‘Roger . . . ?’
‘No!’
He leaped back.
‘Sorry—’
And fell through the permeable wall, quickglass sliding over his skin. Then he tumbled into the chamber and yelled: ‘Seal up!’
The wall shimmered and hardened, just as Dad’s fist struck it on the other side.
‘I’m sorry,’ Roger said.
In the final minute, they were shadows, barely visible to each other through metre-thick armoured quickglass. There was no way to undo Roger’s command, no way to make the wall permeable once more. No way for his parents to reach him, or him to get back to them.
And Dad’s ship was a matter of seconds away from appearing outside the house.
‘I love you,’ Roger said.
He kissed his own fingertips, then pressed them against the quickglass. On the other side, after a moment, Mum did the same, followed by Dad.
Then Dad grabbed hold of her, and they moved fast, heading for the front door.
They’re gone.
He waited until thunder crashed outside. Then he counted fifty seconds more, just in case.
‘Really gone,’ he said aloud.
He formed the control gesture Dad had drilled him in so many times.
‘Shit.’
And closed his eyes as the floor became a liquefying whirlpool, dragging him down to the tunnel below.
There were two last things Carl could do for his son. As he ran outdoors with Miranda, he worked his tu-ring at a speed beyond thought. Behind him, a smartmiasma trailed, and the image it broadcast upwards was his first gift: to SatScan, it would appear that Roger Blackstone was fleeing the house behind his parents.
The second gift was easier: a tightbeam from his tu-ring to Roger’s, zipblipping copies of all the espionageware he possessed.
‘Be careful,’ he muttered. ‘It’s dangerous stuff.’
‘What—?’ asked Miranda.
‘Nothing.’
Then his ship burst into being overhead: a curved dart, black and powerful, edged with scarlet, ready for anything.
He was grinning, dreadful though that was, as she hauled him and Miranda on board with a fast black tendril. Within four seconds of her appearance in realspace, he was in her control couch.
And go.
Yes, my love.
Fulgor slammed out of existence around them.
Finally . . .
Replaced by golden void, a sprinkling of black fractal stars, and a distant crimson nebula.
‘What have we done?’ said Miranda.
‘The best we could,’ answered Carl.
Then he immersed himself in the joy of flying hard for Labyrinth, aware that despite the elation of being with his ship, there were hard issues to deal with: Roger, alone on Fulgor; Miranda’s distress; and the truth Sunadomari had revealed to him: the tampering with his mind by his own people.
Max Gould would have the answers.
‘Oh, Carl.’
‘I know, my love.’
He increased the severity of their trajectory, following a geodesic that would add to Miranda’s strain, but should be manageable. It was less than he wanted, more than he should aim for.
A hellflight was out of question.
After a time, Miranda was able to ask: ‘Will we live in Labyrinth now?’
‘Do you want to?’
She thought, then: ‘Yes, I believe I do.’
‘Then so do I. Continuously.’
Miranda blinked her obsidian eyes.
‘You mean you’re giving up field work?’
‘Don’t you think it’s time I did?’
They were both thinking of Roger.
‘Way past time,’ said Miranda.
‘Yes.’
They flew on a short way.
‘Miranda?’
‘Darling?’
‘There’s—’ Carl’s face tightened. ‘We have someone chasing us.’
A crescent of golden display showed a tiny shape moving. Then another, and another.
‘Three of them,’ said Carl.
They’re fast, my love.
I’ll bet we’re faster.
They swung into a new trajectory.
‘Who are they, Carl? Zajinets?’
‘Our own kind.’
Miranda looked puzzled.
‘Shouldn’t we make contact?’
‘They’re using targetting systems.’
Carl frowned, and the ship took a hard turn. The trio followed.
Enemies.
It was a short time later that the pursuers closed the range, their weapon-nodes beginning to sparkle. The only escape was a hellflight, something he had not wanted to put Miranda through. But neither did he want to fight.
Twist now.
Carl-and-ship tumbled through a gut-wrenching geodesic jump, and then a series of shifts to different scales of reality; and Miranda might have cried out but he could no longer tell, because he was the ship and the ship was himself, and all that mattered was the flying.
Cascades of energy whirled past them.
Shit.
Ship-and-Carl flung themselves through a helical descent into fractal magnification, the hull coruscating with spillover from the weapons fire, as they corkscrewed away from the enemy trio.
Energy slammed past them again.
Faster.
Judge the moment right, and they could slip onto a geodesic that no one could—
It burns.
Energy touched her hull and Carl’s voice cried out and then they were one again, into a howling turn, and as they came out their resonance chambers hummed; and the first of the ships was right in front of them, no longer pursuer but target, then ship-and-Carl let loose.
He yelled at the release.
Then he-and-ship were twisting away as the enemy exploded, a nova burst of detonation leaving a storm of dazzling fragments; and then the remains were behind them.
But the remaining two were closer now.
Nebula.
I see it.
They plunged though crimson, arced hard, burst back into golden void. One of the enemy was side-on as Carl-and-ship fired.
Its delta wing blew apart, but only as the last ship cut loose with every weapon.
Another cry filled the cabin, then he-and-ship were twisting away - geodesic, there - trying to find the path - got it - and then they were pouring on the acceleration - do it - putting everything they had into forward power - do it now - as they howled into the only way out, the most extreme of flightpaths that few survived.
Hellflight.
And finally, the calm.
They came out into peaceful golden space, Carl’s mind separating from the ship as he slumped back in the cabin. Inside was—
Red.
—not the crimson of nebulae, more like the hull’s scarlet trim, glistening with oxidation.
‘No. Please . . .’
He pulled himself from his seat.
‘Oh, Miranda.’
THIRTY-SIX
EARTH, 1939 AD
The Wolf house was broken. The yellow star - runnels of yellow ran toward the ground: they had been careless with the paint - marked a front door whose lock was smashed. Only a few triangular fragments of glass remained in the windows. Inside was darkness.
Gavriela did not dare to stand on the street gaping.
It’s not possible.
She lowered her head as forced herself to walk on, trying to work out how she might circle around to the back. But a low voice said: ‘Get away.’
A bent-backed man was in front of her.