Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [112]
It took only a few minutes to give Ratchet the bones of the situation. During that time I heard distant rattlings and whirrings as the computer ran checks on the gunship’s propulsion systems and collision detectors. He also tried to make some coffee in the ship’s minuscule galley, but the grounds were moldy and rotten so I made do with a cup of hot water instead. There didn’t seem to be any provision for the manufacture of cheeseburgers, unfortunately.
“I have no way of finding these people,” Ratchet said eventually. “By the sound of it they could be anywhere, and you don’t know how you came to be here.”
“Shit,” I said. I waved my hands vaguely. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, troll around until we find them?”
“The Gap is infinite, Jack, because the gaps between people are always unbridgeably wide. Searching an infinite space would take—”
“An awfully long time. I understand. Hang on—can you trace Positionex signals?”
“Yes. Not from the satellite, because it isn’t in The Gap, but I can lock onto the impulses from the unit. Why?”
“Ghuaji may still have the Positionex on him,” I said. “Let’s go.”
I strapped myself hurriedly into the pilot’s seat. As the engines thrummed into life I considered whether now might be a good time for taking some Rapt, but in a tiny, tired reprise of what I’d felt so many years ago, I decided I was going to do this one straight.
The hum of the engines climbed and then sank again, as the systems settled into flying mode. And then, like a sleepy movement of the Earth, the ship righted itself, and lifted off the ground.
I have to admit that I whooped. It had been a while. I enjoyed it.
I watched out of the window until the gunship was hovering about ten feet off the ground—standard flying height. One of the control panel monitors winked on, showing a blue dot in the middle of a schematic map of trees shown in cross-section.
“Found it,” Ratchet said. “It’s about four miles.”
“Full speed ahead,” I said, savoring the moment. “And don’t spare the ammo when we find him.”
The ship shifted unsteadily, then seemed to get into its stride. It slipped into a small clearing, then turned on its vertical axis until it was facing back the way I’d come.
“Okay,” said Ratchet. “I’m going to have to concentrate for a while. Catch you later.”
We started moving again, at first slowly, then faster and faster until the trees were slipping past the window like brown ghosts running the other way. There was barely any sound apart from the wind, and the cabin was eerily quiet. I held on tightly to my seat, trying to avoid being slung from side to side as the ship dodged and wove. I’d seen one of the gunships flying past once, and marveled at the way the computers steered through the trunks like an enormous fish darting through seaweed.
I’d also seen one crash, so when we reached maximum velocity I just shut my eyes.
Not being able to see was even more nerve-racking, so in the end I opened them again, and watched white-knuckled as the ship sped closer and closer to the position indicated by the flashing light on the monitor. At one point we swam through a few hundred yards of The Fear, but we were back out the other side before I’d had time to reach for the needle and undo my resolution.
After a couple of miles the light outside changed. The pure blue turned muddy, and I began to get worried. My suspicions were confirmed when I felt a sudden twinge at the bottom of my eyes, like a scalpel being slipped under the lids.
“Oh shit,” I said. “Ratchet, how far away are we?”
“About half a mile,” the computer replied tersely. “Why? You want to go to the bathroom?”
“Vinaldi doesn’t have the Bright Eyes anymore.” Out of the window on my side I saw brown tendrils of luminescence interlaced in the spaces between the trees. People had thought they were thin branches or shoots of some kind, until soldiers had been attacked by them and gone staggering off with twigs of light sticking out of their burning eyes. Unless Vinaldi was inside somewhere he was in big trouble—as were Suej, Nearly,