Macao Station

Chapter Thirty-Two

Carver had gone beyond exhaustion now, but still he dug. He had struggled and cursed for hours, a parasitic insect in a body of stone, working robotically, driving his aching muscles by willpower alone. At one point he had torn his glove on a piece of rock that came spinning towards him unexpectedly and crunched into his left hand, almost causing him to drop the cutter. He had screamed aloud, a fan of blood-droplets spraying from his knuckle. He’d just managed to kill the cutter without it injuring him. He had inspected the wound with a feeling of detached misery, but hadn’t been able to do anything for it. For some time after that, the hand had leaked a weaving thread of blood into the air about him, that trailed from the tear in his glove like a streamer, occasionally spattering across his suit.

Once, the blood had managed to catch him in the eye, and this time he really had come close to a significant accident. He had reeled back, his feet slipping away from where they had been braced against the rock face, jerking against his harness line with a jolt that caused him to drop the cutter. For a critical second, the cutter had continued to gout incandescent plasma as it spun away, slicing a jagged lightning bolt into the rock beside him, melting one of his rock pins into bubbling slag and coming within a few centimetres of his own thigh before extinguishing.

He had dangled there from his remaining pin, the cutter hanging from his belt, weaving and snaking at the end of its line. He had reeled it in, all of his muscles a-tremble, and held it against his chest, eyes closed and teeth clenched. It had been some time before he’d been able to summon up the strength to continue. He had several spare pins in the little tool-loops of his space suit, and he’d used one of these to replace the melted one, burning the tattered end off the line with the cutter and knotting it clumsily with his damaged hands. Then he had got back to work. What else was there to do?

And so he continued like this for some measureless measure of time, a numb and senseless period of aching repetition. Was it even daytime, technically? How long had he been awake? He had no idea. His life had become a surreal blur of rocky darkness, echoing isolation and unceasing toil. After a while he didn’t even want to kill the crazy dragon-man any more — at least, not wholeheartedly. He just wanted the bastard to return, feed him, and allow him to sleep again. Even the thought of the ruined body in the navigator’s chair didn’t concern him after a while. He didn’t particularly care if his own fate was to join the shuttle’s pilot in death, as long as he could have a rest and something to eat first.

Then, suddenly, he felt a vibration tremble through the asteroid. He killed the cutter and cocked his head, listening. He heard, faintly, the fading rumble that indicated that a ship had either docked with the shuttle or undocked. Was it possible that the crazy dragon-man had actually been back already, without even coming to see his slave, and had now left again? A new, and even blacker, wave of misery washed through him at that thought. It was possible, he knew. It certainly was. He waited in a silence broken only by the high chinking noise of colliding rock-chunks behind him. He shot a baleful look at the restraining device that was adhered to its rock pin in the wall. Fucking little bastard, he thought at it. Was the crazy dragon-man back? Or gone for good?

He waited. . .

Silence. . .

And then, just as he was reaching a new fever-pitch of despair, he heard a voice coming towards him from the direction of the shuttle. He almost cried with joy, putting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut to stem the tears of relief that threatened to come.

‘I couldn’t do it!’ he heard the man exclaim from some distance up the docking tube. He was relieved to hear the voice, but a little disturbed as well. Because that voice did not sound happy, not at all. There was a note of desperate, unhinged misery in its tone, unmistakable even from here. ‘I know, I know!’ raved the voice, between grunts of exertion, as the man came wriggling down the tube towards Carver. ‘I’m sorry, I know. . . I will do, of course, anything. . .’ The voice stopped for a moment, and Carver had the sense that the man was listening for him, maybe suspicious that he couldn’t hear the plasma cutter.

‘Hey!’ called Carver, his relief tempered by new caution. The guy really had sounded pretty distressed, and Carver couldn’t imagine that that would be a positive development for himself. But fuck it — he had to eat and sleep. This lunatic was his only lifeline, desperately worrying though that thought was.

The little grunts and huffs resumed from inside the tube as the man came on again, but he didn’t answer Carver’s call. Carver waited nervously, his boots braced against the face and the cutter held with its muzzle safely upwards. The surface of the cave glinted exotically in his suit-light — a private night sky filled with stars.

The man emerged from the end of the tube as if born from a mother of stone and steel, tumbling out in a disorderly tangle of arms and legs. Carver noted with a mixture of satisfaction and dismay that he was dressed in what were clearly hospital pyjamas. Proof, if proof were needed that the fucker has escaped from a mental ward, thought Carver. The man pushed himself fully out of the tube and rotated to regard Carver, pivoting by a handle on the tube’s outer edge. His face was set in a sneer, the corners of his mouth pulled down so far that the expression was almost comical until one realised that it was the manifestation of a deep and burning hatred. He was covered in blood that had apparently poured from a wound on his head.

‘You,’ said the man accusingly. ‘Why aren’t you digging?’

‘Hey,’ said Carver, hefting the cutter warningly, a little spooked. ‘I heard you coming and shut it off.’ The man was studying him minutely, as if suspecting some deception. ‘Er, good to see you again,’ Carver added uncertainly. It was even true, in a sense.

The man pushed off and drifted across the cave towards Carver, swatting a pinwheeling cone of rock out of his path, and landed skilfully within arm’s reach of the restraining device.

‘Well, I almost didn’t make it,’ replied the man testily. His face had warmed slightly, but he still looked seriously pissed off, if not actually homicidal any more. ‘Thanks to some interfering fucks I’ve had to deal with.’

‘Didn’t go well, then?’ asked Carver, turning to face the crazy dragon-man, who was now removing the restraining device from the rock and inspecting its readout to ensure that it hadn’t been somehow tampered with.

‘What?’ asked the man sharply, fixing him with a freezing stare.

Carver felt his flesh creep a little in response. ‘Er, well, your problems are my problems, right?’ he said hopefully.

The crazy dragon-man sighed heavily, his features lit in high contrast under Carver’s suit-light, and his lip began to tremble. Don’t fucking cry, you freak, prayed Carver internally. I swear I’ll lose it if you start fucking blubbing. But the man didn’t start to cry. He seemed to steel himself, squeezing his eyes briefly shut and clipping the unit to his belt, then shrugged.

‘Maybe,’ allowed the man, apparently thinking about this. ‘We’re gonna get some rest,’ he said, turning to push off back towards the shuttle. ‘Both of us. Come on — stay close or this thing’ll kill you.’

And without further warning the crazy dragon-man launched himself towards the tube. Although he didn’t push off too fast, Carver still had to scramble to unhook himself in time to follow within safe range of the restraining device. He couldn’t for the life of him remember exactly how far that range was, but he knew he’d get a warning shot of pain if he began to go outside of it, before it actually finished him off. Bastard! he cursed the guy. Don’t make it easy for me, will you?

They swam together down the grey artery of the tube and into the bleak interior of the shuttle. They wended their way back to the bridge where Carver had been allowed to rest before. Every push and pull along the handlines sent fresh aches and pains through Carver’s cramping muscles, but despite this, and his new concerns about his companion, he was immeasurably glad to be out of the asteroid. It had been weirding him out a little.

Once inside the bridge the crazy dragon-man adhered the restraining device to the flight console and went to a locker in the far corner, passing the turned-away chair that had become the grave of the unfortunate pilot without so much as a glance. Carver took the liberty of seating himself in the same place where he had previously been allowed to rest, strapping himself down with the thick Velcro bands. He watched warily as the crazy dragon-man took a space suit from the locker and began to put it on over his pyjamas, expertly keeping himself in place with little touches and shoves against the walls and ceiling. Carver heard him muttering under his breath — presumably to the dragon that had somehow infiltrated its way into his head. The conversation didn’t sound particularly happy, at least from the crazy dragon-man’s end.

When he was done, the man swam over to the cupboards under the main console and rooted around in one of them. ‘Here,’ he said simply, throwing a couple of ration packs to Carver and retaining a few for himself. The packets spiralled slowly towards Carver, who caught them easily, making his wounded hand hurt afresh.

‘Thanks, man,’ he answered, turning his attention to the shuttle’s window. He watched the tumbling, rolling play of the rocks out there, feeling utterly alone and hopeless. He was just another speck of debris lost in this horrible stellar wasteland now. His hopes of ever leaving this blighted place were at an all-time low.

The man sat himself in the next seat along, strapping in, and bit the corner off one of his own packets. ‘Okay,’ he answered without looking at Carver.

Carver mentally shrugged and bit the end off one of his ration packs (CURRIED MEAT, allegedly) as he watched the silent ballet of ice and stone outside. He chewed the spongy powder with some difficulty, wondering absently why the fucking things had to be so dry.

‘I’m not sure what’s going to happen now,’ said the man suddenly, startling Carver from his reverie.

‘What d’you mean?’ Carver asked warily, turning his head to face the man, who was staring back at him with those empty, distant eyes.

‘I mean, it might get rough here soon,’ replied the man. ‘They know about the shuttle — they may want it back.’

Carver considered this information carefully, crumpling his now-empty packet into a ball and casting it away over his shoulder. ‘The people on the station?’ he asked.

The man nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Them. They do not understand the value of what we’re trying to do here.’

Carver resisted the urge to point out that what he was trying to do, actually, was survive, escape, hopefully even kill this crazy fucker. ‘I can see that they might not,’ he said neutrally. Man, he was so tired. The food actually seemed to be having a soporific effect on him, and he suddenly found his arm too weary to even lift the second packet and look at it.

‘You,’ said the man in weary tones, ‘do not understand either. You help because you must. That is all.’

Carver judged it best not to answer this accusation. It was true — he didn’t understand, and he didn’t want to, either. He did, however, fear for his future more than ever. The crazy dragon-man had the air of the defeated about him. If something had gone wrong, maybe the bastard would just decide to burn the business down and claim on the insurance, so to speak. And Carver would just be a little mark in the losses column. If that.

The man produced a small strip of plastic from down the side of his seat and held it up, regarding it critically. It looked like a strip of pills to Carver — twin lines of little blisters.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Hmm?’ said the man. ‘Oh, it’s fader.’ He shot Carver a sideways glance. ‘Why?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Fader?’ repeated Carver, both surprised and really not surprised at all. In a way, it made perfect sense. The guy was a fucking fader junkie. Of course. ‘You take that shit?’

‘It is not shit,’ said the man, as if explaining this to somebody who, no matter how many times they were told, was simply incapable of comprehending. ‘It’s. . . a lifeline,’ he elaborated. ‘You ever done it?’ A sly little smile was spreading across his face now. He wiggled the plastic strip.

‘No,’ said Carver. Illegal drugs were one of the few criminal pastimes he actually had never been into.

‘Do you want to?’ asked the man. ‘The dragon said you might want to. That I should let you if you did.’

Carver heard his own voice, unbidden, say, ‘Okay.’ He supposed that if the end was nigh, he might as well meet it intoxicated. Despite never taking fader himself, he’d had friends — or at least, people he knew — who had done. Right now, he saw no reason not to join them. He tiredly checked his second ration pack — PUREED FRUIT, it said — and discarded it unopened. It drifted off like a leaf in the wind. His raging hunger of earlier had seemingly deserted him.

‘All right,’ said the man neutrally. ‘Why not.’ He held up the strip of pills and turned it over a few times, inspecting it seriously. Carver thought he might be having second thoughts. But then he turned the strip over and pressed a single pill out of the blister. He released it into the air and let it spin in front of his face for a moment, looking from it to Carver, then back again. ‘I don’t know. . .’ he said slowly, his brow wrinkled. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ he finally concluded, and he batted the pill gently towards Carver, who caught it deftly in the palm of his hand.

Carver looked at the pill for a moment, suddenly unsure. He had seen people fucked up pretty badly by this stuff back on Aitama. But then, did it really matter? That sense of finality was almost palpable, a property of the air itself. Something had gone wrong. It quite possibly spelled the end for him. So why not?

He popped the little pill onto his tongue and it dissolved instantly. It actually seemed to partially vapourise, and his sinuses filled with a sour chemical tang. A rank, bitter taste filled his mouth, unlike anything he had experienced before, making his face contort, and he almost gagged and spat the shit out without swallowing what was left. It had become a thick, cloying gel at the back of his throat, seemingly ten times the volume that it should have been. But he managed, just about, to choke it down. ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed vehemently, spluttering and spitting.

The man was looking at him with contemptuous amusement now, almost smiling. ‘Look at you,’ he said, as if he had expected no better. He studied Carver for a moment longer, then bent to his food again.

Carver felt the drug suffuse his body almost at once. It started with a fluttering in his chest, and for a minute he worried that he was having a heart attack. ‘Hey. . .’ he said, but he petered out, alarmed at the waver in his own voice. He held up his hands in front of his face. They were shaking. Hang on — were those his hands? They looked a little unfamiliar, actually. And he couldn’t seem to control them. But. . . he remembered the injury that he could see on one of them, the bloody rent in the white fabric of the glove. That was pretty telling, no? Hmm. . . It really didn’t matter, did it? In fact, the more he considered it, the less important it seemed.

‘The dragon says I should release you,’ said the man suddenly, making Carver jump.

‘Whaaaat?’ he asked, his voice thick and syrupy, turning to face the crazy dragon-man. Had he heard that right, or was it the fader screwing with his mind? He had taken some fader, hadn’t he? Shit. . . how long ago had that been? Where, for that matter, was he?

‘It says I should release you. In the morning.’ The man was watching Carver quite closely now, perhaps gauging his reaction. ‘You doing okay on that stuff?’ he asked, sounding more irritated than concerned.

‘I. . .’ said Carver, his voice little more than a croak. ‘. . . Yeah. . .’

‘The dragon says that you’ve done well, that you can now be trusted. Can you be trusted?’

His scrutiny of Carver intensified, those distant eyes seeming to bore right through Carver’s skull and focus on something the other side. Carver wasn’t sure if he could be trusted or not, truth be told. He couldn’t seem to remember. He supposed it depended to a large extent on the circumstances.

It was difficult to grasp the significance of what was happening here. His gaze was drawn again to the large window, the grim and frozen rocky shore outside. The motion of the belt objects, their distribution, seemed random at first glance, didn’t it? Even as you studied it more intently, you could certainly miss the pattern. But Carver thought he saw it now. There was a pattern, an order, a dark, unifying thread that ran through the apparent white-noise of rubble. He could almost see it. . . He could see it. He could. . .

He turned his head back to face the crazy dragon-man. It wobbled heavily on his neck, which was a funny sensation, really. He laughed, and the sound filled the cockpit like pillows of down. The asteroids were moving out there beyond the window — dancing, really fucking getting down with it — and Carver studied the patterns in their motions. Order within chaos. Patterns. . .

‘Sure,’ he said, having completely forgotten what the question was now.

‘I’m not sure, myself,’ replied the man. ‘But I will, of course, do as the dragon says. It always knows best.’ He sniffed sadly and leant back in the flight seat. Carver sensed that he wanted to say more, perhaps spill all his secrets and confess his fears. A problem shared and all that. But he didn’t.

‘Yeah,’ Carver heard his own voice say, somewhere off in the distance, echoing towards him through the tunnels of the ship. It was quite funny, really, this whole situation — certainly nothing to worry about. Had he been worried? He thought so. Well, it seemed laughable now.

‘That stuff will help you sleep, if you let it,’ said the man. He had his own eyes closed now, and he looked childish and vulnerable, a busy little tyke worn out by the day’s excitement. ‘I might have one myself in a bit.’

‘Yeah,’ said Carver’s voice again. Sleep? Probably a good idea, though an alien-sounding concept.

‘The dragon will tell us what to do tomorrow,’ said the man with finality.

‘From one killer to another,’ said the distant Carver-voice, ‘you work in strange ways, man.’ He wondered if he should be saying this, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop the words from coming. They flew into the air like slow-motion artillery shells, blossoming in explosions of sound that shook the world, completely independent of his will. ‘But you get the job done, my friend.’ He was okay, really, the crazy dragon-man. But was he actually going to set Carver free in the morning? He sighed deeply, feeling the tension flood out of his body, draining from his toes into the warm air of the cockpit like a bad humor exorcised. Did it matter? Not right now — he felt good. He loosened the Velcro straps then closed his eyes and rolled onto his side. The guy had said the fader would help him sleep, and that seemed to be working out pretty well. He yawned hugely, with an interesting, pleasantly weary feeling.

‘I didn’t,’ replied the crazy dragon-man in a small, tired voice, ‘get the job done.’ And then he said no more.

Carver drifted on billowing sheets of darkness, borne on vacuous currents of whispering shadow, rocked by the gently wallowing shuttle, into the deepest slumber he had ever known.

He had no idea of the time when he awoke, feeling oddly disassociated from his own senses. At first, he thought that the light that flooded his eyes was part of a dream — it seemed too bright, too pure, to be real. But it dawned on him gradually, as he lay there staring at the grilled and panelled wall of the bridge, that he was genuinely awake, and still in the shuttle. The crazy dragon-man had given him some fader. He remembered now.

And then it spoke to him:

‘Prisoner Carver, listen to me. . .’

A bolt of shock went through his nervous system like a flash-fire, but a fire whose flames were ice-cold, chilling him to the bone. His spine seized solid, frozen into position. He felt suddenly tiny, vulnerable, and utterly alone, curled immobile on the chair, pinned by fear. Had he really heard that?

‘You’re not imagining it, Carver. You really can hear me.’

‘No,’ he whispered, his eyes so wide that they threatened to pop out of their sockets and onto his cheeks. ‘No.’

‘Yes,’ said the voice matter-of-factly. ‘Do you know who I am?’

Carver’s chest was suddenly aquiver with fright, making it hard to speak at all. ‘You’re a fucking drug,’ he managed to spit, keeping his voice low so as not to awaken the crazy dragon-man sleeping in the next seat. ‘Fader.’

‘No,’ said the voice. ‘I am. . .’

Carver knew who it was, of course, or at least who his drug-addled mind wanted him to think it was. ‘. . . The dragon,’ he finished in a hoarse whisper.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe it. No. That guy is fucking crazy. I’m not crazy. I don’t believe it!’

‘You raped and murdered a woman in front of her children,’ said the dragon calmly, its voice coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, filling the world with its cold implacability.

‘No. . .’

‘Then you raped and murdered those children. Children. You cooked and ate parts of their bodies. And you wish to discuss sanity with me? Grow up, Prisoner Carver, and know yourself for what you are.’

‘No. . . How do you know that?’ he demanded, his voice rising in pitch. He could see the blood, the scattered and degraded body-chunks, the tiny gnawed fingers and shredded clothes. He saw himself standing there terrified, revolted and elated in equal measure, a clump of golden hair in one hand. His breathing quickened as excitement and horror warred within him. It was true. He had done those things. And it was obvious, really, how the dragon knew: it was a product of his own imagination. In fact, why was he even speaking to it? Perhaps he had gone crazy. When in Rome, etcetera. . .

‘I know many things,’ said the dragon cryptically. ‘In the morning, your companion will release you.’

‘He already told me that,’ hissed Carver, squeezing his eyes closed and willing himself to sleep again. He didn’t want this, couldn’t fucking take this. . . He felt a pressure building inside his skull, as if somebody were squeezing it as hard as they could, one hand on each side of his head. It was the pressure he had felt that day, back on Aitama, that day when he’d first seen her at the spaceport bar, with one of those cherub-faced brats on the end of each arm. It hadn’t stopped that time until they were all dead, their perfect bodies lying in smashed and butchered pieces all around him. How would he stop it now? ‘No. . .’ he wheezed again, desperate for it to end, desperate for this fucking voice to stop.

‘I told him to wait until the morning,’ said the dragon insistently. ‘But I didn’t tell him why.’

The dragon paused, and Carver sensed that it required a response from him. In the vain hope that he could accelerate the end of this episode, he gave one: ‘Why?’ Ohhh. . . my head. . . stop talking to me. . .

‘Because I wanted to speak with you first,’ said the dragon. ‘About what comes next.’ It paused again, as if to make sure that he was listening. ‘My emissary has failed me,’ it continued.

‘Failed?’ asked Carver weakly.

‘That’s right,’ replied the dragon. ‘My old emissary,’ it added significantly. ‘He has shown that he is not as committed to me as he claimed. He has not carried out some of the more difficult tasks I have set him. He has, however, laid a fair foundation for our next phase. You, Prisoner Carver, are to be my new emissary.’

‘Me?’ breathed Carver, wishing he could close his ears against that pervasive, persuasive voice. There was something convincing about it, something beguiling. And worse than that, there was a hunger in it, too.

‘In the morning, as I have instructed, he will set you free. . .’

‘Yes?’

‘And you are to kill him.’

There was silence for a moment, a pregnant silence full of sinister potential. Carver’s aching, swelling brain began to churn furiously, rusty gears grinding and meshing, crunching and turning. ‘Yes. . .’ he breathed. He opened his eyes again, turning over on the chair so that he could see the slumbering form of the crazy dragon-man next to him. The crazy dragon-man wriggled in his sleep and started to snore softly. Carver began to smile — a slowly-spreading vulpine snarl of a grin. His head was fucking pulsing now. It felt like a fucking battery. It felt good.

‘I know you have been wanting to,’ explained the dragon. ‘And tomorrow I would like you to do so. Go to town, if you like. Fuck him up severely, as you might say yourself.’

‘Yes,’ whispered Carver, putting a hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle.

‘And then. . .’ said the dragon, ‘. . . then we can talk about what comes next. We have great works to do, you and I.’

‘Great works,’ said Carver, feeling darkly empowered yet somehow confused at the same time. He saw a twining, living darkness, a room of shattered flesh, the crazy dragon-man crying out and shielding his face, a hundred images of death and hell that bled together into one indiscernible whole.

‘Now sleep, my emissary,’ said the dragon soothingly. Carver felt his eyes close again at once. It was hard to resist that voice. Hell, he no longer wanted to resist that voice. It seemed to know what it was talking about. Dragon, he thought vaguely as he sank back towards sleep. My dragon. . .