Endworlds - Nicholas Read [2]
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REF-140867-19056RBRMG
PART 1.1
DOWN
1.1. 1 GONE 5
1.1.2 THE SPACES BETWEEN 19
1.1.3 UNDERGROUND 43
1.1.4 INITIATION 69
1.1.5 HOUNDS OF HELL 93
1.1.6 BURROUGHING DEEP 111
1.1.7 BEYOND AND ABOVE 129
1.1.8 INTO THE GRID 161
PART 1.1
DOWN
GONE
ABOVE THE PACIFIC OCEAN
JULY, 2001
“JULY 21ST, 2001 . . . damndest storm I’ve ever flown through. 747s aren’t supposed to pitch and roll like this.”
He peered out the window. Deranged lightning cavorted among the clouds. What would be an appropriate score for this, he wondered to himself? Mahler, or maybe Prokofiev. He blinked as another bolt split the sky entirely too close.
The man added another note to his daily journal. “Blue lightning, not pink.”
The jumbo took another bump. A few nervous gasps rose from seats further toward the back. Around him his fellow upper class passengers continued to read, work, sip wine or watch films in silence. Flying in First Class carried with it certain responsibilities, among which could be accounted the maintenance of a certain decorum. He hoped it wouldn’t bounce like this all the way from Hong Kong. They were not yet halfway through the flight.
“Sorry about the weather, ladies and gentlemen.”
Tinged with the distinctive Aussie accent, the pilot’s voice was what every passenger wanted it to be: calm, evenly modulated, the verbal equivalent of warm milk.
“We’ve had to detour somewhat to the east to get out of the worst of these storms. Right now we’re almost over the island of Pohnpei on the Micronesian chain, though you can’t see it very well through these clouds. The ride should smooth out shortly and we’ll make up for our late departure.”
There was no doubt at this rate he’d now be late for the meeting in Sydney. Not that they wouldn’t wait for him. He was the meeting.
This was the risk when flying commercial. But there was nothing to be done for it. When your Gulfstream is grounded for maintenance, you fly with the flock. But somebody would answer for the oversight.
Athletic, imposing, expression characteristically unfathomable, with a scalp kept close-shaven out of a desire for hygiene rather than appearance, he was continuously reminding his vice-presidents at Burroughs Labs to plan the work, work the plan and always have a back-up.
Out-think, out-perform and out-pace, or you don’t work for Raef Eisman.
Giggling rose above the steady thrum of Ansett Flight 888’s engines. Rising slightly in his seat while trying not to crease his work suit of grey Italian silk, he looked toward the rear of the nosecone cabin. He saw the other two girls first. Emily and . . . what was the other girl’s name? Alyssa. According to what Paige had told him, Emily was heading to Sydney for a music concerto with an Australian choir. Her Singaporean parents watched movies in Row 4. Alyssa was enroute as an unaccompanied minor to visit her grandparents in Australia.
The only other kids in First Class, the pair and Paige had struck up an immediate friendship. Since the mid-week flight wasn’t crowded, the crew had sensibly given the well-behaved children the run of the cabin and let them commandeer the