No Direction Home (12 page)

‘The problem, of course, is that Stalker will also have a similar automatic laser system to ours, so they'll be able to deal with anything we
do
throw at them without too much difficulty – in fact, the larger the projectile, the easier it will be to destroy. The only other option would be to wait until they match velocities with us – assuming they are going to do that – then put as many troops as possible into the shuttles and try to board Stalker. Yes,
board
– we really are going to have to be that primitive. Maybe you could mount a laser or two in each shuttle, but I wouldn't offer very good odds on any of them even reaching their objective without being destroyed by
their
laser defences or whatever missile system they've got.' He shrugged. ‘Even if we somehow get past those defences, any successful assault would depend on us having more troops on board than they have – and we have no way of knowing if that is the case at the moment.'

Vinter drew in a deep breath, aware that he had their undivided attention now, then continued, ‘If they've got missiles with nuclear warheads, there is no way that we have any advantage in any tactical situation. A single hit from one of those and we are finished, whether we're ahead, behind, above, or sitting up their arse. And, unless we remount the lasers, we'll have no defence against them at all, nor can we manoeuvre out of the way, because we just don't have the fuel reserves.' He shook his head slowly. ‘If we have to fight them, Colonel, we're going to lose.'

‘
If
they have nukes,' Ferreira pointed out.

‘Look, if they were sent after us with quote hostile intent unquote, do you really think they wouldn't?' Vinter asked tiredly. ‘Would
you
leave nukes behind, in that scenario?'

Ferreira stared at him, then nodded reluctantly. ‘I take your point.' Suddenly, he looked ten years older; he rubbed his face tiredly. For a moment, Vinter almost felt sorry for him, but pushed the thought away. ‘So what do you suggest?'

‘Me? I thought I didn't have a vote.'

‘You don't, but as I am forced to agree with your tactical assessment, what do you suggest?'

Vinter said quickly, ‘Surrender.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You heard me. Offer to turn the ship over to them. Propose a combined mission to Delta Pavonis, whatever. Broadcast that to them and see what they say – make them an offer they'll at least have to consider.'

‘And if they don't?'

‘Then we're no worse off than we are at the moment, are we? Look, Colonel, if Stalker is hostile, it's going to be at least as well armed as we are, probably more so – they're going to win any space battle, but it could be that we'll both end up fatally damaged if not totally destroyed. Do you really want that? Or are you determined to die a hero's death – one that nobody will ever know about? Do you consider what would be at least two thousand deaths a justifiable price to pay simply to thwart EarthCorp – and all, probably, for nothing, because they'll win anyway?'

Ferreira looked down at the desk top, apparently at a loss for words and, this time, Vinter
could
feel a pang of sympathy for him. For all his faults, Ferreira was a capable military officer, not overly blinded by prejudice or a desire for glory; he knew they were in a very poor position, no matter how hard one tried to deny it. A quick glance along the New Dawn officers to his right showed a similar hopelessness; they knew there was very little they could do if Stalker attacked.

This wasn't what you were expecting when you were revived, was it? Well, too bad…

Unless they decided on a glorious death for the Cause – it was what Hitler and his henchmen had done back in 1945 after all… They'd almost destroyed Berlin in the process…

Ferreira's voice cut across his thoughts. ‘Nevertheless, I think we should at least try and inflict some damage by throwing rocks at them, as you put it, Vinter. It will cost us very little and we might have a lucky hit.' He shrugged. ‘If we do, then our worries are over, aren't they?'

Shit… I was afraid you'd say that.

‘So, Major Watanabe – how long will it take to build a rail gun?'

Vinter stifled a yawn as he returned to his quarters; the discussion had dragged on for another hour or more once the decision had been made to start manufacturing weapons; he had debated whether to tell them that it would be far simpler just to eject whatever projectiles they were going to use from the waste disposal chutes or the airlocks, because they would still be waiting in the path of Stalker at a relative velocity of point zero one lightspeed – the rail gun would only add an infinitesmal fraction of speed to that at the kind of velocities they were talking about, when all was said and done – but he had said nothing. They'd probably prefer to use a rail
gun
anyway, just as a matter of form – waste disposal chutes weren't really military enough, were they…

He took off his tunic, stretched and then went to the refrigerator to pour himself a beer, oddly aware of a need to switch off – Stalker wasn't his problem, really, it was Ferreira's. Except Vinter knew that it wasn't – like it or not, he had to work with Ferreira and come up with some sort of plan to deal with the pursuing starship.

And then there was the whole issue of his memories – Livvy, Anji, Emma, his entire past life, for crying out loud…

But not just yet… he was going to chill out, walk away from it all for a while, listen to some music…

You what? Listen to some music? Since when did you ever do that? You haven't listened to a single note of music since being revived…

But he used to, once, didn't he? That was his favourite mode of relaxation, back on Earth – put the headphones on and listen to rock music from the late TwentyCee, bands like Led Zeppelin, The Who, Pink Floyd and…

Pink Floyd. Wish You Were Here.

Vinter crossed the room to the desktop comp, sat down and accessed the ship's Library. He typed in
Pink Floyd
, then read off the album titles, each one oddly resonant, evoking a chord of response:
Piper At The Gates Of Dawn
– never really got into that one, even though it was supposedly a classic,
A Saucerful Of Secrets
– inconsistent, but showed them recovering from losing Syd Barrett to drug addiction, then–

The thoughts running through his head brought him up short –
how the hell did he know all this?
A few hours earlier, he had never even heard of Pink Floyd, now he seemed to be a fucking expert on them, even down to knowing where the name came from.

But he couldn't recall a single note of their music…

He drew in his breath slowly in a conscious attempt to relax, because he knew what was going on now; somehow, his memory was being gradually restored and it was something to do with the ninth title on the screen's menu, sandwiched between
Dark Side Of The Moon
and
Animals
:

Wish You Were Here.

Vinter opened the desk drawer and took out a pair of in-ear headphones, attaching them to the output socket, but, before he put them in his ears, he looked at them quizzically, as a memory of a pair of expensive high-end headphones came into his mind.
These are going to sound pretty crap…
Pushing the thought aside, he inserted them, then hesitated.

What was going to happen once he started listening to the music? He was assuming that doing so would bring back his memories, but what if it was the next stage in the New Dawn brainwashing? Or was it some sort of New Dawn failsafe that would erase his memories utterly so that he could be re-programmed, designed to kick in if he showed any signs of regaining them?

Just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean that the buggers aren't out to get you…

Taking a sip from his beer, he selected the title, hesitated a moment longer, realised that there was no way he was
not
going to listen to the music, and clicked on
Play.

For a few seconds, he thought that nothing was going to happen, then he heard the music gradually fading in, almost a drone effect on synthesisers, with some tinkling effects in the background; he closed his eyes, some part of him knowing that, not only was this now required, it was what he had always done when listening to music. An image of a study came into his mind, with the rows of retro (but bloody expensive) vinyl records on shelves above the stereo system, a memory of headphones that covered his ears, sounding far better than these tinny things…

And now came a synthesiser melody over the top of the drone
– and he had known that it would happen at that precise moment, because this was one of their classic tracks –
Shine On You Crazy Diamond
… He had listened to this music hundreds of times over the years, had seen vids of Pink Floyd in concert, Richard Wright on the keys, filling out the sound textures that were the band's trademark. OK, any moment now and it'll be David Gilmour's guitar kicking in…

And there it was, subdued, almost hesitant, dead on cue, playing over the keyboards, but Wright was about to change the chord he had been playing ever since the beginning, just–

There.

And now he could, at last, remember Anji.

*****

‘Do you wanna dance?'

She turned around and he realised that, close up, she was even better looking; slim, with long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders and with very blue eyes that were joining the smile that had already crossed her lips.

‘I'd love to,' she replied and said something to the girl she had been standing next to at the bar that Vinter couldn't catch in the sheer volume of sound from the speakers. OK, so it was a TwentyCee Night, and tonight was Drum'n'Bass, but had they really listened to music at that kind of decibel level then? Difficult to believe…

She was a bloody good dancer, though – evidently, she had been studying the vids the promoters had been distributing over the past week – and was also wearing the right sort of clothes, a black mini-dress that clung so tightly it looked as if it had been painted on and high heeled strapped shoes. In fact, she looked pretty sensational, and Vinter was aware of a slight feeling of disbelief that she was dancing with him at all… OK, so he'd made an effort, wearing a black sleeveless vest top and combat trousers with Nike Air Max trainers (guaranteed genuine replicas that had cost him more than he wanted to admit), but still…

‘Chris Vinter,' he yelled into her ear, trying to compete with the deafening music.

‘I know,' she shouted back. ‘Anji Maddison. It's short for Angela.'

‘At the risk of sounding like an echo – I know.'

She gave him a considering look, then pulled off a series of moves that any of the current
ragga
singers would have been proud of, almost defying gravity in those heels before coming back to where she had been, in front of him. ‘OK,' she said, or tried to, then shook her head. ‘Do you want to dance? Or shall we find somewhere we can hold a conversation?'

‘Which would you prefer?'

‘The conversation – I don't know how I'm still standing in these bloody shoes.'

They went out onto the verandah; as soon as the sliding windows closed behind them, the sound dampeners kicked in and the music faded into no more than a background hum.

‘That's better,' he sighed. ‘Drink?' He gestured at the bar over to the left.

‘I'd love one.'

She ordered a complicated cocktail that was supposed to be a recreation of something called a Harvey Wallbanger, but he settled for a straightforward beer; they wandered over to a table overlooking the river and sat down facing each other.

‘So… how did you know my name?' she asked, apparently casually.

‘I asked,' he said succinctly.

‘OK… Any particular reason why you asked?'

‘You want the honest truth?'

‘Of course.'

‘To use a TwentyCee expression – I fancied you.'

She laughed, a natural, unforced response. ‘Really?'

‘Really. It's that simple.'

‘I'm flattered.'

‘So you should be.'

‘OK, so you know my name. What else did you find out about me?'

‘Not much else, except that you're in the first year of the same course as me.'

‘English Lit?'

‘Yup.'

‘But you're in the Third year, aren't you?' She smiled at his expression. ‘You see, I asked about you as well.'

‘Dare I ask why?'

She gave him a smile that both teased and excited him. ‘Let's just say I was interested.'

‘Was?'

Her look was one he came to know well in the years to come; completely opaque, giving nothing away. She shrugged. ‘I might still be, I suppose.' She left him in suspense a moment longer, then said, ‘But would I still be here if I wasn't ?'

‘That's what I was hoping.'

‘And was that all were you hoping for here?'

‘Not
all
, no.'

She raised one eyebrow archly. ‘So what else is on your agenda?'

‘That we might go for a drink or a meal together some time.'

She sipped her drink, considering this, then said neutrally, ‘OK. Why not?' She maintained the pose of indifference for a moment longer, then laughed again, leaning across the table to put her hand on his. ‘Seriously, Chris – I'd love to.'

*****

‘Wow… this is what I call accommodation,' Anji said, looking around his apartment. ‘It makes mine look like something out of Charles Dickens. How the hell can you afford this?' She turned and gave him an exaggeratedly considering look. ‘Have you been holding out on me? Are you really stinking rich?'

‘Not really.' He gestured vaguely. ‘This is all paid for.'

‘Sponsors?'

‘Afraid so.'

‘Don't apologise. Wish I could wangle one. Mind me asking who it is? One of the big concerns?'

He grinned. ‘If I told you, I'd have to kill you.'

‘Really?'

‘Not really, although it
is
a bit hush-hush.'

‘Most of these bloody sponsorships are,' she said, with a trace of bitterness, then held up her hands. ‘Don't get me wrong – I'm not having a go at you. If anyone offered me a sponsorship, I'd take it like a shot.'

‘Well, if it makes you feel any better, I've only had it for a few months. They approached me after the Second Year results came in.'

‘They were that good?'

Vinter shrugged. ‘I suppose they must have been, yes.'

‘I suppose they must have been,' she mimicked, smiling. ‘You wouldn't have got all this if they hadn't been. Well done, you.'

‘Thanks… can I get you a drink?'

‘Of course you can.'

He went into the kitchen, trying not to start grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. This was their third date, if you counted the retro disco as the first, and coming back to his apartment had been her idea, so he was aware of a feeling of barely restrained anticipation –
Don't count your chickens…
‘What'll it be?' he called out.

‘White wine will be fine, if you've got it.'

‘Coming up.' As he came back into the living room, he saw that she was over by the shelves that contained his collection of vinyl LPs; she was holding one of them in its sleeve, examining its cover.

‘So this is the collection you brought me here to see.' she said, raising one eyebrow interrogatively.

‘Well, it
was
your idea…'

‘And you were only too keen to take me up on it, presumably for some less than altruistic motive.'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Yes, you do… These must have cost a small fortune.' She nodded towards the row of LPs.

‘Again, thank the sponsors.'

‘What, the non-taxable signing up fee?'

‘Yes. They asked me what I wanted to spend it on and this was it.'

‘Are you really not going to tell me who they are?'

He shrugged again. ‘No reason not to, actually. It's the UN.'

‘Bloody hell…' she murmured, impressed –
as he had known she would be, of course
– then nodded slowly. ‘Your results
must
have been good.' She gently tapped the album she was holding; it was
A Night At The Opera
by Queen. ‘So you're really into this retro stuff, then?'

Vinter nodded. ‘Afraid so – the late TwentyCee, anyway. And even then, just rock music and films.' He handed her the glass.

‘Why then in particular?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know, really. I heard an album by Pink Floyd at a formative age, I suppose.'

‘Which one?
Dark Side Of The Moon
– that was their biggest one, wasn't it?'

He gave her a surprised look. ‘Yes, that was. How did you know that?'

‘Some day, I'll tell you the answer to that.'

‘OK… No, it wasn't that one, not then, anyway. I heard
Wish You Were Here
first. That was the one that got to me.'

‘That was the one after
Dark Side
, wasn't it?'

‘Again, how did you know that? Or are you another secret Retro fan?'

‘Well, you did chat me up at a retro disco, didn't you?'

He nodded. ‘And you were wearing all the right clothes…'

‘Don't remind me – I thought I was going to break my bloody ankles in those heels. Why did women ever wear them? They're bloody uncomfortable, you know.'

‘I think it was called fashion. And, from a strictly male point of view, they did make your legs look pretty sensational.'

‘You pervert! Were you ogling my legs?'

‘In a word, yes. And very nice they are too.'

‘Thank you, but can we leave my legs out of this?' She turned back to the shelves. ‘But it isn't just TwentyCee music, is it?' She reached up to the shelf above the LPs and took down an old style Blu-Ray,
Blade Runner
. ‘It's vids, too, isn't it?'