Within Each Other's Shadow Read online

  ‘Within Each Other’s Shadow’

  Jan Turk Petrie

  Volume Three of the Eldísvík Novels

  Copyright © Jan Turk Petrie 2019

  The right of Jan Turk Petrie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All names, characters, places and events in this book are fictitious and, except in the face of historical fact, any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  First Printing, 2018

  Pintail Press

  Pintailpress.com

  Author’s website: JanTurkPetrie.com

  ALSO BY JAN TURK PETRIE

  Until the Ice Cracks:

  Volume One of the Eldísvík novels.

  No God for a Warrior:

  Volume Two of the Eldísvík novels

  Contents

  The story so far

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Acknowledgements

  The story so far

  With the help of the ex-decoy, Quentin, Inspector Nero Cavallo intercepted a huge shipment of high-tech suits along with a vast quantity of guns –enough to start a small war. The suits render the wearer invisible and virtually invincible.

  Wearing the suits, Bruno, Kass, Quentin and Nero infiltrated the disused factory where the rebel gang were holding Constable Chan hostage. They confronted the rebel leader, Ása, and her co-conspirators and tried to reason with them but to no avail. In the shootout that followed, the only surviving member of the rebel gang, ex-decoy Freyja was persuaded to join forces with them.

  Nero reluctantly left Chan lying on the factory floor in a catatonic state of shock.

  Now, with Bruno, Kass and the two ex-decoys Quentin and Freya, Nero leaves the factory with the intention of destroying the suits and making sure the arms don’t reach the hands of the criminals who would use them to stage a military coup and take over the governance of Eldísvík.

  “Approaching Eldísvík City from a southerly direction – and this only applies during the summer months – one could almost be looking down at a thriving and sprawling colony on some barren and yet astoundingly beautiful, far-flung planet.”

  Hugo Whitmore-Schofield (2066) ‘Retracing the Journeys of William Morris.’

  “When young, you may have dreamt of being invincible – it’s a near universal childhood fantasy – but how much of what is commonly called ‘human nature’ begins with an understanding of our own physical vulnerability? Take that personal frailty away by artificial means and you’re left with unbalanced, potentially unchecked power and its bedfellow – the might-is-right certainty that has fuelled every oppressive regime in human history to date.”

  Professor Horatio Zhender (2069) ‘That Which Makes Us Human. (Introduction)’

  One

  Eldísvík City State

  Winter 2068

  It’s the weirdest sensation to be both present and yet not present at the same time; so strange and disturbing to be walking unseen amongst these people – a phantom; the risen ghost of his old self.

  The suit’s hood affords Nero only a restricted and near colourless view of the world. He looks up to the open sky, relieved at least to be out of those damned tunnels. All the sounds of the city are there in his ears but filtered as if he’s listening to the soundtrack of a movie.

  The three of them are going against a tide of humanity. People come blindly at them over and over so that they’re forced to dodge and weave to avoid collisions. The miraculous suit that’s rendering him invisible is also making him incredibly hot, while everyone coming the other way is bent against the bitter weather – today those gritty ice particles – and hunkering down into scarfs and hoods.

  For one brief moment, the sun’s feeble rays manage to penetrate the cloudbanks before being swallowed back into greyness. With the curfew lifted for the short daylight hours, people are once again out on the streets in numbers but the whole city is quiet like some collective holding of breath. Amongst the towering, lit-up blocks of the CBD the streets are bustling and you would think Eldísvík is simply busy going about its business as usual – that’s if you didn’t know any better.

  His stud continues to overlay the glowing images of his two companions; they look as if they’ve been freshly irradiated. Sandwiched between the two decoys, he’s very aware of being outnumbered; half expects one or both to turn on him at any moment.

  Nero’s backpack weighs down his shoulders. Though it’s shielded beneath a purpose-built flap, he worries there could be a telltale edge poking out. A dull pain nags at his ribs and every muscle burns with fatigue.

  He keeps checking the streets on either side for a sign of Freyja’s vixens; they’re out of sight but he can sense their proximity.

  Despite the necessary sidestepping and meandering, the three of them have made good progress. At last, through the gaps between buildings he glimpses the open waters of the fjord and the steeply rising mountain range on the opposite shore.

  They turn a corner to begin their approach. A heavy swell is hitting the sea wall well below the stains and slime that mark high water. Wind is whipping up dark, bucking waves, their edges laced with foam. His hood blocks the harbour’s usual pungent smells but not the cries of the gulls.

  The dockyard is no longer deserted; stevedores are milling around and high above them cranes are transferring cargo on and off various vessels.

  Freyja gives a hand signal – almost a casual wave – before she peels off to the left in search of the best vantage point. That leaves just the two of them – with Quentin now some way out in front.

  Further along the quay, the crew of a fishing trawler is busy making preparations to put to sea. What Nero takes to be their ship’s dog – a Spitz – starts to

  whimper as they approach. This escalates to cowering and backing away, its low growls punctuated by nervous, snapping barks.

&nb
sp; ‘Quiet down, Gustur!’ someone shouts.

  Due to the narrowness of the walkway they’re forced to walk close to the men and he’s pleased they’re all so distracted. To allow one of them past, he has to flatten himself up against the safety rail.

  ‘Can’t remember us ever setting out this late in the day.’ The speaker – hardly more than a boy – keeps shaking his head, his too-big oilskins shuddering. ‘I’ve got a real bad feeling about this.’

  His crewmates loose a chorus of scoffs and jeers. ‘You never know,’ one of them shouts over his shoulder, ‘a skrímsli might surface right on our stern and swallow us whole.’

  A bald head pops up from below deck. ‘Never mind a skrímsli, we’ll have our work cut out setting her against this tide.’

  Up ahead, Quentin has stopped – his image breaks up as he beckons Nero on. He passes the dog. Emboldened by their apparent retreat, it comes after them growling and barking at their heels.

  One of the men looks up from his work. ‘Stupid dog’s off after them gulls again.’ He throws a fish head towards the animal. ‘Gustur will you shut the fokk up!’ At some self-defined limit, the dog stops its pursuit while its barking continues unabated.

  The commotion fades as they head for the line of breakwater berths adjacent to the main dock. Their route takes them on past B58. In the space where the Nehalennia Star had been berthed there’s now a yawning gap washed by the slap of water against the harbour wall. With her consignment offloaded, Captain Lindgren must have left port on the next tide.

  They head towards the pleasure boat – the same small craft they’d previously taken refuge in. Thankfully, the splintering around the hatchway can only be seen from close quarters. Taking off his glove, Nero grasps the handle and the touch tells him no one’s been inside since they left.

  In his cumbersome suit, it’s not an easy climb down the narrow ladder. He’s tempted to take the whole thing off, but they can’t risk being seen. Halfway down, Nero decides it’s safe to retract his hood. The cold air stings his face but it feels good to be breathing it in unfiltered.

  Having shut the hatch behind them, he switches on the overhead light. Quentin’s floating head precedes him into the cabin.

  So far so successful. They may have reached their primary goal but the next several steps hinge entirely on Kass and Bruno. Nero hates being so dependent on others, hates that he can do nothing now but wait and hope. In his place, another man might resort to prayer.

  The galley seems more cramped than before. The remnants of their previous meal are still spread out on the table, a mess of smeared plates and empty cans.

  Quentin clears his throat. ‘Cloaking off.’ The rest of the decoy’s body appears. Nero does the same. It’s a relief to offload his heavy pack.

  The hull beneath them suddenly pitches throwing Nero off balance and reminding him how much he dislikes the volatility of the sea. Unconcerned, Quentin spreads his legs and strides around their gear to open one of the overhead lockers. He pulls out a beer. ‘Might as well make ourselves comfortable.’

  Every time there’s the slightest transfer of weight, the boat rocks. There’s a loud hiss when the decoy cracks open the top of the can. The smell of beer is overlaid by engine oil, leftover food and sweat; Nero hopes he’s not about to retch.

  The decoy gives a heavy sigh. ‘By my reckoning, we must have at least an hour to wait. Could be longer.’ He takes a long swig, then offers him the can. ‘Time to kill, as they say.’

  Nero declines the beer with a shake of his head. ‘We need to stay alert,’ he says. A pointed remark; it’s unnerving to be so closely confined with this man – his untrustworthy cellmate.

  ‘Don’t know about you, Cavallo, but I plan to take a power nap in one of these bunks.’ He waves the beer in Nero’s face then his big hand claps him on the shoulder. ‘You look all in, mate. I’d rest up while you’ve got the chance.’ His shrug is easy. ‘You may be a telepatico and all that but remember you’re not Superman.’

  A few more gulps then Quentin crushes the empty can, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans back to give a satisfied belch. ‘These suits may be astounding but they’re also fokking uncomfortable.’

  The decoy starts undoing the various fastenings at his neck. ‘Don’t know about you, I can’t wait to get this thing off.’ Working his way down, the sandy hairs on his chest are soon exposed. Nero looks away. The reek of the man’s body is overpowering.

  Naked, except for his underpants, Quentin launches himself at the top bunk. Nero notices again the scars covering the decoy’s torso.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Cavallo,’ Quentin says, ‘even if we manage to stop this consignment getting into the wrong hands, what’s to say more of these suits won’t show up here in future?’

  ‘You’re right – it’s a possibility,’ Nero tells him. ‘Seems to me, you can only fight one battle at a time and right now this is our battle.’

  ‘Point taken, I guess.’ Quentin yawns before rolling over to lie with his back to him. ‘Sogni d’oro, as you Italians say.’

  Nero sits down heavily on the bottom bunk. It’s not long before he hears snoring – so loud and regular it could easily be an act. Ignoring his heavy eyelids and the soporific rocking of the boat, he tells himself of the urgent need to stay awake.

  Coming to with a start, Nero is surprised to find he’s lying curled up on a narrow bunk. It takes a moment to remember where he is. He has only a vague recollection of changing into his regular clothes and bundling the weighty suit into his backpack. Perhaps this drowsiness is down to those painkillers; he ought to throw the whole lot overboard.

  Too quiet; he can hear only the rhythmic lapping of water against the sides of the boat. That overhead light is swinging gently back and forth in its cage – its trailing shadow reminds Nero of a hangman’s noose.

  There’s no indentation in the bunk above his head. In a panic, he scrambles to his feet. One glance tells him the top bunk is empty – he’s completely alone in the cabin.

  Both their packs are right there at his feet. He rips opens his own to find

  everything exactly as he left it, including all the weapons. A quick search of Quentin’s pack reveals the man’s folded suit and the smaller one right there beneath it. There’s only one of the photon guns and no knife. Wherever he’s gone, the decoy is well armed.

  Nero’s stud informs him he’s been asleep for some forty minutes. He needs to locate Quentin and fast. Lifting the hatch a few centimetres, he peers outside and sees nothing untoward amongst the bobbing craft lined up on either side. Gulls wheel overhead, blown off-course by the strengthening wind. Driven sleet assaults his face when he turns into the wind.

  He climbs back down the ladder to fetch his coat and the fedora he’d noticed earlier. The hat is a good disguise and a good fit though he doubts it will stay in place for long. Before he can step out onto the wet deck, he spots a solitary figure through the dock lines – someone is coming.

  Taking off the fedora, Nero ducks down. The rest of the man comes into view. Using his stud’s magnification, he can see it’s Quentin now dressed in civilian clothes and whistling tunelessly. He appears to be carrying something.

  Under the circumstances, the man’s recklessness is astounding. This boat may be out of the way here but it’s possible one of the port officers might spot them hanging around and become suspicious.

  The decoy gives him a smile and high wave. Impossible not to admire the man’s confidence – the way he’s altered his demeanour, walking with his head thrown back and grinning like the two of them are old crewmates.

  ‘Brought us something to eat,’ the decoy shouts, holding up his purchases like a swag-bag. Nero finds himself salivating. Dammit – the decoy’s good at this; good enough to fool anyone.

  Two

  The road they’re on hugs the apex of a narrow promontory – a long spit of land jutting out at the far end of the harbour. Bruno’s never walked along here before, never made it to
the statue at the end – some kind of monument, its tip piercing the low clouds just before the land falls away into the fjord. No doubt it commemorates one of the city’s founding fathers; it certainly looks pretty phallic from this distance but then that’s true of most monuments.

  A large sign – MARINE POLICE – is mounted on the roof of the main group of buildings; lots of steel cables attached to keep it upright whatever the weather. On the waterside, a large glass cube hangs right out over the edge – it’s not obvious from here how it’s staying up. Inside the cube, he can make out two men in matching blue uniforms. One of them is pointing a telescope at the horizon; he’s surprised they still do that sort of thing. More blue-uniformed men begin to stream from an outside door only to disappear into another building.

  As if it knows something, the wind is doing its best to push him back towards the shore. Bruno is aware of being totally exposed up here. He has a bad feeling about this but, so far, nothing more than that.

  Despite the protection of his hood, he has to narrow his eyes against the ice particles coming straight at him. It’s so much colder in his regular clothes – one of the many reasons he wishes he was still wearing that amazing suit. Back in the tunnels, his alternative plan – that they take more of a stealth approach – had been vetoed after a show of hands. So much for democracy.

  Kass is striding out in front. Her hair is trying to escape her hat – long windblown strands stream away from her head as if she’s swimming.

  She stops abruptly. As she turns round, he notices the bright redness of her cheeks. ‘Try to keep up. And remember – let me do the talking,’ she says. ‘You’re supposed to be my informant. I won’t be introducing you and there’s no need to be chatty. We’re not here to make friends.’

  Kass strides off again. He has to jog to catch up. Once they’re side by side and she can hear him, he asks, ‘So how would I behave – you know, if I was an informant?’

  She keeps to her pace like she can hear some inaudible drum. ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘I mean, it varies a lot.’

  ‘Is that it – your advice? Look, I’m playing a role here; I could do with a few pointers.’