The class was impressive. A slight grey-haired man, in white gi jacket and black floor-length hakama split skirt, moved with magical ease while bodies flew everywhere. His demonstration was against adult black belts; when he took his younger charges through training drills, they seemed to spend most of their time rolling without hurting themselves.
Rekka said nothing of what she glimpsed, or thought she had, from the corridor that led here: a soundproof glass panel on a dojo door that revealed a mêlée of lean figures in black jumpsuits in swarming, robust combat, with throws and kicks and punches, almost too fast to see.
‘You like living here?’ Amber asked young Carlos, back outside in the corridor.
‘It’s the best,’ he said.
‘Some Pilot children live in ordinary homes,’ said Rekka. ‘With families.’
Carlos looked solemn as he nodded.
‘We’re very sorry for them.’
Perhaps that was the moment that clinched their decision. Before Rekka and Amber left, Jared was officially enrolled, and all that remained was the logistical task of getting him to Kyoto with his belongings.
And saying farewell, of course.
The only surprise, when Rekka returned to work, was that Google Li had handed in her notice and already left. No one seemed to have any idea of her plans, or even whether she remained in Singapore.
It would be many years before Rekka bumped into Google Li by chance at a conference in Frankfurt, where they did something very rare for both of them: got tremendously drunk on schnapps, Cointreau and tequila, and woke up the next morning on separate twin beds in Rekka’s hotel room.
That morning, Google Li would share the suspicions that caused her to question her career aspirations and leave UNSA without a word; but by then, Rekka had been asking herself similar questions for years, regarding the likelihood that Randolf and Angela’s death had really been an accident, instead of orchestrated murder in which their fellow passengers and flight crew were collateral damage within acceptable parameters, by the standards of an organisation grown too big and remorseless to own a conscience.
Or in which schemers like the two UN senators, Luisa and Robert Higashionna, wielded such unquestioned influence, pursuing goals that no ordinary people could guess at, moving like sharks through a sea of political and corporate power that minnow-like citizens would never understand.
Rekka and Google Li would share tears and hugs that morning, and never see each other again.
TWENTY-SEVEN
MU-SPACE, 2604 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)
Call him a fuck-up seeking atonement. As far as Piet Gunnarsson was concerned, the first part – without the atonement-seeking – was what everyone did already.
Self-loathing and desperation do not lend attractiveness to any business proposition, but somehow he persuaded the Far Reach Centre logistics people – he talked to someone called Rowena James – to let him make a rescheduled cargo delivery to Vachss Station, in orbit around Vijaya, along with a personal package for one Jed Goran, Pilot. It was urgently required, the main cargo load, because some sort of onboard crisis had caused the original delivery to be cancelled.
The schedule was almost impossible, unless Piet followed something close to a hellflight trajectory. A whole bunch of other Pilots, he was sure, had already turned down the job.
‘This is important, then?’ he asked.
‘Lives aren’t at stake, but’ – Rowena touched the personal package – ‘you know what people are like.’
‘Whatever. I’ll take the job.’
‘Thank you, Pilot Gunnarsson.’
Her straightforward politeness was very different from the glances he received afterwards, walking along the Poincaré Promenade, heading for the great docking bay where his ship was waiting for him, filled with unconditional, understanding love.
You’re OK, my love.
I’ll try to be, for your sake.
For his sake, she acquiesced in the choice of geodesic; and as they flew the almost-hellflight, their conjoined selves filled with pain as well as the exhilaration of effort. Their suffering brought them closer than ever, offering the possibility of healing and redemption in a way that Piet did not feel he deserved.
Tearing through an unusual spiralling trajectory, Piet-and-ship burst out of a blood-coloured nebula close to their destination, finding themselves behind three Zajinet ships whose weapon systems were in the process of powering up.
So. Zajinets.
Whatever Piet’s role in causing hostilities, there had been open attacks on seven worlds that he knew of: it wasn’t just about him. If this was another such raid then he could not allow it to happen.
We fight, my love?
Oh, yes. We fight.
Only soft people who have never experienced conflict believe in the concept of a fair fight. There has never been such a thing. When the objective is to take out the enemy, an attack without warning is the surest strategy. Ship-and-Piet followed the three Zajinet vessels through a realspace insertion and cut loose immediately, taking out the centremost vessel and arcing right, away from the explosion, aware that violet beams of not-quite-analysable energy split vacuum only metres away from Piet-and-ship’s wing. The surviving Zajinets were zig-zagging to set up a pincer attack on ship-and-Piet, whose weapons-fire sprayed past them, finding them hard to target—
They’re so fast.
And used to working together.
—and glimpsing the complex orbital that was Vachss Station, so vulnerable to such a sudden attack from nowhere—
Look out!
—as the trailing edge of their left wing burned with pain, but they tumbled into a desperate escape trajectory, firing bursts designed to make the bastards think and hesitate, and Piet-and-ship were scared that this was the end and not for themselves alone—
There.
Yes. Got it.
—but they screamed through a hard turn, letting loose with everything they had and causing no damage but getting the effect they wanted, both Zajinets coming round to deliver the final weapons burst, but they were not going to succeed because the bronze-and-silver ship streaking this way was moving very fast indeed and its weapons were—
Got one.
—powerful, tearing one of the Zajinets apart in a tenth of a second, and clipping the other as it turned away and white light blazed—
Give chase?
No, we can’t.
All right.
—and the Pilot ship hung there as if hesitating, deciding whether to follow the survivor into mu-space, then gliding around to come close to Piet-and-ship.
**You’re wounded.**
**Yes, but treatable.**
**Agreed, and you should be in Labyrinth.**
Vachss Station, their destination, lay before Piet-and-ship.
**We have cargo to deliver.**
**All right, give me one moment.**
After a few seconds, as Piet partially disengaged from his ship, an ordinary realspace comms holo appeared in the control cabin.
‘I’m Ibrahim al-Khalid, in Vachss Station Control,’ said the morose-looking Pilot in the image. ‘You have our gratitude, Pilot. Jed Goran tells me you want to deliver cargo.’
‘Jed Goran? He’s in the other ship?’
Something very sad and proud was involved in al-Khalid’s expression. ‘That’s him.’
‘Then I’ve something for him, too.’