The SONG of SHIVA (16 page)

The dull navy and red Wessex coaches, well past their prime, were no longer a money-making proposition unless any number of corners were cut. Of those, maintenance was the first to suffer. When the train had slowed to a stop only minutes out of Reading and idled on the tracks for half an hour Lyköan suspected that lack of maintenance was more than likely the reason. The unscheduled stop was punctuated occasionally by repetitious apologies from the conductor, barely intelligible over the train’s crackling intercom.

“We are experiencing technical problems with the point system that we hope to correct shortly. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause our passengers.” Anywhere else on the planet this would have been followed by, “Thank you for selecting Wessex” or another similar affront. To his credit, the conductor had not embellished his apology.

The delay hadn’t bothered Lyköan in the least.
That’s what the luxury of six hours without a deadline will do for you
, he grinned.
I could get used to it.

The problem, whatever it had been, was eventually resolved and they were now barreling through open country at the maximum allowable track speed, thirty-five minutes late, but finally approaching their next scheduled stop, Newbury.

Leaving London had been a relief, the automatic weapon-toting police positioned at every street corner. Airports, railroad and tube stations, all public buildings for that matter, broadcasting repeated warnings that unattended baggage and packages of any sort would be removed by the authorities and immediately destroyed, CCTV surveillance cameras ubiquitous, protruding from every building corner and traffic signal. Their constant panning at uneven intervals had been distracting for Lyköan, but totally ignored by the native population. And though he hadn’t seen any, he knew that ever since
The London Incident
two years before, explosive “sniffers” were on guard at the entrances of most major buildings. A six block expanse in Bloomsbury, near where London University had once stood, was still off limits and uninhabitable.

Hope the police state doesn’t extend into the countryside
, he thought.   

After calling at Newbury and Hungerford, the train headed west along the River Kennet to Pewsey where the Innovac limousine would be waiting. From Pewsey, he’d be traveling through the successively smaller hamlets of Upavon, Netherdean, and Haldon Heath. The Pandavas estate stood a mile or so beyond the last, nestled along a country stream that flowed directly into the Avon. Continue down the road out of Haldon Heath and it was still a good ten-mile jaunt to Tilsbury, itself no more than a speck on even the most comprehensive map.

An attractive young woman passed his seat, heading towards the kitchen carriage. He stared wistfully after her. London’s current fashionable hair colorings had changed dramatically since his last visit. Other than shock white, which never seemed to go out of fashion, the former favorites of coal black and rust red had been replaced by peacock blue and emerald green. From every angle this woman’s iridescent reptilian highlights sparkled in the appealingly cropped cut, even more pronounced in her eyebrows and lashes.

Lyköan was happy to see that the English tart look was back in vogue ― and with a vengeance. Tight jeans designed by master engineers to produce the most provocative contours of feminine locomotion stirred him just as the designers had intended. But sadly, all the gorgeous young things with their shapely legs, poured into denim pants or soft skin exposed, extending from short pleated woolen skirts, seemed so cold and remote. Pouting full-lipped glossy mouths and just enough eye-catching décolleté plunging behind a diaphanous lacey ruffle to prove provocative, conjuring up a symphony of impure thoughts. He harbored no illusion that his yearning response was precisely the underlying fashion intent. Woefully unrequited, here and always.

Once she had passed to the next carriage he leaned back and closed his eyes.
To sleep, perchance to dream
...

The sun was high in the sparsely-clouded summer sky at 1:09 P.M. when the train rolled to a stop in the sleepy village of Pewsey. A black Rolls limousine stood by the curve in the station road, obviously out of place in the scattering of tiny silver wedge-shaped Vauxhalls and Fords that occasionally made their way down the town’s narrow streets. A uniformed driver stood at ease next to the vehicle observing the train without expression. As Lyköan stepped out of the car, the conductor warned, “Mind the gap.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Halcyon Camber :
The Baker’s Dream

Lyköan reined down hard, turning the horse’s head, forcing her to an ambling canter. High in the cloud-flecked sky, the afternoon sun was beating down fiercely. Dragging an open palm across his forehead, he leaned forward and rubbed the perspiration on the coarse saddle blanket. Once upright again, relaxing the reins, he let the mare have her head. She responded by immediately prancing off willfully across the emerald grass. He bore down harder, forcing the spirited animal to a halt.

Gulping down another lungful of autumn air, he expelled it forcefully. “What a hoot! Have to admit, I can’t remember anything so breathtaking since...” He paused, finishing the sentence with the first words that came to mind, “...I took that bullet back in Bangkok.” A self-conscious laugh followed. “I mean in taking my breath away,” he stumbled. “They’re not at all similar otherwise. Couldn’t be more different ― this one as exhilarating as the other was terrifying.”

It had been years since he had felt such exhilaration. Had the hasty addendum clarified the initial remark’s inane comparison? He was totally enjoying himself, the afternoon, all of life right now ― for the first time in a
long
time. Pulling alongside the other rider, a vision of flushed and breathless beauty, as ethereal as the scenery that surrounded her, he saw no hint of annoyance. Good.

Pictures like this deserve to be taken
, he thought, ignoring the unintended double entendre.
What I wouldn’t give for a camera right now.
He didn’t trust memory, had had too much experience with it and knew how easily it altered the moment, diffusing sensory data into a subjective pattern of neurons and locked synaptic transmitters. The whole process was sure to lose clarity over time ― and never improve upon even a single detail of the present reality’s perfection.

And it
was
perfect, except that his incision was killing him ― far worse than the dull ache on the train earlier in the day.
God, I hope I didn’t pull a stitch
. Although he hadn’t, the horserace from the brook below had not been run without consequence.

‘Pride surely cometh before a fall,’
he thought with a grimace.
‘Least I didn’t completely embarrass myself – fall off my horse or something. But damn it, I
did
lose
. 

“I gained the summit first, Mr. Lyköan,” Nora crowed, using his surname as an added barb. “What was our bet? Something about deflecting the spotlight tonight?”

“Sabotaging the circuit breakers, m’lady?” he replied, adding an exaggerated bow and sweep of his arm. “I might be able to handle that,”.

“That wasn’t the bet now, was it?” she reminded him.

Lyköan allowed the horses to walk a few paces before replying. Wrinkling his brow in mock confusion, he asked, “There was a bet?”

“Mr. Lyköan!” There, she’d said it again. “You’re a man of the world. I’m sure you’re familiar with the old adage that ‘it’s not a real horserace without a wager’.”

“Must have missed that one in all the―” 

The syllable hung in the air. Lyköan whistled two notes softly. He and Nora had been locked eye-to-eye for awhile, playfully sparring, oblivious of the grass covered hilltop ahead. What had stopped him in mid-sentence had looked like a natural rock outcropping from the crest of the hill, but as they approached now, turned out to be something else entirely ― a superlatively impressive Neolithic monument. Sometime in the distant past an enormous grey capstone had been raised and balanced delicately upon a triad of ten-foot tall bluestone pylons to loom imposingly at the summit of this hill.

An ocean of ideas begged for expression, but a whispered, “Extraordinary,” was all Lyköan managed to get out. It had been one feeble word too many. And the full palette of the English language wielded by an army of Shakespeares would have been too few.

Probably some great stone age chieftain’s burial monument
, c
left and raised by hands that never held a metal tool. His name, even his tribe,
Lyköan thought with genuine sorrow,
irretrievably lost.
The monument had eclipsed the man, leaving only this vague suggestion of forgotten glories.

‘O hear me, mortal. Know that fame is fleeting. Wealth and power dissipate. Beauty fades. The scattering winds blow ceaselessly into oblivion. Only Time and Space endure.’
Hecataeus had it right, Time eventually erases everything.

Lyköan felt weak, as though he had been cast adrift, all at once circling the rim of some mighty whirlpool, peering fearfully into its ravenous maw. And at the very bottom of the vortex lay universal sorrow.

Nora responded silently with a nod, acknowledging everything he
hadn’t
said. She too sensed that another word would disturb the silence ― be somehow sacrilegious. The colossal capstone cast a deep shadow upon the turf, filled with a cool darkness that she found strangely inviting. Completely transfixed, she imagined the breeze blowing through the apertures, playing the dolmen like an enormous instrument, the pitch of its single note far beyond the reach of human ears, yet appreciated by some other sense, one rarely stimulated in the modern world.

As she drew closer, a feeling of déjà vu welled up inside her. Had she seen these stones somewhere before? In a book or on television?

This seems so familiar
, she thought
, like I was standing right next to or walking past these very stones
―
and recently. But the light’s not right or something.

Trying to adjust the angles of sunlight and shadow, she slowly circled the megalith. Lyköan followed a few lengths behind her, rapt in the details of his own musings. Neither of them spoke, each attempting to resolve personal questions the structure had raised. 

Creeping into the hill’s lengthening shadow in the distance and far below, the other members of their party meandered single file along a tree-flanked stream. Although well within sight, Nora felt she was watching them through the wrong end of a telescope, this remoteness the difference between a thousand yards and five thousand years.

Beyond the line of riders, miles of rolling English countryside stretched to the horizon. Turning into the welcoming breeze, she let her sweat-slicked mount graze idly beneath her. Lyköan rode up to her side. They inhaled deeply, almost in unison. A flock of cackling starlings swept overhead and rushed down the slope of the hill. Fragrant nuances filled the air.

There’s still at least one corner of English Elysium left
, Nora thought.
I’m glad I got this chance to see it.

Lyköan was mulling thoughts about the place himself.
The perfect spot for a bodice-ripping romance
.
I can see the cover already, ‘The tawdry story of a winsome microbiologist and a delusional import-exporter.’
Some spell had obviously been broken. The thoughts that followed those of universal sorrow had somehow irrationally descended rapidly down this puerile ladder, becoming ever more salacious with each lower rung. While an entertaining and by no means worthless journey, it was a construct Lyköan couldn’t maintain for long.

Well, it might work as farce
, he thought with a rueful shake of his head.
Trying to separate the antipodes of cynicism from reverence and walk the narrow path of the latter was difficult enough, but entirely ignoring the former was impossible. Besides, cynicism was definitely the more amusing course. It also satisfied some essential element in his nature that reverential perception couldn’t approach.
Buddha help me, ’cause I can’t help myself.
He had known since adolescence that if nobility existed anywhere in his nature, it was alloyed with some baser material. If not, he reasoned, it would never have proven durable enough when put to the test. While hardly an original idea, it perfectly described the man he knew he was. No sense in trying to avoid who you are. Better that cynicism be nobility’s alloy than one of the capital vices. Well, that was the theory.

“So, can I count on you tonight?” Nora chortled. The dolmen’s captivating spell had evidently broken for her too.

“For what?”

“For winning our little wager.”

“You? The only winner here is that pony you’re riding,” Lyköan mocked with a poke at the stallion’s flank. “C’mon, it’s obvious my filly doesn’t possess the lineage of your noble steed. We never stood a chance.”

“Blaming your defenseless horse now, Lyköan? Do I detect the odor of a poor loser’s sour grapes?”

“It’s a noble rot, if you smell anything.”

“So,” Nora demanded, “You plan to
deliver
fair and square?”

Lyköan was confused. “Listen, I understand. Competition runs in my blood too ― though not quite as hot, I see. I intend to pay off. But what was our wager – exactly?” He had accepted the challenge only because in his entire life he’d never been able to turn one down.

“Like I said before I lit out ‘Last one to the oak at the top of that hill delivers my acceptance speech tonight.’ You raced, you lost, so unfortunately, you owe the payoff. How’s your speaking voice?”

She’s not serious?
he thought as his horse threw her head with a coincidental whinny, adding an equine laugh track to the suddenly more obvious hilltop burlesque. The mare stuttered back in the moist grass. He pulled down roughly on the reins to steady her and replied, “Look, I’m
really
lousy in front of audiences, okay? I’d embarrass us both.

“Anyway, every word I’ve heard since arriving here in Pandavasland has been the same. The whole damn world wants to hear from their medical Minerva, victress of the hour. Hail, holy queen! Wouldn’t be right to disappoint them.”

“A bet’s a bet’” Nora pressed. “You planning on welching?”

“They’d never accept a broken down stand-in like me.”

“You’d be a stand in, but ‘broken down?’”

“When the aristocracy pays their money they expects their headliner,” Lyköan offered. “Accept your sentence and let it pass. Why the reticence?”

“The aristocracy? You mean the hoi polloi. Anyway, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe not, but barring that, the best I can offer ― like I said before ― is to short a circuit and blow the lights. Not high tech, I admit, but effective. Unfortunately, after that we’d have to hightail it by moonlight or else I’m sure they’d still force you to give your ‘
I’ve got so many people to thank
’ speech – in the dark.”

“Well, the perceptive Egan Lyköan
does
understand,” Nora breathed with relief.

“Beg your pardon? Understand what?”

“That I don’t deserve the attention. If you were to list everyone who’s had a part in developing the TAI magic bullet, I’d be near the end of a mighty long list. Might not even
make
the list. In fact, other than not knowing why he’d do such a thing, I wonder if Dr. Pandavas doesn’t have an ulterior motive for making me the figurehead discoverer of a breakthrough
his
scientists developed. Even the WHO micro-team has been finessed into a sideline role. In a sentence, I don’t deserve the credit ― or the praise.”

“Maybe a case of false modesty?” Lyköan suggested.

“Not at all. I may not be responsible for the breakthrough, but I can understand how it was accomplished ― and I know I could never have come up with the mechanism on my own. Not in another dozen years.”

“You’re right about one thing. You’re the scientist. I’m not. I’ve got my own issues with Innovac. But like you, they’ve all broken in my favor, so how can I honestly complain?”

“Care to explain?”

“At the risk of exposing the magnitude of my personal shortcomings? Maybe, but only because I’ve made damn few friends so far in this debacle – and no one I entirely trust. Why not add another poison to the pot?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, mister. In return I’ll try to be less than a lethal dose.”

Lyköan was chagrinned. He hadn’t meant anything by the remark. “Okay, for starters, why is Innovac, one of the most successful pharma companies on Earth, wasting their time with a penny-ante operation like Lyköan IE? As you may have guessed, the name describes the outfit’s total payroll. Hell, we’re ― I’m using the imperial “we” now ― not even in their league. And yet they’ve kept me on, signed me to a lucrative contract, treated me like one of the family ― especially after I was shot. Hey, I don’t explain it, I take the money and do the best job I can.

“And while it may sound foolish,” he went on, “I’ve had no trouble chalking it up to, let’s see ― good karma? Someone or something up there,” he pointed a finger skyward, at the same time ducking like he expected a lightning bolt, “liking and looking after me? My ship finally coming in? You name it. But none of these explanations are credible. You see now? So like I said before…”

“You don’t look a gift horse ― like the one you’re riding ― in the mouth,” Nora interjected. “You take the money and don’t ask questions. Same as me. Only in my case I’m not being remunerated. So what’s happening to me is even more insidious. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out how I’m being harmed by it.”