Transmission: Ragnarok: Book Two Page 2

  The man he shared his twenty-tatami apartment with, Sergei Alegeev, had no sexual interest in men, but was not bothered by anything Dmitri got up to. Perhaps it was Sergei’s navy background that kept him broad-minded.

  I haven’t given in to all my needs.

  Before starting this mission, Dmitri had thrown his collection of human fingers into the Moscow River; since then, he had made no attempt to replace them. Personal safety, more than mission security, motivated him. Torture was fine, but not with him as the subject.

  ‘Another evening’ – Dmitri raised his third cup of saké – ‘spent rolling around on the floor with brawny men. You must have enjoyed yourself.’

  He was sitting on the straw mat opposite Sergei.

  ‘I did, Chief.’ Sergei spoke German, as they both did in the apartment, though they had checked yet again today for microphones or human eavesdroppers. His fluency came from his mother, for he was far from the image of a studious linguist: never pretty, he had developed true cauliflower ears during their sojourn here, and broken his nose twice. Tonight, his left cheek was raw, reddened with the ongoing condition he called mat-burn. ‘I strangled one of the bastards unconscious,’ he added, reaching for his own saké. ‘So yes, a good evening.’

  ‘Next you’re going to tell me how you once got choked out by what’s-his-face himself.’

  ‘Oshchenkov.’ Sergei lowered his voice. This was not a name he would want overheard, by their current hosts or by their masters. ‘Well, I did. A cross-collar choke, and I’m proud I fought him. So long as you don’t tell those bastards back home.’

  He refilled his cup from the porcelain flask.

  ‘I won’t.’

  Dmitri meant it. For all that he knew was wrong with him, betraying the closest he had to a friend was unthinkable. Sergei was able to train with the local judo men because of his background in grappling, in civilian clubs in Moscow and in the navy. The man Sergei admired, Oshchenkov, had been a judo great: practising at Tokyo’s Kodokan where Sergei trained now, then transforming the discipline back in Mother Russia. Under official orders, Oshchenkov had taken the various indigenous wrestling styles of the Soviet republics, and aggregated them around a skeleton of judo.

  But Stalin was paranoid and foreign contact was suspect, so five years ago, the NKVD had snatched and killed Oshchenkov. The term judo was now illegal; the transformed discipline was called sambo, and Sergei – as much as Dmitri could judge – was pretty good at it.

  ‘Anyway’ – Sergei tossed back the saké and went for the flask again – ‘I lined up a treat for you tomorrow. A young Lieutenant Kanazawa wants to show us, that’s you with me tagging along, something special.’

  Sergei’s features became sharp and full of depth in Dmitri’s vision, as saké-induced vagueness vanished. ‘What kind of special thing?’

  ‘Todé.’ Sergei beamed. ‘You’ll love it. Also called China Hand, or Empty Hand since the buggers here got as paranoid as Uncle Joe himself.’

  Dmitri, translating in his head, realized that China Hand and Empty Hand would sound the same in Japanese.

  ‘This kara-té,’ he said. ‘It’s not another kind of wrestling, is it?’

  ‘Not wrestling, but it is fighting.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dmitri took the saké flask from Sergei. ‘And I’m going to be interested why, exactly?’

  ‘Because Lieutenant Kanazawa is on Admiral Yamashita’s staff, and he’s unhappy about something.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Perhaps you can console the poor man. And perhaps’ – Sergei leaned over to peer into the flask – ‘you could get more saké, Chief, since I’ve been doing my patriotic duty while you’ve been polishing off the booze.’

  ‘I’ll get right on it.’ Dmitri rolled onto his knees, then made himself stand. ‘Since we’re all equals in the great workers’ paradise.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

  ‘Yes, wouldn’t it just?’

  But he fetched the saké anyway, because it was precious, this concept of having a friend; and besides, they both knew who was in charge.

  And we both despise our masters.

  Except that in Dmitri’s case, it was not just Stalin and the political apparatus he served: there was a darker force that he believed existed in the world – not just inside his head – with goals he could never know; and his feelings for that force were ambiguous and always had been.

  I hate you.

  But he also loved it, the darkness; and that was the problem.

  In the training hall, Dmitri sat with Kanazawa and Sergei on actual chairs – pretty much hidden by tall paper screens – while the pyjama-clad fighters were in seiza: kneeling, sitting back on their heels. Beforehand, Kanazawa had said something about the instructors’ being special, and you could sort of see it: healthiness, alertness and posture combining to give the two senior men an apparent aura.

  There was a concept that Dmitri wanted to admire but could not: shugyō, meaning ascetic discipline. It applied to more than combat; but it was obvious here in the dojo as the fighting drills commenced. Moving in straight lines, throwing first hundreds then thousands of techniques against imaginary opponents, was militaristic if not realistic, until the mad fire in their eyes made it obvious that the goal was to induce combat insanity. Here, they succeeded.

  When they sparred, they did not hold their hands up high like boxers, but they hit hard. Soon blood was brightening on the yellowish-white jackets. One man in particular was taking a battering. Dmitri heard Kanazawa suck in a breath; but they were supposed to watch silently, so this was not the time for a question.

  Soon it became apparent that everyone was fighting this poor bastard in turn – except that they would not all get their chance, for a large flat-faced man leaped forward, arm thrusting like a battering-ram into a cheekbone, and his victim was down, showing zero sign of getting back up. The others responded by carrying the limp body off to one corner and dumping it there, then resuming their training.

  Once the session was over and formal bows were in progress, Kanazawa stood up fast. It took a second for Dmitri to do likewise; Kanazawa was already striding for the side exit. Dmitri and Sergei caught up with him outside, where he was putting on his boots. They retrieved their own shoes, and tugged them on, then followed Kanazawa to his borrowed staff car.

  He’s upset about the one they beat up.

  The man lying in the corner had been very still.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Dmitri asked in Japanese. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kanazawa trembled. ‘Come.’

  Once they were in the car, Kanazawa started it up, making metal grind as he put it into gear. The car rolled off, Kanazawa’s steering unsteady.

  ‘But why did they kill him?’ asked Dmitri. ‘Was it something political?’

  ‘Because he wanted to leave the dojo,’ said Kanazawa. ‘He wanted to concentrate on his studies at the academy, because he was falling behind.’

  That would be the Naval Academy.

  ‘It happens,’ said Sergei. ‘If someone wants to leave a dojo, they get ordered to come back for one last lesson. A memorable lesson, except sometimes—’

  He did not need to finish.

  Sometimes it really is their final lesson.

  Dmitri had done worse, so he was surprised to recognize his own disgust, though not as strong as Sergei’s or Kanazawa’s. Or perhaps Dmitri’s subconscious was causing him to mimic the lieutenant’s reaction, broadcasting sympathy, sensing an opportunity to get the man to open up.

  ‘Saké,’ Dmitri said. ‘We need a drink after that. Our apartment is fully stocked.’

  Kanazawa must have duties to attend to, but this was a moment of weakness.

  ‘Please come,’ added Dmitri, wording it as a polite request, inflecting it as a command.

  ‘All right,’ said Kanazawa, pushing down on the accelerator.

  They were in fits of laughter. Each cup of saké had intensified the redness of Kanazawa’s face while er
oding his balance: the prim, controlled, ivory-featured man from the morning replaced by this jerky comic marionette. And now it was Dmitri’s turn again for singing.

  He lurched to his feet.

  I am a loyal Nazi.

  Dmitri followed nothing without question, neither the darkness in his head nor the tenets of dialectical materialism, and even in this most intimate of moments when he hoped Kanazawa would let his guard down, Dmitri’s own cover must remain intact. Blurting secrets to allies was one thing – and Kanazawa was not quite there, not yet – but for him to betray his god-Emperor to an enemy would be different.

  And so Dmitri danced; and even worse, sang:

  ‘Raise high the flags!

  ‘Stand rank on rank together.

  ‘Storm troopers march

  ‘With steady, quiet tread …’

  His left arm was raised in exaggerated salute, his right forefinger held horizontal above his upper lip to suggest a dictatorial moustache; and his hand did not move from his face even when he tumbled sideways to the mat and continued the Horst Wessel song to the end.

  Kanazawa was crying, the laughter allowing him to weep.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Sergei thumped Dmitri. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

  In German, Kanazawa roared: ‘He no sir! Not now!’

  All three of them laughed: deep, belly-straining laughter because everyone lived under tension and any form of release could hurt.

  ‘We should do this every week,’ said Dmitri.

  ‘Aloha,’ said Kanazawa. ‘If only we could. Goodbye and hello again.’

  Squinting, Dmitri searched in his mind for the word.

  ‘A-lo-ha,’ Kanazawa repeated. ‘Useful … word. But. One strike, one kill.’

  Sergei was frowning, perhaps because the old samurai principle of ikken hisatsu had applied this morning in the dojo where long, all-out single strikes were the order of the day.

  ‘Like a woman’s treasure.’ Kanazawa giggled as he raised a porcelain cup. ‘The pearl in her harbour.’

  As Kanazawa drank, he missed Sergei’s reaction; but Dmitri caught it: facial tension then relaxation, falling back into role.

  What did he notice?

  But in the end Dmitri did not need to ask, because sometime before they drank themselves into oblivion, he remembered naval charts and Hawaii marked with the red circle that designated a major US base; and when he awoke the memory was bound to remain because it was so preposterous, so admirably insane, just the kind of thing these marvellous, misguided warriors would do.

  Sen sen no sen, the most audacious of the three timings: to strike while the enemy was unprepared.

  THREE

  LABYRINTH 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)

  Grey and black, the pulsing complexity of walls and space; purple, the lightning that flickered without sound throughout the cell. Max had not even tried for a fastpath rotation, knowing the geometric turbulence would tear him into twisting, bloodied strips. From the outside, though, an insertion was possible – hence the growing silver light, and the thin man who stepped from it and smiled at Max, like a vulture sighting dead flesh.

  Tendrils from the floor formed helical bonds, holding Max in place.

  ‘You’re here to debrief me?’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m here to torture you.’

  And so it commenced.

  In Roger’s apartment – granted by the authorities, whoever they might be, for a duration that he had not been able to determine – all of Labyrinth’s public service offerings were his, provided he had the talent to make use of them. For a second he tried to initiate a fastpath, succeeding to the point where the air began to waver with a hint of geodesic turbulence, very dangerous; then he backed off and blanked his thoughts, letting go of the summoning induction.

  I’m still like a child here.

  Only her presence in Ascension Annexe gave meaning to his life in Labyrinth. Perhaps he should call Med Centre and talk to that counsellor he had brushed off before. In the meantime, he had to get to Poincaré Promenade, where he was supposed to meet Jed for breakfast. At his command, a section of wall became a blizzard of Koch snowflakes which dissolved, leaving an opening. He had at least mastered the art of opening doors.

  ‘Stop whinging,’ he said aloud.

  From his silver balcony he descended into a maze of Labyrinthine architecture, passed through halls and galleries – here, a helical colonnade where ‘up’ pointed to the horizontal axis, and walking figures formed changing radii – out onto Fourier Flyway where the path flowed, carrying him high over a wealth of buildings and structures, to deposit him on a golden concourse. From there, he jogged to an exit he recognized, came out on Poincaré Promenade, then walked fast to the Café d’Alembert, where Jed was already sitting at a table, juice and daistral in front of him.

  ‘Do you feel as bad as you look?’ said Jed.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Breakfast is what you need.’

  Not so long ago, living at home with his parents, breakfast for Roger had been an occasion for smart remarks and shared jokes, a time of bonding before each of them began their separate work-day. It had been sacred and fragile and ritualistic, in ways he had never appreciated before his world shrivelled into death.

  ‘Here,’ said Jed. ‘Let me show you something gruesome.’

  Roger sat down. ‘I’m afraid to ask.’

  ‘No, see’ – Jed pointed – ‘follow my finger with your gaze, then relax all your muscles and just let— There, you’ve got it.’

  Something twisting, shards of transparency and blood; and a sound: a modulated screech that matched the awful rotation.

  ‘Ugh.’ Roger pulled back in his seat, snapping his senses back into mean-geodesic reality. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘Sort of a public monument, in a nasty way. Every now and then,’ said Jed, ‘someone raises a petition to get it removed, but nothing happens. Exactly as Dirk intended, I guess.’

  ‘You mean Dirk McNamara?’ Roger tapped the tabletop, placing his order, while trying to remember something of Pilot history. Dirk and Kian had been the twin sons of the first true Pilot, Ro McNamara; that was all he knew. ‘That’s Dirk in there?’

  ‘No, that’s Admiral Schenck at the moment of his death which will last literally for ever, provided no one intervenes. The moral of the story is, don’t pick a duel with Dirk, unless you’ve got a really unpleasant death wish.’

  ‘Dirk killed him? Really?’ Roger’s food rose through the tabletop, but he ignored it. ‘I’m still trying to get to grips with this place, but wasn’t Admiral Schenck opening some official building yesterday?’

  ‘That’s the grandfather in there.’ Jed nodded toward the distortion. ‘The current Admiral Schenck is also supposed to be a nasty piece of work, but what would I know?’

  Roger chewed a hotbean sandwich.

  ‘I don’t really understand what the Admiralty Council does,’ he said. ‘I mean, sometimes I think it’s the high command of a military-style fleet, but at other times it seems to be the government, and sometimes … I don’t know. A different thing entirely.’

  ‘That’s because,’ said Jed, ‘our culture and protocols are Byzantine.’

  ‘You mean Labyrinthine.’

  ‘There, you’re getting the hang of it.’

  For a while they both ate – Jed had ordered some kind of omelette – then Jed answered more seriously. ‘People rotate in and out of different styles of service. Most of the time, the majority of us are free traders. Then there are the Shipless of course – not everyone in the Admiralty has their own vessel. The Council is all of those things you said, and none of them. They say that the regulations had to be written in Aeternum, because no other language supports the temporal and philosophical concepts that underlie the entire system.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Roger.

  ‘Yeah, pretentious, isn’t it? But it’s still true. It also allows for things like Pilots raised in realspace who don’t yet
know their way around Labyrinth.’

  Roger stopped eating. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like, if someone has to attend a hearing, an enquiry, then they have the right to take a friend with them. Someone with a bit more experience.’

  ‘I thought we were here for breakfast.’

  ‘We are,’ said Jed. ‘And over breakfast, right now, I’m telling you about the hearing.’

  ‘What hearing?’

  ‘The one I’m accompanying you to, old mate.’

  ‘Is this one of those regulations you were talking about? Like, I have to attend a hearing and you’re the one who finds out about it?’

  ‘Pretty much. I asked proactively at the Admiralty, they confirmed the meeting, and I took responsibility for telling you.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Roger turned away, his eyes acidic with confusion, feeling light-headed with shame. He was a child here, unable to travel by fastpath rotation, unaware of the institutions and laws surrounding him, needing a grown-up like Jed to look after him.

  ‘We have to get you in training,’ said Jed. ‘So you can get a handle on how things work.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘There are programmes, and the reason no one’s suggested it yet is that you’re in mourning. Think of the word bureaucrat, and you’ll understand what I mean.’ In Aeternum, it held none of the emotionless or parasitical overtones the words conveyed in three out of the four other languages that Roger knew. The Aeternal term resonated with warmth and selflessness. ‘So come on. If you’re done, we’ll walk to the Admiralty.’

  ‘All right.’ Roger stared at the dishes sinking back inside the table. ‘We don’t pay for this, right?’

  ‘Of course n— No.’

  Some meals were free; others were not.

  ‘On Fulgor,’ said Roger, ‘every financial transaction involved a vector in a two-hundred-dimensional phase-space. After twenty years of living there, my parents still had to concentrate when buying anything. For me it was natural.’