He didn’t need to think,
he’d become so preconditioned to fleeing that it had become
instinct. His fast-twitch fibres contorted with a surge of
adrenaline and he sprinted in the opposite direction, dismayed to
see the men chasing him when he risked a glimpse over his
shoulder.
Focus.
Hans worked his body hard,
pumping his arms and legs to full speed. His toes, curling into
tight fists to keep his loose sandshoes from flying off his feet,
slowed him down. So, desperate to put distance between himself and
death’s advocates, he added an extra kick to each leg and shed the
burden of shoes. Grinding his toes into the paved street, he
lowered his head, summoned his desire to live, and
sprinted.
He looked again. The
podgy man had abandoned the chase, pulling to a halt and gripping
his hamstring with a wince of pain. But the man dressed in black
was closing the gap. Hans made eye contact and what he saw filled
him with dread: unadulterated determination. He had the pure
clarity of purpose that people could only get when they were
willing to self-sacrifice for their goal.
Hans drew an extra-deep
breath and swerved to slice down another street. His lungs felt as
if they were on fire and already his thighs were becoming numb, but
he forked more adrenaline into the furnace and kept up the pace.
The sudden onset of terror left his mind fragmented and incoherent.
Part of him was entertained by how fast he could run and enjoyed
the rush of breeze through his hair. Another part giggled at the
thought of running barefoot through the park, drunk on the influx
of endorphins.
He was still selecting
the best path to take when his pursuer kicked his legs out from
beneath him and his flight to freedom came to an abrupt end as he
split his chin on the pavement. An instant later, someone heavy
slammed on top of him. His flexible ribs absorbed the impact,
compressing his heart between sternum and spine and sending him
dangerously close to cardiac arrhythmia. The world faded and all he
could hear was the ringing in his ears. When his vision cleared and
he’d collected his thoughts, he was supine and the pain had nestled
in his chin and at the back of his neck. Both men were standing
over him, their breathing laboured.
“
That was a
little rough don’t you think?” It was the black man. He’d doubled
over and was clutching his midriff. “You might’ve damaged him. Are
you even sure it’s Hans?”
The white man looked
uncertain. “Yeah, I think so.”
“
You
think?
”
He shrugged. “His hair’s
longer and he didn’t have stubble in the photo, but the facial
structure’s the same. Look, you see his chin?”
“
I see it’s
split open, yeah.”
The man who’d floored him
extended a hand. “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to hurt
you.”
Hans refused to accept it
and struggled to a sitting position alone. “Aren’t you going to
finish the job?”
“
I’m not here
to kill you, I’m here to help.”
Hans laughed, dabbing his
chin with a sleeve. “I see.”
“
No really,
I’m Dan Sutherland and this is my… my partner, Simon
West.”
He didn’t see the look
they exchanged; he was too busy preparing himself for a bullet
between the eyes.
“
You’re Hans
van der Berg, right?”
“
No.”
Dan hesitated while
reassessing the man’s facial features, but wound up even more
convinced he had the right person. “Come on, don’t make me steal
your wallet to prove a point.”
“
I do not
carry identification,” Hans said, telling the truth. Many people
had stopped carrying wallets since microchips served most purposes.
Besides, he’d only expected to take out the trash and he didn’t
need identification for that.
“
So you’re not
Hans?” Simon asked, feeling like an oaf for letting Dan overreact.
He didn’t think his friend’s emotional condition was up to making
rational decisions.
What the
hell, they’re going to kill me anyway.
Hans
shook his head. “No, I’m Hans. But it’s van
de
Berg, not van der Berg. You make me
sound German when you say it like that.”
“
Sorry.” Dan
chalked it up to his Australian accent. He often said an ‘r’ where
there should be none and dropped the ‘r’ from words that needed
them. Instead of ‘Australia’, he said ‘Us-tray-lee-yar’, and
instead of ‘chair’, he said ‘cheah’.
“
So, now you
know who I am.” Hans felt the onset of a headache radiating from
his jarred neck. “Do you now tell me why you knocked me to the
ground?”
“
I’m after
information about Lars Olssen,” Dan replied in a low voice,
offering his hand a second time. “I was the detective assigned to
investigate his assassination.”
“
Ah, an
Australian. That explains why you are so clumsy.” Hans wiggled his
jaw, working feeling back to his mandible. “And also why you did
not shoot me when I run, which I suppose I should count a
blessing.” He accepted Dan’s offered hand and pulled himself to his
feet. “Now, I have heard of slow investigations, but this is
ridiculous, do you not think?”
“
I was
distracted for eleven months.”
“
Really? Doing
what?”
He answered evenly and
without emotion. “They killed my wife.”
Hans’s amused smirk
vanished and a stern expression replaced it. “We should not talk
here, it is not safe.” He waved down the street. “Come, we can talk
inside.”
That signalled the end of
the conversation until they were standing in his apartment and Hans
had bolted the last lock on his door. He smiled at them as a
cannibal might smile at his meal.
“
What’s so
amusing?” Dan asked, ready to reach for his Colt if the need
arose.
“
It has been a
while since I have entertained guests.” He swept a hand around the
mess in his apartment. Piles of magazines were scattered across the
coffee table and Kat chose that moment to jump on top of them. She
skidded across the glossy surface and sent the stack crashing to
the floor. “That is Kat.”
“
Oh, how
original.” Dan said, coldly observing the squalor and trying to
remember when he’d last had a tetanus shot.
“
Excuse me a
moment.” He jutted his chin at the bathroom before ducking from
sight, presumably to dress his wound.
Simon sniffed the air and
looked pained. “Oh man, what’s… what’s that smell?”
Dan shrugged, equally
offended by the odour: a combination of burnt silicon and cat pee
that smothered the air as a caustic, resin-like vapour.
“
Oh, watch
your step!” Hans warned, poking his head back into the room and
pointing. Simon had backed into the kitchen to escape the fumes
only to tread in a sticky patch that Hans hadn’t yet
cleaned.
Simon lifted his shoe to
the unwholesome sound of sticky linoleum. “Oh… oh man… that’s piss
man!”
“
Sorry,” Hans
said. “Kat had an accident.”
And she’s
about to have another.
Simon glared at the
beady-eyed animal.
“
You use the
cloth to wipe your shoe. I do not want it to spread.”
Simon complied
reluctantly, even more grossed out when he picked up the soiled
cloth and the stench of urine suffocated him.
“
So what can
you tell me about Lars Olssen?” Dan asked, forever feeling the
pressure of passing time.
Hans emerged with a thin
white tape covering the split on his chin and a fast-acting
painkiller taming his headache. “He was a colleague and close
associate. When we got drunk together, I would go so far as to say
he was my friend. Why? Tell me what happens with his
case.”
“
Uh, that’s
not the way it works…”
“
But today I
think it is,” Hans replied, occasionally struggling to think of the
correct English word. “You have no authority here. You have no
papers. You do not come through proper channels. You turn up on my
doorstep and expect me to answer questions. You are a tourist here.
You are an Australian cop far out of his league. So if you want my
help, you will answer me. Now, what happens with the
case?”
“
Nothing.” Dan
had already decided to tell the truth. He expected the same in
return so it was fair to be honest. “I’m not a detective anymore. I
haven’t been on active duty since my wife was murdered. But I know
PortaNet had Lars killed, and I know PortaNet commissioned my
wife’s death to throw me off the case. What I want to know is why
they’d take those risks.”
“
And you
suspect his research got him in trouble?” Hans asked.
“
Yes.”
“
Oh man, this
is gross.” Simon grumbled from the kitchen, making his urine
situation worse by the minute.
They both ignored
him.
“
And you think
because he was a colleague of me that I will know what he
discovered?”
Dan nodded.
“
How much do
you know about quantum physics?”
“
Nothing.”
Nothing?
he thought in startled
bewilderment.
Oh dear.
Hans hated dumbing down his work. “Okay, do you know about
quarks, or more specifically anti-quarks?” He waited while Dan
shook his head. “No? Do you not even know what a quark
is?”
Dan looked briefly
ashamed, as if he were back in school and he’d been unable to
answer his teacher’s simple question. “No.”
“
A quark is a
subatomic particle, but I will spare you the details.” A shudder
swept through Han’s mind. “Do you at least know how the portals
work?”
Dan drew another blank
and covered his ignorance with sarcasm. “Sure, you step in, press a
few buttons, and hey-presto – you’re there.”
Hans tutted disgustedly,
slapped a hand to his forehead, and waved Dan to the couch. “Sit,
sit.” He searched for a scrap of paper and, when he found none,
tore the centre from a magazine. “A scientist, Damien Richards,
discovered the shortest path between two points” – he scribbled a
dot randomly on the paper and another about twenty centimetres away
– “is not a straight line.”
“
No, you fold
the paper,” Dan added from the couch. “I’ve seen this demonstration
before.”
“
Humour me,
would you?” Hans folded the paper and poked his pencil through the
two points. “Once you have folded space, the two points exist
together. Then it is a simple case of matter transfer and you
unfold space again. The specifics would go over your head I am
sure. Let us just say that it was very hard to do.”
Dan wondered whether the
lecture was heading anywhere pertinent to his
investigation.
“
Now think
about the fold. Do you know how it is done?”
“
Maybe you
should assume I don’t instead of always asking me,” Dan said,
getting cross.
“
Well, this
paper is inaccurate… you must extrapolate to three dimensions. But
the basic principle is to
very
intensify gravity.”
Dan frowned. “How
‘very’?”
“
Enough for
both ends of the wormhole to be classed a Type 7 Quantum
Singularity.”
“
That’s a
black hole, right?” Simon asked. He was finished cleaning the piss
from his hands and shoes, and came to sit next to Dan, fascinated
by the lecture.
“
Yes.”
“
What’s a
wormhole?” Dan wondered how Simon knew what a Type 7 Quantum
Singularity was.
“
It is a cute
but inaccurate description of any fissure in normal space capable
of matter transfer.”
Dan’s head was starting
to hurt with the barrage of new concepts.
But Hans was
just getting started; he loved talking about his favourite
subject.
Even if I must dumb it
down.
“Scientist Damien Richards found a way
to very intensify gravity and fold space between two points. Then
he found a way to transfer matter from one side to the other
without crushing it with the gravitational field.”
“
Hey, isn’t it
dangerous to run around creating black holes?” Simon asked with a
frown, remembering an astronomy lesson from high school.
“
Uh, yes and
no. Yes, but not for the reason you think.” Hans held up a finger,
asking them to be patient and wait. He ducked into his second
bedroom and returned with a fresh waft of burnt silicon and a
metallic white container, which looked like a cross between a
lunchbox, a toolbox and a first aid kit, except with a power cable.
He set it on the carpet and gingerly undid the latches before
cracking the lid. Misty white fumes spewed out and both men pulled
their feet away.
“
It is safe,”
Hans assured them.
In a manner of
speaking.
“It is only liquid nitrogen.”
Next, he fetched a pair of tongues and slipped his hand into a
rubber glove for splash protection. He dipped the tongues into the
liquid nitrogen and felt around for something, wearing a visor of
concentration. “Here!” He latched onto something and pulled it
free, holding it up for inspection. When the fumes cleared, they
leaned closer and saw a tiny white rock. But, as they watched, it
began to melt, quickly turning into a thick white paste at room
temperature. “This is what Damien Richards invented to make it all
possible.”