He might have been forty, Malenfant thought, perhaps a little younger. In his bulky, peculiarly old-fashioned-looking pressure suit, Lighthill seemed to loom large in the cabin of the Last Small Step. But, even bobbing around in Phobos’s minuscule gravity, he had an effortless air of command that Malenfant could only envy.
And his accent reminded Malenfant of old Second World War movies: the senior officers who had sent the Dambusters off to their heroics. He vaguely wondered how their own bangle-mediated speech sounded to Lighthill. For sure, Malenfant wasn’t about to tell him about that bit of technology yet.
He watched how his crew reacted. Emma just seemed bemused by the whole situation.
Deirdra had actually laughed at the cut-glass accent.
And Viktorenko stared back at Lighthill with a kind of hostile curiosity, Malenfant thought. But then, in Viktorenko’s reality, Russia and Britain were at war.
‘Look, I don’t know who you people are,’ Lighthill said now. ‘Or where you came from – though I’m guessing from what we already know of Phobos that it’s probably not a place I am familiar with.’
‘What year?’ Viktorenko asked bluntly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What year is this for you?’
‘Good question,’ Malenfant murmured. ‘The Rolls-Royce plaque in the airlock was dated 2000—’
‘Installed by an earlier mission,’ Lighthill said. ‘Five years ago. By the Christian calendar, the date is AD 2005. Does that make sense to you people?’
‘Kind of,’ Malenfant said.
Emma grinned. ‘Well, I’m from 2005 also. A 2005. That’s when I reached Phobos myself, anyhow. For the others, it’s complicated.’
Lighthill stared at her. Then he grinned back, apparently relaxing a little. ‘Very well. I suspect we need a thorough debrief.’ He glanced around at the rest of the crew. Nodded politely to Deirdra, who seemed fascinated.
Malenfant bridled, perhaps unreasonably, at this casual assumption of command. But Bartholomew was watching him, smiling. A rival hijacking your fan club, Malenfant? Malenfant turned away, hoping he wasn’t glowering.
Lighthill seemed puzzled by Gershon, but more so by Bartholomew. ‘You, sir, are not what you seem at first glance.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Wing Commander Lighthill, you’re very perceptive. Most people are fooled for a little while, even if they are used to simulacra such as myself.’
‘Simulacra. Interesting word. It is only the finest of details which – I am not sure what clues I picked up. Something about the steadiness of your stance, umm—’
‘Bartholomew. Call me Bartholomew.’
‘Perhaps you are too well made, Bartholomew, that’s the issue. I am not familiar with the likes of you, that’s for sure, in my Road. We have many advanced technologies, but not of this sort.’
Malenfant frowned. ‘“Road”?’
‘Perhaps we need to establish a common vocabulary.’
‘Maybe. We’ve been making it up as we go along.’ Malenfant took a breath. ‘We think we are encountering variant timelines, maybe branching off from each other at certain jonbar hinges – sorry, that’s my own jargon, and antique in this age. Branch points.’
‘“This age”? Not 2005, then.’
‘No, sir. I myself am another refugee from the twenty-first century, or a variant of it. But this ship was sent to Phobos in the year 2469.’
Lighthill raised an eyebrow; it was the first time he had heard the date.
Malenfant went on, ‘All of which adds up to what we are calling a manifold of possibilities, of variant – destinies.’
‘“Manifold.”’ Lighthill seemed to chew the term. ‘Mathematical term, topological. I like that personally. But then I have a background in maths and science – I took the mathematical tripos at Cambridge, and cut my teeth post-doc at the Cavendish labs. Nuclear physics, you know. But, your “timelines” – we call them “Roads”. After the Frost poem – do you know it?’
‘“The Road Not Taken”,’ Deirdra said, surprising Malenfant.
‘That’s the one. Fellow on the first Phobos expedition had something of a penchant for pre-Prussian War poetry, and that seemed to fit the mood. And Frost was an American, which seems rather appropriate now we’ve encountered you lot.’
Prussian War? Malenfant let it go, for now. Navigating this tangle of realities needed patience, above all.
Lighthill looked Bartholomew up and down once more, grinned, and moved on. As if they were cadets on parade, Malenfant thought sourly, being inspected by the senior officer. Now Lighthill held out his right hand to Stavros Gershon.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Malenfant said. ‘Not yet. Long story.’
Lighthill smiled apologetically, and turned away, still cradling his helmet. ‘So. What now?’
‘What now? You came to our door, Wing Commander.’
Lighthill snorted. ‘After you signed your name on mine, sir.’
‘Yeah. Sorry about that.’
‘Here we are, humans together on Phobos – which, I am sure you will agree, though I know nothing of your state of knowledge of this enigmatic moon, has nothing to do with humans at all. We ought to get to know each other, at least.’
Malenfant shrugged. ‘I can’t object to that. Frankly, I have the feeling that we have more to learn from you than the other way around. How do you want to do this, though? Bring through the rest of your crew?’
Lighthill looked around, and actually sniffed. ‘I rather think it would be better if you came to us. The Harmonia is a little more . . . roomy. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Gershon said, glowering.
‘So, what?’ Malenfant asked. ‘We suit up, come back with you through the Sculpture Garden to your airlock?’
Lighthill frowned. ‘Ah, you mean the Engine Room. The chamber of the blue hoops? That’s what we have been calling it. Sculpture Garden . . . I think I prefer that. Oh, no, I think we can do better than that. I will bring our ship, the Harmonia, to you.’
Malenfant stared. ‘How is that possible? Given we come from entirely different, time-shifted realities?’
Lighthill studied him, with, Malenfant thought, irritated, the air of a kindly schoolmaster faced with a bright but under-prepared student. ‘You really haven’t worked out much of how this place works, have you? No matter. We will call you when we are in position.’ He glanced at Gershon. ‘Umm, perhaps we should make sure our communication systems are compatible.’
Gershon smiled. ‘You have radio, for short ranges? Just tell me the frequencies before you go.’
‘Good.’ Lighthill drew his gloves from his helmet. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’
As he made for the airlock, Emma whispered to Malenfant, ‘So he’s in charge now.’
‘Oh, grow up.’
53
It was twenty hours later that the HMS Harmonia swam into view of the Step’s ports.
A ship so huge that the Step crew could only take it in a little at a time. So huge that as it inched cautiously towards them, they ran from port to port, screen to screen, to make sense of it.
‘Like a dumbbell,’ Gershon said at length.
He was right. It reminded Malenfant of nothing so much as the Discovery from the 2001 movie, a reference he suspected would mean nothing to anybody here, save maybe Emma.
Gershon showed Malenfant sketches he was compiling on his screens, mosaics of images morphed to fit together. ‘Two main masses joined by a spine. See? In fact the design logic of the Step is similar. The rear sphere: that alone must be a hundred metres across, and I’m guessing that’s the main engine. Plus the power plant, whatever. This lumpier section at the other end of the spine, probably the main crew compartment.’
‘Yes,’ Emma said, ‘that makes sense. Look, you can see lights – windows – in that forward section. Behind that big disc that has been mounted on the . . . prow? If that’s the direction of thrust. I wonder if Lighthill’s crew is in there looking back at us. So wh
y the spine, with the long gap between the hab compartment and the engine block?’
Malenfant said, ‘I think we are seeing hints about how this ship works.’
Gershon nodded. ‘Right. Nuclear technology. Look, my own ship, the Step, is driven by nuclear energy. But I had the advantage of centuries of development after Hiroshima – in particular, very effective lightweight radiation shielding systems. If these guys are from 2005, in any sensible history, that technology is going to be a lot less sophisticated than mine.’ He pointed at the engine block. ‘So, some kind of big, badly shielded nuclear engine in there. That’s why they put the crew compartment at the other end of that spine, a long way away. That spine is cluttered up, though, isn’t it? Looks like sacks of rubble, or ice.’
‘Fuel store, I’m guessing,’ Malenfant said. ‘Feedstock for the nuclear engine, and propellant, maybe some inert substance, even just water, to be hurled out the back for thrust. Mined from – where do you think, Stavros? The asteroids?’
He shrugged. ‘Phobos itself? Plenty of water ice here.’
‘I doubt that,’ Malenfant said. ‘There are surely too many mysteries about Phobos for it to be dug up that way. Deimos, the other moon of Mars. That might make more sense.’
‘Their thrust has to be relatively low, or they wouldn’t need so much propellant. Lousy mass ratio, because low exhaust velocity.’
Malenfant nodded. ‘That’s as may be, but that shield at the front—’
‘Yeah. That ship, crude as it is, is meant to go fast. Fast enough for collisions with interplanetary debris to be a significant menace. Hence, the shield – water ice, probably, that can be renewed when they refuel.’
‘Fast,’ Emma said, a little wildly. ‘And therefore, far. How far? Mars, obviously.’
Gershon said, ‘I would have to get some numbers, run some estimates. But I think that bird could easily get to the outer planets. Well beyond, in fact.’
‘Hmm,’ Malenfant said. ‘Which makes it overpowered for a jaunt to Phobos, doesn’t it? No matter what the attractions of our favourite little moon.’
‘We couldn’t build a ship like that, Malenfant,’ Emma said. ‘Not in my 2005, or yours – not in the Nixon Bundle at all, maybe.’
‘You’re right,’ Malenfant conceded gloomily. On the white-painted hull of that approaching passenger compartment, he now made out a bright Union Jack, and an RAF, or RASF, roundel. ‘So they are from someplace else. I wonder what their mission is.’
Deirdra pointed out of a window. ‘You may not have to wonder long. Here they come.’
The Harmonia was looming closer to the area of Phobos where the Step rested. Now, Malenfant saw, some kind of flexible, very long tube with a docking attachment was reaching out from that putative passenger-compartment end of the dumbbell. The attachment smothered the Step’s own airlock hatch, fixing itself in place with a rattle of some kind of clamps.
A brisk message from Lighthill informed them that they were safe just to climb up, inside the tube, to the Harmonia. ‘Pressure suits optional,’ said the Brit.
But Malenfant overrode that. You didn’t rely on somebody else’s technology for vital safety. He ordered the crew to suit up, and, grumpily, he led by example. And, more curt orders: he had decided to leave behind Bartholomew and Gershon, artificial people, for this first trip, to help manage the culture shock.
Once they were suited up he led Emma, Viktorenko and Deirdra out through the Step’s airlock.
Out through a hatch, and into a tunnel to the sky. Malenfant led the way. There were handholds inside the tube to help him climb.
The whole set-up must look bizarre, he thought as he clambered, the Step on the dull grey surface of Phobos connected by a twisting tube to that huge sculpture in the sky. Like a child holding a balloon on a string.
At the far end of the access tube, the airlock in the side of the British ship was much heavier than the Step’s, chunkier, more robust maybe – but the technology was primitive, and it took some time before the pressure was safely equalised and the inner hatch opened.
And when that hatch swung back, Malenfant could hear the blood hammering in his ears, his vision greying, as if he was about to faint.
Because on the other side of the hatch was Nicola Mott.
He had to be helped into the roomy interior of the Harmonia, to his chagrin.
Nicola Mott. His pilot on the lost Constitution. Alive, and healthy. And younger, he saw now, than the Nicola he had lost.
He was helped out of his pressure suit, mostly by Emma and Deirdra. Led into what he learned was called the wardroom, a spacious area set out with wooden furniture – adapted for zero gravity, he perceived dimly, with toe-holds and loose straps over the chair seats and such, but still, wood, polished, even.
Helped into a kind of armchair, against his protests, even as his pressure suit was taken from him.
Handed a glass globe containing some clear brownish fluid, by a young man smoking a pipe. A pipe.
‘Here. Drink this.’
‘What the hell is it?’
‘Brandy. Get it down. Do you the world of good.’
He was perhaps early thirties, with a blond, blue-eyed, Teutonic look to Malenfant’s eyes. Competent, friendly. Smiling, around that pipe clamped in his jaw. It was an odd kind of pipe, Malenfant saw now – with a kind of transparent cowl over the open end, and a fat metal bulb beneath – but a pipe nonetheless.
‘Name’s Bob Nash. Engineer, Phobos specialist, and general dogsbody. Welcome aboard.’
Emma and Deirdra still fussed around Malenfant. Emma said, ‘I’m not sure brandy is a good idea.’
Deirdra was fretting. ‘Do you think I should go get Bartholomew?’
Nash shook his head. ‘Who’s he, your doctor? Among my other accomplishments I am also the ship’s MO. If there’s anything you need—’
‘Give me that.’ Malenfant snatched the globe, sucked down the brandy. It burned the back of his throat, and after months of abstinence it felt like it delivered a hell of a kick. Whether it did him any good or not he had no idea.
He took a second look around at this wardroom. Aside from the homely furniture, much of it was functional, with metal surfaces and antique tech, panels of switches and cathode-ray-tube screens. Clunky round portholes set in the walls – this was a spacecraft. And yet there was a peculiarly cluttered feel, with panels between the metal ribs covered in what looked like wallpaper, shelving littered with ornaments and faded family photographs held in place with bits of elastic. And everything looked oddly stale, yellowed.
Seeing the pipe clamped in Nash’s mouth, Malenfant could tell why.
‘Is that tobacco you’re smoking, fella?’
Nash took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled again. ‘Ingenious, isn’t it? Dreamed up by some RASF boffin with too much time on his hands. Oxygenated tobacco, and a filter for the ash – don’t want that drifting around in a spacecraft. But it delivers just as much of a nicotine kick as the old briar I’ve been smoking since school . . .’
As he spoke, Malenfant saw over his shoulder Lighthill, looking concerned, or maybe irritated. And, unmistakably—
He turned to face her. ‘Nicola Mott. Jesus, what are you doing here?’
She had looked more puzzled than alarmed at his initial reaction to her. And, up close, she looked so much younger than his Nicola. Younger than forty, maybe. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve somehow upset you, sir, but—’
He blurted out, ‘You died. You were sitting right next to me, aboard the Constitution, and you died, Niki. When we crashed.’
She looked faintly disturbed. ‘We flew together?’
Malenfant tried to pull himself together. ‘Yes. In a space shuttle. A kind of spaceplane. Don’t know if . . . We flew for NASA. Which is, was, an American space agency. Oh, shit.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh, Niki! What a way to introduce myself.’
‘Niki? Nobody calls me that, sir.’
He looked at her bleakly. Her accent, he
thought, was much more cut-glass Brit than his Nicola’s. His Niki.
Lighthill, watching this, took a deep breath. ‘Well. I think we need to calm down, all of us. Take things one step at a time. Nicola – Bob – I did tell you that these people are from, well, elsewhere.’ He glanced at Malenfant. ‘You’ll have to excuse any clumsy reaction. We thought we knew our way around Phobos, you see. How it worked. Its mechanisms elude us, but it is evidently a complex of Roads, where they meet, intersect, diverge, perhaps even merge, as a minor road will join a trunk route. From Road to Road we observe gross changes – even astronomical sometimes, the positions of minor bodies. Different craters on Mars, and so forth.
‘But generally a silent Earth.
‘We always thought we were somehow – the first. Just us, wandering around the sky, with Earth after Earth stuck in the Stone Age or whatnot. Well, I suppose you might be as advanced as the Romans, say, and still not obviously visible from out here. Now, in this particular Road, we became aware of radio signals and such from the local Earth. Obviously some kind of technological culture. But we couldn’t make sense of their signal formats, and nor, I would hazard, have they understood ours even if detected. And so we kept quiet – kept ourselves to ourselves.’
Gershon pursed his lips. ‘It makes sense. An optimally coded signal would be indistinguishable from noise, if you don’t have the key.’
Lighthill looked irritated, as if at this presumption of inferiority, Malenfant thought.
Malenfant frowned. ‘So you have been to this particular, umm, Road before?’
‘Why, certainly. We first came here because we discovered an especially useful alignment of the planets in this particular Road. In fact from Phobos we intend to travel to Persephone, which is aligned with a further target beyond.’
Malenfant was startled. ‘Persephone?’
The man waved. ‘Out there. You know it, surely. Persephone is a major comet-cloud planet.’
Malenfant glanced at Deirdra. ‘So they know it in their timeline. They use the same name.’ He hesitated. ‘The planet with the towers.’
‘Ah.’ Lighthill looked at him appraisingly. ‘Indeed. We have seen those too. Another enigma. First observed from Earth, actually – or, specifically, from the Outer Station observatory in high Earth orbit. Well, we’ve been there before, of course. To Persephone. We actually have a base out there. In this very Road.’
World Engine Page 34
