Age of Shiva (The Pantheon Series) (4 page)

4. MIRAGES

“P
OINT-TO-POINT SUBORBITAL SPACEFLIGHT,
” said Aanandi. “The
Garuda
arcs above the planet in a steep parabola, using helium-cooled air intakes to help it achieve hypersonic speeds.”

“Hypersonic? You mean we broke the sound barrier and I didn’t notice?”

“Why would you? You can’t hear a sonic boom on board the aircraft that’s making it. It’s the outer edges of a pressure wave spreading behind us, like the wake of a ship. It’s audible only if you’re outside it.”

Duh
. I felt like a complete dunce next to Aanandi. Good thing I found smart women such a turn-on.

“And we’re weightless? Like astronauts?”

“Not quite,” she said, catching the cup before it could fly out of reach. “Something as light as this cup will float. You and I are just buoyant. It isn’t true weightlessness because, at a hundred kilometres up, we’re not in true orbit. In fact, what we’re doing is just free-falling without ever hitting the ground. How are you feeling?”

“Weird. This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done, and I’m shitting myself at the same time.”

“But not unwell? Stomach okay? No nausea? There are sick bags if you need one.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ve never really done travel sickness. Lucky that way.”

“I puked like a dog my first couple of times,” Aanandi admitted, “but I’ve gotten used to it since then. Dramamine helps. And the
Garuda
’s a friendly fellow. Never gives you a rough ride if he can help it.”

“
Garuda
. Where do I know that name from? Isn’t there an airline called Garuda?”

“Garuda Indonesia, yes. It’s named after a mythical bird. As is this. Buddhists regard the Garuda as a divine avian creature, but to Hindus, Garuda is more than that. He’s Vishnu’s mount. Whenever there are demons or serpents to be fought, Vishnu summons him and rides him into battle. His form is much like that of an eagle, but with human features, such as arms and legs.”

“You’re just a mine of information, aren’t you?”

“Actually, Hinduism is my area of true expertise,” said Aanandi. “I majored in Asian religions at Yale and wrote my doctoral thesis on mythopoesis in the Hindu tradition. Mythopoesis,” she went on, anticipating my next question, “is the study of myth-making and how it adapts over time to meet changing cultural and historical circumstances. I’ve published several books on the subject and lecture about it all over the world. I’ve even been called the leading authority.”

“An over-achiever,” I said with a comedy eye roll. “I hate you.”

“You’re well respected in your field too, Zak. I don’t read comics myself, but from what I know about you, your work is highly praised – and prized. Pages of original art by you fetch several thousand dollars.”

“Much of which goes to the dealer in commission. That or it’s early stuff that I sold for a pittance and some eBay scalper makes a mint off it and I don’t see a penny.”

“You’ve been nominated twice for an Eisner Award and once for a Harvey.”

“Didn’t win, though.”

“You’ve drawn for Warren Ellis, Grant Morrison, Garth Ennis, Brian Michael Bendis...”

“Rubbing shoulders with the stars.”

“What people seem to like about your artwork most of all,” Aanandi went on, “is the design sense. The way you draw buildings, machinery, backgrounds, costumes. Especially costumes.”

“That, I have to confess, is something I enjoy doing,” I said. “Dreaming up nifty costumes. It’s the one part of the job I really love. Just going crazy and inventing something that looks brilliant and is memorable and hits the mark. I mean, superheroes, intrinsically they’re a bit silly. The whole concept of someone putting on spandex and going out and fighting crime – you can’t take it seriously. But given that basic absurdity, there’s no reason why you can’t let your imagination fly and make the characters look exciting and dramatic and fun. Take Batman. If you saw him coming down the street in the real world, you’d probably laugh. In context, though, on the comicbook page, his outfit works. It’s absolutely right. He’s scary and badass and you wouldn’t fuck with him. It’s all about the visual, you see. Draw a superhero properly, and he becomes credible. Give him the look he needs, and everything else takes care of itself. That’s the magic of comics. Oh. I’m boring you. Nerd talk overdose.”

“No. No.” Aanandi had just stifled a vast yawn. “Not at all. It’s been a long day, is all. We set out at first light this morning, my local time. So it’s evening for me now and it’ll be midnight before we get in. You don’t mind if I grab a quick nap, do you?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Is there anyone you’d like to phone? Maybe you need to straighten out your domestic affairs, cancel the newspaper, whatever.”

“I would, only I left my mobile back at the flat. I was literally just popping out for five minutes.”

“That’s all right. There’s a sat-phone handset beside you. See it?”

“Why do I need to phone someone anyway? How long am I going to be away?”

“It depends. Not that long, necessarily. What about your cat? Someone should probably feed him.”

“You know I have a cat?”

“Zak, if you haven’t realised by now, there’s pretty darn little my employers
don’t
know about you. You’ve been thoroughly vetted. Just don’t tell anyone you call where you’re headed. Or, more importantly, what you’re heading there
in
. Got that?”

“Okay.”

I dialled my neighbour’s number. I wasn’t that much bothered about my cat, Herriman. He was a real Six Dinner Sid, known at most of the houses in my street and welcome in several of them, where titbits and even full-blown meals awaited him. He would never starve.

I felt enough of a duty to him, however, at least to make a show of seeing that he was looked after while his ostensible owner was away. Mrs Deakins, who lived on the floor above mine, was always prepared to nip downstairs and refill his bowl. She also liked to snoop around my flat, I knew. She was the archetypal busybody, forever poking her nose into other people’s affairs, and after her visits I always found stuff had been moved around, piles of magazines shifted, cushions out of place, that sort of thing. Me being an artist, she assumed all I did was drink, take drugs and hold licentious parties, and I’m convinced she was checking my flat for evidence every time she went in to feed Herriman.
¹

Mrs Deakins was out, so I left a message. Then I contemplated phoning Francesca. Hers was the only other number I knew by heart. In the old days you remembered countless phone numbers, didn’t you? They imprinted themselves on your brain through repetition. Then mobiles and contact lists came along, and we lost the knack fast. Didn’t need it any more.

Why ring Francesca?

Because it had been less than a month since she’d bailed out on me and taken home the few belongings she kept at my place. Because the wound was still raw but there was something compelling about probing it and feeling its shape and sting. Above all because I was on an adventure of some kind, I wanted to share it, and she was the person I’d grown accustomed to sharing with; she was the one I contacted whenever I had exciting news and couldn’t wait to tell it to somebody. It had been ingrained in me, during the two years we were going out. It was still hard to shake. Whenever I said to myself,
Wow, this is cool
, it would be closely followed by,
Must let Fran know
. And I was stuck in that pattern even now, even after Francesca had made it clear that she wanted nothing more to do with me, that she had wasted too much time on me and there had to be someone else out there for her, a man who would actually give a shit about her and not be so self-absorbed, so consumed by his own needs, that he barely noticed her unless it was convenient for him. I longed to hear her voice. I missed her. And all that time when we were together I had hardly paid her any notice, taking her for granted. Irony, no?

I didn’t ring her. Perhaps this was the time to make the break finally. Jetting through the ionosphere, sitting in my tin can far above the world like Major Tom. Let the slender fragile thread of connection snap once and for all and move on.

Aanandi was fast asleep when I next turned round to look at her. I rested my forehead against the small cold window and gazed out.

I stayed that way for the next four hours, and saw the terminator between day and night creep towards us and pass below, the countries becoming black shapes outlined by sparks of electric light, the seas turning into soft dark gulfs of nothingness. Mesmerising.

Aanandi woke up when the captain announced over the intercom that we were commencing our descent.

“Another half-hour,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” I replied with feeling.

“Sorry. Can’t really serve food in microgravity. We’ll get you something as soon as we land.”

“Sounds good to me.”

As the
Garuda
dropped towards the Earth, I felt heaviness settle back into my body. It was a bit like pins and needles.

Ten minutes out from our destination, the captain’s voice echoed round the cabin again. This time he wasn’t so silkily businesslike. There was an edge to his tone.

“Folks, it, ah, it appears we’ve drawn a bit of attention. Signals chatter from Masroor airbase indicates there’s been a launch. Couple of PAF Mirages have been scrambled and are heading on a course to intercept. We’re altering our approach vector but there’s not a lot we can do to avoid them, to be honest, if it’s us they’re after. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Shit,” I said. “What does that mean? Mirages as in fighter jets?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Aanandi said. “This has happened before. The Pakistan Air Force likes to keep tabs on us. They’re exceptionally inquisitive. They know the
Garuda
isn’t some commercial flight, and its suborbital trajectory puzzles them and concerns them. They’re paranoid about anything that comes near their borders and isn’t following a standard flight path through established air corridors.”

“But they won’t shoot at us or anything, surely.”

“Hard to predict. Try not to think about it.”

“Too damn late.”

“We’ll be fine. It isn’t the first time.” She patted my hand. I would have been reassured, had her palm not been hot and slightly moist. Aanandi herself was not as calm as she wished me to be.

The next few minutes were gnawing anxious agony. I peered into the blackness outside, searching for the telltale flash of aircraft navigation lights, perhaps an afterburner glow. I spotted a flicker in the far distance, but Aanandi reckoned it was just a jumbo bound for Karachi.

I gave a little jump when the captain next spoke over the intercom.

“We’ve definitely picked up a tail,” he said. “Eleven miles behind and closing fast. Likely the intention is to spook us, in which case the best plan is not to act spooked. They’ve no real reason to attack. It’ll probably just be a flyby, to let us know they’re watching, rattle our nerves. I’ve hailed base anyway and informed them of the situation. Let’s see what those fellas can do about it, eh?”

Up until that moment I had had our pilot pegged as an American, but his pronunciation of “about” –
aboot
– suggested he must in fact be Canadian. Somehow, irrationally, this was a reason to be hopeful. I couldn’t see a Canadian acting rashly or foolishly and endangering our lives. Canadians were safe and sensible and never took risks. I clung to the stereotype like a shipwrecked sailor to a lifebelt. Our captain would get us safely to the ground without a hitch, purely because he came from a country famed for its boringness. Talk about clutching at straws.

Less than a minute later, the sleek, hunched silhouette of a fighter jet drew alongside the
Garuda
, at a distance of, I estimated, a quarter of a mile.

Another joined it, on the other side of us.

Both Mirages kept pace, matching the
Garuda
’s gradual rate of descent. Their lights strobed busily, hypnotically, illuminating the contours of their wings and the ugly payloads that hung beneath.

I glanced at Aanandi.

She smiled.

“It’s going to be all right, Zak. Trust me.”

I wished I knew her well enough to believe her.

Then the Mirages withdrew, pulling back, out of sight.

Returning to base
, I thought,
mission accomplished
.

Relief flooded me like chilled champagne.

“Ahem,” said the captain. “Hate to say this, folks, but it’s not looking good. Couldn’t raise either of the PAF pilots on the radio. Hailing them, but they’re flat-out refusing to respond. And now they seem to be lining up behind us in formation so as to...”

“To what?” I asked, not that he could hear. I wasn’t anywhere near the intercom button.

“Yeah, ah, seems like we now have a semi-active radar target lock on us,” the captain said. “They’re carrying Sidewinders, so... Better hang on back there, eh? This might get bumpy.”

¹
Once, when I went to New York for a week of publisher meetings, I deliberately didn’t tidy away a half-smoked spliff, just left it sitting in an ashtray so that Mrs Deakins could have something to confirm her worst fears. You have to throw a dog a bone every so often, don’t you?