The Rift Rider
Authors: Mark Oliver
By Mark J. Oliver
Copyright © Mark J.
Oliver 2014
Mark J. Oliver has
asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988
to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work
of fiction. Any resemblance between these
fictional characters
and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is sold
subject to the condition that it shall not,
by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out
or otherwise
circulated without the publisher's prior
consent in any form
of binding or cover other than that
in which it is
published and without a similar condition,
including this
condition, being imposed
on the subsequent
purchaser.
For Victoriya
"He's not
coming," the woman said, shifting in the co-pilot's chair. The seat had
grown as hard as rock. She wore a pilot shirt that finished an inch above her
navel, struggling to cover her swollen belly. Under the stretched blue skin
kicked her unborn child. She was eight months along and the child was growing
restless.
"He'll come," the pilot said, placing
his silver hand over hers and squeezing softly. "He needs us as much as we
need him."
She moved her
lover's hand over her belly. "Do you feel that? The child wants out. If we
don't get through the Pass soon, we'll be having the baby right here."
"The
pathfinder will come," he repeated.
She stared out
at the Wrake Pass, her eyes fixing on some indeterminate point in the middle of
that vast emptiness. She tried to push the dark thoughts away and focus on the
life that lay ahead of them; a life free from tyranny and persecution. It was
so close she could almost reach out and touch it.
Beside her, she knew her lover was
thinking the same.
But first they
needed to cross the Pass and for that they needed the pathfinder.
And so they
waited, each praying the red man would keep his word and guide them through the
emptiness to the safety of Poklawi, the exile moon beyond it.
Despite the
discomfort and stabs of anxiety she fell asleep. She dreamt of the child within
her.
When she woke,
stirred by the steady beeping of the ship's computers, she had already
forgotten the dream.
The incessant
droning and the cramp in her back made her wince. She rubbed the sleep out of
her eyes and looked at the screen. What she saw made her blood run cold.
"Wake up,
Heilo," she said, shaking the man beside her. "Wake up."
He opened his
eyes and looked at the cockpit screen. It showed two blue specs, one considerably
larger than the other.
"A
Corporation destroyer," he said, his voice taut.
"Then, it's
over."
He turned to
face her. The bright screen made his face glow even more silver. It wore a look
of defiance. "No."
The woman
swallowed, and reached out for his hand. "If we stay, they'll take us
alive so they can publicly torture us back on Seenthee." She paused.
"But if we go through the Wrake Pass without the pathfinder, we'll vanish
like the others. Either way, we're dead."
"No. There's
another way."
She looked at
him, a question in her eyes.
"The
device," he said. "I should be able to hold a rift open long enough
for us to pass through. I can programme it to send us out on the other side of
the Pass, near Poklawi."
She eyed the
approaching destroyer on the screen. "Is it safe?"
He cleared his
throat, and said, "I don't know."
She shook her
head. "And that's our only hope?"
He reached out, held
her chin in his hand and raised her face to his. He still has such soft hands,
she thought. I wonder if all silvers do.
"Trust
me," he said. "I can do this."
She looked
straight at him. His green eyes glowed with quiet certainty. "You're a
lunatic, Heilo Krest. But I love and if you say we have a chance, then that's
good enough for me."
He smiled, leaned
in and kissed her hard on the mouth. She kissed him back harder.
While her lover
fiddled and tweaked the device, assembling and attaching it to the small ship's
engines, she kept vigil over the ship's screens. Slowly and steadily, the
destroyer closed in on them. It had their scent now. As long as they stayed
outside the Pass, they were as vulnerable as a new-born baby.
She stroked her
stomach, and silently prayed that her lover knew what he was doing.
By the time he
had finished installing the device into the ship's engine systems. She could
almost sense the target drones heading towards them, sending their beeped
messages back to the destroyer's energy cannons, no doubt set to incapacitate.
The destroyer would pull them back to where the Corporation's finest torturers
lay in wait.
"They're
almost on us," she said.
The silver man
looked up from the mass of cables and wires in his lap. "They're too late.
It's ready."
He held up a
palm-sized slab. Waves of white light rolled across its dull blue surface.
At that moment
the ship's alarm systems sprang to life. The target drones had locked onto
them. The incapacitating pulse would come any second.
She took once
last look at the empty space in front of them and then wrapped her arms around
her lover's neck. "Do it."
The surfer ran
his hand through his hair, pushing back the loose brown strands, revealing eyes
that sparkled green under the midday Balinese sun.
He let the first
wave pass. A local kid seized the moment and took off on it. As the tanned
youth raced across the wave, his legs pumping, the surfer smiled. The next wave
was his.
He took a deep
breath, and thrust his arms into the water. The water felt cool and fresh
against his bare skin. The instant he felt the rear of the board rise, he gave
two powerful strokes and then leapt up, his feet landing with a soft thud on the
board.
He adjusted his stance, shifting his
weight onto the board's tail. A quick thrust and twist of the hips brought him into
the centre of the wave just in time to duck under its cascading tip.
He ducked low and
grabbed the rail to greater balance himself against the rushing water. His
rigid supple body flexed with excitement as the barrel enveloped him.
As the water
rolled over him, he silently counted off the seconds. Ahead of him, through the
teardrop at the end of the tube, the blue of sky and ocean merged to become
one.
Seconds later,
he came thundering out of the tube to a chorus of cheers. He turned to face the
beach. Row after row of girls, bikini clad and beautiful, jumped and waved,
their exposed curves rippling and bouncing. They were screaming something.
The surfer
strained to hear what they were calling. He smiled. They were calling his name:
Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.
"Charlie.
Hey, Charlie Scott. Snap out of it. Hawk Insurance doesn't pay you to
daydream."
Charlie
refocused his eyes and found he was staring straight at the paisley shirted
chest of his boss, Mr Colddown.
He looked up.
Two flared nostrils, each with a veritable forest of nasal hair sprouting from
them, greeted him.
To the army of
black hairs, he said, "I'm sorry, Mr Colddown."
"You've
been sitting there, staring vacantly into space for the last ten minutes. I
think it's about time you got some work done, don't you?"
The words came
flowing out in a Welsh accent so thick it made Tom Jones sound like an Eton
scholar. Not that he minded the accent. The prospect of buxom Welsh girls with
their singsong voices had been one of the deciding factors when choosing to
study in Swansea. But the days of chatting up Welsh honeys in the student union
seemed a distant memory right now.
"Sorry,"
Charlie repeated. "I just kind of drifted off there."
"Well,
drift on back. Those customer application forms won't input themselves."
Charlie stared at
the pile of papers stacked up on his desk, his spirits sagging.
"If you
don't get them done by five," the nostrils continued, "you'll have to
stay after work. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Mr
Colddown," Charlie said, turning away from the nose. He made a show of
typing in the details of a new customer into the company's database.
The nostrils and
the grey man attached to them hovered at Charlie's shoulder, saying nothing,
watching him input data onto the green black screen. Finally, the manager
muttered something about monkeys and peanuts and then waddled away, his fat
bottom trembling in his too tight trousers.
"Wanker."
Charlie masked the word in a cough. It rang out clear enough for those around
him to hear, but with enough vagueness so that the departing manager had an
element of doubt about whether he had been insulted or not.
Charlie sighed,
and leaned back, tilting the chair onto its back legs. The cheap plastic
creaked but held firm. For a while, he rocked back and forth on the two legs.
Then he decided to face the inevitable and get back to work.
He brought the
chair down with a soft thump and, wondering how much time he had left, pulled
away the post-it note covering the clock in the corner of his screen. He had
put it there to stop himself from looking at it every five minutes. When he
peeled it back, he let out a moan.
13:35.
It had been
eighteen minutes since he last checked, but it felt like eighty; eighty minutes
of tortuous boredom, death by paperwork.
"Old
Coldbones on your case again, I see."
Charlie looked
up in time to see the heavily pimpled face of Tim Davies emerge periscope like
from from behind the opposite computer. The two men had been mates ever since
the Swansea University placed the two wide-eyed, spotty eighteen-year olds in
the same six-roomed flat.
In the four
years since, Charlie had graduated, moved out of student halls and lost his
spots, but the pair of friends remained as close as ever. Whether on the rugby
field of their local club, in the Gower surf breaks or in the dreary corridors
of Hawk Insurance, the two of them always looked out for each other.
"As ever,"
Charlie said, shaking his head ruefully. "I think he's got a thing for me.
Doesn't the poor bastard know I've got a missus?"
"It's not
your heart he wants Charlie, it's your soul."
Charlie laughed.
"Just that?"
Tim had a way of
making him feel better about things.
"Eleven
months you've been temping here," Tim said, waving his finger,
"teasing him with your monthly extensions. You slut. Didn't you promise to
sign on full time last year?"
Charlie
shrugged.
"Look. Keep
your promise and go full time. I guarantee you, he'll be a lot nicer."
Charlie said
nothing, and leant back on his chair.
"Serious,
mate. Do you ever see him have a go at me?"
He was right,
Charlie knew. The boss let Tim get on with his work, and even let the joking
around slide, most of the time.
Charlie dropped
the feet of his chair back on the ground. "Tim, you know why I haven't
gone full time."
Tim grunted, and
said, "Yeah, the surf trip." He said surf trip while holding his
fingers up like rabbit ears. "You've been talking about that since before we
graduated. Let it go mate, it's never going to happen. A year from now, you'll
still be sitting opposite me, inputting data. Only, if you accept your fate and
sign on full time, you'll be getting paid double."
Charlie slumped in
his chair.
Tim must have
seen the look on his face. He tried to shift the conversation in a more upbeat
direction. "Come on, Charlie. Cheer up. This is a good company. The work
may be dull as bog water, but with your smarts you could easily work up the
ladder. If you set your mind to it, in five year's you could be in Coldbone's
office."
Charlie frowned.
He preferred it when Tim was trying to make him feel bad. "Is that the
most we can hope for?"
"Mate."
Tim had a way of lengthening a word whenever he had a point to emphasise.
"Look at the economy. We're bloody lucky to be working as it is. Most
graduates are living at home, getting seventy pounds a week on
Jobseeker's."
"Maybe
media studies grads," Charlie said.
"Hey, fuck you
man."
Charlie laughed.
He loved winding up his friend about his choice of degree. "Come on mate.
Don't be so touchy. Anyway, being on benefits wouldn't be too bad. We could
spend every day surfing."
A warning cough
echoed across the office. Mr Colddown stood, glaring at them from inside his
cubicle.
Tim ducked
behind his screen, and said, in as soft a tone as he could manage, which was
not very, "Still on for a sunrise surf tomorrow?"
Charlie cringed.
"Sorry mate. Amy called. She wants to meet up. I thought I'd cook her
dinner in the van and then bring her home for the night." Charlie coughed.
"She won't want to get up early on the weekend."
Tim groaned.
"But you promised."
Charlie clenched
his teeth together and raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry mate. She said she
wanted to talk about something. What could I do?"
Tim shook his
head. "You're so un-bloody-reliable."
"Hey. I'm
still up for the rugby." He glanced over at his boss. Coldbones shot him
"get to work" a look. Charlie made a big deal out of stacking the
pile of papers on his desk. "Who are we playing, again?"
"Tondy."
This time it was
Charlie's turn to groan. "Those valley commandoes?" The last time they
had played up there, he had come back battered, bruised and with bits of him in
pieces. He ran a finger along the edge of his jaw remembering the punch his
opposite number had given him after a teammate had let slip about Charlie's
English origins.
"On the
plus side," Tim said, a smile in his voice, "they always provide free
sausages and chips and a pitcher of Brains after the game."
"True,"
Charlie agreed.
The rest of the afternoon
passed so slowly at times Charlie feared he was actually moving backwards in
time. For every two minutes forward, he took a minute back. He half expected to
lift his head be called in for the horror that was the Friday morning
teambuilding meeting.
But eventually
the day came to a close. The Friday evening shiftlessness began to pervade the
office as the staff sniffed the freedom of the approaching weekend. When Charlie
peeled away the post-it note, the clock read 16:51. Nine minutes to go.
He smiled. Two days of surf, rugby,
drinking and shagging awaited him. He could almost taste the beer.
He stretched his
arms high above him, yawning happily. At this time on a Friday, even Coldbones
had his mind on other things.
Charlie shut
down his computer and crammed the application forms into his drawer. As he
packed up, his mind grew clearer, more awake. His body lost some of the
tiredness it had carried through the day, an unwanted passenger that had crept
aboard when the alarm clock had gone off.
Within thirty
seconds of the office clock striking five, Charlie and Tim were striding
through the building's front doors, having successfully avoided several misguided
attempts at conversation from colleagues. They stepped through the doors with
smiles on their faces. A machine gun volley of raindrops shot down their grins.
Charlie brought his hands to his face. A
foolish move as this left the bulk of him exposed to the elements. The cold Autumn
rain soaked his shirt, and ran in streams down his trousers. He shivered and
wrapped his arms around him, turning his face away from the rain.
Beside him, Tim
stood wrapped up in his long coat, smirking. "I told you to bring your
jacket when we left home."
Icy water
sneaked down Charlie's collar. He twisted in the rain like an Indian dancer.
"It was nice this morning. "
Tim laughed.
"Four years in Wales, and you've learnt nothing."
Charlie looked
at the office behind them. If it was a choice between staying at work and
getting wet, there was only one real choice. He shrugged and strode out across
the car park.
Tim followed in
close pursuit. "Are you going to take Amy out in the love mobile in this?"
He said, shouting so to make himself heard against the wind.
Charlie nodded.
"It's cheaper than going to a restaurant."
The two men had reached their vehicles by
now. Tim stood beside his mud brown Ford Mondeo and Charlie beside his a
Volkswagen Kombi, glowing fluorescent green-yellow in the rain. He had yet to
get round to painting it a different shade than its former owner, his hippy weed
dealer, had elected for it.
"I guess
you'll sneak back into the house tonight," Tim said, getting into his car.
"I know she hates us."
"She
doesn't hate you. She's just shy."
Tim rolled his
eyes, and closed the door.
Charlie fished
about in his soggy trouser pockets for his keys. He found them, unlocked the
van door and climbed in. He took one whiff of the damp seat covers and wound
down the window. Rain was better than this stink.
After three
minutes flirtatiously coaxing the ignition, choke and clutch, the old German
engine fired up.
Charlie flicked
on the heaters and plugged in his I pod shuffle. The rousing strings of Tchaikovsky’s
third symphony came flowing out of the van's ancient speakers. Charlie closed
his eyes, took a breath of the Autumn air and put the love mobile in gear. The
van chugged out of the car park and into the weekend.
As he drove
along the winding country roads, the heaters blowing warm air against his
chest, he smiled. Cruising the South Wales roads enveloped in classical music
was one of Charlie's secret pleasures. If his mates knew about it, he would
never hear the end of it. Rugby players listened to rock, not Rachmaninoff.
Behind him lay
his pride and joy, his custom shaped single fin. He stole a glance at the dark
wooden board, custom made by Otter, the finest shapers in Cornwall. It had cost
him almost a grand, a mammoth chunk of his surf trip savings. But it was worth
it. The board rode like a dream.
He turned his
eyes back to the road and put his foot down on the accelerator pedal. A wave of
optimism hit him. He just knew in his bones that a great weekend lay ahead and
that despite his initial fears Amy would have some good news for him.
While he swerved
the van through rolling fields, he hummed along to the music, waving his right
hand out of the window, conducting the cows and sheep he passed on his way to
the Gower Peninsula.
