by John Meaney
‘Next time someone offers to show you his deadly nerve strike,’ said the instructor, who had to be Sergeant McGregor, ‘see if he can manage it while you’re beating seven bells of shit outta him, all right?’
Then he got the men in pairs to practise ramming the heels of their palms into each other’s chins, with control of sorts, following with knee-strikes to liver or spleen. Along one wall stood battered dummies formed of sandbags and wood; the men took it in turns to break off from partner practice to belt the dummies with full power.
Eyes attuning to the darker, sweltering interior, Gavriela made out the bold-scripted notice framed on one wall:
‘In war you cannot afford the luxury of squeamishness.
Either you kill or capture, or you will be captured or killed.
We’ve got to be tough to win, and we’ve got to be ruthless –
tougher and more ruthless than our enemies.’
—CAPTAIN W. E. FAIRBAIRN
Since her arrival in America, the war had seemed to draw away into some imaginary nightmare reality. Now, in this odd, baking-hot venue, the truth came pressing back to stifle her.
While part of her wanted to join in the combat training, however insane and inappropriate that might be.
‘Right, everyone.’ The sergeant, McGregor, was calling them to order. ‘Injuring your buddy weakens the unit, should we deploy into combat. That’s why we use control.’
Payne walked to the centre of the hut and faced the sergeant, eyes serious, mouth pulled back, not quite in a grin.
‘On the other hand,’ McGregor continued, ‘my old buddy Charles is deployed behind a desk these days, so if I forget myself a little, ain’t no big shakes to the war effort.’
‘Still talking a good fight?’ Charles raised both hands, palms forward. ‘Words are cheap, my friend.’
‘Hoo-ah,’ someone said.
They all stepped back, grinning as they formed a ring.
McGregor and Payne circled, then tore into each other with open-hand blows – not so much slaps as punches with palm-heels – and thrusting knees, then Payne was behind McGregor, locking on a stranglehold. McGregor rolled over, taking Payne with him, twisting free as his shirt tore, but Payne came to his feet and jumped, heels coming down close to McGregor’s head—
‘Bronco, Sarge! Look out!’
—but he shifted and kicked from the ground, creating space to stand up, one hand outstretched as a guard. They closed again and then again, battering each other, hitting and grappling, until one of the soldiers called time. Then McGregor and Payne, sweat-slick and blood-covered, torsos heaving bellows-like, grinned at each other while the others whooped.
McGregor looked at Gavriela and winked.
You saw me watching.
She nodded back, then stepped away from the doorway, down to the dusty road, and headed for her temporary home, one hand on her stomach while her thoughts roiled, no longer understanding her place in the world or why she was here. From behind her sounded the diminishing yells of soldiers as they resumed their practice of hand-to-hand skills that with luck they would never have to use.
The party was pleasant, civilized and surreal. So many of the physicists were dispossessed Europeans that it might have been a celebration of peaceful escape, or even a conference back home before the bad days, with a sprinkling of American visitors in white shirts and broad ties, some of them loosened at the neck. Payne, in his dark suit, was once more the civilized being, with the beginnings of a facial bruise not yet turned obvious. He was talking to a tall man with flashing blue eyes who reminded Gavriela of Alan Turing, though his face and physique were longer, quite different.
A woman in a polka-dot sleeveless dress and white cotton gloves came to stand beside Gavriela. ‘Is that a sarsaparilla you’re drinking, dear?’
‘Yes, that’s all I wanted. I’m Gabby.’
‘And I’m Mary. Nice to meet you. That’s my husband over there.’
She indicated a thick-bodied man with heavy black glasses, unlit pipe in hand as he argued some point with colleagues.
‘I presume,’ added Mary, gesturing towards Payne, ‘that he’s your husband.’
‘Not at all,’ said Gavriela.
‘Oh. Well, look, let me introduce you to the other girls.’ Mary indicated a group of women sitting around a young, joker-faced man, the centre of their attention. ‘If we can distract them from Dick for a second or two, that is.’
In the usual random manner of party sounds, a region of quietness developed around Mary’s husband and the men he was arguing with, allowing words to carry.
‘—properties like angular momentum defining the limit of the liquid-drop model,’ he was saying. ‘So you might want to keep that in mind when you assume nuclear incompressibility.’
A blond man said, ‘You’re saying Bohr and Wheeler give wrong values for the fission barrier?’
‘I’m saying the absolute limit is too high compared to experimental—’
Gavriela walked away from Mary.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the men. ‘I understood that Z-squared over A is the critical ratio only for symmetric spontaneous fission. It’s possible that asymmetric fission occurs for values under 50.’
‘Huh? Thank God,’ said the blond man, ‘that somebody gets the point. Given the probability of barrier penetration, the model predicts a gradual, not sudden introduction of—’
And then they were into it, in a manner which – to a reflective part of Gavriela’s mind – was not dissimilar to McGregor’s fight with Payne, despite the vastly different arena; but this time she was a participant, immersed in the argument as much as any of them. The wives’ frowns and wrinkled noses were a contrast to their husbands’ reaction: the men ignoring everything but the physics. It was after glancing at the women again that Gavriela noticed the man across the room, and then her concentration derailed.
No. Not here.
A thin man with brilliantine-slicked hair was talking as part of a group, not standing out from the others … except to one who could see the curls and twists of darkness surrounding him.
Then Payne was in front of her, blocking her view.
‘I’ve got someone you ought to meet,’ he told her. ‘If that’s all right.’
The others were already engaged in a new topic.
‘Of course.’
Dampness had sprung out over her face, and she dabbed at it as she left with Payne. Outside it was still darkening, less hot than before, but still too much for her. There was no conversation as Payne led her to one of the working huts, its interior lit; and they went inside to a plain office where a blue-eyed man was waiting.
‘Dr Oppenheimer,’ said Gavriela. ‘It’s good to meet you.’
‘Likewise, Dr Wolf.’ Oppenheimer smiled. ‘But I’ll call you Dr Woods or Gabby in public, I promise.’
‘They seem to think it’s best,’ she said.
‘Understood. Niels Bohr was Nicholas Baker while he was here.’ Oppenheimer seemed not to notice Payne’s frowning. ‘You know, he worked out that slow neutrons are the key to successful fission while he was sailing here from Europe.’
Gavriela had spent most of her voyage being sick, or perhaps that was an exaggerated memory.
‘So.’ Oppenheimer fiddled with his tie-clip, then stopped and focused his startling eyes on her. ‘We saw you flinch when you caught sight of Laszlo. It was a clear observation.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Payne. ‘I don’t think he noticed you.’
The solid wooden furniture seemed to swirl.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘A rather direct confirmation’ – Oppenheimer sucked in a little air – ‘that this darkness phenomenon exists.’
‘I don’t—’
‘In the sense that I’ve never seen an atom directly, but everything from Brownian motion to X-ray crystallography tells me they’re unequivocally real. Not to mention the likelihood that we’ll be able to make a chain reaction soon.’<
br />
Payne was smiling a little.
‘Is this why Rupert sent me here?’ Gavriela said.
‘I don’t know any Rupert,’ said Payne, ‘and I sure as heck wouldn’t christen any son of mine with a name like that, but yeah, that’s why you’re here.’
Oppenheimer unfolded his narrow body and walked across the room, then back.
‘Actually, your other purpose is real enough.’ He glanced at Payne. ‘We’re happy to share our progress with you, though I’m rather sorry you have to go back to England. I think you’d be a fine addition to the project.’
It occurred to Gavriela that Turing, with his ferocious mind and his interest in fundamental physics, would be a boon to the work here; but she dared not suggest it, because he was needed where he was.
‘Ever the recruiter, eh?’ said Payne.
Oppenheimer grinned, and for the first time Gavriela realized what an egalitarian set-up he had managed to create at the heart of a wartime military establishment, even more so than Bletchley Park. But that was distracting her from the situation.
‘You knew something about this Laszlo already,’ she said.
‘We had a suspicion—’ Payne began.
‘There are others with your perceptual abilities, if not as acute.’ Oppenheimer’s eyes twinkled. ‘Perhaps even a mystic-minded introspective Dane had something to contribute on the matter.’
Payne was shaking his head.
‘Security, Robert. Security.’
‘And open exchanges of ideas, or we’ll never get this project off the ground. Rather a nice paradox, don’t you think?’
Gavriela tried to wipe more sweat from her face, using a handkerchief already moist from earlier attempts.
‘And this Laszlo?’
‘We believe’ – Payne focused on her – ‘he has a signals pipeline reaching all the way back to the Kaiser William Institute in Berlin.’
‘Kaiser Wilhelm,’ corrected Oppenheimer, with good Teutonic pronunciation.
Now they were in Gavriela’s other, newer field of expertise: signals intelligence.
‘You could turn him,’ she said, ‘and force him to send disinformation. But if he’s like the others, he has psychological skills, including a form of hypnosis, that will make him impossible to control.’
When Payne’s jaw muscles tightened, he looked as he had when fighting.
‘Then we’ll use the other option,’ he said.
Oppenheimer rubbed his face and shook his head.
‘This war is awful.’
And that was a paradoxical sentiment, coming from the man determined to bring a new and devastating power into the world.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MOLSIN, 2603 AD
Roger woke up, used the facilities in the alcove that melted open, then flowed shut when he was finished. He worked out with bodyweight exercises and, using his newfound implant-aided expertise, immersed himself inside the quickglass floor that flowed to form a swift current, while he swam hard to remain in place relative to the rest of the room.
For a baby city, D-2 was surpassing his expectations.
Afterwards, fragrant with pine-scent smartgel, he pulled on his self-cleansed clothes and used his tu-ring to place a covert call to Tannier. The reply was: Gimme time to take a piss.
Taking it as camaraderie more than insult, Roger grinned. After some four minutes – according to his time sense – the wall pulled apart: an opening to Tannier’s room.
‘We’re not under surveillance in here,’ said Tannier, stepping inside. ‘So you can relax your paranoia. Except you’d be happier with SatScan everywhere, I expect. And how come you look so energetic?’
‘I kept away from the goldenmead, and I worked out already. Is breakfast going to be another public show?’
‘It better bloody not be. What’s on your mind, Roger?’
Maybe this was when he found out who to trust.
‘Deltaville is dealing with Zajinets.’
Tannier blinked at him, stared hard-faced for several moments, then said: ‘That bloody dessert. I knew there was something odd about it, but I couldn’t work it out. Has to be flown in fresh from offworld, right?’
‘So you didn’t know about them breaking the embargo. Quarantine. Whatever.’
‘That only applies to Pilots, surely,’ said Tannier. ‘It’s not as if it’s our idea. But point taken. And before you ask, it’s quite possible that the authorities on Barbour as well as Deltaville know about it. No one told me, that’s all.’
If Barbour knew, maybe they were in collusion, dealing with Zajinets themselves.
‘Do they want another Fulgor Catastrophe?’ said Roger.
‘Maybe their analysis of the situation is different from yours.’
‘Yes, and maybe I’m wrong, but why would you risk it? Even if the probability of enabling another Fulgor Catastrophe is low, the consequences are so high you need to mitigate against it any way you can.’
It was as if Dad’s words were flowing through Roger’s mouth: how to calculate risk factors regardless of context.
‘I’m convinced,’ said Tannier. ‘But I’m not speaking for the powers that be.’
‘You’re the closest thing there is to it round here. Unless I go talk to Friss when she appears. She’s the Lady Mayor, so that has to give her some sort of power in law-enforcement circles.’
Tannier stared at him.
‘Let’s have breakfast,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Empty stomachs, low blood glucose, after exercise in your case. Bad conditions for making important decisions.’
Something else Dad used to say: sometimes doing it fast is better than doing it right; but usually it works the other way round.
‘Plus I’m just a simple copper,’ added Tannier. ‘I need time to get going in the mornings. Monosyllables only till I have some daistral.’
But, ‘I’m not sure there any decisions to be made,’ said Roger. ‘I’ve just got to confront Friss and try to persuade her that she’s wrong.’
‘Maybe.’
‘What do you mean? That’s all we can do.’
‘Tell the chief local government official that she’s wrong? That’s one way. Or we could just find these Zajinets ourselves if they’re still here, then wait and see what happens.’
It took a few seconds.
‘You mean, use them like bait just as you’re using me?’
‘That’s a cynical way of putting it.’ Tannier grinned. ‘You’re getting the hang of things.’
As they walked along a curving corridor that looked like the interior of an artery – much of D-2 retained this unformed, anatomical appearance – Tannier zipblipped a report to superiors in Barbour whom he trusted. Whatever scanware he possessed agreed with Roger’s assessment, that they remained free from surveillance as they explored the newborn sky-city.
‘To the limited extent that we monitor other cities’ traffic’ – Tannier checked a virtual his-eyes-only holo – ‘there’s no sign of a Zajinet vessel in the region. If they’d been docked at Deltaville, they’d have had to disappear before Barbour hauled alongside.’
‘You mean they’re long gone,’ said Roger.
‘Probably. Pilots tend to spend longer, even when they’ve not been stranded here because their mates have abandoned them—’
‘Cheers for that.’
‘—but we know, because of the dessert, that it’s not that long since the Zajinets arrived.’
Roger stopped walking. The quickglass surroundings glistened here, already odd; but everything was beginning to distort, even Tannier: colours and depths ran together like some animated surrealist painting.
I’ve been poisoned.
Fear was a tidal wash of noradrenaline, flooding him.
—Breathe.
Everything was dim. Tannier’s mouth moved but his voice seemed lost beyond an insulated barrier.
Can’t see right.
When he swung his head, part of him felt a weight th
at was not there, while part of him sensed loss, a disquieting lightness. Worse, his field of view was not wide enough: his world was disappearing at the edges.
—Calm. Breathe. Explore.
He blew out carbon dioxide, and sucked in …
What’s this?
… a richness of textured sensation, redolent with time and distance as he tasted perspective and drank duration, the old world forgotten as this new, resonant reality replaced it.
—That’s right.
Everything was remade: the world, his existence, the comfortable smell of his friend Tannier …
—Continue.
… and there, distant and deliberately hidden, the twisting tang of strangeness, electric and not unpleasant. He pulled it into him, that sense of the trail, and then he began to walk, eyelids narrowing to horizontal slits while air currents defined obstacles and the full geometry of his surroundings. Tannier smelled puzzled, keeping close as Roger drank in the increasing fragrance, finally to stop before a great bulkhead in some unfinished hall.
—Yes, so strong here.
Then he shuddered and dropped to one knee.
‘… all right?’ Tannier’s voice growing louder as if approaching fast, though he was right alongside, holding Roger’s arm. ‘Talk to me, Pilot.’
‘Ugh.’
So strange, the way it disappeared like mist, like a spore caught in the wind.
What’s happening?
And such a sense of loss as the richness disappeared.
—You did well, my friend.
Reality was re-established, shivering into place.
‘I’m OK.’ Roger pushed with his legs, straightening up, centring himself. ‘There.’
The bulkhead formed a static bulge, dense and unmoving.
‘Say what?’
Roger put a fingertip against the solid quickglass.
‘The Zajinets are hiding in there.’
Roger’s tu-ring, with the espionageware inherited from Dad, had capabilities he remained a long way from knowing fully. Breaking the architectural authorization codes should not be that hard, however. And it was only the security features that prevented him from commanding the bulkhead to open up: once he had access, he could command the procedure using his implant, just as any Molsin native might.
