Tales From The Edge: Emergence Read online

  Forced entry.

  He'd be severely punished if caught. Would it count if it was your father's property though? If you were still technically a minor? He scrubbed the thoughts from his mind. Nobody was going to find out. In his backpack was an identical padlock and chain to the one his father used; all he had to do was replace the key on his father's keyset, and nobody'd be any the wiser.

  He tightened his grip on the cutters . . . squeezed.

  The chain snapped with a crack.

  Not hanging about, he opened the door a fraction and edged inside. Everything was dark and shadowed, the little light afforded by the aurora not enough to see anything. He could smell machinery and the sweet aroma of a welding torch's handiwork. Electricity skated his spine, but he wasn't sure if it was more from excitement or fear.

  He pulled out his flashlight, thumbed the power.

  A pool of light splashed onto one of the walls, illuminating a tatty poster. Peering closer, Kelvin saw it was a view of the Mzakin Arches, a stunning archipelago of natural rock formations vaulting a series of islands in one of the inner planets of the Alkorn system. He only knew that because his father used to yammer on about it constantly, telling Kelvin and Billy that one day he'd take them to see the sight first-hand. Thinking about it, Kelvin realised his father hadn't mentioned the place for years. Maybe he'd stopped mentioning it when he no longer believed they'd ever be able to afford to go.

  He edged the beam on, the light falling on workbenches, shelves of electrical components, a welder's mask and heavy jacket, chemicals, a rugged computer terminal, all the mundane odds and ends of a jack of all trades repair man.

  He'd wanted to find his father's secret life, a reason he'd been so distant these last few years. A miraculous invention, a haul of precious stones, hell, even discovering a clandestine gambling den would've been preferable to this lonely drabness.

  He was about to slink back out, when, for one last time, he sliced the torchlight around the workshop and caught a glint of something on the ground at the far end. Curious, he moved closer, expecting to find a piece of metal debris or some such, but was surprised to see a small handle embedded in the floor.

  A trapdoor!

  His old man did have a secret.

  Kelvin heaved the trapdoor open, the metal groaning with fatigue. Warm air laced with the smell of engine grease billowed up from the darkness. The first rungs of a ladder descended into the black. How big was this space? He leaned down to get a better look with his flashlight, but the angle was poor, and the beam only clawed at nothingness.

  Outside, he heard the thrum of an engine, and almost dropped his torch.

  He fumbled the light off, hustled through the trapdoor, and clambered down enough rungs so that he could close the hatch, gently easing the trapdoor shut just as he heard somebody on the threshold.

  "What the--?"

  Kelvin winced. His father's voice sounded uncertain.

  More authority seeped into his next words. "Who's there?"

  The lights flickered on. Through a slim gap, Kelvin could see his father scanning the workshop with a hard grimace. In his hand he gripped a piece of lead piping. Kelvin prayed his father would think the trespasser had already gone, but he stalked closer, his body coiled for action as much as his ruined knee would allow. First his head, then his upper body, then finally most of his legs disappeared from view, until all that Kelvin could see was the frayed bottoms of his father's coveralls and his scuffed work boots--

  Bright light dazzled his eyes. He flinched, ducking his head, half in shame, half in defence, but instead of admonishing words, the trapdoor slammed shut again.

  "Father?"

  The name caught in his throat, barely whispered, his vocal cords dry. He heard something heavy scrape across the container above and get hauled into place on the trapdoor.

  Kelvin banged on the underside. "Hey!"

  "Make as much noise as you want you scumbag." His father cursed, pacing.

  He doesn't know it's me.

  He was glad--for now--but something about his father's tone put him on edge. Was he thinking about calling the law? And what was down here that had made him so riled? Kelvin clicked on the torch to get a better look around--

  And gasped.

  Due to the small pool of darting light, he only caught fragmented glimpses of the whole, and long shadows confused the geometries, but the object that occupied the secret basement couldn't be mistaken.

  He could tell it was more than just an aircraft from the fuel tank distribution and the tapered nozzle jets, but the real giveaway was the cybel fuelling socket hanging on the undercarriage. Cybel tanks meant long-distance travel--the ability to power halfway across the system and reach a cybel gate, a route to star systems light years away--

  In his mind a million thoughts exploded.

  Was it spaceworthy?

  When had his father learnt to fly?

  Why had he kept it a secret all these years?

  His father's voice intruded again. "Who's down there? Bones? Cleister? Pete the Dog sniffing around where he shouldn't be?"

  Kelvin didn't answer, his tongue frozen. He recognised the names. Bones traded scrap at a yard on the edge of Levan's Crossing; Cleister and Pete the Dog were workers his father used to toil with on the ore lines.

  His father's next words came like a hail of hard stones, devoid of all emotion. "Well, whoever it is, you know how this has to end, don't you?"

  At that Kelvin found his voice again.

  He slammed his torch into the hatch over and over. "It's me, it's me, it's me." Hot tears streamed down his cheeks. "It's your son, it's your son--"

  There was a grinding noise, then the trapdoor opened, his father a vague silhouette against the backdrop of harsh light. With incredible strength he lifted Kelvin straight up, pulled him into a fierce bearhug, his thick fingers clutching Kelvin's hair. His father's body trembled against him, comforting yet frightening.

  After what must have been minutes, his father untangled his arms, stepped back. "What you did tonight never happened, okay?" He gripped Kelvin's chin, stopped him hanging his head. "You didn't break in, you didn't find any trapdoor, and you didn't see anything you shouldn't have. Most of all you don't talk about any of this to anyone, you understand?"

  Kelvin nodded.

  "Swear it."

  Kelvin's heart thudded against his ribcage. "Alright, I swear it."

  "Good."

  "Father, when you said 'you know how this has to end' what did you--"

  "You don't talk to anyone--and that includes me." He gave a grim smile. "Son, one day you'll understand."

  They locked up in silence, marched out into the starry night, and clambered onto the skimmer, Kelvin nestled behind his father.

  They didn't exchange a word on the way home.

  *

  "You're late, which means I'm late."

  His mother's words were addressed at his father, but Kelvin felt the accusation as if she'd been speaking to him. She had a shift at the cantina, and was dressed in tight denim, and a low-cut blouse. It meant better tips. Kelvin was about to say it was his fault, but his father, standing behind him, squeezed his shoulders: quiet.

  "Sorry, Dee. I got caught up at the workshop."

  "That what I should tell McGuire?"

  Before his father could respond, his mother had whirled off into the night, only her flowery perfume lingering in the cramped lower level of their prefab. McGuire was the owner of the cantina, and a prickly, mean soul.

  "Sorry," Kelvin whispered.

  "Not a word." His father hobbled to the cold store, stared disconsolately at the meagre pickings on the shelves. "Get some sleep, son. You got workshop in the morning."

  Workshop. That was a joke in Levan's Crossing. A single-room shack on the outskirts of town, where whoever was teaching that day attempted to keep the kids distracted enough from the flies and the heat to learn something about some crummy machine or another.

  Kelvin hadn't
been for weeks.

  He didn't argue though. He climbed up the shoulder-wide staircase, sank into his narrow bed in the room he shared with his little brother. Billy played on the floor with his figures; Forthrast terraformers and their machines, the plastic yellowed from too much time in the sun. Eight years seperated them, but it might as well have been a lifetime.

  "You want to play?" he asked.

  Kelvin shook his head.

  Toys interested him less and less these days. He lay back on his dirty pillow and stared at the aluminium ceiling. He couldn't sleep. He was a million miles from sleep. Why was his father building a starcraft capable of riding the network? Why was he doing it in secret? Did mother know? Did anyone else? Would he really have killed the intruder if it hadn't been his own flesh and blood? What was so important about keeping it secret?

  Kelvin's head spun.

  He needed fresh air.

  Without thinking twice, he unbolted the room's hinge window and slid through the narrow gap onto a small ledge. A warm breeze rich with the smell of the mining operations drifted across the desert, and he caught an edge of vertigo as he gazed down the vertical alley of prefabs to the twinkling lights of the commerce district. The way individual prefabs intersected with one another on the towers meant that the exterior was a medley of flattops connected by relatively easy climbs. Kelvin hustled upwards passing the grainy light of holovids until he came to an open space where he could stretch out fully.

  The aurora dominated one half of the night sky, extinguishing the light of the stars behind it, but in the other direction he still recognised several constellations. Stars like Cassol, Rigus, and Herspexia were only a matter of light years away. A short jump through the network--if you had the transport. Ever since watching an old stellar documentary he'd dreamt of walking under Rigus' red supergiant, diving in the oceans of Cassol, visiting The Majestic City on Herspexia. With a starcraft equipped with cybel engines these places would be in reach.

  Why the secrecy then?

  Something didn't stack up. They could barely afford three meals a day, had only left Levan's Crossing a handful of times in all the years they'd lived there, and yet his father was ploughing every ounce of his energy, every spare credit, into something that could only be considered an incredible indulgence.

  Why?

  He thought about seeking out his friend Chloe on the fifth level. The bragging rights for having a craft capable of reaching a gate in the family would be huge, but his father had been pretty clear about keeping his mouth shut, so he dropped the idea. Deciding there was only one person he could talk to, he scrambled to the bottom of the towers.

  Nighttime was different in Levan's Crossing.

  Stalls in the network of passages around the foot of the towers stood closed, goods squirrelled away for the night, canvases flapping. Few stalked the town, and the odd townsfolk he did come across he gave a wide berth, their voices angry, their movements ungainly. Strictly speaking under-eighteens had a daily curfew at sundown, but being almost of age, and tall to boot, Kelvin slipped easily through the town. From the nasty edge in the air, it didn't seem as if he was missing much.

  Glancing down an alley he caught sight of a man with a stump for a right hand rooting through some trash. Kelvin wondered what his crime had been. He knew what his father would say if he asked.

  He did something bad, that's all.

  It was the answer he always gave when Kelvin asked about the misdeeds of the town's amputees. Forgetting about it, he skipped over the maglev track, the lines thrumming under the soles of his shoes, and hurried into The Copper Lady.

  Patrons packed the cantina wall to wall, the air thick with animated conversation, even singing. A few drinkers near the door paused in their talk as they clocked Kelvin, but none were bothered enough to confront him, and they soon launched back into their chatter. A woman with wild eyes and a manic grin loomed close, then lurched away, cackling. Kelvin's gaze lingered on the back of her bangle-strewn hair, confounded.

  "Kelvin!"

  His mother beckoned him to the quieter end of the bar. "What the hell--?"

  "Give the boy a break, Dee," a thick-necked man sitting on a barstool said. "Not like he's going to have the pleasure in the future, is it?"

  Kelvin's mother glared at the man, before leaning close to Kelvin and fiercely whispering. "You shouldn't be in here."

  Kelvin glanced at the man on the barstool. A tattoo of a planet in mid-explosion occupied his muscular forearm. Kelvin kept his voice low. "What did he mean--"

  "He didn't mean anything."

  Somebody shouted an order for drinks, and his mother spun off to the mirrored backwall of inverted liquors. In the reflection, Kelvin watched the cantina's revellers. Most were drinking hard. Two wiry men began shoving one another in the chest, a heavily made-up woman between them, trying to make them stop. Amber liquid spilled out of her tumbler, soaking one of the men's T-shirt. When the other man caught Kelvin's eye in the mirror, he broke his gaze, but when he looked back a second later, the trio were laughing, arm in arm.

  His mother came back, smiling for the patrons, but Kelvin could tell she was seething.

  Let's get this over with.

  Kelvin took a deep breath. "I broke into father's workshop."

  His mother stood wide-eyed, a mannequin in a world of noise and motion.

  "I said--"

  His mother lunged forward, clamping Kelvin's hands that rested on the bar. "I heard you." Her gaze flitted around, nervous. "And?" she whispered, even lower than before.

  "I saw it--"

  "Don't say any more." His mother's eyes flashed, afraid.

  Her reaction made Kelvin scared too.

  The tattooed man on the barstool two places away had turned in their direction, as if he was eavesdropping.

  His mother turned to the man. "You want something, Earl?"

  "A drink if it's not too much trouble." He pushed his empty glass forward.

  Kelvin's mother snatched up the empty, retrieved a clean glass from beneath the counter.

  Earl shook his head. "Make this one a Carnglen."

  "You know we ran out of that weeks back."

  Earl shrugged. "Maybe another crate came in." He smiled. "Indulge me. Mosey down to the cellar and check. It is a mighty fine whiskey, after all."

  Halfway down the bar McGuire gave a small nod at Kelvin's mother.

  "Waste of damn time," she muttered. "You don't go nowhere, Kelvin, you hear me. We'll talk outside when I come back." She pulled open the cellar hatch which Kelvin could just about see if he leaned forward, and descended into darkness.

  Kelvin shrank into his seat, not wanting to draw any more attention. McGuire, the owner, was eyeballing him, and he worried that his being here might've got his mother in hot water.

  "Damn shortages," Earl said, too loud.

  "What?"

  Earl twisted to face Kelvin square on, the legs of his barstool creaking under his weight. "Economy's going down the crapper. I can't even repair my skimmer; parts have gone through the roof."

  "Oh." Kelvin had heard other adults griping about prices, but he didn't want to get drawn into conversation further so he kept his mouth shut.

  Earl slid onto the next barstool over anyway. "Must be hard for your folks, what with your Pa all washed up, and only your Ma bringing home the bacon."

  "We get by."

  Earl moved suddenly, and the next thing Kelvin knew his wrist was in the tattooed man's grip. Pain flared.

  Earl whispered, "Scream and I break your wrist."

  All the commotion of the bar drained to a background hum. His wrist throbbed with pain, while his eyes lay fixed on the wild face of his captor. "Please, let go of me."

  "I will--when you tell me what you saw."

  "I didn't see anything." Kelvin wriggled his arm, but that only made Earl tighten his grip more.

  "Liar."

  The pain intensified, and tears came to Kelvin's eyes. "Please."

  Earl
slowed down his words. "Tell me what you saw in your father's workshop."

  He couldn't say. He couldn't. He'd promised his father he'd tell no one. The pain though . . . he imagined his wrist splintering . . . it was unbearable. He glanced over the counter, hoping to see his mother emerging from the cellar, but the trapdoor remained still, the hole black as night. A pile of empty glasses, stacked in squat towers, thronged the end of the bar--

  With his free hand he grabbed for the nearest stack, swung hard.

  The glass shattered on the side of the man's head, the glinting light of the falling shards contrasting with the blossoming crimson stain. Stunned, the man's grip relaxed a fraction. Kelvin didn't wait for a second invitation, violently tugging his arm free, and skittering out into the night.

  Where to go?

  He twirled, stumbled--

  "Bastard!"

  Kelvin glanced back, caught the silhouette of the man in the cantina doors. Terrified, he got up and ran into the welcoming shadows of the brushland. The man's angry shouts tumbled over him. "You can run, but you can't hide." Looking back, Kelvin watched the man press his hand over his temple. "When you come back, I'll be waiting!"

  Kelvin ran on, his wrist throbbing.

  *

  For a time he simply ran, gorse and sand flashing by underfoot. His chest rose and fell in panicky pulses. The warm night air stung his lungs. After tripping on a rock, and almost taking a nasty tumble, he slowed up. Doubled-over, hands on his knees, he hacked out a rasping cough, turned.

  Levan's Crossing twinkled in the valley.

  Of Earl there was no sign.

  He began walking, cutting a curving path back towards the town, but his attacker's words echoed over and over in his head.

  When you come back, I'll be waiting!

  By the time he reached the maglev tracks, he'd decided he couldn't go back--at least not yet. Crazy man might've been hiding in the shadows at the prefab towers, lurking in a stairwell or some such. Best to let him cool off, Kelvin thought. With no better idea, he set off between the steel ribbons of the track, keen to keeping moving.

  Ahead, the smelting towers of the Cowslip Hills belched thick grey smoke into the night sky, muddying his view of the aurora. After a time he approached the maglev terminal that serviced the mining complex day and night. Here, cargo trains would stock up on processed ores, shoot on to Whitesands, the spaceport city where they'd arrived all those years ago.