Absorption (47 page)
Authors: John Meaney
He was grinning, dreadful though that was, as she hauled him and Miranda on board with a fast black tendril. Within four seconds of her appearance in realspace, he was in her control couch.
And go.
Yes, my love.
Fulgor slammed out of existence around them.
Finally . . .
Replaced by golden void, a sprinkling of black fractal stars, and a distant crimson nebula.
‘What have we done?’ said Miranda.
‘The best we could,’ answered Carl.
Then he immersed himself in the joy of flying hard for Labyrinth, aware that despite the elation of being with his ship, there were hard issues to deal with: Roger, alone on Fulgor; Miranda’s distress; and the truth Sunadomari had revealed to him: the tampering with his mind by his own people.
Max Gould would have the answers.
‘Oh, Carl.’
‘I know, my love.’
He increased the severity of their trajectory, following a geodesic that would add to Miranda’s strain, but should be manageable. It was less than he wanted, more than he should aim for.
A hellflight was out of question.
After a time, Miranda was able to ask: ‘Will we live in Labyrinth now?’
‘Do you want to?’
She thought, then: ‘Yes, I believe I do.’
‘Then so do I. Continuously.’
Miranda blinked her obsidian eyes.
‘You mean you’re giving up field work?’
‘Don’t you think it’s time I did?’
They were both thinking of Roger.
‘Way past time,’ said Miranda.
‘Yes.’
They flew on a short way.
‘Miranda?’
‘Darling?’
‘There’s—’ Carl’s face tightened. ‘We have someone chasing us.’
A crescent of golden display showed a tiny shape moving. Then another, and another.
‘Three of them,’ said Carl.
They’re fast, my love.
I’ll bet we’re faster.
They swung into a new trajectory.
‘Who are they, Carl? Zajinets?’
‘Our own kind.’
Miranda looked puzzled.
‘Shouldn’t we make contact?’
‘They’re using targetting systems.’
Carl frowned, and the ship took a hard turn. The trio followed.
Enemies.
It was a short time later that the pursuers closed the range, their weapon-nodes beginning to sparkle. The only escape was a hellflight, something he had not wanted to put Miranda through. But neither did he want to fight.
Twist now.
Carl-and-ship tumbled through a gut-wrenching geodesic jump, and then a series of shifts to different scales of reality; and Miranda might have cried out but he could no longer tell, because he was the ship and the ship was himself, and all that mattered was the flying.
Cascades of energy whirled past them.
Shit.
Ship-and-Carl flung themselves through a helical descent into fractal magnification, the hull coruscating with spillover from the weapons fire, as they corkscrewed away from the enemy trio.
Energy slammed past them again.
Faster.
Judge the moment right, and they could slip onto a geodesic that no one could—
It burns.
Energy touched her hull and Carl’s voice cried out and then they were one again, into a howling turn, and as they came out their resonance chambers hummed; and the first of the ships was right in front of them, no longer pursuer but target, then ship-and-Carl let loose.
He yelled at the release.
Then he-and-ship were twisting away as the enemy exploded, a nova burst of detonation leaving a storm of dazzling fragments; and then the remains were behind them.
But the remaining two were closer now.
Nebula.
I see it.
They plunged though crimson, arced hard, burst back into golden void. One of the enemy was side-on as Carl-and-ship fired.
Its delta wing blew apart, but only as the last ship cut loose with every weapon.
Another cry filled the cabin, then he-and-ship were twisting away -
geodesic, there
- trying to find the path -
got it
- and then they were pouring on the acceleration -
do it
- putting everything they had into forward power -
do it now
- as they howled into the only way out, the most extreme of flightpaths that few survived.
geodesic, there
- trying to find the path -
got it
- and then they were pouring on the acceleration -
do it
- putting everything they had into forward power -
do it now
- as they howled into the only way out, the most extreme of flightpaths that few survived.
Hellflight.
And finally, the calm.
They came out into peaceful golden space, Carl’s mind separating from the ship as he slumped back in the cabin. Inside was—
Red.
—not the crimson of nebulae, more like the hull’s scarlet trim, glistening with oxidation.
‘No. Please . . .’
He pulled himself from his seat.
‘Oh, Miranda.’
THIRTY-SIX
EARTH, 1939 AD
The Wolf house was broken. The yellow star - runnels of yellow ran toward the ground: they had been careless with the paint - marked a front door whose lock was smashed. Only a few triangular fragments of glass remained in the windows. Inside was darkness.
Gavriela did not dare to stand on the street gaping.
It’s not possible.
She lowered her head as forced herself to walk on, trying to work out how she might circle around to the back. But a low voice said: ‘Get away.’
A bent-backed man was in front of her.
‘They took your parents. I’m sorry.’
‘Herr . . . Herr
Schäffer?
’
Schäffer?
’
‘Yes, and you’re little Gavi Wolf. Do you need money?’
‘No—’
‘All you can do is get away. Survive. Here.’ He pressed a book into her hands. ‘Carry this.’
It was battered from much reading.
‘I can’t.’
The title was stark:
Mein Kampf
.
Mein Kampf
.
‘Carry it, read it on the bus or train, nod as if you’re agreeing with it. You have papers that declare you’re Aryan?’
‘Sort of.’
Her Swiss cantonal ID showed her religion as
None
. But the German passport, in an inner pocket of her coat, could kill her.
None
. But the German passport, in an inner pocket of her coat, could kill her.
‘Go.’
Herr Schäffer walked on. She wanted to call him back, but knew it was dangerous for both of them. If he could recognize her after all this time, what about the other neighbours?
Without destination, she forced herself into motion.
It was some unknown time later when a guttural male voice said something. She looked up, saw the elegant length of Unter den Linden stretching before her, the eponymous trees making twin perspective lines; and she saw the grey-uniformed soldier with his hand out. Behind him, two more soldiers stood, watching the subdued passers-by.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your papers, Fräulein.’
The ID shook as she produced it.
‘Swiss?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t sound Swiss to me.’
‘My family moved—’
Her brain swirled with the effort of trying to construct a convincing fiction. She was dead, and nothing could save her. That knowledge seeped through her, and her shoulders slumped.
Suddenly a beautiful blonde woman was standing there, smiling above her red-fox collar. A small dog was at her heel.
‘Soldier, this lady is a good Aryan. I have travelled with her in person.’
‘And you are—?’
But she was already showing her papers.
‘Ma’am?’ His eyes widened, then he slammed his bootheels together. ‘
Sieg Heil!
’
Sieg Heil!
’
‘Likewise.’ She returned the salute. ‘Be vigilant.’
‘Yes, Frau Göbbels.’
‘Nice to see one of our own,’ she said to Gavriela. ‘You have a husband?’
‘A . . . a fiancée, Lucas.’ It was the first name she thought of. ‘He’s serving in, er, I think he’s in Poland right now.’
‘Ah. Good.’ Magda Göbbels tugged her dog’s lead. ‘Come along, Rufus.’
Then she continued along Unter den Linden without looking back.
‘Thank you.’ Gavriela looked down once more as she shuffled away. ‘Thanks.’
Earlier, during the train journey, she had been heartened by how easy it was to cross the border. Now she understood what she had failed to register: it was getting out that was impossible.
Mother. Father.
And for the sake of survival, there were things she should not think of, could not allow herself to dwell on.
I love you . . .
Her Swiss ID was correct in that she had no religion, therefore no belief in heaven.
But there was a hell, and proof was all around her.
At the same moment, several hundred kilometres to the east, Dmitri Shtemenko stood on a broad grey plaza. In front of him stood the forbidding pile of Moscow University, its spire rearing towards a secular heaven, its red star dull in daylight, requiring darkness for its full glory, when its internal lights would transform it into the state’s blood-red eye staring down upon the grateful proletariat.
But Dmitri would not be here to see it, not tonight. In his coat pocket he carried the train ticket that would take him away from the city that he had - somehow - grown to feel part of. He also had a gift, from his former tutor, Dr Lande: a Japanese-Russian dictionary, which would see much use in his new assignment.
He nodded, then turned away. Things would be different in Tokyo.
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