the Noise Within (2010) (25 page)

Leyton's hotel,
The Harcourt
, was neither the most expensive nor exclusive on Frysworld, but it clearly had pretensions to be; which meant that it was merely incredibly luxurious and pampering rather than outrageously so. Fresh fruit and flowers in every room, replenished daily, a choice of tempting restaurants and tastefully themed bars, with smartly liveried staff and every convenience you might wish for at the guests' beck and call day and night.

The hotel boasted a state of the art fitness centre, a facility which was designed to constantly monitor heart rate, blood pressure, lactic acid production, and blood sugar levels while you exercised - every conceivable indicator of how the body was coping with its exertions. The two track-suited assistants - a bronzed beefcake with bulging biceps for the ladies and an unreasonably glamorous blonde with gravity-defying bosom and a perfect smile for the men - were able to recommend an entirely appropriate exercise regime for each individual within minutes of registering. All you had to do was answer a few basic questions and suffer a couple of simple biometric tests and you were away. Built-in safety parameters ensured that no guest could push themselves too hard. After all, it was the hotel's insurance premiums that were at risk here.

Leyton arranged for a session soon after he arrived, and that was enough to convince him that he would have to find somewhere else to work out or risk trashing the place in frustration. Every time he began to build up a decent sweat, a gentle but insistent voice would inform him that he had reached the 'optimum maximum' level of exertion, and the equipment would refuse to be pushed any further.

After twenty minutes he walked away in disgust, to spend the rest of the day haunting off Strip areas within reasonable walking distance of the hotel, drifting from one bar to another, stopping off at clubs and even the occasional
Giazyu
den, all the while asking about gyms, fitness clubs or anything of that ilk. Eventually he was directed to a place called simply 'Joe's', which proved to be exactly what he was after.

To say that the place was in need of a lick of paint would have been akin to saying that it gets a little bit hot at the heart of a sun. Dingy, dark, with an old-fashioned boxing ring to one side and a hotch-potch array of outdated gym equipment on the other - undoubtedly the machines discarded by swankier establishments when they upgraded; bits and pieces acquired piecemeal over the years, or perhaps even the decades to judge by some of them. Many looked as if they had been recycled several times before ending up here. Yet the place had a comfortable feel and a reassuring smell to it - a half-familiar odour which spoke of honest endeavour and tradition; an aromatic blanket that conveniently overlaid and masked any less savoury odours, such as sweat, which might otherwise have been present.

Irrationally, his inability to put a name to this smell niggled at Leyton, until finally he woke the gun up long enough to consult it on the subject.

"Linseed oil, or a local equivalent of very similar composition," the weapon informed him. "The oil can be used in paints, in floor waxes and preservatives, even in some muscle -"

"Yes, thank you," the eyegee interrupted. "Good night." The gun went quiet.

Leyton loved Joe's from the first moment he stepped inside the place. No chance of any monitoring computer curtailing his exercise here and as for insurance, he doubted whether those present could even spell the word, let alone buy any.

The owner, who unsurprisingly introduced himself as Joe, was a shortish, solidly built man with a crooked nose, noticeably stained teeth which suggested nicotine addiction in his past or even present, and tufts of pepper-grey hair springing out from around a balding pate. From the nose and the man's general demeanour, Leyton guessed he had been a fighter in his youth. He gave the eyegee a brief tour of the equipment, accepted a modest amount of Standards and then left him to his own devices, adding that he or his son Si were on hand if needed. Si was a younger, taller, slimmer and somewhat sallower version of his father.

Leyton immediately began to put the machines through their paces. He wasn't the only person doing so by any means, and the nature of the patrons distinguished Joe's from the hotel's facilities even more than the nature of the equipment and the atmosphere. They were all locals. Leyton apart, there was not a tourist to be seen. Some were paler-skinned off-worlders who had clearly settled here and presumably worked in some capacity or other on or off the Strip, but there were a similar number of the swarthy natives in evidence as well. Judging by some of the banter he overheard, a good many of the people here were regulars, and Leyton quickly joined their ranks as Joe's became an established part of his daily routine.

During the following two weeks or so, his respect for the gruff owner of the gym grew significantly. More than once the eyegee paused in his own exertions to watch boxing classes for native kids - early teens for the most part - which Joe supervised himself.

"Teaches them how to handle themselves," the older man explained on noting Leyton's interest. "It also keeps them out of mischief and gives them a chance to channel some of their excess aggression in a way that won't land them in the clink."

Joe seemed genuinely committed to helping these youths, which Leyton could only applaud. As far as he could make out, Joe spent every waking minute at the gym. In addition to the early morning workout, the eyegee would sometimes drop in of an evening to let off steam following another frustrating day, and Joe would always be there, however late the hour.

It was during one such visit that he involved himself in a situation which was none of his business and which he'd probably have been better off avoiding; but, on the other hand, he was spoiling for a fight. Gym exercise was all well and good, but it was no real substitute for a genuine bare knuckle scrap.

Leyton arrived to discover a nervous looking Joe being ushered into the paper-walled cupboard he called an office by two men. One of them resembled a muscle-bound ape while the other - a tall and stick-thin individual with slicked-back hair and a slight stoop - merely looked shifty.

The eyegee instantly came alert. In a place which boasted all sorts of mean-looking individuals amongst its clientele, these two stood out. He somehow doubted they were here to ask after the owner's health.

"Everything all right, Joe?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," the other replied; without meaning a word of it.

Leyton took a step forward, to find his way abruptly blocked by the ape.

"You heard Joe here," stick-man said, "everything's fine, so why not be a good boy and run along to play with your gym toys?"

Leyton ignored him, concentrating on the ape. He made as if to sidestep the brute, who took a step sideways in response and lifted a palm to shove him firmly away. "Fuck off!"

The hand was all the eyegee needed. He swayed to one side, allowing hand and arm to slide past him. At the same time he grabbed the limb with both of his own hands, twisted and sank down on one knee, half-pulling, half-throwing the larger man over his shoulder. Already a little off balance due to the sideways step and the momentum of his intended shove, the goon was caught completely off guard and went sailing over Leyton's shoulder, to crash to the ground with a resounding thump. For a second he lay there on his back, winded. Leyton didn't give him a chance to recover, delivering a solid punch to the head and knocking the thug out.

The eyegee straightened to glare at stickman, who stared back, his eyes so wide they threatened to pop out from his abruptly sheet-white face.

"You really should teach the hired help some manners," Leyton suggested. "If he's going to try shoving people around like this, he ought to be able to handle himself a little better. Perhaps he should join up here and brush up on his fitness, not to mention his technique. What do you reckon, Joe, could you sort out a specially discounted rate?"

"Oh, I'm sure we could come up with something," Joe replied, grinning from ear to ear, "just say the word;" this latter to the stickman.

A whiff of smelling salts, which Leyton was fascinated to see, having only ever heard about them in old stories before this, brought the goon around. He and the stickman beat an undignified retreat.

Joe came up to slap the eyegee on the shoulder. "Thanks, I owe you one."

"No problem. I just hope I haven't made things worse for you. They're bound to be back at some point and I might not be around the next time."

"No worries. I know who sent them and I can sort this situation out; they just caught me unawares is all. Oh, and don't even think about trying to pay for your sessions here from now on."

Leyton shook his head. "No, I'll pay as normal. I can claim all this back on expenses and, trust me, my employers can afford the Standards a lot more readily than you can."

Joe grunted. "All right then, but if there's ever anything I can do for you, anything at all, just ask."

Leyton smiled. Now
there
was an offer simply loaded with potential. "I'll bear that in mind," he promised.

CHAPTER TWELVE

P
hilip Kaufman was finding life away from Homeworld and the all-consuming project a lot stranger than he'd anticipated. His sojourn had begun as advertised, with unannounced stops at Kaufman Industries offices and facilities on other worlds - visits which were inevitably greeted with initial incredulity and then much scurrying around by onsite executives and their cronies. Yet he soon tired of such things. His unexpected appearances had no real purpose and achieved little beyond causing a stir - everyone seemed to want to organise receptions and banquets in his honour, once they realised who he was, no matter how much he insisted that this tour should be kept low-key. As a way of hiding from anyone who might still be after him, it was far from ideal. In any case, after the first few on-spec appearances word spread, and it soon became clear that his visits were no longer surprising anyone.

His heart was never really in it, either. Hanging around company facilities only reminded him of the project and brought back the heavy sense of loss at missing out on its final stages. More than once he almost turned around and went straight back to Homeworld. Stubbornness was the main reason he didn't; the knowledge that doing so would make the decision to embark on this trip seem ridiculous and pointless. That and the memory of his last night at home - the scorched carpet and blackened walls in his bedroom.

So he decided to abandon all pretence that this trip was in any way work-related. Instead he determined to utilise the time to do some of the things he had always wanted to do but never really expected to be able to this side of retirement.

Philip Kaufman became a tourist.

He went to Tetra and saw the legendary lava falls - which were a disappointment, failing to be any more impressive in reality than they were in holographic projection. And at least from the comfort of your own living room you weren't subjected to the insufferable heat and the inane blathering of the 'cultural advisor'; nor were you forced to suffer the noxious-smelling aerosol spray needed to keep the ubiquitous swarms of insects at bay. Surely they could have come up with a simple injection to do the job. Presumably attracted by the heat, the over-sized bugs carried a nasty bite and they seemed to be everywhere.

By way of contrast, sunrise on Dendra was everything he had hoped and more. The famous crystal cliffs produced a spectacle which he would never forget; a kaleidoscope of rainbow refractions which danced across the mists that lay below the peaks to dazzling effect, transforming them into clouds of ever-shifting primary and pastel colour. No wonder this sight had provided inspiration for artists and poets throughout the centuries. The singing cliffs on Velamore were less impressive. The limited time he spent on the planet marked one of the calmest periods of consecutive days the area had ever seen, or so the locals insisted. Even during the breeziest moments of his stay the porous cliff faces, which were riddled with myriad tapering tubes, could barely muster a sigh, let alone a song. Still, he did get to visit the alabaster sea and swim with the leviathans - said to be the closest surviving creatures to the fabled whales of old Earth. Their sheer majesty astonished him. The realisation that these huge, stately forms gliding through the waters beside him could crush his body with a single swipe of a tail fin, but that they wouldn't, because he was beneath their notice, was an oddly sobering one. The experience induced a sense of serenity that more than made up for the disappointment of the muted cliffs.

On Callus III he walked the spirit paths in one of the silent forests. It was said that once you stepped into such a forest you would never be able to leave again unaided, that whichever way you walked and no matter how determinedly you kept to a straight line, you would always end up back at the clearing which lay at the forest's heart.

Much to his delight, Philip soon discovered the sayings to be entirely right.

Three times he set out from the clearing, twice on his own and the third in the company of a vivacious blonde backpacker who introduced herself as Layla, and each time he ended up back at the same spot within the hour.

Intellectually Philip knew what was causing this. He was fully aware that the forest floor was covered in a type of moss which might have made for a pleasantly springy walking surface but also had a more sinister aspect. With every step you took here, microscopic spores were released into the atmosphere, to be breathed in almost immediately. The spores befuddled the senses in a singular way, causing a person to circle back on themselves despite their best efforts not to. It was a feeding mechanism, designed to entrap the local fauna, which included several sizeable deer-like herbivores. Eventually, unable to escape, an animal would collapse from exhaustion and slip into a sleep they wouldn't wake from, their bodies being swiftly broken down by enzymes secreted from the moss, so providing nutrient for the forest. The fact that the deer's favourite food grew only within the fringes of these forests struck Philip as particularly malicious, making every mealtime a dice with death.