Quite a show, Kleio whispered in his ear.
‘Yeah. One for my Codex entry, right?’
Let’s wait and see.
25
So they waited.
It got dark.
This new Britain might have been sub-tropical in climate, but March days in northern England were still pretty short. The hovering flyers splashed light onto the platform on top of the Pylon, light that was intermittently welcome, save when it glared in Malenfant’s eyes.
‘It looks to me like a lot of the crowd are dispersing,’ Bartholomew said, peering through the barrier once more.
Malenfant came over, looked, shrugged. ‘And a lot aren’t.’ He saw people gathered around the glow of lamps, the lights of trucks and cars, even what looked like bonfires. On the periphery of the crowd, deeper into the city, people were coming and going, dipping into stores and restaurants, returning with supplies of various kinds. ‘Planning to stay the night,’ he said.
‘Just as we have to,’ Bartholomew said, resigned.
There are more supplies in compartments beneath the roof.
Malenfant turned, to see lids opening from an apparently seamless surface, revealing storage beneath, full of goods.
Malenfant glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Suddenly I’m hungry.’
‘Yes. And I need a battery charge.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No.’
‘My medications. I didn’t think of that.’
Bartholomew patted his pockets. ‘All you need, for a few hours. I came prepared. I always do.’
‘I hope there’s some kind of chemical toilet up here.’
‘We didn’t really think this through, did we, Malenfant?’
Fortunately for you, we did. We hope you have all you need here, for a few hours. If not, there are small matter printers.
Malenfant looked up into a darkling sky, where the flyers hovered. ‘Looks like this isn’t going to end tonight, then. Let’s make ourselves at home . . .’
‘Speaking of home,’ Deirdra said through the bangle link, ‘my mother’s here.’
‘Ah. Maybe I should talk to her.’
‘She wants me to go back with her. Like hell. As you would say, Malenfant.’
‘Hmm. I’m not always a good example, Deirdra. Look – you go on home. Give her that much. Keep the peace. You won’t miss a thing, I promise. I mean, look at me. I’m on TV!’
‘Well . . . OK. But if it gets exciting I’m coming straight back.’
‘Have a good night, Deirdra.’
So they made camp.
In the roof caches, they found a kind of pop-up tent, and sleeping bags, and lamps, and bottles of water, and food of a kind that reminded Malenfant of military rations, stuff that lasted for ever in the box and warmed up when you opened the packet. There was indeed a fold-out chemical toilet that was actually plumbed into the building’s main systems. Malenfant thought that was sensible, though he wondered how often this thing got used.
They settled into the tent. Malenfant took his shoes off and slid into a sleeping bag.
Bartholomew lay down in his own bag, at the far side of the tent. It was a gesture, Malenfant supposed, of shared humanity.
‘Well. Good night, Bartholomew.’
Bartholomew forbore to reply.
Malenfant tried to settle.
When he could stand the silence no longer, he snapped, ‘You going to lie there not breathing all night? How am I supposed to sleep with your mechanical brain clanking away?’
‘I have a timer mechanism. I’ll be out for six hours precisely.’
‘Liar.’
‘Prove it. Good night, Malenfant . . .’
Good night, gentlemen.
That shut them both up.
In the end Malenfant slept surprisingly well.
Maybe, he thought in retrospect, it was because for once he was doing something, proactively, rather than just responding to events, to other people’s decisions. Or maybe he had just worn himself out throwing that chair against the window.
In any event, he slept, until he was woken by Prefect Morrel – or rather the racket outside that the landing of his flyer caused.
There was a cheer when Malenfant emerged from the tent, standing there in his vest and trousers, barefoot: a rippling cheer that washed around the Pylon. In a bright early morning sky, flyers ducked and dived overhead. Malenfant waved at them.
And Morrel was waiting, there on the roof. His flyer stood behind him. In the morning light, in his grey, crisp uniform, Morrel stood like a statue, glaring at Malenfant.
Bartholomew emerged from the tent, and stood back, watchful, wary.
Morrel snorted. ‘You can’t stop hamming it up, can you, Malenfant?’
‘Can’t help my charisma, Prefect. At least I had some warning when you were landing.’
Morrel looked puzzled. ‘You heard the flyer come down?’
‘No, I heard the crowd booing.’
That was a total lie. But as he said it, the applause from around the Pylon turned to a ragged booing, and then laughter.
This is Kleio. That ought to be a reminder, gentlemen, that everything you say and do is being broadcast around the planet.
In the background, Malenfant was aware that another flyer was making a descent. ‘More Prefects to back you up, Morrel?’
‘That flyer is nothing to do with me,’ said Morrel, growing visibly angry. ‘But if I have to drag you off this roof myself, Malenfant, I’ll do it.’
Prefect, you must be civil.
‘I told you when you came staggering out of that freezer, Malenfant. My job is to maintain the peace. To keep society calm. And you have been nothing but a disruptive influence since . . .’
Malenfant let his attention wander. The second flyer had now landed, cautiously, on the roof. People were climbing out.
‘. . . You see the trouble you cause? You come between a mother and a daughter. And now you come between two arms of our society.’ Morrel took another step closer, fists bunched. ‘Why, I ought to just throw you off this roof myself.’
Bartholomew took a determined step forward, to block him.
And Kleio was loud in their heads.
PREFECT MORREL!
Morrel paused, fists still clenched, glaring.
Prefect, I understand the nature of your concerns here. Indeed I, we, share them. But there is the question of jurisdiction. And of propriety. We of the Codex have mechanisms of our own to deal with intruders of this kind.
But another voice spoke up. ‘There’s no need for that. This can be finished quickly.’
Malenfant and Morrel shared one last mutual glare, then turned.
The newcomer was walking from that second landed flyer, a man, aged perhaps forty, stocky, short. He wore a long blue coat, and carried a small white case. And his face –
Malenfant felt the recognition as a physical shock. ‘My God. Michael.’ His son – if Malenfant had got to see him grow to this age.
The man stood before him, and Morrel. ‘My name is not Michael. Nor, in fact, is it Malenfant, or Stoney. But I represent the family whose privacy you have violated so grossly. Well, it ends here.’ He opened his case. It contained a set of vials, a couple of medical swabs, simple sealable transparent bags. He put one swab’s tip into his mouth and swiped the inside of his cheek. Extracted the swab, dropped it in a bag, and sealed it with a punch of thumb and finger. Took the second swab, repeated the procedure on the other cheek, sealed it up. Then he threw the bags in the case, handed it to Malenfant. He did all this theatrically, with exaggerated gestures, making sure the watching cameras could see. ‘There. The case has samples from others of us too. You have what you want. Now leave us alone. Never try to contact any of us again.’ His face twisted. ‘Shame on you, you – relic.’
And he turned and walked back to the flyer.
Bartholomew was staring at Malenfant. So was Morrel.
Malenfant looked at the case in his hand.
H
e thought he heard a ragged cheer from the ground. Even applause. People understood, then. People cared. The ordinary folk of this strange age. Still human.
He spread his arms wide, carrying the sample case, and stalked around the edge of the platform, grinning. More cheers, like a wave breaking on a stony beach, far away. He raised the case over his head, like a sports trophy, an offering. ‘Kleio! Kleio of the Codex! Now you can bring her back! Can’t you!’
26
It took Kleio and the mechanisms of the Codex the rest of the day to take the scraps of family DNA, incorporate them into the frozen memories of the system – integrate them with the external records already held of the life of Emma Stoney – and develop a new . . . image. Just a single day. Miraculous technology, really. But to Malenfant it seemed to take a lifetime.
And once the adrenaline rush of his rooftop stunt had worn off, he came crashing down into doubt.
He kept telling himself it wouldn’t be his Emma. It couldn’t be. It could never be . . . It was the nearest he was ever going to get, though, and maybe that would be enough.
Or maybe not. He guessed he would have to face that contingency when he got to it.
Malenfant understood that the new Retrieved could have been ready for him to access before sunset that day, but Bartholomew insisted that they sleep on it first.
So he was taken off the Pylon.
With the reluctant help of Prefect Morrel, Bartholomew found them rooms in a small motel-like facility close to the base of the Pylon. There were plenty of such places; people crossed the country to come to a Codex Pylon like the one in Chester, and would commonly stay the night. They got a room each with a bed, screens, simple printers for necessities like toothbrushes and water glasses, access to stores and cafeterias nearby.
Once Bartholomew had Malenfant safely indoors and in private, he began to fuss over him, starting with a download from Malenfant’s bangle, and direct physical inspections: pulse, blood pressure, blood samples, inspections of various orifices.
‘You’re just doing this out of revenge,’ Malenfant said thickly, around a spatula on his tongue. Chhr-eff-ench.
‘I’m showing a properly professional concern over your health, mental and physical. And out of revenge.’
‘Look, Bartholomew—’
‘Shut up. You manipulated me to support that stunt. You knew there came a point where the logic of my function would force me to go along with you.’
Malenfant took out the spatula and grinned. ‘Those darn Three Laws of Robotics?’
‘Shut up. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. And that doesn’t mean I don’t have concerns about how your health may have been compromised by what you put yourself through. Practically forcing harm on yourself right under my nose. If you think I’m going to let you go through the trauma of meeting your long-dead wife without a check-up and at least a decent night’s recovery period, you’re deluded.’
As he worked, Malenfant noticed that Bartholomew was favouring his left hand over his right, which seemed stiff. ‘Looks like you suffered some harm yourself.’
Bartholomew lifted his hand and flexed it. The fingers would not open fully – the little finger seemed bent at an unnatural angle – and the skin on the back of the hand was torn, revealing a glint of metal. ‘This artificial hand is meant to be a precision surgical tool. Ideally not used for punching holes in the outside wall of a building.’
Malenfant had to grin once more. ‘That was a pretty impressive trick. I should have noticed the damage before. Sorry you hurt yourself.’
‘Ha! Sorry? If you’d known this would happen, would you have gone ahead anyhow?’
Malenfant shrugged. ‘Now you sound like a NASA shrink. Never been too interested in hypotheticals. Best to deal with the world as it is. I never knew you were right-handed, by the way.’
Bartholomew looked puzzled. ‘Why, neither did I.’ He packed up his small medical kit, slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Malenfant. Stay in this room. Play with the systems if you like. Watch yourself on TV. Bask in your fame. But stay here, and give your body a chance to recuperate. If you need me just call. I’ll be right outside.’
‘Thanks.’
Bartholomew glared back at him. ‘Right outside. Literally. I mean it, Malenfant. Think sentry.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind. Bartholomew—’
‘Yes?’
‘About meeting Emma. You used the word “trauma”. Did you mean that?’
The android looked at him now with something like pity. ‘Malenfant, I’ve seen this kind of reunion before. Never with this divergence in time. And I’ve seen how it turns out. Just – be prepared.’
‘Many times, huh?’
‘Malenfant, I’m older than I look.’
‘So am I,’ said Malenfant sadly, and he closed the door.
He didn’t sleep at all.
The next morning, when Bartholomew finally called, Malenfant was sitting waiting by the door.
‘Had breakfast. Did my calisthenics and my yoga and whatnot. Took my meds. You can check. Can we go now?’
Bartholomew sighed, a pretty convincing simulacrum of a human mannerism. ‘How did I know you’d be like this? Take fifteen minutes, Malenfant, before we go rushing on. Let me make my own checks.’
‘Ten.’
‘Fine. You know the drill. Spit in this. Roll up that sleeve . . .’
Malenfant put up with the ritual. He could stand Bartholomew’s fussing for ten minutes. Especially since he had budgeted for twenty in his head.
‘You seem surprisingly calm,’ Bartholomew said while he worked.
Malenfant shrugged. ‘It’s like the night before a launch, for me. You get as tense as hell. You can’t sleep. But when the morning comes you smile at the docs, wave at the pad rats. Do the whole Al Shepard thing. If the NASA head-shrinkers had known how we all felt, truly felt, deep inside, they would never have let any of us fly at all.’
‘So you learned to fake it. Is it wise to tell me this?’
Malenfant grinned. ‘I figure you know already.’
‘I do, Malenfant. I do. Roll down your sleeve. We’re done.’
And now, at last, there were no obstacles left.
Outside the little motel there were only a few people around, and they showed no interest. Or maybe, he thought, the lack of onlookers had something to do with Prefect Morrel.
Bartholomew walked with him back to the Pylon, where some kind of spidery bot was climbing high up the wall, Malenfant saw, presumably fixing the damage Bartholomew’s fists had done yesterday. They repeated the short walk into the central Codex chamber, with the low stone wall, the Answerer-like screen.
The room seemed empty. The screen stayed blank. Bartholomew hung back.
And Malenfant’s heart hammered like a faulty afterburner.
Standing alone, he spread his hands. ‘So what now? What am I supposed to do?’
‘I think that’s up to us, Malenfant. Well, it always was, wasn’t it?’
She walked forward, out of shadow.
Emma.
27
Walked forward. Or maybe, Malenfant thought, this was just the moment when she had – materialised. Been made real. Or as real as she could get, for him, in this remote time . . .
His thinking seemed to halt, like a run-down clock. He just looked.
She wore a bright blue NASA coverall. Her hair was shaved short, the way it had been before her Phobos mission departed in ’04. She was just as he remembered, when he had last seen her, aged just thirty-four. She –
She had a reality that the pale shell of Nicola he had encountered a few days before had not shared.
She was Emma.
She smiled at him.
He broke. He lunged forward, arms outstretched. ‘Emma – my God, I never thought it would be like this—’
‘No.’ She stood still, held up her hand, gave that peremptory command.
He froze.
‘You can’t come close, Malenfa
nt. You can’t touch me. Try and you’ll probably break their damn system. Visuals only. And audio . . .’
‘And smell,’ he said. ‘I think I can smell your hair.’
She smiled, and ran a hand over her scalp. ‘Well, maybe you can. I wouldn’t know. But they can’t yet deliver a copy you can hug, Malenfant. They did a pretty good job, though, didn’t they?’ She lifted her arms, stood on her toes, and did a spin, like some gymnast. ‘I mean, not just of putting me together like this. I don’t think they knew how to dress me. So they put me in uniform! Look, they even gave me a nametag, see? And a mission patch!’
Malenfant glanced at the patch. He remembered it well, of course: a stylised looped-trajectory diagram linking Earth and Mars, a background of stars, a pinprick that was the enigmatic moon itself. ‘Phobos ’05,’ he read. ‘Lamb, Stoney, Angel.’
‘I wish we’d come up with a smart name for the mission, like Timor.’
‘Timor?’
‘The Roman version of Phobos. God of fear. You know, the name for the mission the other Emma mounted.’ She frowned. ‘Malenfant? What’s wrong?’
‘You know about her?’
‘The other Emma. Emma II. Let’s call her that. Kleio did tell me about her. About the Emma who reported back from Phobos, having got there with her Russian co-pilot. Although she had Tom Lamb with her too, or a version of him . . . And I also watched a record of your encounter with Nicola Mott. That’s thrown you, hasn’t it? My knowing what you’ve been up to. Well, we are going to have to deal with it, Malenfant.’
‘I . . . maybe. But not just now. Not yet.’
She smiled again. ‘I know. We need to get used to this, right? To each other, I mean. I think I need to sit down. Look what I can do.’ She snapped her fingers.
A plain, upright chair appeared out of thin air before her. She sat, gracefully.
‘Huh. Stop showing off. I can do it too.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Hey, you!’
Bartholomew walked out of the shadows. He carried a fold-up chair and table under one arm, a tray with flask and mug on the other. ‘Don’t push your luck, Malenfant.’ He briskly set out the table and chair, poured from the flask. Malenfant could smell the coffee. ‘Sit. Drink.’
World Engine Page 16
