Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [118]
“I have to admit I was kind of expecting I’d see you again, Jack, and sooner rather than later, but shit—that’s really overachieving. How did you manage to find a gunship, get it working, and then fly the fucking thing?”
“You know my methods,” I said. “Brute, dumb luck.”
Vinaldi didn’t look convinced, but I had nothing else to offer.
“What do we do now?” Nearly asked. “I mean, it’s been a blast and all but I’d really like to get the hell out of here.”
“I’ve no idea,” I said. “We can either stay here and have a bad time, or we can have one somewhere else. It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me.”
“Jack,” said a voice. Ratchet’s. It was relayed from an external speaker on the gunship, the kind usually employed to inform villagers that they were about to be destroyed.
I didn’t blame Ratchet at all for what had happened, and strove to keep my voice calm. “Yes?” I said.
“I can get you out,” he announced, quietly.
“What? How?”
“This gunship is equipped with partial sideslipping capability. They all were—in case the brass needed to get out in a hurry.”
“Yeah,” Vinaldi muttered in the background. “That figures.”
“It’s not very powerful,” Ratchet continued, “but if you know where you got in we can probably still get out that way.”
“We don’t need the full sideslip gear?”
“No. A semblance of cat-ness is programmed into me. It’s only an approximation—that’s why we need a place where it’s happened recently. We should really go as soon as possible.”
“What are we waiting for?” said Nearly, and started climbing the ladder. Vinaldi followed her, but I remained outside.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Ratchet said quietly.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “Just part of the whole big fuck up.” I looked away for a moment, at the trees, the blue light, the strange world around us, and I wondered again if something had changed. Though I felt very sad, and depressed, and angry, for once I didn’t feel frightened. Maybe there wasn’t any room left in my head.
“It didn’t end as you would have wanted,” he said, suddenly. “But it was still the right thing to do. You did the best you could for the spares, Jack. Sometimes that has to be enough.”
“Thanks, but why are you telling me this? We’re going to have years to Monday-morning-quarterback this one.”
“No,” said Ratchet. “We aren’t. I’m going to have to pilot this ship right up to the last second. This time it’s really good bye.”
Great, I thought, as I climbed wearily up the ladder. At this rate, in a couple more days there wouldn’t be anyone left for me to lose.
A last flickering run in the forest; through endless night, past never-ending trees, buried deep under a sky I’d never seen. I let Vinaldi perch on the pilot seat for the journey, and sat next to Nearly in the back row of the passenger section. None of us spoke, but instead looked out of the window or stared straight ahead into whatever was coming next.
After a while I pulled my hand out of my pocket, found Nearly’s, and held it. She looked at me with surprise, then gripped my hand tightly in return.
I didn’t know what I meant, what was being said. Perhaps nothing, but it felt better that way.
When Ratchet told us we were nearing our entrance point I went to the control panel. I pointed out the precise spot. It wasn’t hard to find: There was still a lingering shadow cast by the truck in the other world.
Ratchet reversed the gunship, plotted his final course, and calculated the exact moment at which he should trigger the sideslip effect. I sat down in the copilot’s seat and strapped myself in.
“Good luck,” Ratchet said, and Vinaldi and Nearly wished him well. I didn’t. I wasn’t saying good bye.
Because at the exact instant when the hurtling gun-ship crossed the line I lunged forward and clasped my hand round the chip under the “IQ” panel.
I’d decided that it was time to stop letting go of things.
A face full of snow. Pain in my temple. The sound of someone groaning quietly nearby.
“We’re back,” Vinaldi said, indistinctly.
I sat up slowly and looked around. We were at the bottom of the slope leading down