Transmission: Ragnarok: Book Two (36 page)

‘Oh.’

‘My doctoral thesis was called
Torture, Sadism and the Birth of Neuroscience
. And then’ – she gestured at herself – ‘I became a Barbour socialite and fashion icon. Isn’t life strange?’

‘Is this some psych manipulation thing you’re doing on me now?’

Rhianna smiled.

‘Always,’ she said. ‘Do you feel better for having had breakfast?’

He understood enough basic psych to be sensitive to her intonation,
feel better
having the emphasis of a covert command.

‘I don’t
feel awful
, anyhow.’

Rhianna’s laugh sparkled, echoing from the quickglass surroundings.

‘I think you’d make a fine intelligence officer, Roger.’

‘I’m no longer sure that’s a compliment.’

‘Maybe it isn’t. OK, last thing, almost: the Zajinets have gone. I talked to them after yesterday’s events, and they summoned their ship – one vessel for all three of them – and disappeared. Before they went, they mentioned the darkness more than once, but not in any way that made much sense. You know what they’re like.’

‘Sort of.’

‘Plus I have my own bias, given that my uncle died fighting those bastards.’ She presumably meant in one of the occasional violent incidents that had broken out over the centuries without ever escalating into war. ‘But the Zajinets also asked whether we were staying, you and me, meaning Pilots. When I said yes, they said we should flee as well. That part was clear.’

‘They’re afraid of Helsen.’

‘And they see her the same way you do, Roger Blackstone. Infested with this darkness, and they even use the same word. So perhaps you’re not delusional after all.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Not that thinking like a Zajinet is anything to be proud of. Are you done?’

‘Sorry?’

‘With breakfast. Are you finished?’

‘Oh. Sure.’

She gestured and the table melted back into the floor, the crockery dissolving, organic leftovers digested by the quickglass.

‘Final item you need to know,’ she said. ‘If Helsen’s goal is to create another Anomaly, and if she has the means to do it, Zajinet-inspired or otherwise, then we have ten days to find her. You know about Conjunction, right? I mean, I gather you were shacked up with an older lover in Barbour. No better way to get to grips with local culture, is there?’

Roger looked at her, feeling not the slightest hint of blushing.

‘There was quite a lot of conjoining going on,’ he said. ‘I was too busy to pick up trivia.’

Rhianna gave a slow nod.

‘Noted. But you surely knew that sky-cities are always on the move, and that Deltaville’s giving birth to D-2 would normally be attended by more than just Barbour.’

‘Because all the cities are moving to this Conjunction, which is …?’

‘Exactly what it sounds like.’

‘Of course.’ He clasped his hands, interweaving his fingers as he used to do when Dad was thrashing him at chess or go. ‘Every city in Molsin’s skies coming together in one spot. Cultural interchange. Very natural.’

‘Happens every four standard years.’

‘Shit,’ he said.

‘Right. I don’t think the authorities quite appreciate what Helsen might do, or don’t believe what we’re telling them. The cities are far too independent of each other for effective action anyhow, despite Conjunction. At best we can hope they’ll give us the nod if surveillance spots her, and then I’ll set you loose.’

Roger stared at her.

‘Interesting wording,’ he said.

‘But you’re dying to kill Helsen, aren’t you?’

So it was not an illusion: he had changed, and she saw it too.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I think you should.’

Gavriela spent four days in Washington amid an absence of skyscrapers, talking to codebreakers working on Japanese naval ciphers. Then it was back to Princeton via train, thanks to Payne, where a student from the Institute of Advanced Studies met her at the station, rode with her in the taxi to Fine Hall where she left her bag, and walked with her to Nassau Street. They were in time to see two gentlemen perambulating towards them, one with the mane of white hair and farmer’s moustache, looking as if he were strolling through his olive orchard.

‘There they are, ma’am. You want I should introduce you?’

‘No need, thank you. The professor and I are old friends.’

‘You know Professor Einstein?’

Morning sickness and the train ride had kept her irritated, deprived of sleep.

‘Why else would they have asked you to take me here?’

‘I thought—’

‘I’m not familiar with Princeton, that’s all.’

‘Then, um … Do you want me to wait for you?’

He was gawky, the young man, embarrassed to have annoyed her, and uncomfortable in the proximity of the great men approaching. Gavriela realized she was behaving badly, and softened her voice.

‘You’ve been kind,’ she said, ‘but there’s no need.’

‘Um … OK.’

After the young man left, she waited, trying to force away the gritty, sleep-deprived feeling behind her eyes.

‘Gavi.’ Another familiarity, as if they had known each other for years. Einstein kissed her cheek, then continued in German: ‘Kurt, allow me to make introductions. Herr Professor Gödel, meet Fräulein Doktor Wolf.’

Those eyes that saw so deeply were twinkling as he added: ‘We’re discussing the existence or otherwise of time.’

‘In the context of entropy?’ she asked.

Gödel’s answer was in precise, logical German.

‘A lifeline is a fixed geodesic in a four-dimensional continuum.’

And every moment exists for ever, outside time-flow. She understood the concept, and why it appealed to anyone considering their own mortality.

‘There are six million murdered Jews,’ she said, not knowing where that number came from, ‘that you can’t have a conversation with now.’ She tried to soften her tone, but if anything her throat tightened even more: ‘I beg your pardon. I feel so stuck in the past at times.’

Either Gödel forgave her or he had no idea how to respond to such emotionalism, for the three of them began to walk, continuing the journey to Einstein’s office, while the two men brought her up to date on their discussion.

‘Kurt distinguishes coordinate time from what he calls Kantian or pre-relativistic time, and his cosmological model allows closed time-like curves.’

Gavriela did not think relativity had supplanted thermodynamics in any way, therefore hardly invalidating its implied arrow of time; but she said nothing as Gödel responded:

‘If you can return to the past then the moment has not truly passed. That is my point.’

‘Or send back information?’

‘Absolutely equivalent in the causative sense. Of course …’

The discussion grew ever more rarefied as they walked on to Fine Hall. After Gödel left to work by himself, Einstein led Gavriela into his office.

‘Kurt is trying to prove that God exists,’ he said. ‘By rigorous logic, I mean. Perhaps I am glad not to be a mathematician.’

‘You can see the darkness.’ When it came down to it, Gavriela had no idea what lay behind her visit to the States. ‘What is it, do you think? What does it want?’

The blackboard no longer showed the equation featuring the Λ constant that had caused him to pluck those disquieting notes on his violin.

‘I see it less well than you, I think, dear Gavi. And as for what “it” wants … ascribing goals to natural phenomena sits no better with me than trying to prove that if God is possible then He must exist in all realities.’

‘The key word there is “if”, isn’t it? Anyway, the darkness is an observed phenomenon.’

‘And acting in human affairs, or at least appearing to.’ His eyes glowed with their own deep lustre. ‘Does a phenomenon affecting human minds necessarily have a mind of its own?’

Gavriela was blinking, off-balanced.

‘Military men,’ he added, ‘need a definite target to aim at, or so I believe. I think our counter-conspiracy, if we even have one, will die out in the absence of clarity.’

After a prisoner in the basement of SOE Headquarters broke out using abilities that seemed almost mystical … perhaps Einstein was right. Whatever the SOE files said, the language would not reflect the reality. Unless people like Rupert back home, Oppenheimer in New Mexico and the great man here continued to talk about it and organize – what? resistance? – even the recognition that the darkness existed would eventually be forgotten.

Or perhaps that was a problem for future generations, while everyone currently alive needed to concentrate on the actual world around them.

Back home
.

A part of her realized that she had been thinking of England as home.

‘… may be a post available somewhere,’ Einstein was saying. ‘My word carries a little weight, you see, and I take advantage because it is necessary.’

She backtracked through his words.

‘I have to sail back,’ she said. ‘I don’t know … I just have to.’

Now the dark eyes shone with sadness.

‘I spent four good weeks there in Southampton, before I left for the United States. But I think … I think I will never leave the New World, now I am here.’

‘Perhaps you’ve gained more than you’ve lost.’

It was strange to be speaking to her idol in this way.

‘I hope so, Gavi. I hope so.’

Sickness defined her voyage home. Six ships in the convoy sank, broken apart by U-Boat torpedoes; survivors, plucked from row-boats, were looked after in the infirmary and its makeshift extensions: a ward room, a group of cabins, and another room whose original purpose Gavriela never discovered. She knew little of medicine, but helped where she could, even when that consisted only of throwing blood-soaked bandages into the wide, crashing sea, or emptying bedpans that carried the stink of infection as well as waste.

Docking was both anti-climactic and a life-changing relief.

Walking to her lodgings from Bletchley station felt surreal. But there, strolling ahead of her, was a familiar female figure, headscarf failing to hide the volume of her hair-perm.

‘Rosie!’

‘What? Gabby!’

They hugged.

‘I thought you weren’t due yet,’ Rosie added.

For a moment, Gavriela misunderstood, and put a hand on her belly.

‘Oh. Er … The convoy made good time. Saved a whole day.’

Partly from weather, partly because the slowest ships perished.

‘Well, come in and have a cuppa, won’t you?’

‘I haven’t had a decent cup of tea in forever.’

‘So come on, then.’

Rosie’s landlady, Mrs Lockwood, bustled around them making tea, then left them alone to catch up. They sat at the kitchen table, happy to see each other.

‘Oh, nearly forgot. If my head wasn’t attached …’ Rosie searched in her handbag, then came up with an envelope. ‘Special delivery. Hand delivered, don’t you know.’

Gavriela took the envelope.

‘Who’s it from?’

‘A certain gentleman called Brian, that’s all I’m saying.’ Rosie was smiling as she took a sip of tea, cup held in both hands. ‘I got the impression that my best friend Gabby hasn’t been keeping me up to date on gossip.’

‘We didn’t– It was very …’

It seemed even a pregnant woman could blush like a schoolgirl.

‘Well, I
thought
so. Seemed obvious enough from the way he shuffled his feet, even before I knew what was in the envelope.’

‘What do you mean? Oh.’ From the feel of it, it was obvious. ‘It’s a key.’

‘A front door key, no less.’

Rosie was giggling now.

Gavriela said, ‘And I suppose you know which door it fits?’

‘Your boyfriend’s gone and bought himself a cottage, hasn’t he? Thatched roof and rose bushes, you should see it. Well, I guess you will, won’t you?’

‘A cottage.’

‘Penworthy Lane, absolutely lovely.’

‘Well.’

Gavriela sat back in her chair, feeling queasy. Then she realized Rosie was staring down at her belly.

‘Er …’

Someone less thin would not have been showing, not this early.

‘A cottage.’ Gavriela put her hands on the nascent convex bump. ‘A nice place?’

‘Oh, my God, yes. It’s … Does he know?’

Rosie was smart, doing the sums in her head.

‘I only worked it out,’ said Gavriela, ‘when I was at sea. On the way over.’

Blinking tear-damp eyes, Rosie leaned over and hugged her.

‘Oh, well done.’ Then she held up the envelope that Gavriela had put down. ‘With a bit of luck, he might be home already.’

Gavriela could only nod.

It’s so fast
.