Macao Station

Chapter Seven

Darkness, cold, an echoing icy tomb without air. The man moved slowly, suited and clumsy, floating down the tunnel.

‘Are you there?’

Nothing. . .

‘Hello?’

Nothing. . .

He moved further down the tunnel, gloved hands trailing over slick, unseen surfaces, assuring himself of his bearings. He gave a little kick of thrust from the jet in the suit’s arm, being careful not to hit the wall. This was the right place, wasn’t it? Suddenly he was afraid. Maybe he was lost — a man could lose the way, run out of air or power, suffocate, freeze and die in here.

‘Hello?’ More fearfully this time, hearing the note of tension in his own voice, struggling to subdue it. ‘Are you there?’

‘I am here.’

Relief, then. He heard his own breathing, heavy in the stillness, emphasised by the hissing of the suit’s respiration system. Sensing the possible beginnings of hyperventilation, the suit restricted his oxygen intake slightly.

‘I thought perhaps you had left me.’ He laughed to hear himself say this — a short cough of laughter, an exorcism of worry more than anything. Now that it had spoken, he could feel its presence — it was like a crackling in the air, a latent electrical charge that prickled the skin even through his suit. But there was something else, too — a sort of hunger — the sort of feral tang that a person might experience when they felt the breath of a wild animal close upon their skin. ‘Or perhaps that you were never here.’

‘I am here. And I will never leave you.’

‘Good.’

‘You have done the small tasks I asked of you?’

‘Yes.’ He waited for a reply, but there was only silence. Silence and his own breathing. ‘You said that you would answer some questions for me.’ He waited again. ‘Will you do that?’

‘What would you know?’ The voice sounded a little cagey, thought the man. Suspicious.

‘What are you?’ he asked. Suddenly, he was afraid. Had it been foolish of him to return here?

‘I am a living thing,’ said the voice. ‘I am a hungry, trapped, living thing. You might think of me as a sort of. . . dragon. And I am your friend.’

‘My friend?’ repeated the man. Friend. . . That word carried with it a soothing, calming association. It was good. Everybody needed friends. The fear dissipated like water boiling off into steam. ‘A dragon?’

‘Do not misunderstand me,’ added the voice — the dragon. ‘For I can be a dangerous friend.’

‘Yes,’ whispered the man, awed. His head felt fuzzy, stuffed with cotton wool. He shook it, trying to clear it, but the fuzziness persisted. Never mind. . . It was a pleasant fuzziness really.

‘Fear not, though,’ said the dragon. ‘It was you who sought me out. You who came to me, showed your fealty with the tasks I set for you. You have returned. You are my emissary. The chosen one. And we will be good friends, you and I. I have no cause to hurt you.’

‘I am your emissary,’ repeated the man, entranced. He floated like a wisp of smoke, a shade of himself, the merest mote in that maw of darkness. His suit-light was a single interior star.

‘So,’ said the dragon in a lighter tone, ‘how are you today? You sound a little. . . tense.’ The man failed to detect the slight hint of amusement that floated just below the surface of these words.

‘I’m okay. I just. . . I thought you might have gone for a moment, or that I might be lost. I’m okay. A little tired. . . we work hard. . . but otherwise. . .’ And he did feel okay, now that he was here.

‘Did you not enjoy the tasks I set for you?’

‘Oh no, no,’ stammered the man, concerned that he had been misunderstood. ‘It isn’t that. I did enjoy them. . . It’s good to have a purpose.’

‘You do not have a purpose without me?’ It sounded like a question, but the man thought it might be a statement.

‘I suppose not,’ he admitted. His suit-light played across ice-slicked rock, trickling through the darkness, the smallest living spark.

‘Was it not easy to do these things? To evade detection? Did it not excite you?’

‘It was kind of fun,’ said the man thoughtfully, struggling to extract the right words from his uncooperative brain. ‘But you said, that if I did these things, then you would tell me more about yourself.’

‘I have told you already. What more would you know?’

‘I don’t know. . .’ said the man stupidly. Somehow, his proximity to the dragon seemed to reduce his own intelligence. It made him feel childish and slightly confused. It was a shame, because when he had been away from it he had thought of many questions to ask, but floating here in its very court, its temple, its home, he could not remember what they were.

‘Well?’ asked the dragon.

The man thought deeply, his brow wrinkling. ‘You have told me you are a dragon,’ he began cautiously. ‘But what are you? I mean, really? How did you come to be here?’

‘I tire of this. Enough. Do not ask me these questions any more. They have begun to bore me.’ The voice was calm, but the man sensed that this was dangerous ground now. The dragon had said that it wouldn’t hurt him. But it had also said it was a dangerous friend. These two concepts seemed to contradict each other. Which was the truth?

‘Yes, of course,’ the man agreed, eager to please. ‘That is enough.’ He had gone too far. Perhaps the dragon would bite. He waited, breathing deeply, for judgement to be passed.

‘Do not be afraid,’ said the dragon. ‘And do not make me repeat myself again. I intend no harm to you. Nor to anybody else.’

‘Good,’ said the man.

‘Now I have a question for you.’

‘P-please,’ stammered the man reverently. ‘Ask me anything.’

‘Do you think, having completed some simple quests already, that you could do something else for me?’

‘I don’t know. . .’

For a moment the dragon said nothing. The man began to fear that he had offended it with his uncertainty and he cursed his own stupidity. There was a pause, pregnant with possibilities. He waited nervously.

But then, just when he could bear it no longer and was about to break into grovelling apology, the dragon spoke again: ‘It is a simple question. Will you help me or not?’

‘Yes,’ said the man hurriedly, grasping at this lifeline. ‘I will.’

‘Good.’

He felt the dragon smile behind the curtains of depthless shadow, a sensation that faintly stung his flesh, both chilling and exhilarating. ‘What,’ he asked breathlessly, ‘do you need?’

‘Simple things,’ said the dragon. ‘Little things, really.’

‘Anything,’ whispered the man, awed. ‘Anything.’