Drifting.

And then it happened.

There was a burst of darkness against the stars, then a sharp-edged shape was hanging before them: black, dart-shaped and edged with scarlet.

I didn’t realize.

It looked dangerous.

My God.

And powerful.

Oh, my God.

And it was Dad’s.

Once they were aboard - Dad in the control couch, Roger and Mum behind and to either side: this ship had no passenger hold - their quickglass suits melted off. All three of them removed their smartlenses, revealing their jet, black-on-black eyes.

Then acceleration was pressing them comfortably back; the holoview was a crescent hanging before them in the cabin.

‘Son?’ Mum asked. ‘Are you ready for this?’

Dad looked intent.

‘I don’t think so.’ Roger looked at her. ‘Mum?’

‘You’ll be all—’

Transition.

Golden light was everywhere.

SIXTEEN

EARTH, 1927 AD

Gavriela breezed into the hallway, shopping bags in hand, and pushed the front door shut. From the back, Frau Pflügers called: ‘Is that you, Gavi, dear?’

‘It’s me. How are you doing today?’

‘Did you find nice shoes?’

‘On Bahnhofstrasse, yes.’

‘Then come in the back and show me, while I make tea.’

Frau Pflügers had not answered Gavriela’s query about how she was doing. That meant either the arthritis or the fluttering in her chest was back.

‘I’m going to the girls’ place later.’ Gavriela meant Inge, Petra and Elke. ‘Oh. What’s this? A letter for me?’

‘From Berlin.’ Frau Pflügers placed the kettle on the stove. ‘Isn’t it your mother’s handwriting?’

‘Actually, no.’

She picked up the envelope, then noticed the way Frau Pflügers was wincing as she fetched down the tea caddy.

‘Wouldn’t you like me to do that?’

‘Please, Gavi. An old girl like me needs to keep busy, didn’t you know?’

‘You’re not old.’

‘Ha.’

Domestic ritual settled them: three dark spoonfuls of tea into the pot; the pouring of water; tugging the tea-cosy into place; waiting for the tea to draw; and then the pouring. Chatting about nothing very much while they drank. Afterwards, Gavriela rose and headed for the sink, but Frau Pflügers stopped her.

‘I’ll do the washing up. You’ve got a letter to read.’

‘But I want to—’

‘Go on now.’

So Gavriela took the letter upstairs to her room, settled in the small chair by the window table, and opened the letter. It was nicely handwritten on creamy paper.

Dear Fräulein Wolf,

I am sorry we have not met in person, for Erik has told me so many stories of you. He is often laughing about

Gavriela blinked.

Her brother was telling someone stories about her?

I am sorry we have not met in person, for Erik has told me so many stories of you. He is often laughing about the games of chess you played with your own rules, and how the pieces are called the Baker, the Housemaid and so on. And how castling is performed by - but I apologize, because of course you know all this, but you do not know me. My name is Ilse Heckler, and I care for Erik very much.

In fact I love him! There, I’ve said so in writing. My Christian family would not approve, but I very much hope your wonderful parents do. We have met, and they have been so very kind to me.

And no one had told her.

Only last week, there had been a letter from Mother, with no mention of a Fräulein Ilse Heckler. And these words implied a relationship that had been going on for some time.

So they might not approve of what I need to tell you. I know they have not informed you of poor Erik’s state since the

For a moment she had to stop reading.

So they might not approve of what I need to tell you. I know they have not informed you of poor Erik’s state since the attack. The doctors fear he will lose his left eye. Certainly his sight on that side is gone forever, though I pray for a miracle.

Several weeks ago, he was set upon by thugs, of which there are too many these days. The family do not wish to worry you, but I feel you would want to know. I’m so very sorry to make your acquaintance in this way, and hope that we can be friends.

Please do write back, so I can keep you informed of Erik’s progress, for I know that he is dear to you as he is to me, though of course in a different way. And I write my feelings so boldly! I am neither so confident nor unconventional in everyday life.

Yours truly,

Ilse Heckler

Gavriela set the letter aside.

For the past few weeks, since seeing Herr Doktor Freud, she had been feeling wonderful; and now it appeared that Erik had been suffering, terribly injured, all this while; and with no one to tell her otherwise. Until this Ilse had thought to do so.

She wanted to go downstairs and talk this over, but Frau Pflügers was not well. Or was that an example of mistaken thinking, just as her own parents had held back this awful news?

The only thing to do was catch a train to Berlin.

Rubbing her face, she got up, walked in a small circle, and stopped. Then she went to the dressing-table, took a small amber brooch from a drawer, and carried it back to the window table. There, she placed the brooch in sunlight, sat down, and focused on the glowing amber.

Somewhere inside herself, she remembered Herr Doktor Freud’s voice, the odd intonation and tidal cadence; and her eyelids were flickering, then closing; and her chin dipped.

She slid deep inside a dream.

She is floating in space, in golden space. There are stars, black and intricate, obsidian snowflakes. Nebulae are crimson: streaks of blood on gold.

A black dart edged with scarlet is moving through this shining void.

And then she is inside, or seems to be. Three people sit in the control cabin, and their eyes are of jet, lacking surrounding whites. In here, the perspective is not quite right; while outside, the effect is stronger: everything is insane, and all she can perceive is a simplified projection.

She has no idea how she knows this.

In the cabin, the older man in the centre, forward of the others, appears to control the ship. Neither he nor the woman are aware of her. But the younger man—

He turns to stare at her.

‘Have I dreamed of—? This is impossible.’

Strange washes of energy overlay the sounds, words in an unknown language she somehow comprehends; and she wishes she could answer, but the world is dragging her back, and she reaches out, trying to hang on, but invisible hooks take hold of her and pull.

The world slammed into being all around her, then seemed to shrink and grow steady. This was her room in Frau Pflügers’ house, with its dark wooden furniture, white lace doilies everywhere. Solid, yet not as comforting as it should be.

Because the letter in her hands was real, whether it told the truth or lied.

SEVENTEEN

LABYRINTH, 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)

Golden space, the odd perspectives burning new paths in Roger’s brain. The ship protected them from the worst effects of fractal time, but even inside the cabin there was amber light, and the certain knowledge this was another universe.