Fire Star (15 page)

I
don’t get this,” said David, leaning back in his chair.

Liz looked up from her ironing. “Get what?”

“It’s been three days since I made Gollygosh and all he’s done is mend … trivial things.”

Liz stood the iron on end. She folded Lucy’s best pajamas and smoothed the last crease with a rub of her hand. “That depends on what you see as trivial,” she said, stretching a T-shirt across the board. Lucy’s favorite.
Save the red squirrel.
She paused a moment in contemplation. Gwillan, thinking this was a cue for action, warmed the flat surface of the iron with his breath. Liz thanked him and continued with her chores.

“I didn’t mean to imply …”

“What?” she said, without looking up.

I didn’t mean to imply that what you’re doing is trivial,
David thought. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Every day he watched Liz going through the motions of being a good and caring mother, washing clothes for her daughter, tidying her room, setting a place for Lucy at breakfast. None of it mattered, in a physical sense. It was simply her way of filling up the emptiness. He cautioned himself to be careful what he said.

“Yesterday, for instance, he tuned my guitar. Gretel flew past it and made the strings hum. Golly magicked up a tuning fork from his toolbox, then put the guitar in tune by clutching the strings and changing their resonance. He didn’t even need to turn the machine heads. It was amazing. I could make a small fortune out of him.”

Liz sprayed a little water over the T-shirt. The excess caught Gwillan, making him sneeze. “He’s not here to make you rich.”

“I know that. But what is he here for? I made him at the dragons’ request because that’s what G’reth had told them we needed. I grant you, Golly is extremely
talented. We can now get Channel five very clearly and my computer is completely free of viruses, but how is that helping us with Lucy or Zanna? Or Zookie even? When is something important going to happen?”

Liz pressed on the iron with added weight. “David, when are you going to learn? These dragons act when the universe moves them. You’ve seen what Golly does. He puts things right. In time, who knows what he’ll do? Be patient, and proud; he’s a wonderful creation. Have faith. We’ve yet to see the best of him, I think.”

At that moment the cat flap rattled and Bonnington oozed in carrying a broken black feather in his mouth. He leaped up onto the kitchen table, leaving wet and muddy paw prints over the surface. He dropped the feather by David’s hand.

“Thank you,” said the tenant. “Didn’t know you worked for Postman Pat?”

“Oh, Bonnington,” Liz chided, turning for a cloth.

David picked up the feather and twiddled the shaft. “Where’d you get this?”

A-rowww,
yowled Bonnington and shook himself
dry. It had been snowing since dawn and the big brown tabby was glistening with flakes.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Liz cried, as bullets of water patterned her ironing. “David, dry him off. Before he drowns us all.”

David leaned backward and pulled several sheets of paper towel off the roll. Bonnington, who always enjoyed a good rub, purred like an overworked refrigerator pump while the tenant drew the dampness out of his fur. “This is strange,” he said, nodding at the feather. “I wonder why he’s brought me this and not secreted it away in the garden like he usually does?”

“Cats and snow don’t mix,” Liz said, checking through the pile of clothing for casualties. “Maybe it’s a present from Snigger and Caractacus.”

“Maybe it is,” David muttered, leaning forward. “I saw Caractacus the other day. I asked him to go and find Zanna for me.”

Liz paused and looked across the ironing board at him. “Well, maybe he’s succeeded. Perhaps that’s a sign
to say she’s alive. Put it under your pillow. Dream of her.”

“I do. Every night.”

Liz paused, then picked up her iron again.

David stroked Bonnington and changed the subject. “He’s very matted again. Here, look, and here, around his back legs.”

Liz frowned at the knotted, slightly tacky clumps of fur. “Hmm. I don’t know what’s the matter with him lately. He’s not looking after himself like he should. He’s spilling his food from his dish a lot as well. Might take him to the V-E-T for a checkup.”

“Why don’t we try an experiment instead?”

“This is a house, not a lab.”

“I’m serious, with Golly. So far all we’ve done is sit back and watch him. Why don’t we see if he does things to order?”

Before Liz could contest it, David had sent Gwillan to find the healing dragon. The little puffler zipped away down the hall and was back in twenty seconds,
with Gollygosh and Gretel (who had not left Golly’s side since the day he’d been kilned) in tow.

Golly landed on the ironing board (making Liz tut and plonk her hands on her hips).

“Bonnington’s not well,” David told him, without being too specific. He was keen to see if the healing dragon’s powers of analysis worked as well with living creatures as they clearly seemed to do with inanimate objects.

Gollygosh pricked up his ears and looked acutely at Bonnington. He put down his toolbox, but for once it did not open.

“Off,” Liz said, ushering Gretel and the healer off her board. Golly flew to the table and sat between David and the cat. Bonnington, who had never been entirely sure of the scaly little creatures which flew around his house, looked down his nose and twitched a whisker. Something in the dragon’s gaze caused him to gulp, and he flexed his jaw awkwardly, dribbling saliva from the corner of his mouth.

Golly reached out and caught a drip.

“Ugh, don’t drink that,” David said parentally, as the dragon stared round-eyed at the drool. Then he saw what Golly could see and his mood changed completely: The spit was glowing purple.

“Hey, Liz, come and take a look at this.”

She was folding some clothes, but turned back in time to see Gretel conversing with the healer, then the pair of them whizzing off up the hall. “What was that about?”

“I don’t know,” David said. “Something’s up with Bonnington.”

Liz wiped his chin. “He’s slobbering a lot.”

“The dragons took a sample. It was glowing — purple.”

Liz sat down and pulled the tabby to her lap. “It must be the icefire he swallowed.”

David thought back. During their battle with Gwilanna the cat had consumed a large amount of Liz’s “special dragon ingredient.” At the time, he had seemed unaffected by it. Now he was really bubbling with the stuff. “I don’t think Golly healed him. You’d better call the vet.”

“I’m not entirely certain he’s ill,” Liz said. “I’m more concerned about why those dragons wanted that sample….”

The telephone rang, quickly ending her speculation. She let Bonnington go and picked up the cordless set. “Hello? Oh — yes. He is back from the Arctic. Slightly earlier than expected. Would you like to speak to him?”

Who is it?
David mouthed.

Liz put the phone on mute. “Dilys Whutton, from Apple Tree Publishing.”

David pulled a face. “Tell her I’m out.”

“Da-vid?”

“Please, Liz. I’m not in the mood. Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow. Please?”

Liz opened the airwaves again. “I’m sorry. He’s not in his room. I think he’s probably slipped out to college. Shall I ask him to call you —? Er, yes, you could try again later if you like. He’s usually home around five. That’s fine. I will. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“Thanks, you’re a hero.”

“No, I’m a villain.
That
was very naughty, David.”

“I know. I know. But she’ll talk about bears and that’s just going to remind me of Zanna.” He stood up, turning the feather in his hands. “I’m going out, in case she calls back early.”

“In this?” Liz gestured at the snowbound garden.

David put the feather in an old fruit bowl where Lucy collected pebbles and pinecones. “I could use a walk. Anyway, I’m s’posed to be in college, remember?”

T
he Geography department was practically deserted. Four students were playing pool in the lounge and the woman who ran the
Goodtime
snack bar was wheeling a rack of drinks and candy into a back room before locking up. Guessing that most of his friends were in a lecture, David clattered downstairs to the student pigeon holes. There was a small stack of mail for him: course notes and the regular flyers; a letter from home, which he slipped inside his jacket; an invitation to join the drama society (he scrunched that up); a reminder from the library regarding an overdue book; and two circulars wanting to sell him insurance. Then, sandwiched in between the junk, he found one of the dark green envelopes the college used for internal mail. Inside
it was a short, handwritten note.
I’ll be here Friday till 3 p.m., Room 441. Anders Bergstrom.

Friday. Today. David dashed a look at the clock above the dining hall. Two thirty-five.

He hit the stairs.

Forty seconds later he was opening the door of 441 ahead of Bergstrom’s casual, “Come in.”

The room was cold and narrow, the atmosphere not helped by paintwork resembling the inside of an eggplant. Bookshelves filled the left-hand wall. An uninspiring beech-colored desk stood opposite. Bergstrom was sitting in a cheap, padded chair, his blue eyes fixed to a laptop screen. In profile, he seemed to look younger, David thought. His honey-blond hair fell in waves to his shoulder. Any eighteen-year-old guy with an eye for a girl would have paid good money to have half the stubble on the scientist’s chin. He was dressed, as usual, in a light cotton shirt, open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves. His shoes had been kicked aside, under the desk. All the extremities could breathe, it seemed. “I take it you got my note?” He waggled a finger at the
only other chair, a standard-issue, salmon-colored, two blocks of foam job.

David stretched his fingers to their fullest extent, a technique that was supposed to release sudden tension. Supposed to. “Where’s Zanna?” he demanded.

Bergstrom continued to type, his hands moving with surprising speed across a keyboard far too compact for them. “Have you come here to fight or to talk to me, David?”

“I want to know where my girlfriend is and when you intend to bring Lucy home from the Tooth of Ragnar.”

Bergstrom made a few precise clicks with the mouse. In the window recess, an inkjet printer rattled awake and whisked its printhead from side to side. “Last night, I went to see Zanna’s parents. I told them what you already know. Zanna is missing.”

“That’s a lie.”

The padded chair swung through an even arc. Bergstrom stared at his wayward student with a gaze that would have mesmerized a lesser creature. “As far as
they and the college are concerned, it’s the only acceptable truth — and you will say nothing to the contrary.”

“Are you
threatening
me?”

“No, I’m trying to save you from appearing foolish. I have two eyewitnesses who will testify to the fact that Suzanna Martindale was surrounded by polar bears and disappeared in a sudden whiteout. Any rational thinking person will come to the conclusion that the girl was savaged and dragged into the ocean. Anything else would be a miracle. And miracles don’t happen to most people, David.”

“Says the man who abducted her or probably arranged it. Where
is
she, Dr. Bergstrom? Tell me the truth.”

The printer whirred. With a clatter of parts it pushed out a single sheet of paper. Bergstrom studied it as he spoke: “In an Inuit settlement, with Tootega.”

David closed his eyes to shutter his relief; the accompanying anger was harder to stifle. “Doing what?”

“Preparing — for February, as you should be. Look at the screen.”

There were graphs there. Complex scatterplots. David shook his head, too irritated to study them.

Bergstrom put the printed sheet into his hand. “This is the result of your research in Chamberlain. It’s a graph predicting the effects on the polar ice cap of a three-degree rise in local temperature.”

David glanced at it grudgingly and shrugged. “Total meltdown. This is old news. We already know this will happen if we don’t stop destroying the ozone layer.”

“Look at the timescale.”

David steered the graph around to read the “y” axis. Where he expected to see years marked off in decades, he saw weeks. He shook his head again. “This doesn’t make sense. We can’t reach crisis greenhouse conditions in a period spanning four and a half weeks. What could possibly cause such a sudden, massive rise in temperature?”

“An influx of dragons,” Bergstrom said.

There was an in-box on the desk. David dropped the graph into it.
“Dragons?”
he said, stressing the plural. “I thought our problems ended at Gawain?”

“So did I.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bergstrom closed the laptop down. “In mid-February, Gwilanna will attempt to raise Gawain from the Tooth of Ragnar. She must be stopped.”

David bobbed his head. “Yeah, well, the sight of a dragon tearing through the clouds is going to freak a few people out, I guess.”

“Gwilanna is thinking wider than that. I believe she is planning to use Gawain as a signal to attract more dragons back to Earth.”

“Where from?” said David, with a skeptical frown.

“An invisible universe,” Bergstrom said plainly, “governed by the laws of dark matter.”

A fluorescent strip light flickered uncomfortably. David, struggling to take this in, managed to mumble, “How do you know this?”

“Through your wishing dragon.”

“G’reth? He’s been in contact with you?”

“He’s been working with me. Our paths crossed during our search for understanding. G’reth has journeyed
to the heart of the stars and made some incredible discoveries, David. He has validated the theories of quantum physics and returned with knowledge of the Earth’s beginnings.”

“And what’s this got to do with invisible universes?”

“Everything,” Bergstrom said. “This planet was once a seeding ground. A small, but significant, hatching place for dragons. Water at its surface, fire at its center, layers of clay and earth between. There were many such places across the universe, but this was one of the favored ones.”

“Favored? Who by?”

“A transdimensional race called the Fain. G’reth made contact with a young Fain being and from it learned everything I’m teaching you now.”

David couldn’t help but splutter with laughter. “G’reth watches TV at home, Dr. Bergstrom. His favorite program is
Star Trek: Enterprise.
I know he can touch the shadows of the universe, but maybe he’s gone too far? Too boldly?”

Bergstrom smiled but refused to submit. “According to G’reth, the Fain revere dragons. They believe that the world was created by one. Their homeworld was once a paradise for them, but they are dying out there, and G’reth could not establish why.

“Now, listen to me carefully, David, for this affects all that we do. According to G’reth, the Fain were here at the dawn of
Homo sapiens,
intending to colonize fully one day. But something went wrong. Some giant cosmological event disrupted space and closed the link, leaving a number of survivors behind. Gwilanna is one of them.”

A chasm opened in David’s chest. “You said the Fain were transdimensional. Gwilanna’s got physical form.”

“The body you see is not the Fain, merely the shell of the woman it invaded.”

“They can
possess
you?”

“They commingle. G’reth’s word, not mine. After centuries fusing with skin and bone, Gwilanna may have settled and become quite fixed. However, she has
not lost sight of her ancestry and in February, on our planetary calendar, she will have the chance to make contact with her own.”

“The fire star?”

“Yes. After millions of years, it has finally found alignment with the Earth again. When it reaches its zenith it will open a portal, a wormhole if you like, into the realm of dark matter, into the world of the Fain. Gwilanna could then do one of two things: travel through the portal to rejoin the Fain or call any number of dragons to Earth, using Gawain as a beacon or lure. We cannot take the risk of the latter option. If dragons breathe their fire across the Arctic again, the consequences will be catastrophic.”

A flurry of snowflakes fluffed through the window, diverting David’s attention for a second. He watched the flakes thaw against the warmth struggling out of an air-conditioning vent. If the Arctic ice cap was to do something similar, sea levels would rise and the time of the great white bear would be over. “I agree it’s not
desirable to have dragons causing global hysteria, but their fire would still be a pinprick in the atmosphere. No worse than a hot-air balloon going over. Why should that wreck the northern biome?”

The padded chair creaked as Bergstrom leaned back. “Your studies on beryllium 10 should have told you that thousands of years ago atmospheric conditions were far more stable than they are today. Back then, dragons could expel their fire without fear of causing environmental damage. Now, with the ozone layer badly weakened, the combination of heat and chemical elements would be cumulative and toxic.”

“Then why are you allowing Gwilanna to meddle? Why don’t you move in and stop this now?”

“Because I want to encourage her to leave this planet. Gwilanna is a powerful, malevolent nuisance. Her ambitions, though worthy, are outdated and dangerous. When that portal opens I want her to see there is no hope of reestablishing a dragon culture on this planet and that she would do better returning to the Fain.

There are three ways we can bring this about. One of them will see Gawain put to rest; one will retain his stasis in stone.”

“And the other?”

“The other will end in his death. And if necessary, you will help me to achieve it.”