Alex Lang
Colonization
Оглавление
Morning again, Mr. Mistry…
Colonization
The distant stars
Whisper
I hate my dad
Pain
Time to ditch finesse .
One forgotten adventure
Friends from tweets.
LIVES OF PAIN
Morning again, Mr. Mistry…
NEWER DELHI CENTRAL STATION, 14:02 India Standard Time.
Ronan Mistry half-speed, half-fell to New Delhi gate Central. His stomach lurched as if someone spent the last minute whirling around him blindfolded. Severe pain thrummed through his head. He hated the damn jump networks. The headache was a new thing, but the gates always made him feel sick.
He promised myself before, but it was definitely the last time he used them. At least, he will pay for a private network the next time. It was not so, he couldn’t afford it. It was affectation of being a normal person. His humble beginnings; try as you might, could you stop being urchin from the streets of Delhi. Henceforth he would use some of ShivaTech wealth and the city a bit more comfort. He was old enough to remember the days when the planes flying in the sky. It took hours to get anywhere-which always amused young people, but, at least, your body will not break apart in a stream of bits, and again each time you want to travel.
“Morning again, Mr. Mistry.”
A security guard in a saffron-coloured turban looked like he was about to step over to help. Ronan didn’t recognize the man, despite the apparent familiarity. He waved and managed a smile to say he was fine, didn’t need assistance. The guards were there to look out for jumpjackers hitting travellers as they emerged from the network, not to lend a hand to travelsick old men.
Ronan tried to walk off in a straight line and failed badly, tried to stop himself vomiting and just about managed it. He swallowed down bitter fluid that suddenly filled his mouth. Tens of thousands of people thronged the station, dashing to and from the gate array, barging aside anyone in their way. He bounced off more than one of them, mumbling an inaudible apology. He found a stone pillar, its cool solidity welcome. He waited for his head to stop swimming, standing there panting like an old dog.
He watched as a group of uniformed soldiers pushed through the crowd: not private jump network guards but proper IndPol military officers, bristling with tazers and lasers and who-knew what else. There must have been an incident. Perhaps some unfortunate traveller hadbeen jumped as they stepped from their gate. Ronan watched to see what would happen, whom they would arrest. He hoped there wouldn’t be serious trouble. He was in no state to run.
There was a moment of horror as the truth of what he was seeing hit him. The soldiers weren’t running towards the gates. They were running towards him. His stomach lurched in panic.
It was only then he saw Sageeta, his wife, hurrying along behind the soldiers, her sari trailing behind her like gossamer wings. She looked angry. She was neverangry. The soldiers ran up to him then stopped, parting to let her through.
“Ronan. What in all the hells is going on? What are you doing?” Sageeta stood in front of him, hands on hips. The soldiers surrounded them now, a ring of steel pushing the swarming crowds back. They didn’t appear to be arresting him. They looked outwards, like they were protecting him. But from what? He didn’t understand anything that was happening.
“Sageeta. It is good to see you. I’m feeling a little ill.”
“Never mind that, you old fool. What have you done? What is this madness?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve just come from my meeting in Capetown about the new Europe contracts. I haven’t doneanything.”
“Stop playing these games,” said his wife. “You’re going to explain everything right here and now.”
“Explain what?”
A looked of worry flashed across his beloved wife’s features. She spoke again, in a low voice, as if afraid people would overhear. “Explain why half an hour ago you transferred one billion rupees from ShivaTech to some no-good accounts I’ve never heard of. The company is ruined, Ronan. Weare ruined.”
“What?”
“One billion rupees! Our entire holdings gone in a moment.”
“It’s not possible. I ordered no such transfer.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Did you think you wouldn’t be seen? You made the transfer from a bank in London. IndPol have the images of you arriving at Euston Jump Node. And the images of you getting herean hour ago, when that oh-so lovely young woman stopped to help you. Is that what this is all about? Have you come to this?”
Ronan waited for some of his wife’s words to make sense, but they utterly refused to.
What she was talking about? What young woman?
“This is all madness,” said Ronan. “I’ve just left Capetown.”
His wife shook her head, as if pitying him. “Then tell me, Ronan, what the time was when you left Capetown.”
“About one o’clock our time.”
“And the time now?”
“Obviously, about one minute later.” But as he spoke he also consulted the clock plugin in his brain, just to check. The response came back immediately. The time was now a little past twoo’clock. Somehow, impossibly, an hour had by passed since he’d left Capetown.
It made no sense. Ronan tried to speak, but no words would come from his mouth.
***
Newer Delhi Central Station, one hour earlier …
Ronan Mistry half-stepped, half-fell from the jump gate at Newer Delhi Central. His stomach lurched like someone had spent the last minute whirling him around blindfolded. A heavy pain thrummed through his head. He hated the damn jump networks. The headache was a new thing but the gates alwaysmade him nauseous.
A security guard, recognizing him, nodded his turbaned head.
“Morning, Mr. Mistry.”
Ronan managed only a mumbled response. The pain in his head grew sharper, like something solid being hammered into his brain. The great hall of the station lurched around him, a blur of colours and blaring sounds. He leaned against a pillar, the stone cool on his hands.