Synthesis Read online

  ‘Shh. Don’t let your mother hear you speak Icelandic. Speak Galac.’

  ‘Sorry. Hello, Grandfather.’

  Frímann bent down and squeezed him tight. ‘Happy birthday, Sebastian.’ He turned Sebastian around and nudged him back towards the house. ‘Go on, I’ll be up in a minute.’

  Sebastian ran up the steps and sat cross-legged in front of the white wicker chairs.

  Dishes clattered in the kitchen, and Sebastian’s mother ran down the steps past him, her white dress shining. ‘Frímann! It’s good to see you.’ She gripped the old man’s arms and pulled herself up to kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘Sigrid, my dear! How are you keeping?’ Frímann’s white grin glinted in the sunlight as he turned towards the house. ‘I assume Thor’s at work again?’

  She sighed. ‘He takes all hours the Gods send lately. Mikkael was playing up so he took him to work after the party.’

  Frímann shuffled up the steps and took the seat next to Sebastian.

  ‘I’ll get a drink,’ Sigrid said, patting Frímann on the shoulder, and made her way into the house.

  ‘I have a present for you, Sebastian,’ Frímann said. ‘I want you to look after this. Take it with you wherever you go.’ He leaned forwards and unhooked a beaten-up canvas backpack with leather straps from his shoulder and handed it over.

  Sebastian’s eyes widened. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My great-grandfather’s pack. He used to take it with him when he went exploring. Open it.’

  He fumbled with the heavy buckles on the top flap, loosened the rope that drew the neck shut, and put his hand in. Something cold met his touch and he snatched it back.

  ‘It’s okay. Take it out – it won’t bite.’

  He reached in again and pulled the object out. It was enormously heavy in his small hands. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s an antique miner’s lamp. A Davy lamp. Let me show you.’ Sebastian handed the lamp back and the old man turned it in his hands. The light caught on the shiny brass base and fixtures. ‘This is nearly four hundred years old, so I want you to look after it carefully.’ His knotty finger pointed to a dent on the side of the black cowl at the top. ‘The badge has fallen off, and you can see where the lettering has worn away. It says eighteen-something. That’s when it was made.’

  ‘Wow! How does it make light? Does it have a battery?’

  Frímann laughed. ‘No, it uses liquid hydrocarbon fuel. Do you know what that is?’

  Sebastian scratched his head. ‘The fuel old cars used to run on?’

  ‘Good lad.’ Frímann rubbed the boy’s head. ‘At least you’re paying attention at school. You’ll probably never see it lit in your lifetime.’ The gnarled fingers turned the lamp over and pushed a lever on its base.

  Sebastian watched as Frímann demonstrated opening the glass. He imagined clambering through dark tunnels, shining the light ahead of him like his great-great-grandfather might have done; like his heroes from the movies, or the characters in his grandfather’s stories.

  ‘Can I go and play with it now?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Go on.’

  He put the lamp and toy shuttle in the pack and slung it over his shoulders. It almost came down to his backside. He giggled with excitement, ran down the steps around the back of the house, and crawled under the terrace to watch his grandfather through a split in the floorboards.

  Frímann grinned and sat back to write in his worn leather journal as Sigrid came out of the house carrying a tray of glasses and pitcher of lemonade.

  ‘Where has he gone off to now? You didn’t let him go into the wilderness, did you? I wish you wouldn’t keep telling him those stories about giants and magic. You’ll have him thinking the Gods are looking out for him.’

  Frímann looked up from his notes. ‘Oh, let the boy play, my dear. He’ll be fine.’ His wrinkles deepened and he shook the book in her direction. ‘There are much worse things in the universe to worry about than wild boar and rutting deer …’

  The pack and lamp had stayed with Sebastian after that, and he still felt bad that his grandfather got the blame for letting him run off. The childhood desire for adventure rose in his veins, and this time, rather than stifle it, he allowed the urge to wash over him; now that he was SpecOps his desire to travel might finally become a reality. He put the rucksack back in its place and caught the silvery glint of metal at the back. He slid his clothes to one side on the rail to reveal a SpecOps uniform hanging behind them.

  His eyes followed the uniform down to the bottom, where a small metal box sat along with several other items. He picked up the box, a cube of approximately three inches with a print-lock on the front, and it weighed heavily in his hand. The other objects consisted of a ruggedised infoslate, a medical kit and nanobot injector, a pair of AR glasses and a handgun.

  A gun! He’d only used one a few times. Once as a child, when his father had shown him his service pistol, and later, when he took the basic security training in weapons, armour tech and tactics. He’d proven to be less than confident with them. It would probably be wise to book in for a few hours on the practice range if he was to carry one. Resourcefulness is part of the test, he reminded himself.

  The uniform on the rail wasn’t particularly colourful; charcoal grey with a white panel that ran across the top of the chest and down the arms. White panels also ran down the sides of the abdomen and legs. The outer skin was rubbery and segmented into soft hexagonal cells that bulged in the centres. He draped a leg of the suit over his palm and punched it with the other hand, and the area around the impact immediately became rigid and a fraction of a second later returned to its previously flexible state. A non-Newtonian N-suit. He’d never seen one up close before. He grinned and turned it around to inspect the design. It was stylish despite the lack of colour – still a vast improvement over his regular uniform – and at least a fraction of the weight of traditional ballistic armour.

  He pulled the suit on.

  Its stretchy fabric fitted well and was immediately comfortable. Within the collar of its porous inner lining was a small cap. He flipped it open and out popped the end of a plastic tube. A drinking tube? He smoothed the uniform down, fastened the unilok seal and slid his hand down his thigh. No pockets. How was he supposed to carry anything?

  On the rail next to where the suit had hung was a belt with several small pouches and a holster. The equipment, with exception of the infoslate, might all fit in those pouches. Evidently he was to keep the sidearm on show, but how much of a target would that make him?

  He finished fastening the suit and stuffed his clothes into the rucksack along with the gun – his scalp itched at the thought of wearing it immediately, given he hadn’t had any practice – and slung the bag over his shoulder. Should he take the box with him? The idea of carrying some unidentified terrorist technology back to his apartment made his stomach churn. Better to leave it here for safekeeping, for now at least.

  He turned to the mirror at the end of the row of lockers. It was surprising how much more athletic he looked now everything was held in place properly. The horrible courier-outfit he wore made him feel the wrong shape. Aryx would be so jealous. Speaking of which, he should probably give him a call before he finished his shift.

  He called up the security TI on his wristcom. ‘Computer, locate Aryx Trevarian.’

  ‘Aryx Trevarian is in shuttle maintenance hangar, bay two.’ Of course he would be. He said he had to get a shuttle finished, and the Antari didn’t have the nicest of tempers at the best of times.

  ***

  Aryx lay on a trolley underneath a shuttle – a position he hated, especially since the accident.

  The stabiliser access hatch hung open, exposing a maze of cables, conduits and wires. A crack ran the length of the main housing of the stabiliser – it would need to be replaced. He picked up a spanner and reached in as far as his elbows. Turning his hands in the space, the tool collided with something.

  ‘Ouch!’ He pulled his
hand out and sucked his grazed knuckle. Time to use the CFD tools – there simply wasn’t space, not with his hands. He picked up a nearby six-inch metal rod and turned it on. A glowing orange screwdriver head appeared two inches from the end.

  ‘Set to spanner.’ The tool changed shape and the screwdriver became a small C-shaped wrench. ‘Off.’

  Now there was space, he reached up inside the stabiliser.

  ‘On, and enlarge by three millimetres.’

  The spanner-head reappeared, larger this time, and he unfastened a pipe coupling. A small amount of thick gunk dribbled out and covered the glowing end of the tool. He pulled it from the workspace and grabbed a rag, but rather than wipe it he held it over the cloth and switched off the head. It vanished. The tacky film fell onto the fabric and he reached inside the machinery to unfasten another coupling.

  ‘Incoming call from Sebastian Thorsson,’ the nearby computer terminal said.

  He jerked forwards and bashed his head on the underside of the shuttle. ‘Ow! What now?’ He slid out on the trolley from beneath the ship. ‘Accept call.’

  ‘Aryx? I can’t see you,’ came Sebastian’s voice.

  ‘I’m on the floor, still working on this damned shuttle!’

  ‘I thought you’d finished it?’

  ‘Just a couple more tweaks then I’m done. It’s got to be perfect. I don’t want the Antari bringing it back and complaining – you know how they are.’ He pulled himself fully out from under the ship, sat up and wheeled the trolley over to the screen. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was checking to see if you were free for drinks this evening, that’s all. I have some news.’

  Aryx weighed up the work that remained. ‘I should be free when this is done. Call by in about an hour and we’ll go to the bar.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll see you then.’ The screen went blank.

  He slid the trolley back under the shuttle to finish off the stabiliser.

  It took a little over half an hour to insert the remaining bits off the floor and another half hour to go around cleaning the greasy handprints off the lower part of the hull.

  ***

  The lift arrived and Sebastian entered. ‘Shuttle maintenance,’ he said.

  It moved off and after a few moments stopped to let him out. Several yards down the passage he came to the door of the hangar, where a sign read Secure area, authorised personnel only. His palm print opened the door and he walked in.

  The shuttle maintenance hangar was vast, about the size of a sports stadium, and at least fifty metres high by several hundred metres long. A metallic, oily odour reminded him of the lift system and he rubbed his hands on his thighs.

  The nearest workspace was the only one occupied, and floodlights created a pool of yellow light around the bay, while the rest of the hangar receded into darkness, giving the impression of a large cavern. The gleam of metal in the distance hinted at the presence of several other ships, unattended.

  Sebastian approached the angular shuttle nestled under the warm lights of repair bay two where numerous tools and diagnostic devices lay strewn on the surrounding floor. A rhythmic banging came from underneath interspersed with the occasional flash and bout of cursing.

  He bent down to where the noises were coming from. ‘I suppose Karan told you the news first, did she?’

  ‘What news? I haven’t seen her,’ came a voice with a faintly Australian accent.

  ‘I got promoted.’

  An oil and grime covered head with hazel eyes and black hair, combed into a wide Mohawk, popped out from under the shuttle. ‘How can you get promoted? What is it, security programmer plus?’

  ‘It’s a new position—’

  Aryx slid back under the shuttle.

  ‘—in SpecOps.’

  ‘What—’ A loud bang reverberated from the hull, followed by another bout of cursing. Aryx’s head popped out again, this time rubbed by the back of a greasy hand holding a constrained field tool. He stopped rubbing his forehead, turned the tool off, and wiped the grease from his hands with a rag. ‘At this rate I’m going to have to start wearing a padded helmet!’ He slid out from under the shuttle up to the waist and gestured at something behind Sebastian. ‘Bring me my wheels, will you? My shift’s over.’

  Sebastian brought the wheelchair from beside the toolchest and put the brakes on.

  The mechanic slid himself out to reveal his oil-streaked olive overalls ended at the knees with the trailing length pinned back under the thighs. Aryx climbed into the chair and, leaning to one side, whispered, ‘How the hell did you land yourself a job in SpecOps?’

  ***

  ‘It never occurred to me to ask before,’ Sebastian said, as they made their way down the corridor to Aryx’s apartment, ‘but why don’t you get bionic legs fitted or have some transplanted – or even that new stem-cell cloning?’

  ‘That’s why I liked you from the day I met you. You never asked. You just accepted me without being patronising or pitying.’ Aryx’s eyebrows flattened. ‘So why ask now?’

  ‘I— Just curious, that’s all.’

  Aryx’s jaw muscles pulsed. ‘I can’t have transplants. The anti-rejection drugs won’t do me any good, and I don’t qualify for the stem-cell clones because of a complication, and that’s also why I can’t use prosthetics. I’m ill.’

  Sebastian stopped. His throat tightened. ‘What do you mean, ill?’

  Aryx stopped and turned to face him. ‘I got infected with a parasitic virus during my accident. It’s weakening the bones of my legs and knackered my immune system. That’s why I can’t get clones or transplants. The anti-rejection drugs will drop my immunity to zero, and probably kill me.’

  Sebastian almost couldn’t speak. ‘Nanobots—’

  ‘—don’t help. They tried. It’s a parasitic virus, intelligent enough to avoid them.’

  No wonder Gladrin was dubious about his choice of partner. ‘I never knew …’ He went to put his hand on Aryx’s shoulder.

  Aryx slapped it away and pushed off. ‘Quite right! Besides, I’m used to my body now.’

  ‘So, when you say ill … Are you going to die?’

  He glared at him. ‘Don’t talk stupid!’

  Sebastian swallowed his feelings. Aryx was his best friend. Who would he … It was no good; he had to shift the topic. ‘Why stick with that manual chair?’

  ‘How else am I supposed to get exercise? Anyway, plenty of people seem impressed with these …’ Aryx stopped wheeling and flexed his huge biceps. ‘We shouldn’t feel pressured to fit in and be like everyone else. We all have to wear our scars or we repeat the same mistakes. I don’t want to cover up and hide. It doesn’t affect anyone else.’

  Sebastian remained silent. What about if it affected him?

  ‘It’s funny you should mention my chair. They still won’t let me do field repair because it’s too cumbersome on uneven terrain, and I don’t really want to build yet another, so I’ve started work on something new. Why did you call by, anyway? You could have just sent a message about the job and we could have met up later.’

  ‘I wanted to see you, and I thought—’ Sebastian stepped behind Aryx as a large tentacled mass lumbered by in the narrow corridor, forcing him to one side, and he continued to walk behind him after it had gone.

  ‘Don’t do that. You’re making me strain my neck.’

  He sped up and lowered his voice. ‘I thought it would be better to tell you the rest in person.’

  Aryx grumbled. ‘I don’t think I’m going to like the sound of this.’

  Chapter 3

  In the three years he’d been on the station, Sebastian had never once been to Aryx’s apartment. The layout was similar to his own, except for the larger-than-usual shower unit in the far left-hand corner by the kitchen, and the shelving that normally ran around the room above the wall-mounted storage had been replaced with a single, continuous planter. Lighting installed around the perimeter of the ceiling provided the plants with bright, simulated daylight, w
hich reflected a soothing green glow, giving a peaceful outdoor feel to the windowless apartment. To the right of the doorway, opposite the lower-than-usual retractable bed, stood a workbench console. Strewn with an assortment of technological paraphernalia, it cast a stark contrast against the pristine kitchen.

  ‘I never knew you kept plants,’ Sebastian said, quickly looking away from the mess.

  Aryx headed into the kitchen. ‘I fell in love with them during rehab at hospital. After my accident they had me doing gardening for occupational therapy.’ He filled a kettle with water and put it on a gas burner. ‘Before that, when my dad used to make me plant crops on the farm, I hated the bloody things.’

  ‘I suppose they offset the oxygen … Why the kettle?’

  His nose wrinkled. ‘The hot water tastes funny. In fact, everything anyone else makes for me tastes funny. Give me a minute, I need a shower.’ He wheeled over to the bed and stripped off his overalls.

  Sebastian didn’t avert his eyes, as Aryx seemed comfortable with his own nakedness. He had never seen the tattoo on Aryx’s back before; it looked like a large tribal-style bramble coiling around his torso. A long, faint scratch ran down the right side of his back.

  ‘How did you get that? Is it an old war wound?’

  ‘What?’ Aryx twisted to look over his shoulder and felt his side with his left hand. ‘I haven’t got any scars on my back. I must have scratched myself in my sleep.’

  ‘Have you been having bad dreams as well?’

  ‘I never dream.’ He wheeled into the cubicle. ‘Can you keep an eye on the kettle? It’ll whistle at you when you need to turn the heat off.’

  Steam issued from the shower, filling the room, and Sebastian imagined himself standing in a tropical jungle. He watched the fuzzy silhouette as Aryx washed himself – with the luxury of water!

  ‘Let me know if you ever want me to look after your apartment.’

  ‘The plants are watered automatically.’

  Sebastian’s heart sank. While he waited, he began prodding the items on the workbench out of curiosity. A mass of electronics components, ship parts, and other strange things he’d never seen before littered the surface. One item stood out from the rest: a slightly rounded box, twelve inches wide, eighteen inches tall and six inches deep. A complicated set of straps protruded from one side of it, giving it the appearance of a solid plastic backpack with a parachute harness attached. A symbol painted in yellow caught his eye; it depicted a square with a curve arching over it.