Transmission: Ragnarok: Book Two

by John Meaney

  Those eyes that saw so deeply were twinkling as he added: ‘We’re discussing the existence or otherwise of time.’

  ‘In the context of entropy?’ she asked.

  Gödel’s answer was in precise, logical German.

  ‘A lifeline is a fixed geodesic in a four-dimensional continuum.’

  And every moment exists for ever, outside time-flow. She understood the concept, and why it appealed to anyone considering their own mortality.

  ‘There are six million murdered Jews,’ she said, not knowing where that number came from, ‘that you can’t have a conversation with now.’ She tried to soften her tone, but if anything her throat tightened even more: ‘I beg your pardon. I feel so stuck in the past at times.’

  Either Gödel forgave her or he had no idea how to respond to such emotionalism, for the three of them began to walk, continuing the journey to Einstein’s office, while the two men brought her up to date on their discussion.

  ‘Kurt distinguishes coordinate time from what he calls Kantian or pre-relativistic time, and his cosmological model allows closed time-like curves.’

  Gavriela did not think relativity had supplanted thermodynamics in any way, therefore hardly invalidating its implied arrow of time; but she said nothing as Gödel responded:

  ‘If you can return to the past then the moment has not truly passed. That is my point.’

  ‘Or send back information?’

  ‘Absolutely equivalent in the causative sense. Of course …’

  The discussion grew ever more rarefied as they walked on to Fine Hall. After Gödel left to work by himself, Einstein led Gavriela into his office.

  ‘Kurt is trying to prove that God exists,’ he said. ‘By rigorous logic, I mean. Perhaps I am glad not to be a mathematician.’

  ‘You can see the darkness.’ When it came down to it, Gavriela had no idea what lay behind her visit to the States. ‘What is it, do you think? What does it want?’

  The blackboard no longer showed the equation featuring the Λ constant that had caused him to pluck those disquieting notes on his violin.

  ‘I see it less well than you, I think, dear Gavi. And as for what “it” wants … ascribing goals to natural phenomena sits no better with me than trying to prove that if God is possible then He must exist in all realities.’

  ‘The key word there is “if”, isn’t it? Anyway, the darkness is an observed phenomenon.’

  ‘And acting in human affairs, or at least appearing to.’ His eyes glowed with their own deep lustre. ‘Does a phenomenon affecting human minds necessarily have a mind of its own?’

  Gavriela was blinking, off-balanced.

  ‘Military men,’ he added, ‘need a definite target to aim at, or so I believe. I think our counter-conspiracy, if we even have one, will die out in the absence of clarity.’

  After a prisoner in the basement of SOE Headquarters broke out using abilities that seemed almost mystical … perhaps Einstein was right. Whatever the SOE files said, the language would not reflect the reality. Unless people like Rupert back home, Oppenheimer in New Mexico and the great man here continued to talk about it and organize – what? resistance? – even the recognition that the darkness existed would eventually be forgotten.

  Or perhaps that was a problem for future generations, while everyone currently alive needed to concentrate on the actual world around them.

  Back home.

  A part of her realized that she had been thinking of England as home.

  ‘… may be a post available somewhere,’ Einstein was saying. ‘My word carries a little weight, you see, and I take advantage because it is necessary.’

  She backtracked through his words.

  ‘I have to sail back,’ she said. ‘I don’t know … I just have to.’

  Now the dark eyes shone with sadness.

  ‘I spent four good weeks there in Southampton, before I left for the United States. But I think … I think I will never leave the New World, now I am here.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve gained more than you’ve lost.’

  It was strange to be speaking to her idol in this way.

  ‘I hope so, Gavi. I hope so.’

  Sickness defined her voyage home. Six ships in the convoy sank, broken apart by U-Boat torpedoes; survivors, plucked from row-boats, were looked after in the infirmary and its makeshift extensions: a ward room, a group of cabins, and another room whose original purpose Gavriela never discovered. She knew little of medicine, but helped where she could, even when that consisted only of throwing blood-soaked bandages into the wide, crashing sea, or emptying bedpans that carried the stink of infection as well as waste.

  Docking was both anti-climactic and a life-changing relief.

  Walking to her lodgings from Bletchley station felt surreal. But there, strolling ahead of her, was a familiar female figure, headscarf failing to hide the volume of her hair-perm.

  ‘Rosie!’

  ‘What? Gabby!’

  They hugged.

  ‘I thought you weren’t due yet,’ Rosie added.

  For a moment, Gavriela misunderstood, and put a hand on her belly.

  ‘Oh. Er … The convoy made good time. Saved a whole day.’

  Partly from weather, partly because the slowest ships perished.

  ‘Well, come in and have a cuppa, won’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t had a decent cup of tea in forever.’

  ‘So come on, then.’

  Rosie’s landlady, Mrs Lockwood, bustled around them making tea, then left them alone to catch up. They sat at the kitchen table, happy to see each other.

  ‘Oh, nearly forgot. If my head wasn’t attached …’ Rosie searched in her handbag, then came up with an envelope. ‘Special delivery. Hand delivered, don’t you know.’

  Gavriela took the envelope.

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘A certain gentleman called Brian, that’s all I’m saying.’ Rosie was smiling as she took a sip of tea, cup held in both hands. ‘I got the impression that my best friend Gabby hasn’t been keeping me up to date on gossip.’

  ‘We didn’t– It was very …’

  It seemed even a pregnant woman could blush like a schoolgirl.

  ‘Well, I thought so. Seemed obvious enough from the way he shuffled his feet, even before I knew what was in the envelope.’

  ‘What do you mean? Oh.’ From the feel of it, it was obvious. ‘It’s a key.’

  ‘A front door key, no less.’

  Rosie was giggling now.

  Gavriela said, ‘And I suppose you know which door it fits?’

  ‘Your boyfriend’s gone and bought himself a cottage, hasn’t he? Thatched roof and rose bushes, you should see it. Well, I guess you will, won’t you?’

  ‘A cottage.’

  ‘Penworthy Lane, absolutely lovely.’

  ‘Well.’

  Gavriela sat back in her chair, feeling queasy. Then she realized Rosie was staring down at her belly.

  ‘Er …’

  Someone less thin would not have been showing, not this early.

  ‘A cottage.’ Gavriela put her hands on the nascent convex bump. ‘A nice place?’

  ‘Oh, my God, yes. It’s … Does he know?’

  Rosie was smart, doing the sums in her head.

  ‘I only worked it out,’ said Gavriela, ‘when I was at sea. On the way over.’

  Blinking tear-damp eyes, Rosie leaned over and hugged her.

  ‘Oh, well done.’ Then she held up the envelope that Gavriela had put down. ‘With a bit of luck, he might be home already.’

  Gavriela could only nod.

  It’s so fast.

  She tore open the envelope. A label, tied to the key with rough twine, showed the address. There was no note.

  Sniffing, Rosie wished her luck.

  Everything consisted of minutiae: the rippled grain of greyish wood that formed the gatepost, the clink as she raised the latch, the smooth swing of the gate; the pat-pat of her shoes on concrete, the smel
l of roses and damp grass, and the gleam of new paint on the door; the shaking of her hand and the clean metallic sound as the key went in, and she twisted.

  Stepped inside, silent and awestruck.

  Oh, it’s wonderful.

  Low ceiling with exposed beams, old uneven flagstones forming the floor. She could see through to the kitchen, where Brian sat in his dressing-gown, bare legs revealed, holding a cup of tea in both hands as he—

  Both hands?

  The lean face was not Brian’s, and for a moment she thought she must be in the wrong place – but the key, the key fitted – and then footsteps clumped as another figure emerged from what looked like the bedroom. He wore striped pyjama trousers and a white singlet that revealed the stump of his left arm, which looked natural to her.

  ‘Rupe?’ said Brian. ‘I can’t find—’

  When Rupert looked up, he saw her; and then they were both staring.

  I’m a day early.

  It felt like her fault, but only for a second.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  A milky stain on Brian’s trousers, probably unnoticed by him, confirmed what every sense, including smell, was already telling her.

  ‘We …’ Brian stopped, then: ‘We can’t help what we are, Gabby.’

  ‘No.’ She looked at Rupert, who had grown very pale. ‘And you couldn’t help sending me across the Atlantic and out of the way, could you?’

  Because Rupert had realized, that day in Baker Street, what had happened the night before between her and Brian. She wondered if they had talked about her since, and what they had said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rupert. ‘But Brian’s right, we can’t help—’

  ‘You think it would’ve been all right if I found a woman here?’

  Her voice was a roar, causing Brian to step back. But his hand was pointing, trembling.

  ‘Is that …? Are you …?’

  ‘I am. It is.’ Suddenly she was grim, her rage pulled deep inside like the furnace at the heart of a destroyer. ‘Yours, yes.’

  Both men grew even paler.

  ‘Which is why, when I return to work at BP tomorrow, you’ll use all your influence to stop the whispering. Plus I’ll continue to draw salary while I’m having it’ – she patted herself – ‘and you can make a contribution towards the nanny when I go back to work afterwards.’

  Rupert said, ‘That’s impossible. In your condition … and afterwards, unmarried … out of the question. Unless …’

  He looked at Brian.

  ‘Don’t ask him,’ said Gavriela. ‘Ask me. And no, I’m not marrying him or anyone else, so you can forget that.’

  It was very clear now.

  ‘Look.’ Rupert changed his tone. ‘Even if you were married, you know that having a job would be out of the question. In these circumstances, it’s quite impossible to—’

  ‘What’s impossible,’ said Gavriela, ‘is for you two to stay out of prison if I tell what I know. And don’t tell me there won’t be other evidence all over the place if the police start looking.’

  Of course, there was the possibility of violence, the two of them against her, which she had not considered. But they had seen her in action in Baker Street, hadn’t they?

  ‘Very well,’ said Rupert. ‘We agree.’

  Speaking for Brian as if they were a couple.

  Well they are, aren’t they?

  For a moment she wondered if she were being unfair. But she had an unborn child to think about, and they had betrayed her, both of them in different ways.

  ‘And I won’t be needing this.’

  She put the front-door key down on a small table, beside a single rose in a vase. The petals were edged with brown, and curling.

  ‘See you at work.’

  The front door clicked behind her as she left.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  LUNA, 502308 AD

  Usually, when Gavriela awoke in the distant future – which became her dreamlike now – she felt clear and solid, without any of the contradictions or confusions that defined her earlier life. This time, as she sat up on the bier, she felt conflicted. Then, when her transparent hand cupped her abdomen, she had a sense of emptiness and disturbance.

  —Are you well, dear Gavi?

  Roger, her dependable Roger, was standing in the archway. From the points of light glowing overhead, strange reflections glinted in his living crystalline form, his existence here as much a mystery as her own.

  —I’m glad to see you.

  But things were different, and he must have sensed that. He walked close, and went down on one knee. Here, in this strange airless place, it seemed a very ordinary gesture.

  —What is it?

  —I’m … I was pregnant. Back in my old life.

  Save for these dreamed interludes – some lasting for subjective days, weeks, even months – their lives were centuries apart, her death (whenever that might be exactly – whenever it had been) preceding his birth by six centuries.

  Roger was staring at her.

  —You’re the woman of my dreams. You know that.

  —Ha.

  A child. Would she have – had she had – further children? If so, they were dust, and so were generations of descendants, if any. She did not know, truly, whether homo sapiens sapiens survived; nor could she try to find out, because Kenna had impressed upon them all the dangers of paradox.

  Then Kenna’s words were in their heads.

  —Life continues, or there would be no reason to fight for it.

  Roger smiled a crystalline smile.

  —I guess that’s a summons.

  —It is. Bring swords, unsheathed.

  That was unusual, but there was always a reason for Kenna’s commands. Roger slipped two swords from their wall-mounted scabbards, then held one by the cross-guard, blade down, and offered it to Gavriela. She took it left-handed: it happened to be the nearer hand.

  Again Kenna’s words came to them.

  —Ulfr is about to awaken. Escort him, will you?

  The overtones were serious, precluding questions. Gavriela led the way; in seconds, she was standing at one side of Ulfr’s bier, Roger at the other. A slight twitch started in Ulfr’s crystalline body, then another. Then his eyes opened and he sat up with legs straight, looking from Roger to Gavriela.

  —You’re guarding me?

  —We don’t know what’s happening.

  —So we ask Kenna for explanations, as we always do. And shut up if she tells us to.

  Gavriela had resonated, in the distant past, with Ulfr’s fierce berserker energy. Here, if he chose to unleash it, she thought Roger and herself might last two seconds, with luck.

  She touched Ulfr’s shoulder with her right hand.

  —We are not enemies, brother.

  Ulfr swung towards her and came to standing.

  —To the main hall, then.

  There, the conference table was missing, while their ornate chairs stood in a row, raised high. Kenna, in the centre, was seated highest, her hands upon the chair-arms, her attention fully upon Ulfr. But what startled Gavriela was the crystalline figure sitting next to Kenna: huge, broad-shouldered, with spreading transparent antlers. Other differences included double-thumbed hands and – though it was hard to tell with bodies of living crystal – what might have been horizontally slitted eyes.

  —This is Sharp.

  Kenna addressed them while focused on Ulfr. She continued:

  —He is one of us, my sister and brothers, as you can see.

  Ulfr’s chest expanded as if inhaling, though they were in vacuum.

  —His smell is not new, yet we meet for the first time.

  Kenna’s tone was calm and not defensive.

  —Our bonding and communication had to evolve differently. Yet we all reach the same place.

  Ulfr shrugged his shoulders as if readying to fight.

  —So we have demons on our council now?

  —Sharp is no demon.

  Then Sharp broadcast his
first words, and they were redolent with awareness and courage. Gavriela felt her spine straightening.

  —I fight alongside you, my human brother, against demonkind.

  Kenna stood up.

  —Sharp has proven himself in sacrifice, brave Ulfr, brave Wolf. He will not turn against us.

  Ulfr’s lips pulled back, and his teeth were like fangs of ice, of diamond.

  —And you think I will?

  Kenna raised her arms.

  —I did not say that. Some things require testing, that is all.

  Tiny scarlet dots flickered across Ulfr’s transparent skin.

  —What is this?

  Sharp, too, stood up, taller even than Kenna. He tilted his head back, chest expanding, much as Ulfr’s had earlier.

  —He is not tainted.

  Ulfr took a step forward. Gavriela shifted, not sure what she should do.

  —What?

  —Troubled, but yet untainted.

  Then Ulfr whirled, and two swords were in his hands. Gavriela’s left hand was holding nothing. Roger, off-balanced but only in Lunar gravity, had plenty of time to take a half step and not fall. Ulfr looked at them all, snarling, then threw the swords aside. They tumbled end over end before striking the floor without sound, bouncing before settling.

  —No. Damn you, Kenna. Damn you to Niflheim.

  His crystalline body underwent slow collapse, joint by joint and limb by limb, slumping to a mound upon the flagstones. Roger looked up at Kenna.

  —You did that?

  — No, he severed his own connection.

  —Severed …?

  Gavriela tried to read Kenna’s face. Had she made her first mistake as leader? Emotion swirled inside those eyes, but when Kenna replied her words were definite and sure.

  —You’re not slaves or conscripts. If this is a dream, it is one that does not trap you.

  Roger’s answer was a surprise.

  —Good Sharp, you have helped me in my distant past, so thank you. But Ulfr, too, has saved both me and Gavi. I’m talking about resonance, and the way it …

  Kenna interrupted.

  —We understand. But in the Council, to be anything other than single-minded is to be a tool of the enemy. I cannot expect you to understand that at this time.