Age of Shiva (The Pantheon Series) (3 page)

3. THE
GARUDA

M
OST OF YOU
reading this will be familiar with the
Garuda
. How can you not be? You’d have seen it on TV or the internet, maybe been fortunate enough to watch it in flight, zipping overhead with scarcely a sound. You’d no doubt have been startled the first time you clapped eyes on it, perhaps a little in awe, certainly impressed.

Back then, virtually nobody knew about the
Garuda
. Maybe no more than a couple of hundred people in total were aware that it existed.

So imagine my feelings as the Range Rover bumped out onto that runway and pulled up in front of this sleek metal angel with its folded-back wings, its downturned nosecone, its jet vents, its high-arched undercarriage, its rugged spherical wheels, its all-round air of lofty magnificence. It didn’t seem to be standing on the ground so much as perching, a forty-ton bird of prey that had briefly alighted to survey the lie of the land.

I was gobsmacked, all the more so in those shabby surroundings. The incongruity was striking. It didn’t belong here in a disused Midlands aerodrome. It belonged somewhere in the future, perhaps docking with a space station in near Earth orbit.

I think I fell a little bit in love with it, there on the spot. And bear in mind, this was before I had any idea what the
Garuda
was capable of, all the things it could do.

The goons hauled me out of the car and lugged me over to the aircraft, from which steps unfolded like a carpet unrolling. A door opened, so smoothly it seemed to melt inwards, and a woman emerged, extending a hand to me in welcome.

I can’t deny that things were suddenly looking up. She was quite beautiful. She was Asian – Indian, if I didn’t miss my guess – with almond-shaped eyes and soft features. Her hair was pure black gloss and her figure was full, just the way I liked. I wasn’t into the skinny, self-denying type of woman. I preferred someone who ate and drank with an appetite and wasn’t guilt-ridden or ashamed.

Her dress was smart and immaculate, from pale blue silk blouse to hip-hugging skirt. Her makeup was subtle but effective. Her nails were varnished chocolate brown.

I think I fell a little bit in love with her, too. Maybe I was just glad to see a face that was utterly unlike the hard, expressionless faces of the four goons. Maybe it was a relief to meet someone who looked friendly and wasn’t acting as though I needed to have my head stove in.

“Aanandi Sengupta,” she said, introducing herself. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant journey, Zak. Sorry if it’s been a bit... abrupt. Our employers are not patient men. When they want something, they tend to reach out and grab it. Often without asking permission until afterwards.”

“Ahem. Yes, well...” I felt scruffy and uncomfortable in front of the crisply turned-out Aanandi Sengupta. I hadn’t shaved that morning, I was in my oldest, baggiest sweatshirt and jeans, and there were ink blotches on my fingers as I shook her hand. I was a mess, and she was as far from a mess as one could be. “Can’t say they were the finest conversationalists I’ve ever met.”

I glanced over my shoulder as I said this. The goons were keeping their distance from the aircraft, standing at ease, soldiers relieved of a duty. I was passing from their care to Aanandi’s. And don’t think I was unhappy about that, but I also figured I had no choice about getting on the plane. If I turned and made a run for it, Diamond Tooth, Hillbilly Moustache and the twins would be on me in a flash. I could walk aboard willingly or I could be frogmarched aboard with my arm twisted up between my shoulderblades. Either way, I was making the flight.

“Come on in,” Aanandi said. “I promise I’ll answer every query you have, once we’re wheels up and in the air.”

“Every query? Because I have loads.”

“Almost every. Some stuff is off-limits for now. All right?”

“Fair enough.”

The main cabin was spacious and fitted with large, plush seats; about a dozen, all told. Shagpile carpet whispered underfoot. I caught a whiff of a fragrant scent – incense?

“Make yourself at home, Zak. I can call you Zak?”

A woman like her, she could have called me anything she liked.

“How about a drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

My body was crying out for alcohol. Something to de-jangle the nerves. But I settled for mineral water. I had a feeling I ought to remain
compos mentis
for the time being. Whatever wits I had, I needed to keep them about me.

The water came in a cup with a plastic sippy lid, like a takeaway coffee. This should have struck me as odd, but didn’t. So much else here was off-kilter, what was one more thing?

Aanandi hit an intercom button. “Captain? We’re ready for takeoff.”

She sat beside me. She buckled her lap belt and I followed suit and buckled mine. Through the window I saw the Range Rover depart with its full complement of goon, veering out through the broken gateway it had come in by. I gave it a little farewell wave.

The aircraft began to move, those ball-shaped wheels rolling along within armatures that clutched them like talons, and then, before I even realised, we were airborne. The abandoned aerodrome shrank below. England disappeared. Within moments we were soaring among the clouds, our climb so steep it was all but vertical. Other than a plummeting sensation in the pit of my stomach, there was little to tell me we were actually in ascent; our rise was smooth, turbulence-free and eerily quiet.

“What
is
this thing?” I asked Aanandi. “It’s like something out of a Gerry Anderson show.”

“It’s the
Garuda
. It’s the only one of its kind; a multi-platform adaptable personnel transporter, equally at home in five different travel environments.”

“It’s ruddy quiet, is what it is. My bicycle’s louder.”

“I don’t know the technicalities, but the engine design incorporates sound reduction technology way in advance of anything else currently on the market. The turbofans have the highest conceivable bypass ratio and feature multilobe hush kit modification baffles. And of course the cabin is comprehensively soundproofed with layers of porous absorbers and Helmholtz resonators.”

“That’s an awful lot of jargon for someone who says she doesn’t know the technicalities.”

Aanandi gave a brief, self-effacing smile. “I listen well. I pay attention. I have a good memory.”

“Your accent,” I said. “American?”

“Born and bred. Second-generation Indian from Boston.”

“And who are these ‘employers’ you mentioned?”

“That I can’t tell you, Zak. Not yet. You’ll find out in due course. What I can tell you is that you’re under no obligation to co-operate with them. You’re under no obligation to do anything. I’m pretty sure you’ll want to be a part of what’s happening, once you learn what it is, but there’s no coercion involved. We’re after willing recruits, not slaves.”

“It did seem like I was being pressganged,” I said.

“Not so. Those four were perhaps a little insensitive and overenthusiastic, I imagine, but they had to get the job done quickly and with minimum fuss. Like I said, we work for people who are not patient and have no time for messing around.”

“Well, where are we going? Is that one of the queries you
can
answer?”

“Certainly. The Indian Ocean. The Maldives.”

“Seriously?”

“Is that a problem?”

I looked at her. “Normally I’d say no. Who wouldn’t want to visit a tropical paradise? Especially when someone else is paying for the ticket. But... You can see it from my point of view, can’t you? I’m in a super-duper fancypants James Bond aircraft, with someone I’ve never met before, being flown halfway across the world. How long does it even take to get to the Maldives? Twelve hours?”

“Ten by conventional means. In the
Garuda
, a third of that.”

I shot past that little nugget of information. I was in full spate, mid-rant. All the outrage and disquiet of the past hour was pouring out, and not much was going to stem the flow. “And there I was, not so long ago, just walking down the street, minding my own business. I still can’t help thinking this is a case of mistaken identity. You’ve picked up the wrong Zak Bramwell. What the hell would anyone who can afford a plane like this want with someone like me? I draw comic books for a living, for heaven’s sake. I don’t have any practical skills besides that – and it’s not even
that
practical.”

“You are Zak Zap, though,” Aanandi said.

I winced a little. The name sounded dumb, coming from her. Even dumber than usual. “That’s me. I know, I know. Pretty lame. I was young when I chose it. Teenager. Seemed cool then. Now I’m stuck with it and there’s not much I can do. Too late to change it.”

“The same Zak Zap who drew the
Deathquake
strip for
2000 AD
, and did brief but well-respected runs on
Fantastic Four
and
Aquaman
, and recently illustrated Robert Kirkman’s
Sitting Ducks
miniseries for Image.”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me you’re a fan.”

“I’m not. But the people I work for are.”

“Oh.” I digested this fact. It sat pleasantly in my belly. “Right. And, er... Am I going to some sort of convention? Is that what this is? Maybe a private one?”

“Not as such.”

“I just thought... I mean, I’ve done Comic Con. Plenty of others, too. Crap hotels, mostly. Teeming hordes of cosplayers and fanboys. Pros all hunkered down at the bar trying to avoid them. I thought this might be the same deal only, you know, classier.”

“Afraid not.”

“Shame.” The professional freelancer instinct kicked in. “But you say there’s work involved? Actual paid work?”

“There could be,” said Aanandi, “if you want it. Very well paid.”

I was beginning to like the sound of this. I was still unnerved and discombobulated. It had not been an ordinary day so far, and the dread evoked by my “kidnap” had yet to subside. But work was work, and I was never one to turn a job offer down. I could hardly afford to: plenty of comics artists made a pretty decent wage, but they were the fast ones, the guys who could churn out a book a month, twenty-odd pages bang on schedule, no sweat. As I’ve already established, that wasn’t me. My financial situation was definitely more hand-to-mouth. I’d never been asked to draw any of the mega-sellers;
Fantastic Four
had been in the doldrums when I was assigned to it – and then fired six issues later. And as for
Aquaman
... Who the hell buys
Aquaman
? I only took the gig because I was short on cash at the time and I liked drawing underwater stuff.
¹

So I didn’t have a steady stream of backlist royalty revenue to rely on, and no editor with any sense was going to hire me to do
Superman
or
Amazing Spider-Man
or any of the other DC and Marvel flagship titles. Readers wouldn’t stomach the indefinite delays between issues or the inevitable rushed fill-ins by other artists. They’d desert in droves.

So somebody was interested in employing me? And was flying me to the Maldives for the job interview?

I can handle that
, I thought.

I felt a flush of smugness, the kind you get when your talent is recognised, when you’re acknowledged as being skilled at what you do. The pardonable kind. A sort of giddiness overcame me. I undid my lap belt, thinking that a victory stroll up and down the cabin aisle was in order, a moment by myself to clench my fist and go “Yes!” under my breath.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Aanandi advised.

Too late. I was already on my feet. And then I was off my feet. I was somehow standing without standing. My toes were in contact with the carpet, but only just. The giddiness wasn’t an emotion, it was a genuine physical sensation. I was bobbing in the air, a human balloon.

“What the hot holy...?”

Aanandi took my wrist and pulled me back down into my seat. I refastened the belt, tethering myself.

“I would have warned you,” she said, “but you had so much to say.”

The empty cup floated free from the armrest tray. Tiny sparkling droplets of mineral water poured from its lid aperture like reverse rain.

I glanced out of the window.

We were high up.

Oh, God, so fucking high up. I could see the curvature of the Earth, the horizon line of pale blue sky giving way to the blue-blackness of the void. Continents were small enough that I could blot them out with my hand. Cloud forms were rugged Arctic snowscapes.

“Space,” I breathed. “We’re in fucking space.”

¹
There’d never been any great fan-love for the King of the Seas with his daft orange and green swimsuit and his power to exert mental control over, er, fish. After my brief tenure on the title, no one liked him much more than they had before.