Rocket Fuel

  ‘Doesn't their planet have a denser than average atmosphere?’ Sal was beginning to comprehend, stuff he took for granted, the surety, for example, that the smaller vessel would spew its guts so dramatically.

  ‘Correct. The ground-pressure on Topica's about a fifth again that of Upfront or Earth.’

  ‘Which contributed to the suction.’ She was nodding.

  ‘Aha...’ His expression was uneasy, like he didn't wish to complicate things, explain more fully.

  ‘And they employ field-locks?’

  ‘Hm.’ He sounded pleased with himself. ‘They have their virtues over conventional systems, but...’

  The shrug was comical. She giggled.

  ‘It's fortunate for us they disdain engineers,’ Byron went on. ‘I mean: look at this!’

  She glanced around, picked shapes (heads and fingers) from the dim illumination, its source a quartet of yawning panels, frothing wires, metal and optic.

  ‘Everything's automatic,’ he said jeeringly, contemptible of what he saw as a lack of human transcendence, the art of man in contrast to the rigidity of machine. ‘The air's what was left in our tanks plus whatever I could scavenge, and there's water from a condenser.’

  Sally was further appreciative of his forward planning. But how much was chance? she wondered. Raising her legs the co-pilot became conscious for the first time of the lessened gee...

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Fury,’ he repeated. ‘It's a...orbital station.’

  ‘Belonging to whom?’

  ‘Us, hopefully.’

  ‘You mean Upfront?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Won't they open fire, Byron? Or didn't it occur to you?’

  ‘Of course; but there's an escape-capsule.’

  ‘Built for two...’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It's a song,’ she said. Couldn't he stop talking? If he was scared, and he ought to be, why didn't he bite his nails like ordinary people?

  Her own were stumps. Brittle.

  ‘It's that or suffocate,’ he argued. ‘We're limping as it is - they'll see that.’

  Sal's neck hurt. Whatever, she thought, as long as she didn't have to clamber back inside the buckled suit...

  Fast...in and out, and they were flying...where? She dreamed a multitude of answers.

  The engineer provided others. ‘I've changed my mind, about the Topican spacecraft...’ He faded away.

  Sally jerked, claustrophobic, sweating, drowning, dazed and giddy in freefall. The world had ceased to mean anything; they, Byron Friendly and herself, were travelling backward toward a halo of orange-green.

  The seals on her helmet popped, releasing her.

  ‘How do you feel, Sal?’ Byron asked. The halo sprang from his torch, reflected off a low ceiling.

  ‘I.. .’ she began.

  ‘You fainted,’ he informed her. ‘I had to carry you. I was worried.’

  ‘Didn't we?’ It was blurred. ‘The decompression...’

  ‘Stalled,’ he said.

  Sal rubbed his brow, a space enlarged, no longer bordered by hair.

  Friendly grunted.

  Sally mumbled, and he leaned forward to hear. ‘I thought we'd got out...I was frightened, and you were...’

  He pressed his hand over her dry lips. The expression on his face was one of pity, albeit a pity hardened by circumstance, its weight of sorrow thus diminished.

  ‘You keep slipping away,’ Friendly admonished. ‘Try and stay awake; at least till I come up with something.’

  She was glad his confidence was authentic. She hadn't dreamed that; or her many aches.

  But she was losing.

  ‘Fight,’ he instructed. ‘Don't give in.’

  ‘It's crazy! What's happening?’ Her throat was constricted, moistureless, the fallacy of drinking insufficient. She felt close to hysteria.

  ‘They're cutting through one of the lower portside locks,’ he said. ‘I moved us out of the immediate vicinity. It was getting a little warm.’ He rolled a scrawny cigarette, using the last of his tobacco. ‘They've rigged some kind of bypass, so I can't blow the hatches. Anyway, it was only one chance in ten.’ The grin he wore appeared freakish.

  ‘Better than nothing,’ Sal rasped. ‘What next?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘Bastard...’

  Byron licked the paper and frowned at its crumpled tube, the ragged ends. ‘Maybe I'll quit, like you,’ he goaded. ‘Eh, Droover, what do you say to that?’

  ‘Okay,’ she answered. ‘Okay, just keep your noxious emissions to yourself, Byron.’

  He laughed self-mockingly at her double meaning and searched his ribbed, encapsulated person for matches. Not finding any made him mad.

  And then the engine depressurized...

  Sally was back where she'd started, only this time it hurt more.

  Byron leaked blood. He was spread out on the floor beside her, stripped and gleaming. There were shiny pins sticking from his chest, upper-arms and thighs. They seemed to be holding him together; but she doubted that was their intended purpose, more likely a coincidence. He looked funny. Her own body was pale, shadowy. It discoloured the white walls with its tawdry echoes. The floor was soft and comfortable. Above, the ceiling was domed, opaque.

  Despite the pain Sal felt better than she had for days - if they were days. Like distance within the engine, everything was compressed: days as metres, unguessable.

  But she wasn't thirsty anymore. She was alive.

  index ii - RETROGRADE PLUS

  So Kate ran away again. What else is new?

  'Not simply as good as,’ they said proudly, 'but a whole nine percent better.’

  Not only had Dr Grey achieved the artificial synthesis of retrograde, he'd manufactured retrograde PLUS, actually improved the Europan original.

  They were impressed.

  There was a snag. ‘

  ‘We're not entirely sure,’ they admitted. ‘It would require extensive tests...’

  Naturally, they got the go-ahead.

  ‘Naturally,’ Droover said. And there it was, proof, in a paper nutshell; illustrated, established fact.

  All wonderfully obfuscated...

  Lucky for her the sea was nearer than it appeared. She stood on the pebbled strand and gazed at the faint outline of Bench 3, its misty forest shrouded in unfailing rain. Uncle Stylo hadn't tried to stop her, neither had Kate told him she was leaving. Onward and outward, impelled by an invisible force, drawn on the threaded line, its farther end entwining, connecting all those whose lives intersected. hers.

  Including Stylo, she thought.

  A boat arrived as she knew it must, rising from the waves like a mythological chariot, attracted by her body's glow, a heat not unlike that which powered it.

  Kate boarded gingerly, a nervousness of apertures - windows in the cosmic ocean - and tongues - languages of space and time.

  A bird overflew the blue deep, squawking.

  Soon her shivering became vague. Like Bench 2 it shrank, then vanished completely as the boat rounded the jungle coast, its trees tall and thick, bedecked in flowers, the perfect, virgin enclave.

  Kate readily leapt ashore, one hand pinning down her hat, one hand sweeping a curve through air and bushes.

  *

  Morgan's contract with the mining company expired after ten shifts, each a hundred Jovian days in length, every third of which he slept. He declined a renewal, had what he wanted: cash for fuel and fuel sufficient to reach Luna where he planned on surprising a certain "reliable source". Lumping Jack didn't want revenge, merely justice. But then something happened that forced a change in his carefully resolved schedule.

  Dr Henry Grey absconded...

  ‘Why?’ They sat in the cramped lounge of Morgan's guppy.

  The elderly scientist waved his stump excitedly. His brow sloped, heavy with meaning. ‘The bonding's unstable,’ he said. ‘The whole twisted concoction's anomalous! But will they listen? No! Almost the entire research
staff has been bought-off with promises of lucrative new deals - Deals! I ask you...And the military, the secrecy...’ His cracked voice descended to a whisper, losing itself in his beard.

  He was mad, Lumping Jack decided. ‘And?’ His senses glutted themselves on the possibilities...

  ‘I have a mission,’ said Grey. ‘A conscience.’

  ‘Yes, but what's in it for me?’

  The scientist grimaced; he looked uncomfortable. ‘I was hoping to appeal to your better instincts,’ he confessed. ‘Perhaps I was naive, eh, mistaken?’ He chewed his lips. ‘Ah...’ His thin frame melted into the stiff couch.

  Frozen Hound manifested.

  ‘Ah,’ the doctor repeated.

  Morgan shuffled; it was his turn to appear ill at ease. ‘Okay, I'll go along,’ he said, the dog's breath in his ear.

  And a partnership, a fellowship was begun.

  *

  ‘So we're prisoners,’ Byron said uselessly. ‘We tunnelled out of the stockade and came up in the jail. Brilliant!’

  *

  Mordy blew his nose.

  ‘There's aspirin,’ offered Uncle Stylo.

  ‘No, no thanks - they make me sleepy.’ He pushed hair from his brow and stared at his father. ‘Which way did she go?’

  ‘On to three.’

  ‘And she's still there?’

  ‘That's what I want you to find out.’ Stylo put down his pencil and whistled...

  Fourteen - The Engineer

  It was ironic, thought Byron as he walked handcuffed between two squat ratings, that they should wind up here, on Fury. It was where he'd hoped to escape to had Sal and himself been successful in capturing the Topican craft. The dour faces either side of him registered no humour. He slowed down, wondering what lay at the corridor's farther end. It was his first time actually inside the orbital station, so he didn't know his way round. A chill ran through him as he envisaged a firing-squad. The smooth walls were scarred in places, evidence of the recent fighting, the battle his side, Upfront, had lost.

  A door opened and he was pushed into a circular room with a view of the planet, Bid-2. There were three chairs and three men waiting, two naval officers and a civilian.

  The ratings left...

  ‘You are Byron Friendly?’ asked one officer derisively.

  He answered yes, curious.

  The civilian folded his arms. He sat in the middle, suggesting prominence.

  Officer two said, ‘The engine...do you own it?’

  He answered no, reticent. What were they getting at?

  The civilian slapped his knees impatiently and got up. ‘Some of our men have disappeared,’ he said flatly, ignoring the agitated soldiers. ‘I...’ He smiled. ‘I want you to tell me why.’ The threat was clean and obvious, forcing Byron to likewise disregard the flanking uniforms and their stifled annoyance as he smiled a smile of his own.

  ‘You what?’ quizzed Sally, freshly animated.

  ‘I agreed,’ said the engineer. ‘What choice was there? You're being looked after, I'm a POW.’ He dressed in the clothes the guards had given him. ‘This way I can be of some use, perhaps learn something. Besides,’ he baited, a familiar game between them.

  She sighed. ‘Yes?’

  Friendly kissed her. ‘Abdul stole my lighter,’ he said. ‘He left this in its place.’

  Sal took the tortoiseshell comb. ‘I suppose when my hair grows back...’ Her voice was wistful.

  ‘That's right,’ Byron congratulated; ‘think positively.’

  He got a kiss in return.

  ‘Thanks.’ Then the ratings came for him...

  The engine's bleak silhouette carved a huge lump out of the grey planet's mountainous surface, the infertile setting for a prolific conflict. Fury orbited, the station a monument to past successes of diplomacy and co-operation, its terminal a joint venture seized firstly by Upfront, retaken by Topica.

  Shining yellow about the powerhouse were a host of vessels, greedy birds inspecting some leviathan's carcass. But the colossus was far from dead, or benign.

  Byron was ushered into a tight-packed transport. He felt his brain was squeezed. The surly men about him were silent. The craft nudged from Fury and flipped over, booster rockets jolting it toward the now invisible flock. He sat doubled up in a webbed couch, trying not to moan. The pressure in the station had been to him standard; but soon that too would change. He wished he was back there, with Sally, peering through windows, slowly rotting...

  Soon his arm was yanked. A face hovered and hands levered him from his captivity. A series of faintly buzzing fields snapped around him. It was like being repeatedly sawn in half, walking from one world to another, via the locks.

  What was it with Topica that it had to be different?

  Finally, lungs aching, Byron emerged into darkness. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust. A match ignited, flared, and he was offered a cigarette.

  ‘You must want to win my confidence,’ he said lamely.

  The man, a second civilian, replied, ‘If you like.’ His manner was relaxed.

  Byron inhaled. ‘Well?’

  ‘There is a mystery,’ the man said, smoking. ‘One of our people 
wandered off and some others went after him. None have returned.’

  The engineer said nothing, waiting. The black was disrupted by glowing orange, marking their faces.

  ‘You'll understand our position concerning Earth,’ the civilian went on. ‘Relations between Terra and ourselves have come under a degree of strain lately; so when this appeared, swallowing a scout ship...’

  ‘You panicked,’ blurted Friendly. ‘You're paranoid.’

  ‘And your life is no longer your own. Be warned, lest it end!’

  ‘Nah, not while you need me.’

  The man seemed to hesitate. Byron glanced around, but could spot no clues to his whereabouts in the near total dark. Were they alone? The smell...

  ‘That remains to be proven. For now I suggest you do your best to alleviate a troublesome situation.’

  Byron flicked his cigarette away. Mentally he examined the cards he had to play, the bluffs he might chance, the obvious stakes. A light came on; they were in a storeroom, although he failed to place it within the engine. Cans of paint lined the shelves. He reasoned them to be near the lower portside lock the Topicans had cut through. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Who and how many? I have a vested interest, right? So you can question me later.’ He reached for the door handle, the man's cagey expression unmoved by his words, all the proof he required to be confident of at least a temporary advantage.

  He was brought up short. Cans of paint? Shelved?

  ‘My name is Beman,’ the man informed.

  ‘Yeah...’

  *

  ‘Droover K?’

  ‘Yeah...who is it?’

  ‘When the moon is full. That's the time the pink-people come out to play.’

  She crouched, wary, sprang over a mossy log and sprinted for the large, bushy tree. It heaved with creatures, ants and spiders that ranged in size from dust motes to fists. The arachnids were her favourite, the boxy orange ones, like soft-skinned crabs, their number limitless.

  She tried to visualize the machine that produced them. Or did they rain from the sky? Earlier Kate had been caught in a shower of green lizards...

  She poked a spider with her thimble, and it jumped. Her hat fell off and she bent to retrieve it, spying midst the tangled forest-floor a wristwatch-cum-radio. Droover slipped the metal bracelet over her right hand.

  ‘Stylo?’

  ‘Here, Mordy. Anything?’

  ‘I just stepped off the boat and already there are contrary signals. I think I'm picking up underground activity; at least that's how it sounds.’

  ‘Impossible,' his father said, 'there's been no construction at sub-sealevel in the area. Most likely it's your equipment. Run a test program, see what that comes up with.’

  Mordy frowned. ‘I did... it shows...’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tec
tonics,’ he reported.

  ‘On a bench?’ The disembodied voice was incredulous. ‘You've got to be kidding...’

  I know, he told himself, these are spurious, floating atolls, islands without foundation.

  ‘Run it a - ‘ But Mordy had closed the channel. Next he unhooked his pack and threw it in the ocean.

  The bite-marks across his stomach writhed, contracted.

  The doctor and Lumping Jack left Sarpendon. Morgan wasn't at all convinced by Henry's story, but he'd go along for now, the dog's liking for the old man persuasive.

  He set a course for Luna, then altered it.

  ‘They'd expect you to head there,’ Frozen Hound explained, a rare sentence. ‘Henry has a logical mind. Do something erratic, that way, when they find him missing, we'll be more difficult to trace.’

  ‘The dark side?’

  ‘No, too risky; make it Earth.’

  *

  ‘Droover S?’

  ‘Yeah...who is it?’

  ‘The engineer.’

  ‘Ernie, get out of my brain.’ Sally was engaged in some private thinking. The walls looked more cheerful, she noted, and the food was good.

  But she hated not to be working.

  It was plain there had been no depressurization; the engine, its internal conglomerates and networks were intact, displayed no obvious stresses or fractures. He toyed with the idea that it had somehow mended itself: a frenetic team of conscientious dwarfs armed with repair-gear and blow-torches, a multitude of active fingers superintended by the dead engineer.

  It had its appeal, and brought to mind the still unsolved problem of Ern. Not for the first time Byron was struck by the fact neither Sal nor Kate, or for that matter Captain Jones, had ever offered any explanation as to what befell his artful predecessor. What, if anything, had caused his demise? It was a puzzle he might never solve.

  Beman was ready.

  ‘Just you and me?’ asked Byron, accepting the challenge. He liked the Topican, admired his departmental stubbornness. The pair of them would get on fine, as long as they had to.

  He wondered if his own needs would be met before those of his adversary.

  ‘Our man followed the main service conduit to its branching,’ Beman said, pointing. ‘That's the last he was seen. A group of four, including a naval officer, went in search. They were in radio contact until...’