Authors: John Meaney
Absorption (55 page)
But he was off to live in the United States, with his new wife.
‘Not just a friend, no,’ said Rupert. ‘Call us distant colleagues, and Luke a very impressive boffin.’
‘You’re too kind.’ Lucas took several more swigs of bitter. ‘Gavi’s brain is bigger than mine, I assure you. Razor sharp.’
‘That’ll be interesting to see.’ Rupert took a tiny sip of his beer. ‘We’ll find plenty for you to do, Dr Wolf, now our new prime minister’s shaking things up.’
Lucas tipped back the last of his drink, and put the glass down. Foam slid inside the glass, the motion catching Gavriela’s attention. Bubbles were an interesting phenomenon, caused by—
No wonder he never looked at me. He didn’t want a physicist to talk to; he wanted a lover.
Her throat clenched.
‘Are you all right, Gavi?’
‘Sure, Lucas. Sure.’
‘Then . . . I have to go.’
He stood up; Gavriela and Rupert did likewise.
‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘And congratulations once more.’
This time they hugged instead of shaking hands; but there was none of the electric contact that had featured in her imagination.
‘Take care, Gavi.’
He went out, carrying his hat and overcoat, squeezing past the regulars, and disappeared through the blackout curtain. A second later, the door to the street clicked shut.
‘You don’t like sherry, do you, Dr Wolf?’
‘I—’ Gavriela looked down, then at Rupert. ‘Actually, I hate it.’
Rupert laughed.
‘Do you want something else?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll show you to your lodgings.’
‘If you call me Gavriela, I’d be happy to walk with you.’
‘Um . . .’
She swallowed.
‘I’m sorry. Your customs are—’
‘That’s not why I hesitated,’ said Rupert. ‘I’d prefer to call you Gabby, if that’s all right. We thought it sounded similar enough that you’d respond, er, be comfortable with it.’
‘Gabby.’
‘You’re Gabby Woods, and in the morning you’ll have the paperwork to prove it. Does that suit you?’
‘And if you’re a Forrester, what does that make you? My keeper?’
She knew
forest
and
forester
by chance, for they were nothing like the German.
forest
and
forester
by chance, for they were nothing like the German.
‘Luke was right. You
are
sharp. So, are you ready to go?’
are
sharp. So, are you ready to go?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Let me take your case.’
As they were leaving, she noticed again the man sitting alone with his notebook, the pages dense with words but also some runes. Once they were outside, in the darkness of St Giles, she asked Rupert about it.
‘He looked as if he was writing code.’
‘Not so you’d know. He’s an interesting fellow, but we know who he is.’
‘Oh.’
‘He writes about habits, or something. And how’s that book you’re carrying, Gabby?’
It took her two full seconds to respond to her new name.
‘Sorry. Er, I’ve not really read it yet.’ She looked at the mesmerism book. ‘I think it might be interesting.’
‘Hmm. Well, come along. It’s a short walk in peacetime, but making one’s way without streetlights tends to slow one down.’
‘There’s a quarter moon.’
‘Luckily, or we’d more than likely be tripping onto our faces.’
Banbury Road was quiet, with only a few souls walking home at this time, in darkness. They passed University Parks - ‘Many a rugger match I’ve played in there,’ said Rupert - and then had to explain what he meant by that. Such inconsequential chat sustained them until they reached a big old house, no grander or spookier than its neighbours. Their feet crunched on gravel, and then Rupert was tapping on the front door.
‘Hello, Mrs Wilson. We’re here.’
It was strange for someone to open their door in darkness.
‘Come in, Master Forrester. Come on in.’
Rupert touched Gavriela’s arm, and led her inside. Once the front door was closed and a heavy drape pulled across, Mrs Wilson switched on an electric light.
‘Into the front room, my dears.’ She was white-haired but lively-looking. ‘We have chicory coffee or acorn tea, your choice.’
‘Whichever’s best for you,’ said Rupert.
He beckoned Gavriela to a well-stuffed green armchair, and sat in its counterpart.
‘You can trust Mrs Wilson,’ he added. ‘But it’s best to make a habit of keeping details to yourself.’
‘A habit you have?’ asked Gavriela.
‘I should hope so. Why?’
‘Because you have not told me anything yet.’
‘Ah.’
‘So besides the fact I’m working in Oxford, I don’t—’
‘Not really. It’s such an obvious target, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s not the best place to conduct war work, you see. You’ll stay here only until we find you someplace closer to the project. Assuming it works out tomorrow, when you meet the others.’
‘I suppose that’s—’
But that was when Mrs Wilson appeared, tray in hand.
‘A night-time cuppa, and then you, Master Forrester—’
‘She’s known me since I was young,’ said Rupert.
‘—can make your way home or sleep on the sofa, your choice, but this tired-looking young lady will be going straight to bed.’
Rupert looked at Gavriela, then at their hostess.
‘Yes, Mrs Wilson,’ he said.
Gavriela’s was an attic bedroom, under the eaves. The bedstead was of polished brass, the floral curtains were reinforced by drapes of rough fabric, and dark-green linoleum lay on the floor. On the small bedside table lay her notebook and writing implements: a fountain pen and revolving pencil in identical mother-of-pearl, a present from Mother and Father, all that she had left of them. Her few clothes hung in the wardrobe. With everything organized, she simply stood there in her cotton nightgown, taking in the domestic solidity of the room.
Then she switched off the electric light, padded on bare feet to the window, and pulled open the curtains, allowing silver moonlight in.
She climbed into bed, then shifted her pillow so she could lie diagonally across the narrow bed and see the quarter-face of the moon. On the day she met Inge, Petra and Elke in Zürich, Inge had talked about a rocket trip to that other world, and its impossibility when there was nothing to push against. She remembered explaining Newton’s laws, and still finding it impossible to convince Inge, until she got Inge to close her eyes and imagine she was standing on a frozen lake, wearing ice skates and holding a heavy case. And when she threw the case away from her, what would happen?
‘Why, I’d slide backwards and—’ Inge’s eyes had snapped open. ‘Gavriela, you’re a genius.’
Gavriela was not sure, but perhaps that evening formed a beginning: the moment she began to understand the relationship between daydreams and equations, imagination and analysis.
She let out a sigh, wondering where her Inge and Elke were now. Not Petra - she was in a cemetery in Brandenburg, courtesy of a downward spiral that no one had been able to pull her out of.
So bright, the moon.
One may utilize extended fixation of the eyesight upon an object, such as the traditional fob watch, or indeed any bright object, to induce mesmeric trance.
She drifted amid echoes of a dream, fragments of hallucination, shards of imagination.
—I am Kenna.
—And you’re the leader.
—Yes, Gavriela.
—And the others?
—
You’re the first.
You’re the first.
The moon, so enchanting, so silver, so bright.
She wrote in her notebook, pen-nib and pencil-lead lightly scraping the paper. Although the moon appeared bright against the night-sky backdrop, inside the room it provided poor illumination; but that did not matter.
Beneath her closed eyelids, as she wrote with a pen in one hand and a pencil in the other, Gavriela’s eyes flicked from side to side.
FORTY-SIX
FULGOR, 2603 AD
Banners and holosculptures, quickglass birds and persistent fireworks, smartkites and dirigibles, were proliferating over every district of Lucis City - even the exotic parts, like Parallaville, and the sleazy areas, like Quarter Moon - for today was Last Lupus, the final day of Festival, and the last chance for everyone to party.
Ingram’s Corner was a crossroads, a juxtaposition of opposing architectural styles, yet an apposite communion of appetites: from the battered building that contained several dozen fifteen-minutes-and-you’re-finished brothels and smackjoints, to Ebony Tower, a rearing quickglass monstrosity, home to some two hundred floors of restaurants and stores, and clubs that never closed, not to mention a hard-to-classify establishment called The Church of the Continual Orgasm.
Roger watched from a window on the twentieth floor, staring across the way at the squat building opposite, plotting his entrance to Drone Dollies. Part of him was yelling that this was stupid, that he should call the peacekeepers and damn the consequences; but Roger Blackstone’s name, image and voiceprint would be on the detain-immediately list, and there was no telling how long it would take before he could get someone to listen to him.
One option was to take time to create a false ident, using the new utilities in his tu-ring - or he could take direct action, and make somebody pay.
The squat building from above was an eight-storey hollow rectangle. From here he could see how to work it: ascend to roof level, go over the inner edge, get in through a quickglass wall. The building’s logs would tell him where she was; but he had no hope of cracking the security without the breach causing alarms to execute. The extraction needed to be fast, and that meant having Superintendent Sunadomari’s ident in his call buffer, ready to make contact. Roger could report Alisha’s circumstances even if building security took him down.
I still can’t believe I’m doing this.
He had a visceral hatred of heights and a civilized horror of violence; but this was going to happen. With a last look at the target building, he turned away, took one of Ebony Tower’s flowshafts down to ground level, and went outside.
Overhead, a smiling blimp with cartoon smile was waving stubby arms, chuckling and singing a children’s song. On the ground, the number of revellers was growing by the minute, some waving streamers or causing holofountains to sparkle, virtual fireworks to bring on the party mood; while in the distance, a silver dragon stood out among the floating marvels. But Roger was not here for Festival.
Head down and swallowing, he went through the ground floor entrance, not looking at the six hulking men and women who lurked there on guard. But nervous young men were welcome, ideal customers for the trades practised inside.
The more he tried not to think of what might be happening to Alisha, the more his muscles shook.
Access to each floor was by flowramp. He went up them in sequence, trying not to pause overlong at the fifth floor, seeing the Drone Dollies holosign, then continuing up to the top floor. His hands were bare as he pressed his tu-ring against the wall, sending infiltration sprites through the system, their questing algorithms keyed on Alisha’s appearance. Leaving them running, he stepped back, looked up at the ceiling, then beamed a command. An oval opening melted, revealing green sky, and the edge of a dirigible passing overhead.
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