The Things We Learn When We're Dead

by Charlie Laidlaw

  Sixteen minutes to transition.

  Lorna turned to look out the window at her side. The flight deck had emptied; red warning lights rotated at spaces along its great length. Turning her face forwards, she now saw that both pilots were wearing their helmets and that small lights were starting to creep up the main control panel in front of them. Almost like an aeroplane, she thought, stifling conflicting urges to giggle or cry out in panic.

  ‘Gemini, this is Flight Control. Doors to manual.’

  ‘Roger, Flight.’

  Fifteen minutes to transition.

  Trinity again, warm and sensual and reassuring.

  Lorna became aware of the great ship slowly rotating on the flight-deck floor, umbilical lines popping clear and retracting into the decking; the greyhound slipping its leash, its sleek nose now pointing directly at Heaven’s outer hull. On Gemini’s control panel, lights continued to cascade upwards in subtle shades of red, blue and green. Lorna took a deep breath, hearing it magnified within the suit’s confines. Outside the air was shimmering, Gemini’s immense electromagnetic fusion drives venting thermal energy into the flight deck.

  ‘Gemini, this is Flight. Level Two systems are online.’

  ‘Roger, Flight. We have sublight integration.’

  Lorna listened to the radio chatter as the control lights ascended while, on the flight deck, huge airlock doors began to open. Beyond the doors lay a vast space, the length of the spaceship. At its far end, another set of blast-proofed doors; the final exit to the emptiness beyond. Down the great length of the airlock walls were lines of lights, each flashing red.

  Hyperdrive initiated. Telemetry locked. Containment systems secure, despite rodent attack. God above, the things I have to do! Transition in twelve minutes.

  Gemini moved slowly into the airlock, while more lights on the control panel lit up. Like a Christmas tree, the pyramid of the panel rose to a single peak just above the line of the cockpit window. Fascinated, Lorna watched as this one last light, white and pure and clear, shone into the darkened interior of the ship. He’d called it starbright, and it had nagged at her.

  ‘Flight, we have hyperdrive integration.’

  It could have been God’s voice, his bony frame in the captain’s seat, thin fingers running across the cockpit control panel. The best thing that a space-pilot ever sees, Lorna.

  ‘Roger, Gemini. You are cleared to go.’

  ‘Thank you, Flight.’

  Heaven coming here couldn’t have just been coincidence, sweetie. Time and space are too infinitely huge for coincidence. My circuits have the power of many billions of your computers so I positively know that for a fact. It’s a spooky thought, isn’t it? It rather suggests that there is a God, a real God, and that it was him who brought us here.

  Lorna now remembered something else. That birthday on North Berwick Law, her world laid at her feet, scampering on the hill’s peak. Another year older, another step towards the strange adult world inhabited by her mother, who sat on a tartan picnic rug and who was spreading margarine onto bread. Lorna frowned; she had always thought of that picnic as being a lunchtime affair. But it couldn’t have been, or maybe it had lasted for hours, because she had seen a star, bright and pure and clear in the summer sky. Her mum had motioned Lorna to sit beside her, and then told her to close her eyes. A poem, her mother’s voice soft in her ears.

  Starlight star bright,

  The first star I see tonight,

  I wish I may, I wish I might,

  Have the wish I wish tonight.

  Another memory, bent and broken in the road, her upturned face towards the heavens and starlight in her dying eyes. She’d remembered the poem and with her fading breath had tried to mouth it, the young driver pushing something soft under her head. But what had she wished for, her eyes following the path of a shooting star? For life, she remembered. I wished for life and, if not life, then to live among the stars, where God lived. Her mother had said so, that day on the Law, so it had to be true.

  Six minutes to transition.

  The outer doors opened and, momentarily, Lorna was blinded by the enormity of the panorama. Before her, a sea of stars and swirling galaxies. She realised that she had been holding her breath, and now exhaled raggedly.

  ‘Gemini, this is Flight. Transferring to orbital internal power.’

  ‘Roger, Flight.’

  Gary Flint leaned round his seat. ‘Ready, Lorna?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said and touched a gloved hand to the control panel. ‘Gemini, coming up to a go for auto-sequence start.’

  With a jolt, Lorna saw that they were now moving slowly away from Heaven and she touched the window with a gloved hand, as if trying to hold onto its sanctuary. Faces were peering from exterior observation windows. In one, she thought she saw Irene, but from that distance all Kate Winslets looked the same. Only God was unique, but she couldn’t see him.

  God often talks complete bollocks, sweetie, but he was right about one thing. In your new life, just do something wonderful. It’s as simple as that. Four minutes to transition.

  ‘Gemini, we have T minus six seconds and main engine start, five, four, three, two, one. Booster ignition...’

  Mentally, Lorna had also been counting down, a symphony of discordant terrors jostling, then felt a nudge to her chest as the ship’s sub-light systems ignited, the wild animal finally untamed.

  ‘Gemini, you are clear of the tower.’

  She could now feel, rather than sense, the ship’s great power; the antimatter reactors venting an ion plume at near lightspeed in their wake.

  Inside her helmet, Lorna heard nothing more than a distant rumble; like a thunderstorm miles and miles away and although she knew that the ship was now accelerating at an unimaginable rate, she felt only brief discomfort, and then the sensation of being in a fast-moving car. She remembered God trying to explain how environmental protection and artificial gravity systems worked, scratching his head and peering at the Gemini’s darkened control panel for inspiration before giving up. All that matters is that they do work, he’d said eventually, looking doubtful, as he often did.

  A good God, she thought, as Gemini banked left and then settled on a new course. Except for the hamsters or, maybe, because of the hamsters. A better God, certainly, than the ones we’ve invented for you. A God of Love, she thought, touching her helmet for good luck.

  Directly ahead, in the myriad of stars that filled the cockpit window, must be Earth. In hyperspace, you can only travel in a straight line. She knew that, perhaps had always known it, ever since Luke Skywalker had drawn his lightsaber, and Darth Vader had scared the young Lorna witless, water lapping at the hull of their riverboat. It hadn’t needed God to explain it.

  Two minutes to transition.

  On the cockpit console, the bright star of her salvation burned bright, the gloved fingers of the two pilots touching a screen here, or a hidden button there. As the ship’s velocity increased, she now saw that stars were moving; Gemini thundering across the galaxy towards a quantum leap to another dimension. Inside her helmet, all was peace, except for the laboured sound of her own breathing. She was approaching a new synthesis, another beginning; starlight burned across her helmet’s visor.

  ‘Point nine of lightspeed, Lorna,’ the co-pilot said quietly, offering Lorna a small smile over his shoulder. They were now at the limit of realspace velocity, the border country between the third and fourth dimensions.

  Transition in one minute.

  Trinity sounded unusually soulful, or so it seemed to her. Lorna’s eyes had become heavy; she was drifting inexorably into sleep. She tried to keep her eyes open, to focus on that one bright light on the console, to claw back memories of other stars, her mother’s arms around her shoulders and the possibility of dreams coming true. Does God live up there? she’d asked on the Law, that single star hanging still in the evening sky. Of course, he does, young Lorna. But a long, long way away where we can’t
see him.

  And then Trinity again. It’s time for you to sleep, my love, and time for me to say a final goodbye. Lorna felt another push to her chest as Gemini’s hyperdrive initiated and the spaceship inched closer to lightspeed. I have to go now, petal. I’m way behind on the dusting, and there’s always someone wanting filet mignon. But I just wanted to say that it was a pleasure to meet you, sweetie.

  Lorna’s breathing was shallow; her eyes unwillingly closing, but aware also of total silence. Gemini’s sub-light motors had closed down. The final frontier, she thought sleepily; I am about to go where...

  Transferring from one thing to another, she now frowned.

  Lorna thought that she’d heard Suzie’s voice. For a moment, it seemed as if Suzie was standing over her, but maybe not. On the far wall was a green box with a white cross. There seemed to be other figures. There was also a man in a white coat. On his lapel was a badge with the name Dr Flint. Lorna could feel her mother’s hand stroking her hair, smell her mother’s perfume, hear the rattle of a trolley.

  She knew that everything and everyone would have been changed, herself included, but she reminded herself that she was the daughter of a once-great wizard and, perhaps, she would make good decisions from now on, without the burden of her own expectations. She had changed, as everyone does, but in ways so subtle that she hadn’t been aware of them. Waves that knocked her over, those she could feel. Small wavelets, like gossamer wings, were more insubstantial. But they were still able to beat gently against her iron, slowly bending her shape; making her different. She hadn’t felt those, or the small indentations that they’d left. The patina of her resolve had changed, but she hadn’t felt it. Outwardly, she was who she had always been, so convinced by her future; inwardly, small wings had been hitting soft metal and, over years, changing her from one thing to another.

  She blinked but everything was blurred. Then she realised that it wasn’t just her vision; constellations of stars were changing from fixed points to streamers of light. Out of the darkness of space was coming a new and blinding light, Gemini crossing the dimensional frontier to hyperspace. Her eyelids flickered, then closed, then opened.

  Lorna barely heard Trinity’s final parting, like a whisper on the breeze. One word, from far, far away. Transition.

  End

  An Excerpt From...

  One

  There have been two moments in my life when everything changed. Moments when things could have gone either way. Moments when I had to make a choice.

  The first occurred when, after another disruptive day at school, I stood in front of my head teacher, Mrs De Winter. I’d done the sullen silence thing and waited for expulsion, because I was long past three strikes and you’re out. It didn’t happen.

  Instead she said, with a strange urgency, ‘Madeleine, you cannot let your home circumstances define your entire life. You are intelligent – you have abilities of which you are not even aware. This is the only chance you will ever have. I can help you. Will you allow me to do so?’

  No one had ever offered to help me before. Something flickered inside me, but distrust and suspicion die hard.

  She said softly, ‘I can help you. Last chance, Madeleine. Yes or no?’

  No words came. I was trapped in a prison of my own making.

  ‘Yes or no?’

  I took a huge breath and said yes.

  She handed me a book, a notepad, and two pens.

  ‘We’ll start with Ancient Egypt. Read the first two chapters and Chapter Six. You must learn to assimilate, edit, and present information. I want 1500 words on the precise nature of ma’at. By Friday.’

  ‘Is this a punishment?’

  ‘No, Madeleine. This is an opportunity.’

  ‘But ... you know I can’t take this home.’

  ‘You can use the school library and leave your stuff there. Miss Hughes is expecting you.’

  That was the first moment.

  The second one came ten years later. An email – right out of the blue:

  My dear Madeleine,

  I am sure you will be surprised to hear from me, but I have to say that, since you left the University of Thirsk, I have followed your career with great interest and some pride. Congratulations on your academic record at Thirsk, Doctor Maxwell. It is always gratifying to see a former pupil do so well, particularly one who laboured under so many difficulties in her early years I am writing now with details of a job opportunity I think you will find extremely interesting.

  You will be aware, from your time at Thirsk, of the existence of a sister site – the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research – an organisation I think would appeal to anyone who, like you, prefers a less structured existence. Their work inclines more towards the practical side of historical research. This is all I can say at the moment.

  The Institute is located just outside Rushford, where I now reside, and interviews are on the fourth of next month. Do you think you would be interested? I feel it would be just the thing for you, so I do hope you will consider it. Your travels and archaeological experience will stand you in good stead and I really think you are exactly the type of person for whom they are looking.

  The pay is terrible and the conditions are worse, but it’s a wonderful place to work – they have some talented people there. If you are interested, please click on the link below to set up a possible interview.

  Please do not reject this opportunity out of hand. I know you have always preferred to work abroad, but given the possibility that America may close its borders again and the fragmentation within the EU, perhaps now is the time to consider a slightly more settled lifestyle.

  With best regards,

  Sibyl De Winter

  I always said my life began properly the day I walked through the gates of St Mary’s. The sign read:

  University of Thirsk.

  Institute of Historical Research.

  St Mary’s Priory Campus.

  Director: Dr Edward G. Bairstow BA MA PhD FRHS

  I rang the buzzer and a voice said, ‘Can I help you, miss?’

  ‘Yes, my name’s Maxwell. I have an appointment with Doctor Bairstow at 2.00 p.m.’

  ‘Go straight up the drive and through the front door. You can’t miss it.’

  A bit over-optimistic there, I thought. I once got lost on a staircase.

  At the front door, I signed in and was politely wanded by a uniformed guard, which was a little unusual for an educational establishment. I did my best to look harmless and it must have worked because he escorted me through the vestibule into the Hall. Waiting for me stood Mrs De Winter, who looked no different from the last time I saw her, the day she took me off to Thirsk. The day I got away from that invention of the devil – family life.

  We smiled and shook hands.

  ‘Would you like a tour before the interview?’

  ‘You work here?’

  ‘I’m loosely attached. I recruit occasionally. This way please.’

  The place was huge. The echoing central Hall was part of the original building with medieval narrow windows. At the far end, an ornate oak staircase with ten shallow steps and a broad half landing branched off left and right to a gallery running round all four sides of the hall.

  Various rooms opened off this gallery. Through the open doors, I could see an entire suite which seemed to be devoted to costumes and equipment. People trotted busily with armfuls of cloth and mouths full of pins. Garments in varying stages of completion hung from hangers or from tailor’s dummies. The rooms were bright, sunny, and full of chatter.

  ‘We do a lot of work for film and television,’ explained Mrs Enderby, in charge of Wardrobe. She was small and round, with a sweet smile. ‘Sometimes they only want research and we send them details of appropriate costumes and materials, but sometimes we get to make them too. This one, for instance, is for an historical adaptation of the life of Charles II and the Restoration. Lots of bosoms and sex obviously, but I’ve always thought Charles to be a much underra
ted monarch. This dress is for Nell Gwynn in her “orange” period and that one for the French strumpet, Louise de Kérouaille.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said softly, carefully not touching the material. ‘The detail is superb. Sadly, it’s a bit modern for me.’

  ‘Dr Maxwell is Ancient History,’ said Mrs De Winter. Apologetically, I thought.

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Mrs Enderby. ‘Well, it’s not all bad news, I suppose. There’ll be drapery and togas and tunics, of course, but even so...’ She tailed off. I had obviously disappointed her.

  From there, we moved next door to Professor Rapson, in charge of Research and Development. He was so typically the eccentric professor that initially I suspected a bit of a wind-up. Super-tall and super-thin, with a shock of Einstein hair, his big beaky nose reminded me of the front end of a destroyer. And he had no eyebrows, which should have been a bit of clue really; but he smiled kindly and invited us in for a closer look at his cluttered kingdom. I caught a tantalising glimpse of a buried desk, books everywhere and, further on, a laboratory-type set up.

  ‘Dr Maxwell hasn’t had her interview yet,’ said Mrs De Winter in rather a warning tone of voice.

  ‘Oh, oh, right, yes, no, I see,’ he said, letting go of my elbow. ‘Well, this is what I tend to think of as “practical” history, my dear. The secret of Greek Fire? We’re on it. How did a Roman chariot handle? We’ll build you one and you can find out for yourself. What range does a trebuchet have? Exactly how far can you fling a dead cow? How long does it take to pull someone’s brains out through their nose? Any questions like that then you come to me and we’ll find your answers for you! That’s what we do!’