Chapter Five - Preparations
'All…' said Fenton shaking his head in horror, 'you mean me too…go out there…no… you're joking.'
The grin was still on Brozmam's face but it wasn't the fake diplomatic smile anymore, he was amused.
'Mr Fenton, we never joke.'
Fenton didn't doubt him.
'We're going to spacewalk from Sprite, that's this ship, to Pandemonium.'
'Can't we dock?'
'Yes, we could dock,' Brozmam relished his pedantic answer.
'So, why don't we?' Fenton demanded angrily. He hated spacewalking. They'd made him do it in the Junior Space Corps when he was twelve. He'd been terrified.
Brozmam looked surprised at his outburst.
'Mr Fenton, accept we have our reasons. Time is pressing and we can't waste it giving explanations.'
Even when he was rude Brozmam's tone was perfectly polite. It was obvious though he was bored with the conversation and so it was over. He had the gun.
He would have to walk. Fear crashed in on him. Normally it would be bad enough but there were treacherous gravitational currents and eddies out there. One wrong move and they'd be wrenched off Graeme's course and hurled off into the fury of Hell. Their spacesuits would shatter under the stress. Would it be quick? How conscious would he be for those last moments? He was trembling. He drew in breath, controlling himself with difficulty. He wasn't going to break down in front of them.
He wanted to scream.
'Are you alright?' There was concern in Javer's voice.
'I don't want to walk. I've got a phobia about it, and out there....'
'We could sedate you,' said Javer, almost kindly.
'You're not drugging me again.'
'Sorry. There's nothing else we can do. Your suit will be on automatic so there's nothing to worry about.'
Javer's words were bitterly comic. There was everything to worry about. If they couldn't trust Dezlin's data they couldn't trust the automatic. There was no other option though, it was impossible to walk through Hell without computer control. He'd have to sit locked inside the suit with nothing to do but be afraid. Sedation was suddenly appealing. No. They weren't going to drug him again.
'Okay,' he whispered.
'Release,' ordered Brozmam.
The straps sprung open, liberating him. He stood up and instantly fell over, tiny stabs of cramp shooting through him. Javer's suit roared. With surprising agility he dived forward and caught Fenton. He was half-helped, half-frogmarched to an alcove in the corner of the cabin. Javer pushed him through the doorway and let go. Fenton staggered inside on useless legs before catching himself on the back wall. Awkwardly he turned round, levering against the wall with half-dead arms, hands tingling as the sensation returned. Javer marched through the door.
The chamber was small. It would comfortably take two people or a single spacesuited figure but with both Fenton and Javer in his suit it was packed solid. Fenton was crushed against the wall, winded by the force of the scaly torso slamming into his chest. There was something digging into his ribs: it was the muzzle of the Thoron gun. Javer's face was only centimetres away from his, he could smell his peppermint scented breath. He twisted his head away. Now his face was jammed against a padded bulkhead.
'Airlock,' ordered Javer.
The door slammed shut like a tomb lid. He felt a falling sensation as the lift moved down. Nausea rippled through him, the walls were closing in. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. The lift stopped. He heard the whisper of the door opening. The suit wheezed and the pressure lifted as Javer moved away. Fenton's arms shot out, clutching the walls. He was panting. He opened his eyes.
Javer was staring at him.
'Claustrophobic?'
Fenton nodded.
'This isn't going to be much fun for you.' The understatement seemed sympathetic. 'Sure you don't want me to sedate you?'
'Quite sure,' he replied, stepping out of the lift with as much dignity as he could muster. His limbs felt heavy but they were working. He waved his arms and stamped his feet, but not too violently, he was aware of Javer's gun.
The airlock was roughly the same size as the cockpit. It was brightly lit but had been fitted out in black. A spherical cage dominated the centre. It was open on the right hand side. Looking down he saw it enclosed a sunken pit, two metres deep. At the bottom were two large horizontal doors.
The doors must open out into space, into Hell.
The cage was big enough to accommodate a spacesuited figure with room for manoeuvring. It wasn't just a guardrail, it would provide leverage when the gravity was off. Beyond the scaffolding were two frames. At the apex of each, above head height hung a black helmet. Handrails stood at waist level. They were flanked at the floor by the suits' arms and torsos, split from back to front like dismembered lobsters. Behind them hung compact backpacks. A pressurised locker and a control pedestal stood to the left of each. He could see no sign of the suits' legs and abdomens. There were two more stands, empty except for the waiting backpacks.
'You'll need to web-up.' Javer pointed with the stubby weapon to the spacesuits. Fenton walked around the cage. Reaching the first suit he glanced back. Javer had followed, the gun casually aimed at him.
'Press the access button on the locker.'
The door opened revealing a hanging blue undergarment. He lifted it out. It was warm to the touch. It was more sophisticated than the one he'd worn fifteen years ago but the principles were the same.
'Put your clothes in the locker.'
'What about my wrist-strap?' It was still useful. They might have blocked his communications but it would tell him the time.
'You'll have to take it off, but there's a pocket on the outside of the suit. Leave your earslugs in, the suit will tune into them.'
He took off the strap, checking the time. Ten-twenty-eight am, Karnos time. Half ten in the morning and he'd had about an hour of proper sleep. No wonder he felt so bad. They must have sedated him at about four am. Assuming Brozmam and Javer had been active for, say, an hour in total on either side of it then the journey must have taken less than six. He didn't know where Hell was in relation to the colonised areas of the universe, The System, but Graeme had said it was a long way out, beyond the rim. Karnos was close to the edge but it wasn't very likely Hell was on the same side. They must have cut right across The System, through the hyperspace lanes and beyond. In roughly five and a half hours! He wouldn't have believed it possible. It was a feat requiring speed way beyond normal safety limits and priority clearance from Central. Whatever this was about it was important.
He stripped. He grabbed the webbing and stepped into it, closing the zips and fasteners in the order he remembered.
'Why are we walking to Pandemonium?' he asked, feeding his left arm down the sleeve, his fingers slipping into the thimble tips of the attached glove.
'We don't want them to know we're coming.'
Fenton stopped, his right arm halfway down the sleeve. Whatever was waiting for them on Pandemonium was dangerous enough to make this hazardous crossing worthwhile.
'Who?'
'Keep dressing,' Javer waggled the gun for emphasis.
Fenton thrust his hand into the gauntlet.
'Who?' he repeated, drawing the fastener up from the left hip to his neck.
'That,' said Javer with a mischievous grin, 'is what we're going to find out.'
Fenton shuddered. Whatever was waiting for them on Pandemonium had probably killed everyone and Javer was beaming like an excited child.
'Come on, hurry up!'
Fenton touched the control box hanging at his breast. There was an assortment of clicking as the undergarment automatically adjusted then an all clear signal. He strapped his clothes in the locker.
'What next?' The suits were nothing like those he'd used before.
'You'll need to wear the cap. Your hair's too long.'
It was in the locker, a transparent plastic hairnet. Embarrassed, he br
ushed his hair back and pulled the cap over it. So that was why their hair was short and neat.
'Now, stand between the rails and put your feet on the marks.' Fenton saw two yellow footprints on the floor between the handrails. He took up the position. The helmet hung above his head.
'Brace yourself against the rails.'
He reached out, grasping a rail with each hand.
'Suit-up, stage one,' said Javer.
He felt the floor move beneath him, his arm muscles contracted instinctively, taking his weight. He looked down. A section of the floor retracted. He was hanging over a pit containing the exploded abdomen and leg sections, supported on a complex framework. With a hum the rails began to move downwards lowering his legs into the suit.
'Javer.'
'Yes?'
'Has something happened to Graeme Dezlin?'
'We're not sure yet.'
The rails were flush with the floor. His legs and feet were inside the segments. They contracted, locking together, attaching themselves to the webbing. He shuddered at the impact. The lower half of his body was completely paralysed, trapped inside the rigid suit. Only his upper body, protruding from the floor from the midriff up, was free to move. His stomach knotted. His pulse was quickening. He breathed deeply to stave off the claustrophobia. The wave passed.
'Alright?' asked Javer.
'Yes,' he nodded.
'Hold your arms like this,' he commanded, holding up his own.
'Like this?'
'Perfect. Suit-up, stage two.'
The two halves of the torso with their attached arms were now at waist level. They glided towards him on slender metal arms, foul metal shells moving to smother him in their cold embrace.
'Christ, Javer,' he blurted out, 'you must know something. You're expecting me to risk my life and you won't even tell me why.'
Javer shook his head. 'Sorry, Mr Fenton.'
With a resounding clang the two halves met, sandwiching him between them. There was a crack like a gunshot as they locked together. He flinched as they bolted themselves onto the webbing. Now, with the exception of his head, he was locked solid, frozen like a statue. His body was trembling. The inside of the suit responded, the vibro-system activating, gently massaging his skin to promote blood circulation. He gulped down air. The tremors stopped.
'Suit-up, stage three,' said Javer.
Motors whined; supports retracted. The bottom of the well moved up. Fenton rose out of the pit, baptised in glistening black armour.
'How well did you know Dr Dezlin?'
'We were close, a long time ago.' He knew he shouldn't be volunteering information but he needed to talk. Could anyone describe themselves as being close to Graeme Dezlin? Graeme probably could.
'What happened?'
Alizen.
'That's private.'
Javer nodded, accepting it.
Fenton contemptuously flung the model of Pandemonium back at Dezlin. He caught it in shocked surprise. Graeme was manipulating him again. It wasn't exactly a surprise, Graeme manipulated everyone, but he still resented it. He'd always resented it. But why now, when battle-lines were drawn so long ago? What could he hope to gain?
'Why did you want to see me, Graeme? I mean, it's not just that is it?' He gestured to the model Graeme was cradling lovingly in his arms.
Graeme paused for a moment, looking straight at him.
'I want you to look after Alizen.'
'You arrogant, condescending little bastard,' he spat the words with cold fury, 'Alizen doesn't need looking after by any one.'
He knew that. Alizen didn't need looking after, least of all by him. She'd told him that herself.
Dezlin flashed his oh-so-charming smile, amused at Fenton's passion.
'Oh, come on, Mark, it's just a bit of friendly concern. What's wrong about that?'
'Concern? Or guilt?'
Dezlin sat down, placing the model carefully on its stand.
'Mark, I can't pretend to feel good about what happened between Alizen and me. I'm sorry it worked out that way. I didn't have much choice. I had to end it there. They were putting me under a lot of pressure. I had no time and it wasn't fair on her. And I couldn't tell her about it, they had too much power over me then. I didn't have the leverage I have now.'
'They?'
Graeme picked up the model of Pandemonium and held it before him tenderly, like a baby.
'Them.'
The administration; so Graeme had been secretly working for them for years. They must have recruited him during that first term at Gadder, when he'd just turned twenty. They'd spotted his potential then. So that's how he'd known so much about Hell. And he'd told them all about it, in a bar of all places. He'd revealed confidential information just so he could impress a girl.
So he could impress Alizen.
Fenton shook his head slowly.
'Yes, Mark. If it satisfies you it probably is guilt. I am capable of that whatever you think. I just want you to keep an eye on her for me. She still won't talk to me, even now, after two years. She'll talk to you though. She trusts you. Everyone trusts you, Mark.'
Everyone trusted him: dependable, harmless, boring Mark Fenton.
But Alizen didn't trust him. Not like that.
Alizen didn't love him.
Alizen still loved Graeme Dezlin.
She did then, four years ago. Did she love him now?
Something was moving above him. He craned his head to see the helmet moving downwards. The neck yawned hungrily open, a gaping mouth. He screwed up his eyes as his head went through, the smooth metal surrounding and enclosing him. There was a muffled thump as the bolts fired. He opened his eyes. He was looking through the open visor. He moved his head around, inspecting the inside. It was larger than the last one he'd worn, the added space was comforting. He still wouldn't be happy though when the visor was down and the helmet sealed.
'Suit-up, stage four.'
The noises started again. He felt the impact as the backpack docked. The sounds ceased.
'You were fortunate to know him. He's a brilliant man, very respected.'
It wasn't meant as a barb but it stung. Graeme Dezlin: respected scientist, achiever. Mark Fenton: dropout. It didn't matter. He could go back to Gadder to complete his degree any time he chose. He had enough money, his parents had seen to that. He just didn't want to. He didn't need a qualification to lend legitimacy to his work; it would stand on its own.
There was a buzzing sound, inside his helmet. He glanced up. He was blinded by a harsh white light, then the beam projector adjusted to his retina and he was reading the data the suit fed him as it ran checks on all systems, red lettering changing to green as each one cleared.
He was a fool. Of course he needed a degree if anyone was going to take his work on the Great Collapse seriously. No academic would touch it without that. But he wasn't writing for them. He was tired of their intellectual snobbery. He was writing for the people. They needed to know. They shouldn't be allowed to forget what had happened. But they weren't interested; it was all too long ago. He was wasting his time and he knew it. He'd always known it. He was twenty-seven and he'd achieved nothing. But what else could he have done?
If Culris had his way he'd have been a business graduate by now, like his late father, ruling the empire his parents had bequeathed him, the empire Culris had held on trust. He'd never wanted that. He remembered the burst of relief when he'd ordered Culris to sell it. Then he remembered with regret the hurt and incomprehension etched on the man's face. That was the last time he'd seen him. Surely he must have known that was coming?
And Alizen? She'd wanted him to be something in the administration. He hadn't wanted to have anything to do with the administration, least of all work for it. He'd escaped that too. He wasn't anything in the administration. But then he wasn't anything anywhere. He'd been left behind.
The flurry of information spiralling across his eyes had stopped. There were just a few words, floating there, waiting:
'PLEASE GIVE VOICE SAMPLE FOR SYSTEM IDENTIFICATION'
'Dark, dark, throughout the night. Dark, dark, without the light,' said Fenton. It seemed apt.
'Dreams of light burn away,' Javer instantly replied.
'What?' exclaimed Fenton, leaning forwards, his suit spluttering into life as the words 'ALL GO - SYSTEMS OPERATIONAL' appeared.
'Intellectual Shadows from Magnetic Soul by Rodrik Breen,' said Javer.
'You're into Breen?' Fenton eagerly asked, lumbering towards him. He stopped dead. The suit was working. If he moved too quickly before he got the measure of it he could smash into a wall or fall over. Either would be painful and humiliating. He took a cautious step forwards. The claustrophobia had passed now he could move again.
'Scratching Diamonds is my favourite,' Javer replied.
He was about to tell Javer he loved the album but preferred Rodrik Breen: Abnormal Prophet but his brain screamed at him, rebelling against the absurdity. He was discussing pop music with a Special Security agent who was about to force him to walk across Hell to a death-trap. Besides he couldn't admit why he liked Abnormal Prophet so much. It contained World without You, the Alizen song, one of the Alizen songs. Still, it was a relief to know Javer was actually interested in something.
He practised with the suit, his confidence mounting.
'We're ready,' said Javer into his helmet mic.
There was an awkward silence. Fenton broke it.
'Where's this pocket?'
'Here.' Javer patted a small bulge above his suit's left hip. Fenton reached for it. The suits' fingers unfurled in synchronisation with his, triggering the pocket. Gingerly he picked up the strap and slipped it inside. He closed it.
His mind was racing. If there was a murderer on the loose why did they need him? Just knowing Graeme couldn't make him a suspect, unless they'd realised he bore him a grudge. But how could they know that? Had Graeme told them? Perhaps he'd been right before. Something had gone wrong and they needed a scapegoat. The suits could be for protection against whatever had killed Graeme and his team. Some new kind of radiation? Dezlin's radiation. He'd have liked to have something named after him! But if they were going to frame him for it wouldn't it be simpler if he was dead? Unless he had to die the same way as Graeme to make it look authentic, the saboteur hoist by his own petard.
He was smirking at the lunacy of the scenario he'd created. Even in death Graeme would get the last laugh over him: Graeme's reputation would be untarnished while Mark Fenton would go down in history as the man who'd curtailed Dezlin's brilliant career. Motive? Jealousy and revenge. It would be so easy for them to paint him as some brooding lonely misfit, a bitter failure with a festering all-consuming hatred of the great man.
Alizen smiled at him: 'Mark, you're so paranoid.'
'WHOOSSHH!'
He spun round in alarm, almost toppling over in the heavy suit. He waved his arms, flailing to regain his balance. The suit righted itself.
It was the lift opening. Brozmam was inside, his gun arm extended, the tiny interior exaggerating his size to monstrous proportions. He strode like a behemoth into the room, servos screaming with every step. He stopped, the pistol pointing at Fenton's exposed face.
Javer backed up to the wall. He spoke the order and the backpack attached itself. He stepped forward, covering Fenton with his weapon. Brozmam walked round to the opposite side of the cage and connected his pack. Seconds later he was back with them.
'Briefing,' said Brozmam, 'once we're outside we'll switch you to automatic. We'll return control when we reach Pandemonium. As soon as the hatch opens radio silence will be maintained and broken only in an emergency. You will follow all our hand-signalled directions out there. Disobey any of them or make an unexpected move and Mr Javer will disintegrate you. Is that clear?'
'Perfectly, Brozmam.'
There was an irritated gleam in Brozmam's eye and a threatening pause. For a moment Fenton was convinced like some slighted teacher he would state his name and title as 'Mr Brozmam' and expect Fenton to repeat it. The moment passed.
'Let's go,' Brozmam opened his pocket and slipped the pistol inside, 'visor down.'
'Visor down,' repeated Javer.
Their shiny black visors glided down, obliterating their features. They clicked shut. All traces of Brozmam and Javer's humanity had vanished. Their heads were just smooth vacant ovals, the side-mounted sensors the hooded eyes of reptiles.
'Visor down,' Fenton gulped. The glass descended like a veil. It snapped into place. He could feel his entrails tighten. There was a deafening roar as acrid air flooded the helmet. His shallow breathing echoed round, mocking him. Suddenly the room was plunged into darkness then fired with lurid red light. It was like being under a blood stained lake.
'LIGHT SOURCE EXTINGUISHED - INFRARED ENGAGED'
The words vanished to be replaced by:
'EXTERNAL DECOMPRESSION'
Fenton flinched at decompression but then external registered. The atmosphere was bleeding away outside, not inside the suit.
'ARTIFICIAL GRAVITY REDUCING - MAGNETIC BOOTS ACTIVATED'
Fenton could feel his body trying to drift upwards but the rigid suit kept it locked in place. He was anchored by the magnetic soles. It was unnerving.
'DECOMPRESSION COMPLETE - GRAVITY ZERO'
He was gently swaying in his suit, his head moving slowly, the helmet revolving in synch. Brozmam and Javer slowly turned to the cage, looking down. Fenton leaned forward to see. The suit took maddening seconds to move. Then he saw it.
The doors into space were parting.