Текст книги "The Omega Expedition"

Автор книги: Brian Stableford

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Part Two

Worlds In Parallel

Twenty-One

Normal Conditions

Iwoke up again lying on my back in pitch darkness. My awakening was troubled by the uncatchable fragments of decaying dreams and the harassment of many discomforts. My head was throbbing; my kidneys were aching; my stomach was queasy.

I had had worse hangovers, but not for a thousand years. I felt awful. I knew that I shouldn’t feel as awful as I felt, because I knew that I shouldn’t be ableto feel as awful as I felt, and that made the fact doubly disturbing. I felt as if my insides had gone to war to settle their positional disputes, and that the conflict had inflicted considerable damage on all of its participants. It might not have been so bad had I still been weightless, but gravity had returned with a vengeance. I weighed more now than I had before I stepped into the pod that had carried me to the Titanian spaceship.

If a pod hadcarried me to the Titanian spaceship.

If, in fact, I had ever been in Excelsior at all.

Now that I weighed the same as I had throughout my first lifetime I had to ask myself whether it was believable that I’d ever left Earth at all. I had to wonder whether Excelsior, Davida Berenike Columella, Christine Caine, and Adam Zimmerman might have been aspects of an improbable illusion, and whether I might now be waking up for real. I had to face the possibility that all the necessary questions were going to have to be asked all over again.

Paranoia assured me that I could only feel as bad as I did if this were real, and everythingelse had been false.

The darkness didn’t become any less absolute as the bleary eyes I had forced open attempted vainly to adjust to it. I reached up to touch my face with my right hand. My fingertips and my chin felt familiar – far toofamiliar, in fact. I didn’t seem to be wearing a smartsuit and I had a week’s worth of beard growth.

I touched my chest then, and found that I was wearing a shirt: a deadshirt. Even in 2202 I wouldn’t have been seen dead in a dead shirt. I only had to flex my leg muscles to confirm that I was also wearing lightweight trousers, and that I was sandwiched between a single sheet and a lumpy mattress.

Shit, I thought. First a thousand years forward in time, then a couple of hundred years back. The way I felt told me that any IT I might be wearing was no ultrasophisticated product of the thirty-third century, or even the twenty-third. I didn’t seem to have any pain control at all.

I told myself that it wasn’t so bad. I had been naked before, save for dead clothes, and devoid of significant IT. I reminded myself that I was a Madoc and a Tamlin: a supremely adaptable hero, ready for any twist of fate. I told myself that my new situation wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I was in the dark, and I was in some slight discomfort, but I was alive and whole and quite compos mentis. Things could have been a lot worse. I just had to get stuck into the task of finding out where I was, and making the best of my circumstances.

I reached out an experimental hand. There was nothing within easy reach above me, although I fancied I could hear the sound of breathing from that general direction. I groped about in other directions. The mattress I was lying on was set on a ledge, apparently plastic. There was a wall to my left and another a couple of feet from my head. I had to roll on to my side to touch the floor, but I seemed to be only a meter above it. I sat up in bed. The extra reach enabled me to ascertain that there was indeed another bunk above mine. That was slightly reassuring; wherever I was, I didn’t seem to be alone.

When I had maneuvered my feet to the floor I was able to stand up, though not as easily as I could have wished. My feet were bare, but the floor wasn’t uncomfortably rough or cold. It felt like plastic. I couldn’t tell by feeling it with the soles of my feet whether the plastic was organic or whether it had been gantzed out of twentieth-century waste.

There was an inert body lying on the upper bunk, whose dimensions I didn’t explore in detail because it seemed more sensible to let whoever it was continue sleeping. I touched a sleeve, though, which suggested that my sleeping companion was wearing dead clothing just like mine. The person in question didn’t seem to be sleeping very easily, but the body didn’t stir when my fingers brushed the back of the hand that was projecting from the sleeve. It was a small hand, not very hairy. I was prepared to accept that it was probably a female hand, but I refused to jump to the conclusion that it was Christine Caine’s. If it turned out to be Christine Caine’s, that would mean that everything I’d experienced had been real – more of it, at any rate, than I wanted to hang on to – and that something terrible had happened to Child of Fortune.

I felt for a belt and found that my dead trousers were elastic-waisted. The shirt was ill-fitting and buttonless, severely functional. I knew that if I really had been divested of the kind of smartsuit and internal technology that I’d worn on Excelsior I must have been asleep for a long time. It wasn’t the work of a couple of hours to strip that kind of equipment away.

If, on the other hand, I was fresh out of the freezer…

I needed to take a piss, quite urgently. Thatwas a feeling I hadn’t had for a very long time, no matter where or when I was.

I only had to stretch a little to locate the far wall of what I’d already begun thinking of as a cell. The space in which I was confined was only a couple of meters wide. It wasn’t much more than three meters long, but there was a sub-chamber in one corner. Once I’d found the handle the screen moved aside easily, and I began to fumble about the interior, hoping that it was some kind of bathroom facility. There was a showerhead and a drain, and some other kind of fitment that I couldn’t immediately identify but might have been some kind of toilet. I wasn’t about to engage with any puzzles; the drain was good enough for me.

When I was able to get back to investigating the geography of the space that now confined me it didn’t take me long to find the door at the farther end, or the handle that opened it.

I didn’t expect the handle to turn, but it did. I heard the latch disengage. I hadn’t encountered a door like that in years; it was the sort of door that one only found in buildings abandoned during the Crash: a door constructed in the twenty-first-century, or even earlier.

The twenty-first-century door opened outwards, not quite silently.

The area outside the cell was as dark as the inside. I nearly set out to cross it, but figured that it was wiser and safer to grope my way along the wall, one step at a time. I moved to the left, because the open door was blocking the way to the right. The wall felt like plastic, just like the door and the handle.

I couldn’t have gone more than five meters before I came to another door. That one had a handle, too. It turned easily enough, and the door wasn’t locked.

Gently, without making more than the minimum amount of noise, I swung it open and moved carefully around it.

The fist that hit me in the face seemed to be astonishingly well aimed, considering the total darkness. I presume that it was the knuckle of the middle finger which smashed into my nasal cartilage.

The snap was audible.

I was hurled backwards, swept unceremoniously off my feet by the momentum of the punch. I was in too much pain already to take much notice of the jarring as my coccyx, elbows, shoulders, and head made violent contact with the floor.

I tried to swear, but the pain was so intense that the reflexive explosion turned the word into something half way between a gasp and a yell.

Lights came on abruptly, dazzling me.

I clutched at my broken nose with both hands, feeling the warm blood gush out into my palms, soaking the sleeves of my shirt.

I had been stabbed more than once in my early days on the streets, before I acquired the kind of IT that rendered such wounds more tolerable, but that had been a long time ago. I had been cossetted by good IT for more than twenty years – give or take a hypothetical thousand – and the pain of my present injury was probably worse, even on an objective scale, than any inflicted upon me during my misspent youth. It was horrible.

When my eyes began to adjust to the brilliant light they were full of tears, which had to be blinked way before I could hope to see where I was or who had hit me. There was no thought in my mind of reprisal, or even of evasive action in the face of further danger. There was just the pain, and the fear that whoever had hit me might take a second shot.

It didn’t make me feel any better to see that the face peering down at me seemed more puzzled than angry, with perhaps the faintest hint of regret.

It was the face of Solantha Handsel.

Somehow, I was able to take note of the fact that she was staring at her own hand in utter bewilderment, and I had enough presence of mind to leap to the conclusion that it wasn’t the discovery that it was me she had hit that had puzzled her. Her regret wasn’t apologetic: she was amazed and slightly upset by the fact that hitting me had made her own hand hurt. She hadn’t had the dubious benefit of my upbringing. She’d alwayshad good IT, and hadn’t ever worn dead clothes. If I was unprepared to find myself in this condition, she must be in a much greater state of shock.

Even so, it was me that had taken the punishment. She might have hurt her hand, but she hadn’t broken her nose.

By the time Michael Lowenthal’s lightly bearded face had appeared beside the bodyguard’s I had found the energy and ability to swear. I took abundant advantage of the opportunity, but I didn’t forget to look around. I felt that I had to try to keep up with the news, even though I was in sore distress.

The room we were in wasn’t vast, but space was at a premium because it was so extensively cluttered with boxes and equipment. There was a folding table propped against one ceiling-high stack of boxes, and a whole pile of folding chairs beside it. If I’d tried to cross the room rather than making my way along the wall I’d probably have tripped, scraping my shins and bruising my limbs – but at least I wouldn’t have broken my nose.

The ceiling seemed a little low. It looked to be a mirror image of the floor, gray and plastic. The walls were gray too, although they seemed to be fitted with an abundance of equipment and hatches, as well as a superabundance of doors with handles. Everything was plastic, except where gleaming metal showed through. Some of the bits of gleaming metal looked like the heads of rivets. Other bits looked like screwheads.

Even in buildings deserted during the Crash I’d almost never seen rivets or screwheads. Rivets and screwheads were pre-Gantz, and pre-Gantz was practically pre-civilization. It wouldn’t have been quite as strange if they’d been rusted, but they weren’t. They looked new. Maybe not brand new, but new enough.

I finally managed to turn the stream of my curses into a coherent sentence, which was: “Have you any ideahow much this hurts, you stupid bitch?” The pronunciation came out all wrong, because my nose was flooded by the blood that I was still spilling, but the meaning seemed to get across.

Solantha Handsel shook her head ever so slightly, to signal that she hadn’t a clue, even though her own hand was throbbing. I hoped that she’d broken the knuckle, but the perfunctory way she was shaking it suggested that she hadn’t.

The bodyguard should have been the one to check the damage she’d inflicted, but when my head sagged back on the floor the face that came into view, upside down, was Niamh Horne’s. It was she who finally managed to get the protective hands away from my nose so that she could inspect the damage.

“Do you want me to try to straighten it?” she asked.

Like an idiot, I must have mouthed “yes.”

The cyborganizer reached out to press the broken cartilage back into position, and I found out what realpain was like.

I fainted.

Twenty-Two

Injury Time

By the time I came round someone had put a pillow under my head and draped a cold damp cloth over my nose. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but I didn’t dare move in case it started again. My vision was blurred, but I could see that at least half a dozen standing figures were gathered about my supine form. They were arguing.

“How was I supposed to know who it was?” Solantha Handsel was complaining. “It was dark. How was I supposed to guess that his IT had been stripped? I hadn’t even registered the fact that myIT had been stripped. It wasn’t my fault.”

I took some small comfort from the fact that nobody seemed to be in agreement with this judgment – not even Michael Lowenthal.

I counted, and decided that there were five standing figures. Then a sixth hove into view, and finally a seventh.

There was little comfort to be gained from the fact that they all looked frightened, with the possible exception of Christine Caine. Adam Zimmerman looked very frightened indeed. He hadn’t had any time at all to adjust to the world into which he had been reborn before it turned bad, and he had to be figuring that he was now even further removed from his objective than he had been on the day he stole the world for the Hardinist Cabal. Davida Berenike Columella seemed more terrified than her emortal companions, but that may have been an illusion fostered by the fact that she was so tiny and so seemingly immature.

Of the party that had been on the guided tour of Niamh Horne’s ship only the two other cyborgs were missing. Suddenly, the assumption that Niamh Horne had been behind our kidnapping, if we had indeed been kidnapped – and it certainly looked that way at present – didn’t seem quite so natural. It wasn’t just the fact that she was here with us that made it seem less likely – it was the fact that we’d all been deprived of our smartsuits, the most vital components of our internal technical support, and our dignity. That, and the gravity. Wherever Niamh Horne would have taken people she’d kidnapped, it wouldn’t be Earth, or anywhere that simulated Earth gravity.

On the other hand, I thought – still trying hard to demonstrate my presence of mind – Niamh Horne was the only one among us to have retained a considerable fraction of her intimate technology. Herintimate technology had included a great deal that was far too intimate to be removed without leaving great gaping holes in her head and body. She still looked whole, if not quite human.

I made no attempt to get up, but I muttered and stirred, expecting that somebody would take notice and kneel down. They weren’t in any hurry to oblige, but one of them eventually took the hint. It was Niamh Horne again, and I flinched reflexively.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “It seemed to be the right thing to do. I didn’t realize. Sorry.”

Mortimer Gray knelt down with her. Like Lowenthal and Zimmerman, he now had a beard of sorts, but his looked more remarkable than theirs because its dark brown color clashed with his silver hair. “I think you’ll be okay, Mr. Tamlin,” he said. “It looks worse than it is. Very unfortunate, but not mortal.” Not mortalwas easy enough for him to say – even without his IT, he was engineered for emortality at the cellular level. I carefully refrained from touching my nose to investigate how badly out of shape it was.

“Where are we?” I contrived to ask.

“We don’t know,” Gray said. “The simple answer is that we’re in a cluttered room with seven doors. Four of them open into cells like the one you woke up in. The other three are locked. There are several antique wallscreens, but only two control panels, both of which seem to be inactive. Like all the other equipment, they seem ridiculously primitive. The gravity seems to be Earth-normal, but nobody’s ready to conclude, as yet, that we’re on Earth. If it’s not spin, it might be acceleration – but if it’s acceleration, we don’t have any clue where we might be headed. We don’t know how long it’s been since we were aboard the Titanian ship, although it must have taken between eight and ten days to flush our IT, and the growth of our body hair can’t have begun until that process was at least halfway through. The means they used to keep us asleep seems to have been rather crude if the way we feel is a reliable guide. Did you see the thing that seemed to capture Child of Fortune?”

“Yes,” I said, thickly, unable for the moment to say more.

“We don’t believe in it either,” he said, picking up the skepticism in my tone. “Opinions are sharply divided, however, as to what kind of real story the fake was covering up. Accusations have been flowing freely, but I think Niamh and Michael have called a truce for the time being. At least nobody’s suggested that youwere to blame. That gives you an advantage over the rest of us.”

It was obvious that he had not been excluded from the riot of accusations.

“Who stands to gain from taking us prisoner?” I said, thickly but just about comprehensibly.

“We haven’t been able to figure that out either,” Gray said, looking at Niamh Horne – who was obviously suspect number one in everyone’s eyes but her own.

“The greater enigma,” the cyborg said, grimly, “is howsomeone contrived to take us prisoner. Taking control of Child of Fortune’s AIs should have been impossible.”

“Impossible for outside agencies, maybe,” another voice put in – I guessed that it was Lowenthal’s, although it sounded far less smooth than it had before – “but if it were an inside job…”

“If it had been me,” the Titanian snapped back, “I wouldn’t have brought your pet gladiator – and I’d have kept a couple of my own people. I can’t believe that it was anyone on my crew…and even if I could believe it, I can’t believe that they’d bring us to Earth. Only your people would do that. I didn’t think the Cabal had the intelligence, let alone the technics, but I guess you might have sharpened up your act since you accidentally blew North America away and shriveled Garden Earth to mulch. On the other hand, I can’t see how you had the opportunity.” There was a pause while she redirected her attention. “Only youhad that,” she added. I knew that she had to be staring at Davida.

I was beginning to feel left out again, so I decided to sit up. It wasn’t easy, but I managed it. I had to remind myself that I was supposed to be a hard man, a real fighter. I had to tell myself, very sternly, that if we were all equal now, in terms of our clothing and internal resources, then I ought to be vying for leadership of the pack instead of lying flat out and feeling exceedingly sorry for myself.

“You ought to lie down,” Niamh Horne told me. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and we no longer seem to have the kind of help that we normally rely on to make such losses good.

“I’m okay,” I lied, fighting the dizziness. I could see how much blood there was on the gray floor now, and how much there was on the pale blue sleeves of my dead shirt. My trousers were pale blue too, except where they’d picked up bloodstains from the floor. Everybody’s clothes were pale blue. They had to be uniforms of some kind, although they seemed ridiculously casual as well as inert.

“Better do as she says, Mr. Tamlin,” Solantha Handsel put in, flatly. “I hit you hard. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who it was. It could have been a hostile.”

“If I wasn’t a hostile before,” I managed to mutter, darkly, “I am now.” She didn’t seem impressed.

“Come on, Mr. Tamlin,” said Mortimer Gray. “I’ll help you.” He lent me an arm so that I could raise myself from a sitting position to a standing one. I felt faint, and I had to fight hard against the impulse to lie back down again. I’d sat up because I wanted to keep better track of the argument, but the argument had been suspended now while everyone put on a collaborative show of sympathy. Michael Lowenthal seemed very anxious indeed, although he might have been overacting – or he might, of course, have been projecting an anxiety he really felt for himself. Emortal or not, he knew how vulnerable he was without IT assistance.

Mortimer Gray continued to hang on to my arm, to make sure that I didn’t keel over again. When he was sure that I wouldn’t he steered me back toward the door from which I’d unwisely emerged on my exploratory mission, obviously intent on seeing me safety back to my bed. I resisted, but I didn’t have the strength to make the resistance stick. In the end, I decided that I could only benefit from a brief interval of rest, and allowed myself to be guided.

Christine Caine followed us into the cell, with the air of one who thought she had a legitimate claim to the territory. I took that to mean that she hadbeen the person in the upper bunk. I wondered briefly whether I ought to put in for a transfer, but it seemed unlikely that anyone was going to volunteer to trade – not only because no one else would want to share with Christine but also because no one else would want to share with me.

I figured that I had the rough end of the deal. If I had been deprived of my IT, I reasoned, so had Christine. Whatever internal censors the sisterhood had put in place to ensure that she didn’t revert to type were presumably gone. She didn’t look dangerous at the moment, but I had seen Bad Karma.

I lay down in the bottom bunk. Mercifully, the dizziness relinquished its hold on my head almost immediately.

“I’m sorry, Madoc,” Mortimer Gray said, moving toward the door, “but we have to get this sorted out, if we can.”

I was tempted to tell him that he shouldn’t leave me out of the discussion, and certainly shouldn’t leave me alone with a crazy mass murderer, but I didn’t have the energy. I needed time to recover my wits.

“Are you okay?” the crazy mass murderer said, looking down at me. “Do you want me to stay?”

I resisted the temptation to laugh. I tried to shake my head, but it wasn’t the ideal gesture to attempt in my condition.

She stayed anyway. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” she asked, paying me a compliment of sorts.

“It looks as if we’ve been kidnapped by space pirates,” I said, weakly. “In fact, one way or another, that’s what it amounts to. Whether the pirates are from Earth, or Titan, or Excelsior, or somewhere else entirely, we’re still kidnapped. I expect we’ll find out soon enough what happens next. Maybe we get held for ransom, auctioned to the highest bidder. There’s only one thing I’msure of.”

“What’s that?” she wanted to know.

“ Thisisn’t a dream,” I told her. “Everything else might have been a trip in a fancy VE, but not this.” I touched my broken nose, very gently indeed. “No matter how preposterous the situation seems, I’m certain now that we’re awake. I wasn’t before, but I am now. And given that this is real, we’re in realtrouble. Whatever game we were playing before, the game we have to play now is trying to figure out how to stay alive.”

“I worked that out for myself,” she assured me, drily. “Is it Zimmerman they want, do you think? Or Lowenthal?”

“I haven’t a clue,” I admitted. “But this place looks as if it’s Zimmerman’s vintage, whatever that implies. Do you have any idea how long we’ve been here? That is, how long has it been since we stepped aboard Child of Fortune?”

“Nobody knows,” she told me. “Horne reckons it must have been at least twelve days. She says the real question is why we’ve finally been woken up. They’re all standing around out there waiting for some kind of contact. Nobody believes that the space battle was real, but nobody can figure out how the ship wastaken over, if it was taken over. You were unlucky – Handsel probably wishes she’d hit Horne while she had the excuse. Then again, Horne probably wishes she’d had a chance to disable Handsel. Do you want me to go and listen in, to see what I can pick up?

It seemed like a good idea, although I didn’t know why she was asking. Maybe it was politeness, because we were cellmates or because I’d been hurt, or maybe she was just the kind of person who needed more reasons than she could provide for herself. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be okay. I just need a few minutes.”

She went, leaving me to my own devices.

I kept telling myself, over and over, that I had advantages over my fellow prisoners, and not just because I had lived without IT before. I had previous experience of jail cells, and uncontrollable pain. Unfortunately, I was badly out of practice. Telling myself that the broken nose was no worse than injuries I had suffered before didn’t seem to help at all. Telling myself that I still had to go through it whether it was bearable or not didn’t help either.

By the time I had been awake for what seemed like a further hour I had begun to wish that I had never recovered consciousness, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Lying still with my eyes shut kept the agony to a minimum, but even the minimum didn’t seem tolerable.

It seemed as if a subjective eternity had passed when Christine Caine came back into the cell and put a tentative hand on my arm. I opened my eyes and tried to focus on her face, although moving my head brought new tears to my eyes.

“The woman on the screen says they’re willing to take a look at you, maybe give you something for the pain,” she said.

“What woman?” I asked, dazedly.

“On the screen,” she repeated, patiently. “They’ve opened communications. I’m not sure they wanted to talk to us this soon, but I guess they’re worried about you. If you can get to the far door while the rest of us stay back, they’ll let you through and take a look at your nose. So she says.”

Christine kept her hand on my arm while I maneuvered myself off the bunk, but she didn’t actually help. I managed to stand up without re-starting the bleeding, and stumbled after her as she led the way.

The others just watched. Apart from Mortimer Gray, they didn’t seem unduly concerned about my state of health, although Michael Lowenthal looked as if he were about to say something until the presence of the others inhibited him.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out what he wanted to say. Find out what you can. Don’t tell anyone except me.

Paranoid as I was, I couldn’t quite credit Lowenthal with having had enough foresight to have told his minder to break something in order to create exactly this sort of opportunity.

Adam Zimmerman looked at me in a way that seemed to say there but for the grace of God go I. I couldn’t remember whether it was the first time we had locked gazes long enough for it to count as communication.

When I was left alone in front of the relevant door I heard a distinct click, and then the handle turned. The door swung inward, but the darkness beyond seemed impenetrable. I hesitated, but it had to be reckoned a useful opportunity.

I walked forward into the gloom, which became absolute as the door slammed shut behind me.