Weird Space 2: Satan's Reach (22 page)

She stood up and paced the bridge. “I have no guilt, Kreller, and I’ve
always
been attracted to small women – from the age of around twelve, okay? So you can stick your moralising psychology lessons up your arse, which can’t be any uglier than your fucking face, okay?”

“I seem in some way to have offended you,” Kreller said. “If so, then I apologise.”

Janaker stared at the Vetch. “And you call me strange?” she said. “I’ve had enough of this. Call me when we get to Vassatta.”

She hurried from the bridge and made for her cabin.

CHAPTER TEN

T
HEY CAME DOWN
slowly and made landfall at the ice-bound spaceport of Stromgard. As the docking ring clamped around the ship, making it clang like a struck bell, Harper and Zeela stood on the flight-deck and stared through the viewscreen.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Zeela said. “What’s that stuff falling through the air?”

“It’s called snow,” he said. “Frozen rain.” He smiled at her wondrous expression. “But then you’ve always lived on warm planets, haven’t you?”

She nodded absently. “I’ve never been cold in my life. I’ve read about it, of course.”

“Then you’re in for an interesting experience. Fortunately I have enough suitable clothing for both of us.”

The city of Stromgard and its adjacent spaceport sat in the middle of a vast plain that extended for thousands of kilometres in every direction. To north, south, east and west the icy wilderness was broken only by the occasional town and village. Harper wondered what kind of hardy soul would voluntarily sequester themselves so far from civilisation, and in conditions so inimical to human life. Existence in the capital itself was extreme enough, but to live out on the ice plains many hundreds of kilometres from Stromgard... Only a certain type of person would do that, he decided; people desperate for work, sociopaths, or those unlucky enough to be born out there and know no other way of life.

Stromgard itself was situated to the west of the spaceport, the city a series of monolithic, multi-storeyed granite buildings forming canyons at the bottom of which were the famed ice-canals. Orange lights glowed in a million windows, but even so the overall effect was one of bleakness. A greater contrast to their last port of call, the sunlit world of Teplican, Harper could not imagine.

He ordered
Judi
to arrange refuelling, and learned from the port authorities that they were tenth in line for that service and could expect a wait of at least eight hours.

“Which will give us plenty of time to do what we have to do here before phasing out,” he told Zeela.

“
Judi
,” he said. “Any sign of the bounty hunters?”

“They have recently phased from the void and are currently in orbit.”

“Okay... inform me if they make landfall.”

“The chances are, Den, that they would come down on the blindside of the planet.”

“I know, and that’s what worries me.”

He took Zeela to the storeroom, where he kept a wardrobe for every planetary temperature, and dug out a couple of snug body suits. Zeela, being so small, was engulfed in hers, and he had to roll up the legs and arms in order for her to wear suitable snow boots and big mittens. The effect was little short of comical.

“Are you sure,” she said as she trudged after him to the exit, “that this is really necessary?”

He turned to her. “Have you ever experienced temperatures of fifty below zero?”

“
Fifty
below?” She shook her head.

“It’s so cold that if you spat, it’d freeze on the way down and shatter when it hit the ground. Your eyeballs would freeze in their sockets.”

She stared at him, then asked, “And you say there’s no daylight on Vassatta?”

“Not during the hundred years of winter, no.”

“Darkness for a hundred years...” she murmured to herself.

He passed her a face mask and said, “Under no circumstances take it off outside, okay? Your face would freeze within seconds.”

She nodded and pressed the mask to her face, then pulled up her hood and fastened it around the mask. Only her big caramel eyes showed through the visor, watching him.

He donned his own mask and slapped the sensor on the bulkhead. The hatch slid open and a blast of icy air whistled into the ship. The port authorities had connected a catwalk from the top of the ship’s ramp to the terminal building, five metres above the grey sheet of ice that covered the tarmac.

They passed through customs in minutes and emerged into the city of Stromgard.

Zeela looked up. She pointed with a thick mitten, and Harper craned his neck. The buildings on both sides of the ice-canal seemed to go on for ever. High up, between the granite eaves, a strip of space showed a million scintillating stars.

There were few people abroad; Harper counted a dozen brave citizens, lagged like boilers, shuffling along raised walkways on either side of the ice-canal. Hard to believe that it was noon in Stromgard. At intervals along the ice-canal, flames flared at the top of high columns, providing light. Harper explained that beneath the northern plains was a vast reservoir of oil. “They’ve been drilling it for centuries and it hasn’t dried up yet.”

A silver, arrow-shaped sled drew up before them, its engine growling. They climbed into the rear and Harper relayed an address to the driver.

The motor powered up and they were off, the metal runners sending up a spray of silver ice shards on either side. They sat back and watched the inimical facades of the towerblocks strobe by, lit garishly by the open flames.

Harper couldn’t help contrast the city now, locked in deep winter, with the Stromgard he’d visited almost ten years ago. Then it had been late summer; the canals had been filled with water, busy with boats, and the mansions’ facades embroidered with thick rafts of an ivy-analogue shot through with bright crimson blooms.

“Bjorn runs a haulage business on the outskirts of Stromgard,” he told her. “He ferries goods and passengers to the outlying townships. He’s sometimes away for days. With luck we’ll catch him at home.”

“And do you think he’ll be interested in the engine?”

Harper shrugged, the gesture almost lost in the padded suit. “I’m sure he’ll take it off our hands. Whatever we make on it will be clear profit, after all. I’ll be happy with whatever I get.”

Zeela was silent for a time, then said, “I can’t wait to get to Kallasta.”

“It’ll certainly be warmer than this.”

She looked at him. “When do you think we’ll arrive?”

He thought about it. “It’s a couple of days away from Vassatta, and if we leave here later today...”

She nodded. “And then... what do you plan to do after Kallasta?”

He stared through the side-panel at the spray of macerated ice and, beyond, the sheer, dark walls of the buildings. “I have no set plans,” he said. “I’ll return to the core, tour the marts...”

She nodded again and fell silent.

Harper stared out at the passing buildings. Seen from above on their approach, the city resembled a discus, circular and raised in the centre. The mansions which occupied the inner city were taller than those on the outskirts, though the gradation was very gradual. The city was shot through with the radial spokes of the ice-canals, and like most cities across civilised space the outlying districts were given over to industry. Now they were passing dozens of low, dark warehouses, silvered by the abundant starlight.

They came to an intersection where six ice-canals met, and the junction was busy with traffic. Harper made out vast ice-liners piled with cargo, which spanned the breadth of the canals and moved with surprising speed. Barriers came down before the ice-taxi in order to allow a caravan of liners past, then lifted. The taxi started up again, crossed the intersection, then pulled into a slipway beside the main canal.

Harper paid the driver in local currency and helped Zeela out.

The Bjorn Halstead Haulage Company occupied a busy terminal building beside the intersection. Harper led the way into a garage lit by a central oil stove as big and hot as an open furnace. Mechanics serviced vehicles of all sizes, from two-berth sleds to triple-decker liners.

They crossed to a glass-fronted office and Harper asked after Bjorn.

A thick-set bearded man asked gruffly, “Your business?”

“If you could tell Bjorn that Den Harper would like to see him.”

“And your business?”

“Oh, tell him I’m here to sell him iced lemon sorbets,” he said.

Beside him, Zeela raised a mittened hand to her face mask and laughed.

The official glared at Harper, lifted an old fashioned phone and spoke briefly into the mouthpiece. Seconds later he pointed across the garage to a flight of wooden steps. “You’re in luck. He hasn’t set off yet.”

Harper thanked the man with exaggerated politeness and crossed the garage to the stairs. At the top was a tall timber door, and Harper was just about to lift the ornate knocker – in the shape of a Norse god’s headpiece – when the door was snatched open and a giant filled the threshold. The man looked like a figure from Norse mythology himself – perhaps Thor or Odin – a towering bear of a beast with long silver hair and a flowing beard.

He roared, “Harper! Lemon sorbet indeed! Come here!”

He towered head and shoulders above Harper and took him in a crushing embrace. He moved on to Zeela, who barely reached his ribcage, and thankfully adapted his greeting. He bent down and shook her hand, then stood back and welcomed them into his home.

They stepped over the threshold and peeled off their padded clothing. A great open fire burned in the hearth of the long room, and heavy timber furnishings – settees and throne-like armchairs – were piled with what looked like genuine furs.

Bjorn Halstead poured three mugs of rich, spiced coffee while Harper made the introductions. “Zeela is a friend, in transit to Kallasta,” he said.

“Ah, in transit,” Bjorn said; even his voice was larger than life, guttural and stentorian, each word like an axe biting into hardwood. “Which is how I met Harper when I left Vassatta five years ago. You see, every Vassattan must leave his homeplanet once in his life – on a pilgrimage called the harrassa – in order to see what lies beyond and so appreciate how wonderful Vassatta is. I was on the world of Kempsey, if I recall, and the local beer and bookmakers had conspired to rob me of my funds. Harper here, he kindly ferried me to Amethyst Station where I worked for a month to pay him back. And here you are again, five years later, to sell me lemon sorbet!”

Harper and Zeela sat on a cushioned settee before the blazing fire, but Bjorn strode back and forth as he spoke, taking great strides from the fire to the long window overlooking the ice-canal, and back again. It was a restless pacing Harper recalled from the haulier’s time aboard ship, when he had spun tall stories of life on Vassatta and his exploits on the out-flung ice-canals.

“But what is it you’re really here to sell?”

Harper produced a data-pin and tossed it to the giant, who slipped it into a wall console and read the result on a small screen. He strode to the window and stared out, his back to them.

Harper drank his excellent coffee and smiled at Zeela, who held her mug in both hands and took small sips.

Bjorn turned from the window. “I’m always needing engines. But the price?”

Harper suggested five thousand standard units – half the price he had asked of the merchant on Ajanta.

Bjorn roared, “But you’re almost giving it away, man!”

Harper smiled and recounted how he’d been duped by the Ajantan merchant but how, thanks to Zeela, he had recovered his funds and escaped from the planet.

“So for all your diminutive stature, girl, you have spirit, no?” He stood, grasping his beard and regarding them.

“But I think you’re telling me half a tale, yes? I think you’re on the run – certain parties are in pursuit. Am I right?”

Harper stared at the Nordic giant; he had often wondered, during their time together five years ago, whether it had been Bjorn Halstead who was the telepath.

“How the...?” Harper began.

Bjorn moved from the window and thumbed over his shoulder. “Seconds after your cab pulled up, it was followed by another. Now two individuals are freezing their balls off across the canal, keeping a keen eye on this place. Or rather,” he went on, “one set of balls are being frozen... if such aliens posses balls. The second individual is a woman.”

The coffee seemed to turn to ice in his stomach. Zeela made a small sound of pained surprise at his side.

“They are on your trail, no?” Bjorn asked.

Harper stood up. “The woman is tall, broad, with dark hair? And the alien even taller?”

“The woman is wrapped from head to foot, but there is no denying she is Amazonian. Only her...” Bjorn made a cupping gesture before his chest, “tells me she is female. As for the alien... Yes, it’s taller, and tougher – the ugly beast is accustomed to cold and goes without headgear, which I would suggest it should wear if only to spare unwary citizens from the hideousness of its face.”

“It’s a Vetch,” Harper said with a sinking feeling. “The pair are bounty hunters.”

He crossed to the window, pressed himself against the thick drapes, and peered out. Sure enough, Janaker and the Vetch stood on a raised walkway on the far side of the ice-canal, staring across at the garage. Seconds later Janaker ducked into a small ice-sled, its flank emblazoned with a lightning fork. The Vetch remained standing in the bitter cold.

Zeela said, “Den? Is it...”

“Janaker and the Vetch,” he said, moving from the window.

Bjorn stared at him. “Bounty hunters, hm?”

Harper looked up at the giant. “I told you, five years ago, that I was a telepath. What I omitted to mention was that I was on the run from the Expansion authorities.”

Bjorn nodded. “That story can wait. The pressing matter now seems to be, how to spirit you away from here without them giving chase?”

He thought about it, then moved to an adjoining room. He returned with a bundle of clothing.

“Now, get out of those flimsy, off-world garments and climb into these. Don’t worry, they’ll fit. The belonged to my son and daughter.”