Transmission: Ragnarok: Book Two

by John Meaney

  ‘When you wiped the memories of Boyle and his colleague here—’

  ‘Clayton,’ she said. ‘I remember his name.’

  ‘—right, when you did that, did you isolate the memories from a location and timestamp, or did you know the content and theme of the memories to erase? Was it a themed amnesia?’

  For all Sapherson’s efforts to stare hard, Gould’s face seemed blurred, yet filling her visual field.

  Stress symptoms.

  She needed to answer him.

  ‘Time and place,’ she said. ‘That’s all I needed.’

  Gould looked over at Alfredo.

  ‘Say the word.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ said Alfredo. ‘She doesn’t know about the darkness.’

  None of this was coherent. Darkness?

  ‘Confirmed by her ongoing reaction,’ added Alfredo. ‘She’s clean.’

  Her restraints melted into the chair.

  ‘Only in a manner of speaking,’ said Gould.

  They gave her three choices: death, mindwipe at Alfredo’s hands, or helping them. She made no smart remarks about the illusion of freedom, because Clayton’s desire to avenge Boyle was unfeigned, and because however much Alfredo’s analysis had exonerated her, clearly she was unconsciously associated with Admiral Kaltberg’s murder in Max Gould’s mind at least, and probably in the nameless woman’s.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Trample through someone’s brain,’ said Clayton. ‘That’s your talent, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps with a bit more finesse than that,’ said Gould.

  ‘I’ll do it, of course.’

  A variety of facial expressions formed silent responses to her words; but a mid-air ripple drew her attention from her captors. A fastpath rotation was forming—

  Rescue?

  —from which two men stepped, both of them familiar.

  ‘What is this?’ The first was Admiral Turnbull. ‘I thought we were going to—’

  His eyes rolled up as his body lost muscular tensegrity, and collapsed.

  ‘Got you.’ Clayton caught hold of a sleeve and shoulder. ‘Someone get support under him, will you?’

  ‘Doing it.’ Alfredo gestured. ‘There you go.’

  Flowmetal rose up, forming an inclined seat beneath Turnbull, then straightening out as it took his weight, turning into a horizontal table or bed.

  Turnbull’s companion was Pavel Karelin.

  ‘How many of you people are there?’ asked Sapherson.

  ‘I’d tell you,’ said Karelin, ‘but I’d have to mindwipe you.’

  Only the woman barked a laugh.

  ‘Here’s how it goes.’ Gould was taking charge. ‘We’re going to ask the admiral here some questions under trance. He’s backed some bad decisions in the Council, but we believe that’s more due to his being fed misinformation—’

  ‘And being a total arsehole,’ said the woman.

  ‘—plus his own personal ambition, let’s say, rather than actually plotting against Labyrinth.’

  Sapherson rubbed a knuckle under her eye. Were these people prey to a group delusion? One charismatic leader and partial isolation from peers could produce a situation where every group decision reinforced the leader’s conviction and fed on his approval. It was a basic form of cognitive bias liable to surface in group situations.

  ‘You’ll be able to judge for yourself,’ Gould told her, as if she had delivered her analysis aloud. ‘There are two outcomes possible. One is, Turnbull is essentially innocent but manipulated. In that case, you will wipe his memory of our interrogation and that’s it. Nothing more. No implanted suggestions. We let him go as he is.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Option two is, he’s one of the bastards we’re up against, and you’ll hear from his own mouth why Labyrinth is in danger.’

  ‘And then I mindwipe him.’

  ‘No.’ Gould looked at the others. ‘In that case, amnesia will be unnecessary.’

  Sapherson wanted to say, so the ends justify the means for you as well as for me. But she was not that stupid.

  ‘If it’s option one,’ she said instead, ‘then I guess I’ll never know what this conspiracy is about, will I?’

  ‘Yeah, you will,’ said Karelin. ‘Because once we’re done with Turnbull, I’ll bring the next one in, and then the next. We’re going to find one of the bad guys for sure.’

  She did not smile at bad guys.

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘Enough to be certain.’

  So they were serious; but then, that was obvious.

  ‘And what happens after that?’ she said.

  ‘Then things will move very fast,’ said Gould.

  That was when the fear-for-self left her, because there were greater things happening here than the life of one neuroscientist, things of moment; and for all her failings, when it came to the city-world that nurtured them all in this ur-continuum, there was one thing she knew, deep inside, deeper even than the needs that drove her in her work.

  She would sooner die than allow Labyrinth to fall.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  EARTH, 778 AD

  Ulfr woke up thinking of wisdom personified as a woman – Kenna? – but that was too abstract because he was holding her, his sweet Eira; and they fitted together in every way, as he had always known they would. Two halves of a single shape, now complete.

  ‘Hey, warrior.’

  Her eyes were clear. He ignored the scent coming from her poultice, inhaled the breath she had exhaled, and kissed her. That one kiss contained more sensuality than every experience with every other young woman in his life.

  ‘Ulfr, my wolf.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Love me.’

  And so he did, and it was marvellous once more.

  The sheep hobbled outside Eira’s hut was a present from Chief Folkvar, she said, supposed to cheer her up. Then she tucked her arm inside Ulfr’s, and her smile was a reflection of the sun, bright enough to blind.

  ‘Take me for a walk, warrior.’

  ‘I’ll take you anywhere.’

  ‘Hmm. Heimdall’s Point, then.’

  ‘Are you up to it?’

  Her gait was slow and off-kilter, limping to favour the torso wound; and she was already breathless, just a little.

  ‘Perhaps a strong warrior will carry me if I get tired.’

  ‘Perhaps he will.’

  Smiles were everywhere as the clan members saw them walking as a couple. In the aftermath of violence, good things might happen; and when they did, they should be celebrated. Even Vermundr grinned, without a sarcastic witticism, not even a whistle.

  Eira. At last.

  All of the Middle World seemed to brighten as they walked.

  From the promontory, they could see the lake, sparkling now, the blueness of far mountains, and the village down below. Close to the edge, the potential of that cliff-like drop exhilarated like the life-giving air, pure and washing through them.

  ‘It’s a perfect place,’ said Ulfr.

  Every patch of lichen glowed with inner life, every narrow blade of grass, the richness of existence pressing in on him, creating a sharp intensity of awareness.

  ‘And I thank you for it, my handsome wolf.’

  There had been some carrying involved, and it had been a joy to use his strength in a way far removed from violence, bearing his most precious love to this impressive site. While he stared out across the view, she stepped in front of him, facing him, and touched his lips with her fingertip.

  ‘I’ve tried everything, my best potions and deepest trance. The Norns have made their will clear. My wound is worsening. The poison is spreading through me, promising a long, bad end. Which is why I’ve chosen this, after you’ve brought me happiness. And I thank you.’

  ‘No, my love, don’t say that. There are other volvas who can—’

  ‘You’re the best, my wolf.’

  She took two steps back, and then a third—

/>   No!

  —and her smile remained but only in his mind as she dropped beyond the edge.

  Was gone.

  It was Hallsteinn who discovered the broken body, but he waited for Ulfr to make his sobbing, heart-pounding descent from Heimdall’s Point, because Eira deserved to be carried by the one she had loved. He laid her in the waiting-place at the edge of the village; and then he broke.

  For a long time all was rage and howling, the world gone in blackness and madness, denying him prey, refusing him the satisfaction of bones to crunch and the spraying of blood, because the clan knew to stay away as he flailed and thrust in the depths of berserkrgangr.

  Then finally he sat, far from everyone, only Brandr daring to be at his side, while in the village the pyre’s flames leapt high, burning the last of goodness from the Middle World, and in Ulfr’s heart, he cursed the Norns.

  I hate.

  He cursed everything.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE WORLD, 5568 AD

  Harij staggered down the familiar scree slope, back into the caverns of home, his silver skin blackened here and there, aware only of the void left by his sister, by sweet Ilara whose thoughts remained trapped in a distant dreamlode, brightened and sharpened but different, part of something that was more than her. His wonderful, damaged sister was gone.

  Daywatchmen found him, and carried him to the emergency hospice where staff lathered healing cream upon his burns, and immersed him in calming flux to heal, or at least to rest. For some number of nights that he was long past counting, they kept him in this crepuscular state, taking him out of near-coma long enough to eat and exercise basic bodily functions. For the rest, they kept him under, to ravel thoughts and body together once more.

  Finally, he was fit enough to face the tribunal.

  Only Mistress Ahn made a plea on the basis of his character and the goodness of his intent. His parents were too distraught to approach, never mind address the tribunal.

  When the three judges asked Harij, towards the end of his testimony, how he felt about his own actions, there was only one thing he could tell them.

  **I am guilty. Deeply guilty.**

  Tension attenuated in the room at that point. Afterwards, matters proceeded with unbroken momentum, rolling to a conclusion.

  They tied him to a pinkstone pillar at the centre of the flux chamber: proctors and councillors wearing heavy, shielded robes, hurrying despite the protection, because it helped only a little. Soon they had scurried out, leaving him to face the wildness.

  It tore at him, the raging flux.

  **Ilara!**

  Twisting torrents that pulled reality apart.

  In the cool of the night, the youth looked down at his new robe, at the cleansed glistening of his silver skin. Beside him, on the wide exit ledge, lay two carry-sacks of his provisions.

  A cavern lay behind and below, cradling a subterranean town, but it was nothing to him.

  **Wait.**

  It was a feminine cast. He turned and waited.

  **I’m Ahn. Mistress Ahn. Do you remember me?**

  He stared at the woman, liking her.

  **No, I do not.**

  She passed a polished hand across her face. Then she straightened her stance.

  **I came to wish you well, good Seeker.**

  **Then I thank you, Mistress Ahn.**

  He looked out to the night sky, to the black-and-silver filigree disk of Magnus above the horizon, and the mesa stretching far away. Then he picked up his provisions, slung them over his shoulder, and walked out into the open.

  The Seeker travelled until dawn, when he found shelter and rested up, his mind stilled but receptive to the faintest hints of Idea or Memory. At dusk, he set off once more, for that is what it means to Seek.

  Above him, a single triblade soared, casting for the tiny flux-knots of its prey.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  EARTH, 1942 AD

  It was a returning Liberty Ship, plunging through North Atlantic waves at lesser risk on its way to New York than it had been travelling east, but only just. Wolf packs of U-boats would pick off whatever shipping they could, because every vessel contributed to the ongoing survival of a Great Britain unable to support itself while the Reich continued its expansion. Gavriela, puking over the rail, could not understand how Rupert had done this to her.

  And Brian?

  She had left Bletchley before his scheduled return from the London secondment. Their night of desperate lovemaking had awakened an itch in her, some long-repressed physicality that seemed to have little to do with Brian as a person. It was a conundrum she would hardly solve from thousands of miles away. It was hard enough to think at all, with the ship rising and plunging this way.

  Sickness kept her shuttling between cabin and deck for the rest of the voyage. Down below was cramped, but she was the only occupant of her two-bunk cabin. Tiny streaks of rust underneath the porthole looked like tears. She tried to work – in her head, because a notebook would not be safe – reviewing everything she knew about atomic physics. The signal intercepts originating from the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute had already caused her to go back to her textbooks; but Rupert had set her a greater challenge.

  What does he expect me to do?

  Even a permanent relocation would make more sense than this short-term mission, except that Rupert had impressed this on her: gauging the Wehrmacht’s progress in building an atomic bomb was vital to determining strategy. That was plausible: it was less about helping the Americans than about her learning enough to judge German progress. Rupert’s objective was tactically sound; only his means, she thought as she threw up again, were questionable.

  And so it continued, her voyage, until the Manhattan skyline was silhouetted magnificence against an eerie dawn sky, the New World reaching to take her in. Dislocated from her previous life, she hauled her small case down the gangplank, then stood on the solid dock, swaying.

  ‘Rough journey?’ The man wore a black overcoat and grey fedora. ‘I’m Charles Payne.’

  He took the case from her.

  ‘Er, thank you. I’m Gabby Woods. My passport is, um …’

  ‘I recognize you from your photograph, ma’am. We can go straight to the car. It’s only a few minutes to Grand Central, where you’ll be able to freshen up. And there’s time for a New York breakfast before we catch the train.’

  ‘I … thank you.’

  She felt safe as he took her upper arm and guided her to a dark, bulbous automobile. He opened the back door for her and settled her in, before stowing her case in the boot, except it wasn’t called that here, was it? Everything looked and smelled different; even the quality of sound seemed altered in this air. Behind the steering-wheel, the driver looked in the mirror and tipped his hat.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘Oh. Hello.’

  Then Payne was sitting beside her, and the driver was adjusting a stick poking out of the steering-column – it took a moment to realize it was a gear lever – and the car began to roll along the dock.

  It might have been twenty minutes later when they stood in the marble space of the Grand Central terminus. The high hall was awash with echoing sound even at this early hour. Neo-classical, the concourse might have been in London, Paris or Berlin. Soldiers in well-tailored uniforms were numerous. The familiarity relaxed Gavriela, just a little.

  ‘We already have our tickets.’ Payne held her case in one hand, his own in the other. ‘Let’s go downstairs and eat.’

  She was not hungry, but the small café below ground offered enticing smells. For the first time in over two years, she drank real coffee and nibbled from a bagel.

  Then she rushed to the ladies room and threw it all back up.

  The New Mexico heat was beyond anything she had experienced. Minimal humidity and a Martian landscape, the desert colours and the clarity of the air razoring into her vision: all of it was unexpected. Wherever she looked, some subliminal aspect would throw her off balance.

  ‘Y
ou’ll like the people,’ Payne told her.

  But after a soldier accompanied them to the wooden house that was to be hers, while she laid out her spare clothes on the bed, she heard him say to Payne outside: ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Sergeant McGregor sends his compliments, and says he’ll be available in Hut 17 at fifteen-thirty hours, if you’re up for another ass-kickin’.’

  ‘Tell the sergeant’ – there was a pause – ‘to save the last dance for me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She leaned out of the open window, and saw the two men continuing up the dirt street between the rows of wooden buildings. Her watch read five past three.

  It’s hardly my kind of thing.

  As a woman and a scientist, she ought to consider what she had overheard to be working-men’s banter – assuming she had understood correctly – and not the kind of matter that men in her circle would attend to. But something about the New World told her that the old strictures were arbitrary; while something minimally remembered inside her spoke of the joy of violence, the committed focus of combat.

  I’m dizzy with the heat, that’s all.

  That did not explain her being out on the dirt street twenty minutes later, asking a jeep driver for directions to Hut 17 –in fact he drove her there, chewing gum as he whipped the jeep too fast around corners before screeching up outside the long hut – and walking up to the doorway, open because of the heat, then standing quietly to watch the men inside.

  Perhaps she ought to go back. Earlier, the soldier who had seen her to the house had told her to knock on either of her neighbours’ doors, where the wives would make her welcome.

  ‘Ya gotta understand something.’ Inside, the man had a gorilla’s muscularity, running one huge hand across his buzz cut as he explained: ‘Ya poke someone in the chest when he’s just standing relaxed’ – he demonstrated on one of the other men – ‘he’ll say ouch, right? Do the same in the middle of a fight when punches are swingin’, he won’t even know you’ve poked him.’

  There were nods from the men, some twenty or so, all in sweat-stained T-shirts and combat trousers. In the far corner, Payne, now similarly dressed, was limbering up.