bubbles
drifted past on the canal, a chain of them heading back the way Tom had come,
and he wondered what might be inside. Then he was past them, entering a
three-dimensional maze of deserted but clean ramps and stairways, arches and
spirals, and he took the obstacles as fast as he could, vaulting a banister—to
his own surprise—and dropping onto another pathway.
The path was tiled in ochre and
green. On a whim, he followed it, running easily, as it led into a side tunnel,
a tributary of the main canal. His footsteps echoed strangely, almost musically,
as he ran, enjoying the physicality, deep into kinaesthetic Zen.
And then he heard a scream.
The
gunman was a large square-faced man, shining graser pistol in hand, trained
upon the small elfin woman. She stared at him defiantly.
‘Bitch! I’m going—’
Tom kicked the back of his right
knee, smashing it downwards into stone, hooked the sleeve and stamped on the
man’s exposed ankle, splitting the achilles tendon. Smiling as he wrist-locked
the arm, straightened it, and broke the elbow across his knee.
The graser pistol clattered on
the tiles.
‘Nasty,’ said the woman he had
rescued.
The disarmed gunman lay in silent
frightened shock, staring up at Tom.
‘Thanks. Really,’ she added. Her
voice was high, almost fluting, but it was the rainbow shimmer which held Tom’s
attention. ‘I’m very grateful.’
Pretty diffraction patterns
played across the transmission end of the graser. He had not seen her pick it
up.
‘And you gave me back my pistol,
too.’
Chaos. I’m a bifurcating fool. .
.
She backed slowly away. Reaching
a narrow exit, she slipped inside, was gone.
‘My ... Lord. You have to leave
this realm.’ The injured gunman was panting now. ‘She stole ... crystal. Thief.’
‘Who are you? A courier?’
For a moment, the man could not
speak.
Then, ‘Sentinel
He passed out.
The
journey back was nightmare and farce combined.
A dead weight across Tom’s
shoulders, the near comatose man—a courier, despatched by Sentinel to deliver
information to Tom, not get half-killed by him—stirred and muttered from time
to time, throwing Tom off balance. Then came the convoluted conjunction of
ramps and stairs, where Tom had to climb, thighs burning, pain clawing his
lower back, struggling to keep upright.
‘Bifurcatin’... Chaos.’
Downwards. He looked for a ramp,
found none, used the steps. But it was hard, descending but unable to look down
at his feet. Towards the bottom the open staircase spiralled and the wide steps
themselves were curved and that was where he lost it.
Black waters coming towards his
face.
There was a heavy splash—the
injured courier falling in—and then cold water enveloped Tom, before his
conscious mind had even noticed that his foot had slipped.
Fate damn it!
He had never learned to swim.
Struggling at first, but thirteen
Standard Years of physical training told him to relax, and he did. Floating to
the surface, striking out, but the courier was drowning—
Cargo bubbles.
It was another string of the big
floating bubbles and Tom jerked his head out of the way just in time, as the
leading bubble slid past. There was a protruding rim around each one, just
above the surface; Tom grabbed the nearest, jack-knifed upwards, kicked through
the membranous top, and was in.
‘Help...’
Cold water had revived the
courier and that helped: he reached out and Tom grabbed then hauled him bodily
over the edge before his strength gave out. The man’s legs were still dragging
in the water but Tom lay back on broken cargo boxes, too tired to care.
Something small and black sprang
into the air, dropped into the water with a tiny plop.
‘Catch
it!’
Black, the size of a child’s
fist, they bounded all over the loading dock.
‘I’ve got one.’
Laughter,
drifted past on the canal, a chain of them heading back the way Tom had come,
and he wondered what might be inside. Then he was past them, entering a
three-dimensional maze of deserted but clean ramps and stairways, arches and
spirals, and he took the obstacles as fast as he could, vaulting a banister—to
his own surprise—and dropping onto another pathway.
The path was tiled in ochre and
green. On a whim, he followed it, running easily, as it led into a side tunnel,
a tributary of the main canal. His footsteps echoed strangely, almost musically,
as he ran, enjoying the physicality, deep into kinaesthetic Zen.
And then he heard a scream.
The
gunman was a large square-faced man, shining graser pistol in hand, trained
upon the small elfin woman. She stared at him defiantly.
‘Bitch! I’m going—’
Tom kicked the back of his right
knee, smashing it downwards into stone, hooked the sleeve and stamped on the
man’s exposed ankle, splitting the achilles tendon. Smiling as he wrist-locked
the arm, straightened it, and broke the elbow across his knee.
The graser pistol clattered on
the tiles.
‘Nasty,’ said the woman he had
rescued.
The disarmed gunman lay in silent
frightened shock, staring up at Tom.
‘Thanks. Really,’ she added. Her
voice was high, almost fluting, but it was the rainbow shimmer which held Tom’s
attention. ‘I’m very grateful.’
Pretty diffraction patterns
played across the transmission end of the graser. He had not seen her pick it
up.
‘And you gave me back my pistol,
too.’
Chaos. I’m a bifurcating fool. .
.
She backed slowly away. Reaching
a narrow exit, she slipped inside, was gone.
‘My ... Lord. You have to leave
this realm.’ The injured gunman was panting now. ‘She stole ... crystal. Thief.’
‘Who are you? A courier?’
For a moment, the man could not
speak.
Then, ‘Sentinel
He passed out.
The
journey back was nightmare and farce combined.
A dead weight across Tom’s
shoulders, the near comatose man—a courier, despatched by Sentinel to deliver
information to Tom, not get half-killed by him—stirred and muttered from time
to time, throwing Tom off balance. Then came the convoluted conjunction of
ramps and stairs, where Tom had to climb, thighs burning, pain clawing his
lower back, struggling to keep upright.
‘Bifurcatin’... Chaos.’
Downwards. He looked for a ramp,
found none, used the steps. But it was hard, descending but unable to look down
at his feet. Towards the bottom the open staircase spiralled and the wide steps
themselves were curved and that was where he lost it.
Black waters coming towards his
face.
There was a heavy splash—the
injured courier falling in—and then cold water enveloped Tom, before his
conscious mind had even noticed that his foot had slipped.
Fate damn it!
He had never learned to swim.
Struggling at first, but thirteen
Standard Years of physical training told him to relax, and he did. Floating to
the surface, striking out, but the courier was drowning—
Cargo bubbles.
It was another string of the big
floating bubbles and Tom jerked his head out of the way just in time, as the
leading bubble slid past. There was a protruding rim around each one, just
above the surface; Tom grabbed the nearest, jack-knifed upwards, kicked through
the membranous top, and was in.
‘Help...’
Cold water had revived the
courier and that helped: he reached out and Tom grabbed then hauled him bodily
over the edge before his strength gave out. The man’s legs were still dragging
in the water but Tom lay back on broken cargo boxes, too tired to care.
Something small and black sprang
into the air, dropped into the water with a tiny plop.
‘Catch
it!’
Black, the size of a child’s
fist, they bounded all over the loading dock.
‘I’ve got one.’
Laughter,
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