Chapter Ten - Words
Trapped. Helpless. He was going to die here. He'd starve to death unless Pandemonium broke up or the oxygen ran out first. His body was numbing, the suit's dead weight restricting his circulation. Could he die from that? He should have listened to Alizen, but then he would have if he'd had the chance. He smiled. His bitter self-pity over her was ridiculous; he'd always known that.
But it was only a brief smile. The present was more pressing. He wasn't going to give up. He was wriggling his body as much as the suit would allow, pins and needles spasming through it. He would be ready the moment he got the chance to get out. It wasn't much but it was the best he could do. He would get out. He had to. He'd survived so far. He couldn't believe he was alone here. Someone would find him.
He wasn't alone.
Somebody would find him.
The maniac with the gun! He'd forgotten about him. Where was he?
Something had been behind them. Him? Impossible. He'd been in front; there was no way he could have got past them. But he'd vanished so why couldn't he just reappear behind them? There was no other explanation.
Was he still there?
He edged his head round as far as he could, muscles straining, desperately trying to see beyond the helmet. No good. The sides rose up like the sheer walls of a mantrap. All he could see was his breath rushing away in the chilled air and Javer's dead face, his comical pop eyes staring at him with mocking intensity.
Where was he? And what about the other two? One of them hadn't even registered on the life detector.
He couldn't move to see and he couldn't hear anything apart from his own breathing, echoing loudly round the helmet. At least he could do something about that.
He held his breath and strained to listen.
It was faint, but it was there.
Shallow breathing.
It was getting louder.
Then grunting, groaning, a low moan.
His lungs were protesting, every muscle in his body tense. He exhaled swiftly then breathed in, clamping his mouth shut again.
The mumbling had stopped.
But there was still the breathing; regular measured human breath.
Then a sudden, urgent whisper.
'Paul!'
Fenton's body jerked.
Brozmam.
He must have just regained consciousness. He'd forgotten about him.
But who was Paul?
Paul Javer hung lifelessly before him.
Paul. He'd never considered Javer might have a first name, let alone an existence beyond his role in all of this. But of course he had. He would have left people behind, friends who would mourn him.
Who would mourn Mark Fenton?
He'd met Javer just hours ago, he'd barely spoken to him but he could still feel a dawning sense of loss. It seemed appropriate to take a moment to reflect on a life that had ended. But Javer was gone and he knew nothing about him and never would, other than he'd worked for the SSD and liked Scratching Diamonds by Rodrik Breen.
Scratching diamonds in my mind.
Scratching diamonds all the time.
Scraping through the tangled ways,
Etchings of my black, mad days.
It was a pitiful, empty epitaph.
And then it hit him. If he died here too that would be his fate, nobody would know anything about him: who he was and what his life had really been. Black, mad days. She would never know, never know she'd been his life, never know how she'd filled his thoughts for the last seven years. She'd known in those early years, he'd told her often enough, but then he'd had to stop. It achieved nothing, just made things worse, more awkward. But she'd known. She'd known just over three years ago when he'd bolted to Zarros, when he'd run from her. That was the last time he'd seen her, her beautiful sad face filling the screen, pleading with him not to go. No. Plead was the wrong word, it suggested an intensity of emotion that wasn't there, not on her part anyway. But she hadn't wanted him to leave; that had always been some consolation. She'd wanted him to stay and finish his degree. Pointless. Pointless.
Your world's without me.
My world's without you.
Now and tomorrow.
And forever too.
But if he died here could she ever even suspect he had kept on hopelessly loving her all this time? Could she imagine the anger?
'Paul!' hissed Brozmam again.
He mustn't be able to see Javer's body. If he could he would have realised the futility of trying to speak to him. His suit must have locked solid too, pointing the wrong way.
'Paul!'
'He's dead.'
'Fenton!' Brozmam whispered with naked vehemence, 'what's happening here?'
He stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it. 'I could ask you the same,' he spat back.
'You're involved here, Fenton.'
'Of course I'm involved, you moron!' He was angry now. 'You involved me. You brought me here.'
'You were already involved, Fenton, you know that.'
'Why? Because I was unlucky enough to go to university with the so-called genius who designed this place? Because he was stupid enough to tell me about it on some guilt trip? That makes me involved?'
'You know what I mean, Fenton.'
'I don't. Maybe it's slipped my memory. Be a mate and remind me.' He made no attempt to hide the mocking tone. He was almost shouting. He'd had enough. He was furious now and he didn't care who knew it.
Silence.
'Brozmam!'
Total silence.
'Brozmam! Tell me!'
'I'm sorry, Mr Fenton,' replied Brozmam in a now all too familiar vacant tone, 'but I'm not authorised to tell you anything.'
'Oh for God's sake just grow up. Stop playing super-secret agent for once in your life and use your initiative. You're on your own. Paize and all your chums are probably dead and you're as trapped as I am so you can't wave that pitiful penile extension round and bully me now. Why don't you just trust me?'
'How do you know Paize is in charge here? Why do you think he's dead? What do you know, Fenton?' Brozmam's voice was that of a too clever schoolboy who'd just proved another pupil guilty of some petty misdemeanour before teacher.
Damn. He shouldn't have known that name or the contents of the communiqué. But then what did it matter?
'Because, Mr Brozmam, I had the sense to key in the monitor while I was in the bathroom because I wanted to know what the hell you two cowboys were playing at!'
'What monitor?'
'The one in the living room. I think you'll find most apartments have one that can be accessed by a wrist-strap. I'm surprised you didn't think of it.'
Silence again. Was Brozmam thinking over what he'd said? Would he believe him or would he choose to think he'd gleaned the information from some darker source? But it didn't matter: he couldn't try to beat some confession out of him now. Or was Brozmam just sulking because he'd realised they'd failed to account for something as obvious as that?
Silence.
Then it struck him.
If Brozmam couldn't see him or Javer he had to be facing away. He must have been able to turn back to the airlock before the suits failed.
He'd have seen what the life detectors picked up.
'Brozmam.'
Silence.
'BROZMAM!'
'What?'
'What was behind us in the airlock? Is it still there?'
A pause.
'Brozmam!'
'There's nothing there, Mr Fenton,' said Brozmam in a bored voice, as if there was nothing unusual about life-forms suddenly appearing and disappearing. 'It was probably a suit glitch,' he continued in a nonchalant tone, 'the radiation may have damaged the sensors, it was rather severe.' Wonderful, that was all he needed to know.
'It might have escaped your notice, Mr Brozmam but one of those suit glitches shot at us!'
'I'm aware of that, Mr Fenton. What do you propose to do about it under our current circumstances?'
No
t for the first time Fenton would have liked to have thumped Brozmam, very hard.
Javer observed the conversation in silence.
The talking was over. Brozmam had relapsed back to his old infuriating self. And he was too calm. Did he really believe Paize would turn up at any moment? Was he just resigned? Or was he in shock?
And if someone did turn up, it would be impossible to tell whether it was friend or foe. Brozmam was looking straight into the empty airlock. He was gazing at Javer and the ceiling. Javer was staring at nothing.
His body was numbing again. He wriggled his limbs and torso. They tingled.
His nose was itching. He stretched his neck, straining to rub it against the edge of the helmet. He couldn't reach its sides. It was too big. Irritating.
Brozmam stayed silent. How had he even heard him in the first place? Strangely the earslugs were still working, relaying sound. The power drain hadn't affected them. Bizarre.
His head hurt. He was hungry and tired, so tired. With everything that had happened in the last hour he just hadn't noticed how desperately tired he was. He'd forgotten. Now it was overwhelming. If he closed his eyes he would sleep. Perhaps that was the best thing. There was nothing else he could do. He closed his eyes.
They snapped open again.
It was faint, but he could hear it.
In the distance.
Footsteps.