“Maybe this is what the Glasgow thugs were looking for,” Greenaway said.
“Ssshh! Help me search.”
They found Marc at the far end, amongst the Pinot Noir: naked, cold to the touch, unconscious. His left hand gripped a ten-centimetre narrow strip of wood, so tightly there was blood on his palm. His face was drawn, the skin translucent. He reminded Kara of a painting she’d seen at London City’s National Art Archive, where once-priceless paintings slept until society rediscovered them. There’d been several portraits of dark-haired holy men with cadaverous faces and sunken eyes staring at something that Kara never would, never could see. Marc’s eyes were closed, yet there was still the same sense that he part inhabited a different world. She took a deep, shuddering breath like the rhythm of a tribal drum.
“You two always manage to surprise me,” Greenaway said wonderingly. “Despite everything else that’s going on.” He sounded as calm as he would have been ordering a drink in a bar, but Kara thought she could detect a slight wobble in his voice, a glistening in his eye. “The universe is more amazing than I thought.” He reached out to remove the strip of wood – marked with four irregularly spaced lines and notches – from Marc’s hand.
“Don’t,” Kara said urgently. For a moment she remembered straining to attention as her sister Dee had measured her height.
“But...”
“It’s a talisman. Links him to this reality.”
“You gave it to him?”
“I’ll explain later. It’s just...” but there was no good way to explain something she sensed but couldn’t justify. “Maybe it’s still keeping him here.”
Greenaway shrugged. “If you like. But it gets a med-spray.”
Marc was light in their arms and easy to lift. He smelt of ozone, as from the sea or after a thunderstorm. No signs of waking until they got him into the open air, when he stirred slightly and gave the lightest of sighs. The SUT had med-aid, so they carried him there, with Cleo helping. Just before they reached the SUT Marc sighed again, muttered something and opened his eyes.
Eyes that writhed with all the colours of netherspace and hell, far more than Henk on the RIL-FIJ-DOQ when he and Kara were having sex. Far more than Kara’s had last night.
All three avoided looking at Marc’s face as they strapped him to a bed – no crude bunks in a Wild SUT – in a simply furnished cabin, with the med-aid plugged in and humming a reassuring tune. Marc still clutched the strip of wood.
“Maybe you’re right about that talisman,” Greenaway said. He paused, listening to something. “The SUT’s AI says he’s in no immediate danger.”
“So I take him with me,” she said to Greenaway as they emerged into the deepening twilight.
“One way or another.”
“Even though I’ve no idea where to go?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“What if he doesn’t wake up? Isn’t sane?”
“This is your very own not-to-reason-why moment, Kara. Embrace it.”
“Bastard,” she said affectionately. “And thank you for last night. And today.”
He smiled. “Thanks for having me.”
She grinned and held his gaze. “I hope you’ll come again.” “So do I, Kara.” He bent, cupped her face and lightly kissed her.
“I’d stay if I could,” she said and broke away.
“Whenever you’re ready,” from Cleo.
Kara looked blank. She wanted to go Up as much as anyone. But the small matter of Gliese-supplied foam that protects SUT’s in nether- and real space?
Cleo and Greenaway glanced at each other. Greenaway went first.
“Wild SUTs don’t need foam. The hull’s sufficient.”
“And Wild SUTs don’t need call-out fees,” Cleo added. She made an impatient gesture.
Kara said, “Why the foam?”
“The foam doesn’t only protect you from netherspace,” Cleo said. “It also protects netherspace from you. And the Wild aren’t considered a threat. Our SUTs are never attacked and anyway, the hulls are better protection than foam.”
Kara could only stare at her.
“Netherspace is an underlying dimension of raw creation,” Cleo explained. “Very susceptible to outside, human or alien ideas and emotions. The boojums aren’t the same as entities, they’re created whenever a sentient being enters netherspace. The Gliese foam dampens down the human presence, their emotions. So no new boojums are created, unless the foam fails. But the existing ones can sometimes sense the presence of humans. They’re intrigued and sometimes violent. But like I said, a Wild SUT won’t have any problems.” She kissed Kara a brief goodbye and discreetly walked away.
Kara looked at Greenaway. “It’s all a great big crock of shit. All of it.”
“Has been ever since the first alien scared the crap out of a caveman. There’s clothes, equipment for all three of you on board. If you have a breakdown, there are two spare star drives on board. Good luck, wrap up warm, come back safe. What did you mean about Paris?”
Kara smiled. “Yours to discover.” She kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Sod off before I forbid it.”
“Marching to my front like a soldier. That’s another reference.” She bit her lip. “Tell the truth I’m scared.”
“You hide it well.”
“Always did. This is different.”
“You’ve admitted it. To you, to me. It’ll be easier to control. Wait.”
Greenaway reached into a pocket and took out a small cube made of some silvery metal. “Here.”
“Is what?”
“Never managed to open it. Have no idea what it does. It’s been my luck.” The concern in his eyes belied the lightness of speech.
“What that alien gave you?” Kara took the box and smiled. He was sharing his wife’s death, his youth with her. “You believe in luck. Who knew?”
Greenaway watched as she went into the SUT and the airlock door closed noiselessly behind her. He would have liked to say goodbye with a sonnet, and his AI could, but that wasn’t the same as already knowing one. The only poetry he could think of was a mere scrap, something about betrayal and a coward with a kiss, a brave man with a sword, but the rest of the words were lost to him. Except he had no intention of betraying Kara. He might use people, but never
