Escape Velocity: The Anthology (40 page)

      
Lance’s pleasant recollections were interrupted by the realisation that his arm was being held by a rough hand. He turned, to face his neighbour. The man’s pupils were absinthe-green, his gaze piercing. The pale man’s face was angular, his nose hooked.

       “
I know what you are doing,” he said, his breath reeking of onions. “I know about you and her.”

       “
What?” Lance protested. Too late, the green-eyed man had let go and was pushing into the crowd, after her. Shaken, Lance got off at the next stop. An advert? Was this some strange affair he had got inadvertently involved in? The taste of her kiss, then the reek of the man’s breath and those eyes had surely been too vivid to be adverts.

      
On guard, Lance followed the map in his mind to the bistro in Montmartre without further incident. The earlier rain of the evening had blossomed into a cool dusk. There was a reassuring smell of good food, and Cheryline was more beautiful than ever, her face lit up with happiness. Lance thought they could fall in love all over again. Cheryline’s skin was a healthy shade of pale, her chestnut-coloured hair swept back in a rough ponytail. She wore the silver crescent moon pendant he had given her on their first anniversary. Cheryline was lovely in all her familiarity compared to the Barbie-doll who had forcibly kissed him on the train. Harsh work reality and lack of money to enable them to enjoy their present or seriously plan for their hopes had wounded their love. It was recovering, though faltering, like a foal getting to its unsteady hooves. 

      
There was no need to tell her about the encounters on the Metro, as they drank champagne, ate a selection of succulent meats with raclette cheese. Despite the romance of the evening and the enthusiastic conversation, Lance could not quite block out the vision at the window. The green eyes were locked on him. Lance’s consciousness of the eyes watching him, that no one else seemed to see, wore away his nerves until his enjoyment of Cheryline’s company declined into an act. 

       “
I love you Cheryline, as much as I ever did, I hope you know.” He looked worried, as he spoke. “I know it’s been difficult.” 

      
Her slender hand reached for his. It was warm and soft. 

       “
It’s getting better,” she said.  She grew a gentle smile. “That’s what matters. Now, what’s wrong?”

      
He shifted in his seat.

       “
I’ll be back in five minutes,” he said. It was meant to be reassuring. He stood awkwardly and rushed to the door. 

      
The street was cold. The green-eyed man had turned and was walking away, his long coat billowing in the wind. He stopped at the corner of the street and looked back, with a smirk. A challenge. Lance followed him, down the bistro-lined street, then down an alleyway, then another, onwards until the man was out of sight. Lance realised he had gone too far, lost track of time, in the eagerness of pursuit. He fired off an apologetic Psimail to her, but there was no read message, no response.  Understandable, she would be upset at his strange behaviour. Cheryline would be worried, and upset. He sprinted back to the bistro, retracing his steps. Arriving out of breath, heart pounding, he looked around, frantic, for Cheryline. He staggered up to the counter, and asked the waiter where the lady was that he had been dining with.

       “
Gone,” he said, “some time after you left, with a man.”

      
Lance’s heart pounded.

       “
Another gentleman? Green eyes?”

       “
I didn’t get that close, the lady settled the bill,” he said with a smile. 

      
This waiter should not have been able to see the green-eyed man,
thought Lance. 
Unless the waiter was in on it too.
 

       “
Which way did they go?”  Lance said.

      
The waiter pointed: the way Lance had gone, earlier. 

       “
Have a good evening sir,” the waiter said, turning away to another customer.  Lance ran out of the door. 

      
He retraced his steps then stopped at the entrance to the Metro.  The streets were unusually empty for this time of night. The green art deco lampposts held red lights that glowered like Martian eyes. From one, hung Cheryline’s crescent moon pendant. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Lance made his way down the steps. At the bottom, despite the darkness, he saw that a maintenance door was open. It was held open by a brown leather boot; just like Cheryline’s. Horrified, Lance swept the door open and charged in. The body lay twisted, discarded on the floor, like an unwanted doll that bled. Pinned to her bloodied blouse was a funeral card, inscribed with the words, which Lance recognised from Oscar Wilde:

      
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
       By each let this be heard, 
       Some do it with a bitter look, 
       Some with a flattering word, 
       The coward does it with a kiss, 
       The brave man with a sword!

      
Next to the body lay a bloodied dagger. Lance brushed damp hair away from her face; it was not Cheryline. The nose was straighter, the staring blue eyes larger, and her skin was tanned. It was the woman from the Metro, wearing Cheryline’s clothes.  Lance turned the card over; the words ‘Green-eyed Monster’ were inscribed. The alert buzzed in his mind, a Psimail from Cheryline. 

       ‘
Help me,’ it said. 

       ‘
Where are you?’ He fired the Psimail reply out.

       ‘
Dark. Our special place. Don’t know how he knows. Come quick.’ Lance dropped the funeral card to the floor, picked up the dagger, putting it into his jacket pocket then ran.

The tunnel of love, they had called it, in reality a sheltered alleyway where they had hidden from the rain, and the public, and found each other, where they had first hungrily kissed, two souls intertwining, new to each other, but as if they had known each other in different lives, different worlds. Unbidden, the image of that day flooded into his mind; the smell of rain, the warmth of her face pressed against his.

      
The vault was not far, Lance ran in, and then paused, bent over to catch his breath.  The alleyway was as dark as the nickname suggested. He closed his mind to Psi intrusion, just in case the green-eyed man was playing games. Lance heard breathing; he heard footsteps tapping towards him. He saw an outline in bulky clothes. It rushed towards Lance. Lance pulled out the dagger. It was warm, the hilt still slick with the girl’s blood.  He struck out at the body as it passed him, but missed. It rushed at him again, caught hold of his shoulders roughly, desperately. The hands shifted to Lance’s neck and grasped. Just in time, he pushed the knife under the bulky coat, through to the skin, and in, beneath the ribs.

      
Too late he saw the beautiful, familiar face, under the bulky hat. Saw, just as the light faded from her flickering eyes. 

      
Lance recalled the words on the funeral card, and collapsed to the floor.  Lance broke down, his hands shaking, as he felt the weight of the bloodied dagger.  Holding its obscene weight in his hands, he saw his reflection, and the green eyes staring back at him. 

       “
Cut,” said a deep feminine voice behind him. Lance looked up, and saw her: the siren from the subway, this time more demurely dressed in a grey suit, her hair tied back in a bun. She held a clipboard. Lance leapt forward, brandishing the knife, but passed straight through her. “I understand your distress, but this isn’t going to help.”

       “
Where am I?”

       “
Deep in your mind. Your body is in a hospital. You couldn’t cope with the withdrawal of the Spamblocks. The paperwork warned that in rare instances cessation of Spamblock could cause a mental withdrawal. In your circumstances, suffering from stress and depression, it was most unwise.”

       “
What happened?”

       “
A movie trailer, Green-Eyed Monster. Your mind could not take the unfiltered intensity of a slasher-movie advert. For years the Spamblock has kept out any material you had deemed unsuitable when you bought the product, and dampened much of the rest. It was like withdrawing completely, abruptly from a drug that had deadened your senses for years. It caused a derangement, you thought it was real.”

       “
Cheryline.  My god, did I?” He dropped the knife. 

      
The woman looked down. 

       “
She’s in hospital. She is stable.”

       “
Why are you here?”

       “
Technical Support. The company is generous enough to lend me out to the state, in return for the data and memories of what happened to you, so that we can improve our service. Once we have woken you up, if you will sign a waiver, we will offer you a financial reward, for use of your memories in research and development.”

       “
Financial reward?” Lance cried.

       “
Enough to give you a lifetime subscription to Spamguard and pay for treatment for Cheryline. That’s our best offer.” The woman smiled, a crocodile smile.

       “
Or?”

       “
Believe me, Mr Travers, you don’t want to see the trailer to the sequel.”

The Insult

Paul Freeman

The King of planet O-Tulp gazed beyond the castle battlements. The planet’s feeble sun was setting. “Is it true?” he asked the Crown Prince.

      
The Crown Prince nodded. “We’ve been insulted beyond endurance, father. A pre-emptive strike is the only honorable response. We’ve tolerated the arrogant Terrans for too long. They’ve ideas above their station.”

       “
Can’t we just ignore them? We’ve left the Terrans to their own designs before.”

       “
They’re growing stronger by the day, father. Their weapons, their technology! It’s only a matter of time until they become a threat. We can’t afford to wait.”

      
In the distance, O-Tulp’s single moon rolled over the horizon.

      
The King peered over the battlements. He thoughtfully watched the giant worms burrowing through the methane ice of the moat. “Do you think we should colonize their world?”

       “
Their planet is too hot for us,” said the Crown Prince. “Better to annihilate them and return immediately to the outer reaches of our solar system, where we belong.”

      
The King was still reluctant to invoke an armed response. “Why not just leave them in peace?”

       “
Peace! Peace is anathema to a Terran, father. The sword is the only language they understand. In any event, their belittlement of O-Tulp cannot go unanswered.”

      
The king recalled the transmission they had intercepted from the Terrans. He became resolute. “Prepare the armed forces. How dare they classify us as a ‘dwarf’ planet?”

Goodbye Maggie

Catherine Edmunds

The painting’s called ‘View of the Rhine’, but I’ve been told it looks more like Borrowdale. So where is it really? Let me explain. I painted this version in 1672 under the name Herman Saftleven, but I referenced both my sketches of the Rhine and the ones I made in Borrowdale in 1875 when I stayed with Ruskin at Brantwood. Confusing, eh? Not if you consider the granular nature of time – but more of that later.

In different ages I’ve been known by many different names – François-Saint Bonvin, for example. What? You’ve never heard of him? Shame on you. You’ve heard of Courbet, I suppose? No, that wasn’t me, but he was kind enough to paint my portrait in 1846, and I attempted a self-portrait in a similar style the following year. For Maggie, of course.

       “
François, that’s exceptional,” she said, as I laid down the brush and reached for a rag.

       “
Thank you, my dear.”

       “
Intense. Brooding.”

       “
Sexy?”

      
She peered closer, turned and grinned at me. “Yes. Very.”

      
Sometimes I think she fell in love with the portrait, and not the artist at all.

Maggie knows about my time travelling, but thinks my theories are flawed. According to her, we all live on a continuum, so my constant hopping about is delusional nonsense. She was still happy enough to accompany me to Scotland in 1878, where we bumped into Gustave Doré unexpectedly. If you look at his ‘Scottish Landscape’, painted that July, you’ll see a figure in a red cloak running into a birch grove. That’s Maggie. Doré captured the moment with a skill I could never hope to emulate. There were tears. Recriminations.

      
After the Scottish débâcle, she slipped out of sight for a while, though I later discovered she’d popped back to 1870 and sat for Doré again, this time in a painting he called ‘Charity’, where she’s life size and utterly gorgeous, dressed as a gypsy girl. It took me years to work out how to wreak my revenge, but if you look at the painting now, you’ll see an old man with his arm around her shoulder. That’s me. Doré never realised who he was painting, as we hadn’t yet met in Scotland. Naughty of me, perhaps, but it tasted sweet.

My time travelling began when I read the surviving writings of Democritus. His theories led to my own successful experiments.