Transition Page 11

She put one finger to my lips, very carefully and gently. Her finger was warm and smelled of a dark, oily perfume. I hadn’t even seen her take off her glove. The finger pressed my lips very briefly, then withdrew. I might have made to kiss it, equally gently, but there had hardly been time. She smiled.

  “Do you know the word ‘emprise’?” she asked.

  I sighed, thought. “I don’t believe I do.”

  “It means a dangerous undertaking.”

  “Does it?”

  “It does. Do you partake of dangerous undertakings, sir?”

  I leant forward, my gaze going to one side then the other. “Am I partaking in one now?” I asked quietly.

  She tipped her head forward. “Not yet,” she murmured. “No more than you would usually. Less so. You would be off duty now, yes?”

  “Off duty?” I asked, confused.

  “Not travelling.”

  “Ah, yes. In that sense, then, I suppose so.”

  One of the workmen walked up and stood behind her, rapping his knuckles on the bar’s wooden surface. The blonde girl reappeared from the back room. My companion seemed to be about to say something, then checked herself. She turned and looked at the workman behind her, who had just asked the barmaid for two beers. His mouth was still open.

  The workman and the barmaid looked straight at each other. Then she shivered and he twitched. And that was that; they were changed. Their bodies and their faces appeared identical, but were not. Their stance, balance, body language – what you will; that changed, in an instant and almost more than I’d have believed possible, as though every muscle in their bodies had flicked instantaneously to a completely different setting, carrying their skeletons and organs with them.

  I was still in the process of realising what had just happened when my pirate captain stepped back, away from me, the bar and the workman, just as the barmaid grabbed at something under the bar and the workman kicked out savagely. My companion folded back from the man’s kick, which roundhoused past and would have caught me on the thigh if I hadn’t jumped away too.

  The sword was in her hand with a noise like the wind through a fence, flashing in the light as she lunged forward. The workman was still turning from the momentum of his kick; the sword’s blade seemed to slip into his neck and his own rotation opened a line across his throat in a pink spray as his booted foot finally connected with the bar. His right hand started to go up to his throat as the masked girl swung one leg to knock both of his from under him. He started to fall to the floor, clutching his neck.

  The barmaid brought the club up only a little too late. A scything stroke from the thin sword caught her laterally across both breasts and one arm, making the baggy jumper flap like wet rags as her face screwed up with pain and she thudded back against the gallery, bringing bottles crashing down. My pirate captain, meanwhile, was stamping one heavy heel into the groin of the workman, who had just hit the floor, shoulders first. She barely glanced at him as he rolled into a ball. She did glance at the other workman, who was sitting where he had been all the time, open-mouthed. She peeked over the bar where the barmaid was lying, also curled up, blood spreading from an arm slashed to the bone, bottles and glasses still falling and crunching and settling around her.

  I had stepped back from all this mayhem, closer to the door. My pirate captain glanced again at the remaining workman, who looked like he was trying to decide whether to rise from the table or not. I was guessing he’d decide not. She sheathed her sword and went to take me by one arm. “Time to go, sir.”

  I moved to take her by the arm instead and started to move with her to the door. Then I was hit by a sudden feeling like a kind of sideways vertigo, a sensation instantly identifiable to any transitioner as slew, the result of one’s consciousness having been dragged into a fractionally different world. Nothing visible had altered and the fragre of the place seemed the same, but something had effectively changed around us, something small but concentrated, hard and important. During my field training I’d been particularly bad at identifying slew, but it was one of those skills that had improved with experience and I’d never had it as strongly as now. Something told me that whatever it was had changed, it was behind us. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. My little pirate captain stiffened and jerked as though she had felt the same thing. Her hand darted to her sword as she began to turn.

  The shot filled the small room in an instant, ending all other sound but for ringing in the ears. The flash, from the table where the other workman sat, seemed almost to come after the noise. My pirate captain was spun round, thudding into my chest. She started to go limp as I went to hold her. I tried to grasp the pommel of her sword, glancing at the man who had shot her. The workman who had been sitting in the back all this time carried himself quite differently now. He held a small, flat-looking gun and was rising from the table, his free hand spread out to me as he shook his head.

  “Hunting in packs now,” the dying girl in my arms muttered. “Motherfuckers.” I looked down into her eyes. She was a dead weight now and her sword was unreachable as the workman started towards us. Weakly, she brought one hand up and for a moment I thought she was about to remove the mask. It looked as if moving that arm and keeping her head from flopping forward was taking all her remaining strength. Then I saw that she held something like a tiny gun in her hand. She put it under her jaw near her neck. “Another time, Tem,” she murmured. The second workman had almost reached us.

  “Don’t—” I had time to say. Then something clicked and hissed and a second later she went perfectly slack, sagging in my arms.

  “Fuck!” the second workman said, kicking the tiny device from her hand.

  I caught the heel of his boot and swung him round and down so that he whacked into the floor even more heavily than his comrade. I rolled the pirate captain’s body on top of him, unsheathing her sword as I stood. I had one foot on her bloody back, so pinning him beneath her, and the sword’s tip just breaking the skin of his wrist on the hand still clutching the gun, ready to skewer him to the floorboards if necessary before he got his breath back.

  “Cavan!” he gasped. “Your name is Mark Cavan. We’re on your side! We’re Concern!” The bar girl made a sound that might have been meant to be a confirmation of this. The other man, foetal on the floor, just moaned. “We’re Concern!” the man with the gun repeated. “L’Expédience! We were sent!”

  My little pirate captain – or whoever’s body she had inhabited for the evening – bled to death on top of him while I thought about this.

  Perhaps inspired by such memories, I squeeze the little ormolu box just so, releasing a tiny white pill. I swallow it with the last of my G&T and promptly order another, for the sport of seeing whether it’ll arrive in time for me to take a first sip.

  I look down, watching for more breaks in the cloud – going dark as the horizon seeps to oranges and reds above the sinking sun now – but the cloud is unbroken. I start to slip into the transitioning trance, already half disconnected from this world. The steward is approaching with my gin and tonic when I feel the sneeze coming on. I ach-oo!

  When I open my eyes my first thought is, I was in seat A4: that is a type of paper in Europe, a class of steam locomotive from mid-twentieth-century Britain and as far as the white player’s queen’s rook’s pawn can travel on its first move, though it blocks an obvious diagonal for the queen or the queen’s-side bishop to apply pressure on the centre of…

  Pressure. Yes, pressure. I feel pressure. Pressure on my knees and on each shoulder.

  The interior of the plane is darker and it is full night; the windows are all either black or closed by plastic shutters. The airy spacing of first class is gone; I am crammed in with ranks and rows of people, mostly sleeping in slightly reclined seats. A baby is crying. The engines sound a little noisier and I have a lot less leg room, my knees touching the tilted seat back in front. I look to each side, already knowing that something is wrong. The pressure on my shoulders is coming f
rom two very large tanned Caucasian men, one on each side of me, each half a head taller than me and much broader. They both have crew-cuts and wear dark suits over white shirts. The one on my right encloses both my wrists in one gigantic hand. Under his grip, I am wearing handcuffs.

  “Gesundheit, Mr Dise,” the other one says. “Welcome to wherever you think you are.” He reaches into my jacket pocket and removes the little ormolu pill case before I can do anything about it.

  “What the—” I splutter.

  “We’ll take that,” he tells me smoothly, sliding the pillbox into a shirt pocket.

  My wrists remain crushed inside the other one’s locked fist. I try to lift my arms, even though I would still be handcuffed. To no avail; I am strong, but I feel like a small child gripped by an adult.

  “Who the hell do you—” I have time to say, before the one who has relieved me of my pills brings an absurdly massive fist sailing up into my face.

  6

  Patient 8262

  Beyond the beginning, nothing. At the beginning, a torrent of universes in a single timeless blink that is the mother and father of all explosions and is the opposite of an explosion, destroying nothing – destroying nothing but Nothing – but purely creating; snapping into existence the first semblance of order and chaos and the very idea of time, all at once. This takes both the entirety of for ever and precisely no time whatsoever.

  After the beginning, all else.

  Expansion beyond expansion; an explosion that does not dissipate or slow or lose energy but instead does quite the opposite, bursting out for evermore with increasing power, intensity, complexity and scope.

  We were taught to envisage it.

  “Close your eyes,” we were told, and we did. I lie here, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the clinic – a clank of pans, a patient in a distant room coughing, the tinny gabble of the radio at the nurses’ station down the echoing hall – and I think back to that day and that lecture hall, my eyes closed along with those of everybody else in the class, listening, imagining, trying to learn, attempting to see.

  From far enough away, it would look like a sphere, like a world with a troubled, ever-changing and expanding surface, or a vast, growing star. Within the limits of our understanding, it was simply the idea of roundness, in as many dimensions as you fooled yourself into thinking you could imagine.

  This is the true Universe, the universe of universes, the absolute beyond-which-there-is-nothing foundation of all. Utterly ungraspable, of course, though if you had envisaged it, as above, you had in a sense already transcended it because you’d thought of looking at it from outside, when there is and could be no outside. Which could be seen as a victory of sorts, though the idea of clutching at straws always came to my mind when that was suggested.

  Some things mean too much to matter. This was the exemplar of that. For any sort of usable meaning you had to look closer at the surface of that unstoppably burgeoning immensity.

  “Keep your eyes closed. Envisage this,” our tutor told us.

  We sat in a lecture theatre in the Speditionary Faculty of the University of Practical Talents, in the city of Aspherje, Calbefraques. Our tutor had instructed us to close our eyes, to remove distractions and make the envisioning easier. There were a few giggles, yelps and hisses as those students not taking the matter entirely seriously used the fact that those nearby had their eyes closed to tickle, prod or grope.

  Our tutor sighed theatrically. “Yes, my apologies to the rest of you; there may be a delay while the last percentile present mature beyond primary-school behaviour.” She changed her voice, became more businesslike. “Just keep imagining that ultimate roundness,” she told us. “And think yourself closer to it. Imagine a surface: highly complex, wrinkled, ridged, fissured, with continually growing structures like trees, bushes, covered in tendrils and filaments.”

  “Ma’am,” a male voice said, already amused with itself, “I’m looking at a giant crinkly hairy ball.”

  “You’re looking at a punitive essay if you speak again, Meric. Be quiet.” Another loud sigh. “Keep looking closer,” she told us. “Closer still,” she said, sounding amused and serious both. “Those of you with memories and imaginations beyond the insect stage may wish to invoke the idea of fractals at this point, because that would help. Assuming that you have successfully imagined a maximally complex surface on Mr Meric’s giant hairy ball – ” she paused for a smatter of amusement “ – you need to keep on imagining just more of the same no matter how much further in you zoom. The tiniest hair, the most microscopic tendril reveals, on closer inspection, that it too has a surface composed of ridges and wrinkles and tree shapes and filaments and so on, effectively identical to what you were looking at before you zoomed in. That’ll be your fractals made real, that will. The closer you go, the deeper you look and the higher you turn your magnification, the more of the same you see. Only the scale has changed.”

  “I’m struggling to imagine this, ma’am,” said one of the girls.

  “Good. If you’re struggling you’re still trying, you haven’t given in. Keep trying. You’ll get there. And do try to keep in mind that this is not really happening just in three dimensions or even four, but many more.”

  “How many more, ma’am?” asked one of the boys.

  “A lot.”

  “Just ‘A lot’, ma’am?”

  “Yes. For now, just ‘A lot.’” She paused. You might almost have called it a hesitation. “This is one reason that extremely wise, intelligent and knowledgeable people like myself bother to teach unutterably ignorant and callow people like yourselves when we could be happily feet-up in front of a big log fire reading a book, or talking urbanely amongst ourselves about the latest exciting idea or faculty gossip. There is, despite all the many, many appearances to the contrary, just a sliver of a chance that one of the better minds in this class might answer one of the questions that no one of my generation – despite the aforesaid wisdom, intelligence, et cetera – or any previous generation has been able to answer definitively, like why is Calbefraques unique, why is a transitioned soul unique, where is everybody, where did septus come from originally and precisely how does it work? That sort of question.”

  A few people quietly went, “Ooo!”

  “Yes, do let it go to your heads,” she said drily. “You’re not here to learn how to memorise stuff, you’re here to learn how to—”

  “Think!” a few voices chorused.

  You could hear the smile in her voice. “Well memorised,” she said, then raised her voice. “Of course, if you’re really smart, you’ll be imagining all this complexity that you’re looking at zooming out to meet you as you zoom in to meet it, the surface growing explosively, exponentially, all the time.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, I was already imagining that.”

  “And I imagine your handwritten essay on, oh, the history of fractal theory will contain spelling mistakes, Meric. In fact, probably the closer I look, the more I’ll find.”

  “Aw, ma’am…”

  “Aw, ma’am, nothing. Fifteen hundred words. On my desk by tomorrow morning. What do we say, Meric?”

  “We say thank you, Mrs Mulverhill.”

  “Just so.”

  Adrian

  Scotland is wet and dreary. Don’t let anybody tell you different. Even the hills are mostly just big mounds, not proper mountains like the Alps or the Rockies. People will tell you it’s all romantic and rugged but I’ve yet to see the evidence. Even when it’s nice it’s covered in a cloud of these bastard little insects called midges so you have to stay inside anyway. Plus it’s full of Scots. Case rested.

  I endured the week we spent in Glen Furquart or whatever it was called. That’s what I did, I endured it. I did not enjoy it. Even the shooting was a bit shit. I don’t know why but I thought we’d be shooting rifles at deer or moose or Highland cattle or something, but no, it was shotguns, at birds. Shotguns. Like we were in a fucking Guy Ritchie movie or something. They were v
ery nice shotguns with scrolling or whatever and engravings and stuff and they were heirlooms and blah blah blah, but still just shotguns. Shooters for the hard of aiming. And we were shooting them at birds. Lots and lots of birds. Pheasants. If there’s a stupider bird on the fucking planet I wouldn’t like to see it. Pig shit would get an honours degree by comparison.

  When we were driving up there we saw a pheasant standing on the grass on our side of the road, halfway up a long straight on the A9. Few hundred metres ahead of us. There was this long stream of cars heading the other way towards us, just coming level with the bird. Suddenly the pheasant ran across the road, almost like it was aiming for the front car. We were all convinced the silly fucker was going to get hit. Miraculously, it didn’t. Maybe the driver braked – though he couldn’t brake hard, not with that line of traffic behind him – but anyway the bird got across to the other side with about a millimetre to spare. When it skidded to a stop on the grass verge on the far side you could see it get rocked sideways with the slipstream of the car passing. Then once the first car had whooshed past it the stupid fucker of a bird changed its mind and started running back across the road in the direction it had just come! The third or fourth car in the big line of traffic hit it full on and the thing exploded in a cloud of feathers. Everybody just drove on, obviously. But I mean. How stupid can you get?

  Anyway, they breed them just to shoot them, which also seems a bit shit, though whether they do the same with the deer too I don’t know. Can’t imagine the deer are as stupid as pheasants, though.

  I’d taken plenty of coke with me for the week but I was actually trying to pull Barney off it. I was wanting to get well in with Mr Noyce senior and being his boy’s dealer maybe wasn’t the best long-term position to be in. Barney wasn’t a cunt but he was a bit of a fuckwit, know what I mean? Sooner or later he’d have used my dealing him stuff against me. Threaten to tell his dad on me, basically. I couldn’t be having that. I had plans. Mr Noyce was part of them. Barney wasn’t.