Did you ever think of following your father’s career choice?’ Clayton sat down and leaned back, the upholstery morphing around him. ‘I’m sure you’ve got the aptitude.’
‘Commodore Gould wanted to recruit me,’ said Roger. ‘My one time here, besides when I was a baby, he showed me around—’
Micro-expressions from both their faces told him that he had forgotten to mention this earlier.
‘I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘I thought I’d told you everything. There was a Pilot, a prisoner, in a cell somewhere in Labyrinth, and the darkness manifested around him. It was weird and huge, the way it appeared, though I don’t think the prisoner was as dangerous as Helsen. If that makes sense.’
He definitely had told them everything he knew and suspected about Dr Petra Helsen, intellectual bully and probable causative agent behind the whole Fulgor Catastrophe; and he had drawn a holosketch of the bearded man who might be her accomplice. He had even mentioned the nine discordant notes that accompanied the sightings – da, da-dum, da-da-da-dum, dada – sounding only in his head, not the external world.
‘That knowledge should not leave this room,’ said Clayton. ‘No word to anyone about this prisoner.’
Once more, it seemed that he spoke to Clara while addressing Roger.
=I agree.=
All three of them looked up.
After a moment, Clara said: ‘So we’ve something in common, then.’
Roger had learned that few people heard Labyrinth directly.
‘Looks like it,’ said Clayton. ‘So let me be more open. When you report to Colonel Garber, not everything needs to be mentioned.’
Clara looked like an endurance athlete, her body-fat minimal. For a second, her face showed every muscle tensing below the skin. Then: ‘I’ll not endanger Roger.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clayton.
‘And thanks from me.’ Roger heard the relaxed tone of his own voice, and noted it as interesting, nothing more. ‘Since I’m the one you’re keeping safe.’
The idea that he might be in danger was simply a fact: one more datum to process.
Everything changed when Fulgor died.
His world or his parents: pick either disaster, or both.
‘Before the murder,’ said Clayton, ‘I believe Commodore Gould told the Admiralty Council that you failed the test, Roger. It’s in the report files, with the actual test details unspecified. Your father took several minutes to be able to see the darkness. Gould said that you stayed there for longer, and noticed nothing.’
‘Er …’
That description made no sense.
‘What is it?’ asked Clara.
She had glanced at Clayton first. It seemed Clayton was more informed than she was, when it came to the darkness.
‘It doesn’t take minutes,’ said Roger. ‘It doesn’t take any time at all. It’s right there in your face, whenever the darkness is present.’
Clara sucked in air, then blew it out at length.
‘I begin to see why you’re so
valuable, Roger.’
‘Oh.’
‘And maybe,’ she continued, ‘this safehouse is not as off the books as you think.’
That last was to Clayton.
‘You’re kidding,’ he said.
‘Sure I am. See me laughing.’
‘Fuck.’
Internal politics – or worse – inside the intelligence service. This was so far beyond Roger’s experience that he might as well have been a months-old baby: dependent on the adults around him for everything, even basic safety.
‘Maybe there’s a better place to hide me,’ he said. ‘Like, not in this universe.’
They looked at him.
‘Realspace?’ said Clayton. ‘Where would you go?’
Given that his homeworld was gone.
‘They’re starting to ship the refugees out,’ said Roger. ‘Jed volunteered to be one of the Pilots involved.’
‘We can work with that,’ said Clara. ‘Without alerting anyone.’
‘Even our own people.’ This was Clayton. ‘Right?’
‘Shit. Right.’ Clara turned back to Roger. ‘Listen, why don’t we chill out over daistral and run through everything once more. I mean, relaxed this time.’
‘Er, sure.’
‘What for?’ asked Clayton.
‘In case there’s anything else I’ve missed out,’ said Roger. ‘Like the darkness. Because I forgot, or didn’t realize the significance.’
‘No wonder Gould wanted to recruit you.’ Clayton’s smile tightened then attenuated. ‘Damn it.’
‘What is it about Gould?’ asked Roger. ‘His name provokes strange reactions, but no one’s actually—’
‘He’s under suspicion of murder,’ said Clara. ‘The victim being Admiral Kaltberg, which is hard to believe, because he admired her. I’m sure of it.’
This was too strange to grasp.
‘Let me add something here,’ said Clayton. ‘Just among ourselves, to get some perspective. Roger, your father’s ship, when it arrived here the first time – I mean, with your mother on board.’
With Mum aboard and near death, before Dad flew back to Fulgor alone and grieving.
‘I understand.’
‘Well, then. Your father’s ship had been attacked. Her hull showed all the signs of battle.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Clara.
‘No, we buried the information.’ Clayton gestured a holo into existence. ‘See the scoring, here and here?’
It was a still image of a black, dart-shaped ship, edged with scarlet. Dad’s ship: fast, ultra-powerful, manoeuvrable. Made for evasion and fighting, with no space for cargo.
‘That’s not good.’ Clara leaned forward. ‘Crap.’
‘Who fired on him?’ said Roger. ‘I don’t get it. The Anomaly?’
‘It happened in mu-space.’ Clayton pointed at the holo. ‘And it wasn’t from Zajinet weaponry.’
‘But that—’
‘Pilots,’ said Clara. ‘Firing on their own kind.’
‘Exactly,’ said Clayton.
‘And that’s why you want me to keep this from Colonel Garber.’
‘Yes.’
‘Holy fuck.’
Earlier, Roger had thought she looked capable; now, he could not tell whether she was worried or scared witless. Either way, things were bad.
I don’t want to leave.
Not least because she was in Ascension Annexe. But if something happened to him, what would be the effect on her? He had to keep himself safe.
‘Get me on a ship to Molsin,’ he said.
Golden space, and flying fast.
Someday, it will be me and her, alone.
But for now, Roger rode as Jed’s passenger, sitting diagonally behind him in the near-featureless control cabin. The glow and gentle distortions of fractal space told him which universe this was. A widespread holorama replicated an outside view suitable for Pilot eyes; while in front of Roger, a smaller display listed the cargo hold’s contents along with status updates for their comatose inhabitants: three hundred stacked med-drones, Alisha’s among them.
I was falling in love with her.
There was no getting around that. And she, the Luculenta-to-be, had feelings for him, or so it seemed. But with her mind shattered from Rafaella Stargonier’s attack and the depredations of the brothel—
Maybe it’s not just her who’s traumatized.
Fat wobbling belly, dripping penis, and the panicked voice of the middle-aged punter backing away from Alisha’s naked body …
Stop it.
‘Transition soon,’ said Jed.
‘Got it.’
Their voices rippled in pale-amber air.
Concentrate.
Roger waved the status holo out of existence. The forward holorama was more interesting, as a flaring virtual ribbon denoted the geodesic they were following. Some day, he would be doing this himself: plotting the insertion angle just right to avoid disaster during—
Transition.
Black space shivering into existence in every direction: stars and pinpoint galaxies appearing silver-white at first, before the eyes could adjust to the true richness of colour.
Realspace.
‘There’s the place.’ Jed nodded towards the gas giant filling the holorama. ‘Big old bastard, isn’t it?’
‘Molsin.’
‘One of the top worlds,’ said Jed. ‘Influential.’
Just as Fulgor had been.
Stop it.
Her skies were yellowish from here, but once inside the atmosphere, all would be orange, swirling in endless turbulent patterns. There, among the layers and currents, drifted the quickglass sky-cities that Molsin was famed for: peculiar and spectacular, different from Roger’s home, wherever that was. While deep below, under killing pressure, oceans of hydrofluoric acid waited to eat flesh and bones alike, to devour any morsels that might fall to the lower realm.
SIX
EARTH, 1941 AD
Booming explosions and the deck tipping beneath his feet: Dmitri might have been back on board the ship that took him from Vladivostok across the Sea of Japan; but there had been no gunfire then, and the transfer to the Panamanian-registered freighter had been without incident, he and Sergei smuggled aboard to a private cabin where they assumed German identities. Sergei was convincing because his mother had been from Sudetenland; Dmitri because he had a gift for languages, and a compulsion to prove himself.
But this was his kitchen, in his Tokyo flat; and any thunder came from inside his head, born of last night’s vodka marathon – no, saké, much the same thing – which meant he knew how to cope: drink water and get on with it.
Pearl Harbor, then.
If Lieutenant Kanazawa had not been delusional, then it would be something to find out about. Outside, it was a muggy June day, two months since Japan had signed a pact with the Soviet Union (going undercover and resurfacing as the Russians they really were formed one of his and Sergei’s backup plans) while Roosevelt had, two days later, announced that the US would supply materials, under the Lease-Lend Act, to Japan’s major enemy, main target of their plans for aggressive expansion: China.
Think it out.
It was hard, with Kremlin bells ringing in his head, but this was what he thought: that China’s ‘magnetic warfare’ strategy seemed like frustrating magic to the Japanese. The Chinese simply withdrew from the area surrounding every city that fell to the invaders. They had never even declared war: not ten years ago during the Mukden Incident in Manchuria, nine years ago when the Nihon Imperial Army moved on Shanghai, or eight years ago when they took Chengteh’s capital Jehol, so close to the Great Wall.
The Chinese did not fight the invasion: they absorbed it.
So what will America do if Admiral Yamashita attacks?
The United States were something of a mystery to Dmitri. Their Great Depression had failed to convince the proletariat of the madness of free-market thinking; that, or they were too cowed by their imperialist masters
to rise up in revolt. But those were explanations that anyone might trot out in a Moscow bar after some vodkas, whereas when it came to Western Europe – especially Germany – Dmitri could always see through simple explanations and ideology.
Pose the question in a different way, and different answers rise up.
No, what will China do?
If attacking Pearl Harbor caused China to declare open war on Japan – in accord with its treaties, now it depended on American supplies – then Japan would take the gloves off and attack any ships delivering aid to China, even if the flag they flew was the Stars and Stripes.
So maybe Kanazawa was right: this insane plan was real.
‘Morning, boss.’ Sergei looked fresh. ‘Have you started on breakfast?’
‘Have you seen Torginov recently?’
Torginov, a long-term Kyoto resident and naval intelligence specialist, was only nominally a part of their network.
‘I would have told you if I had.’
‘He’ll have picked up word of this Pearl Harbor thing,’ said Dmitri. ‘If it’s real, I mean.’
‘Ah.’ Sergei’s smile was cynical. ‘You don’t want him getting the credit.’
The man had access to a separate courier route, distinct from the one Dmitri and Sergei used, his affiliation looser than that of other agents. He could report to Moscow via the well-placed Sorge, another agent working under German cover. Had Dmitri been less senior, he would not have known of Torginov’s existence.
‘I’ve no idea what you mean. I was thinking of cold rice and fish.’
‘For breakfast?’ said Sergei. ‘So long as there’s plenty of tea, I can handle it. And I’ll keep quiet about the other thing.’
Meaning Torginov, but Dmitri’s concerns were not what Sergei thought.
I am my own man.
Right now, to the best of his informed knowledge, Wehrmacht tanks were beginning a three-pronged westward invasion: von Leeb’s force to the Baltic states, Rundstedt’s further south, while in between was Bolk’s army that included both Guderian’s and Hoth’s panzer divisions.
There were intelligence officers like Sergei who operated best with a small-field detailed picture, while others like Dmitri made decisions based on strategic background concerns. The Nazi forces were superbly equipped in comparison to Mother Russia, for all Stalin’s rhetoric; but if manpower could hold them back throughout the summer – or at least slow them down – then the secret Soviet weapon could be brought to bear.
