– – – – – – – – – –

  Hoddesdon (England)

  21 October 20XX

  1 day until Ethan’s disappearance

  – – – – – – – – – –

  In the Hoddesdon research centre, there’s a bit of commotion at the moment: two researchers, a man and a woman, are arguing heatedly. Nathan Yates, who has just returned from an interview, is one of them.

  “What do you mean it hasn’t been repaired yet?” exclaims the man from behind his computer screen.

  “Look, it’s not a fridge!” replies the woman, Susan, just as frowning as her colleague. “You can’t just call a technician to fix it: we need authorisation for the repair expenses!”

  “We need that antenna right away! It’s essential for data collection!”

  “Relax, there’s nothing we can do.”

  The woman’s eyes flash behind the glasses she’s wearing. However, her tone becomes more measured as she suggests:

  “Maybe you should take a break.”

  Nathan rubs his eyelids. He’s been cooped up in his office for quite some time. Staring at the screen nonstop has undoubtedly tired him out, and his mood is suffering for it.

  “You’re right…” he admits, more quietly.

  “Come on, let’s have some tea,” she invites him, putting away a tablet PC that she’s been holding in her arms until now.

  “All right.”

  A few minutes later, the two researchers are walking along a corridor, cups of steaming tea in hand. It’s certainly not the same as a homemade brew, but given the pace they work at, the substitute produced by the vending machines is their only choice.

  They lead rather erratic lives.

  “Thank goodness I got that hassle out of the way,” declares Nathan.

  “You mean the interview?” asks the woman. “It went well, didn’t it?”

  “It was okay… but it’s like I didn’t really say anything. It was short to fit into the news broadcast, and I had to keep things really simple. With the TV news audience as the target, you can’t speak in a complex way.”

  The research centre director remains silent for a few seconds, staring pensively into his cup. Susan recognises that not-infrequent attitude and waits for him to speak again.

  She doesn’t have to wait long.

  “Sue…” Nathan says at last. “I doubt dark matter has anything to do with this.”

  The woman isn’t surprised by the abrupt change of subject.

  “But at least it’s a plausible hypothesis,” she observes in a reasonable tone. “We haven’t found anything in those areas of space that could generate gravitational fields consistent with the distortions.”

  “Maybe gravity isn’t involved…”

  “Nathan… I think it’s obvious by now,” Susan states. “Such distortions of light are caused by folds in space-time. And we know that only gravity causes that type of ripple. What we’ve identified are fully fledged gravitational microlenses.”

  Nathan is aware of that, of course. And yet, how to explain such a phenomenon? The only possibilities are an invisible substance like dark matter… or black holes impossible to detect. But neither option really convinces him.

  “The problem is… if the source is something static like matter,” the researcher mutters, “why are the distortions increasing in intensity?”

  – – – – – – – – – –

  Same place

  23 October 20XX

  1 day since Ethan’s disappearance

  – – – – – – – – – –

  “Interesting.”

  Susan watches the monitor Nathan is pointing to. Curves of various colours intertwine harmoniously on a graph, creating patterns that most people would consider nonsensical.

  “According to this data, the space telescopes have detected the same anomalies,” says the director. “Basically, they were present not only below the Kármán line, but also in the surrounding space… and possibly beyond. Which is consistent with the hypothesis of a connection between light distortions and electrostatic build-ups.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Susan remarks. “Are we sure there haven’t been any detection errors?”

  “We’ll be able to compare the data with other research centres, but for now it seems accurate.”

  Nathan takes his eyes off the monitor and turns around. He and Susan are in the instrumentation control room. Sitting at a table behind them are two more researchers—the only ones who have held out this late. Nathan hasn’t looked at the clock for a while, but he’s quite sure it’s well past midnight.

  “Guys,” he calls out loudly. “That’s enough for today. We’ve been working for almost two days without going home even once.”

  “Director, if you want, we can keep going,” one of the researchers assures him.

  Her appearance, however, contradicts her words: she looks tired and tense, her smooth hair ruffled from the number of times she’s run her fingers through it in agitation. The same goes for Peter, the other researcher.

  “Ally, aren’t you worried?” Nathan smiles at her. “You still haven’t managed to find out how your parents are doing, right?”

  In fact, the loss of contact is one of the main reasons for the ‘escape’ of the scientists. Following the storm, telecommunications have been quite unreliable. The internet works, but many members of older generations don’t use it, so they can’t be reached online. That’s also the case with Ally’s parents.

  “Director, I don’t think there are any problems… it was just a bad thunderstorm,” the young woman claims, attempting to hide her concern behind a smile.

  That’s far from true: news on the web speaks of enormous damage across the country, mostly caused by lightning that raged for hours on end. External power at the research centre has been restored, but several parts of England remain in the dark.

  “Ally, don’t worry—go on home,” Nathan insists. “We’re going to do the same.”

  His tone is firm, as though implying an order. Ally and Peter seem to get the message, as they start tidying up the papers they’ve been working on.

  “Finally, you’ve decided to call it a night,” Susan comments brightly.

  “The computers need time to process the data,” Nathan replies, stretching. “There’s no point staying around staring at them while they work.”

  ?A-ah…?

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  Susan shakes her head. She knows her colleague doesn’t want to keep torturing the group with his relentless pace. After trying out the research centre’s camp beds and eating only whatever came out of the vending machines, they all need a hot meal and a decent sleep in a real bed.

  “Director.”

  Peter steps closer. His eyes are bloodshot, and his expression is gloomy. Both his hands are clutching a sheet of paper.

  “What is it?” Nathan asks, before smirking. “How was it under my desk?”

  When the storm began, after bringing back in the director from the terrace, Peter was among the first to take shelter in Nathan’s office. At one point, panic got the better of him, driving him to find a makeshift hiding place. After all, with the commotion that could be heard outside, it felt as though even the research centre might collapse or be struck by lightning.

  “Director, please forget what happened,” Peter mutters, embarrassed by the reference to his hiding under the desk.

  Nathan doesn’t miss the fleeting glance the researcher directs at Ally, still busy behind him.

  “Mmh… I suppose I could do that, seeing how eagerly you’re working,” the director agrees, pretending to ponder a moment before replying. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

  “It’s about this,” Peter says, handing him the sheet. “Do you remember that… lightning strike?”

  “There were plenty of lightning bolts… but I suppose you mean the one that hit the boy with the bike.”

  “Yes, exactly. The detectors recorded it, and I managed to isolate it from the others. It was a positive cloud-to-ground strike, generating a current of over four hundred thousand amperes.”

  “There were quite a few with similar power. If I’m not mistaken, one reached eight hundred thousand amperes,” Nathan comments, examining the sheet Peter has passed him.

  The document contains a set of data arranged into graphs and tables. However, not all of the information shown refers to that particular bolt of lightning.

  “The real issue is something else, Director,” Peter says. “At the point where the lightning struck, the instruments registered discrepancies in the energy emissions: infrared, radio waves, even seismic waves… all of them turned out weaker than what the models predicted. Plus, from the optical and spectrometric sensors installed by the department for a research project, I got some data that… how should I say… reminded me of the light distortions. They’re not exactly the same type we’ve been studying, but I believe they occurred fairly consistently in that area.”

  Nathan doesn’t answer. His eyes sweep across the sheet, almost in a frenzy. A frown has formed on his face, growing deeper as he continues reading.

  “These data must be wrong,” he concludes at last.

  “Director… why?”

  “Such numbers imply a violation of the law of conservation of energy. Where are those four hundred kiloamperes supposed to have gone?”

  – – – – – – – – – –

  ??? (Maltia)

  ?? ?? ????

  Ethan’s 2nd day on Tersain

  – – – – – – – – – –

  Clouds and fragments drift past the plane’s windows, gleaming in the sunlight. Flocks of birds travel from one island to another, deftly weaving through complex manoeuvres as they fly around the floating rocks.

  In a different situation, I would find this view relaxing. Yet I just can’t calm down… not with my limbs floating in the air as though I were underwater.

  It happened when our aircraft pulled away from the fragment where Dawn lived. Suddenly, I felt lighter and lighter, until all the weight left my body. At first, I thought I was plummeting—or at least descending—but that wasn’t it: in truth, every trace of gravity had vanished from the cabin.

  Even though my harness kept me in place, the event was no less dramatic. My reaction was hardly ideal, alarming my travelling companions, who thought my startled cries were due to spotting more enemy planes. In reality, no one was pursuing us, and I eventually managed to explain what had shocked me so much.

  Maybe it was better for me to keep quiet.

  Needless to say, the three siblings were baffled by my surprise. Samuel remarked that once you move away from the islands, floating is normal, though I didn’t find his explanation very convincing. Then Antony abruptly cut in and told me to shut up. The sight of his gun was enough to make me fall silent.

  Damn it… I can’t talk… I can’t ask questions… we’ve been flying for hours, and I can’t even find out where we’re going.

  On the other side of the aircraft, Dawn keeps her gaze fixed on the scenery. I haven’t seen her cry, but I can sense a deep sadness in her. Samuel and Antony must also be feeling low: they barely speak, focusing on piloting the plane through this fragmented world.

  No sign of any solid land. It really does look like there’s no actual globe here. What could make the existence of such a world possible?

  As I go over this question for the umpteenth time in my mind, Samuel says:

  “There it is.”

  The other passengers look out through the front window. Beyond the clouds in front of us, a massive shape is emerging. I narrow my eyes, trying to make out what it is. It’s made of metal, there’s no doubt about that. But it’s truly enormous… too big for a normal ship, and even more so for something that can fly. And yet…

  I can’t believe it… it’s actually a ship!

  The vessel appears to be two of the same model welded together to form a single hull. It must be about a hundred metres wide and at least three times as long. It looks like two Second World War–style battleships merged side by side, fitted with gigantic engines along the sides and underneath the hull. Various types of cannons jut out across the entire surface of the craft, including the keel.

  A colossus like that must have astonishing defensive strength and firepower.

  How on earth does it fly? Oh, right… no gravity. I should have figured that out sooner.

  “Is that the Epos?” Dawn asks.

  “Yes,” the pilot replies. “The biggest ship…”

  “Samuel,” Antony cuts in.

  He’s got it in for me… he doesn’t want me to find out anything.

  With a sigh, I begin to look at the skies surrounding the vessel known as the Epos. It’s only then that I notice the numerous smaller craft floating nearby. They differ greatly in shape and size, making it hard to find any two that look alike. Some use propulsion, others rely on propellers or even complex sails, while still others combine these technologies. Certain ones resemble more or less modern aeroplanes, while quite a few are reminiscent of boats—or even spacecraft straight out of some futuristic film.

  The engineering in this world… I can’t make sense of it.

  Samuel fiddles with the controls, and some sort of rocket is launched from the plane we’re on. With a sharp noise, the projectile travels about a hundred metres before bursting into a firework display of green and red.

  “Not having the lights makes everything more complicated, huh?” the pilot remarks to Antony, without receiving a reply.

  Lights… maybe he means some kind of communication system. Didn’t I see odd flashes coming from the battleship when we were on the fragment where Dawn lived? Perhaps it’s the same thing.

  Not that it’s any of my concern right now.

  As if in response to the pyrotechnic signal, one of the aircraft floating around the Epos now heads towards us. It reaches us quickly and, after a couple of manoeuvres, falls in beside our plane. Samuel slows down, and so does the other craft, matching our speed to accompany us.

  With that escort, we continue on towards the giant vessel, positioning ourselves beneath it.

  What the heck…?!

  Gravity has suddenly made a reappearance, and I’m once again pressed back against my seat. I feel slightly odd, having spent all this time without experiencing any weight. I check my harness, almost wary of this renewed downward pull.

  Why has gravity come back just now?

  From here, I can make out a sort of hollow on the underside of the Epos, formed where the ship’s hulls join together. Along the walls of that recess, there are two long openings. Smaller craft enter and exit through these apertures, moving cautiously in the limited space for manoeuvre.

  Making use of our plane’s vertical flight capability, Samuel pilots us in front of one of the gaps. Then, leaving behind the aircraft that’s been escorting us, he slowly advances through the entrance. That’s how we end up in a gigantic hangar: we’re in the belly of the Epos.

  The plane slows further and comes to a stop in mid-air. Then, amidst hisses and puffs of steam, it descends until it touches the floor. Creaking noises echo from its joints as the craft’s entire weight settles onto the supports beneath it.

  An abrupt yet just as deceptive sense of relief washes over me at feeling myself back on “solid ground,” even though I know full well that the Epos itself is still suspended in empty space.

  Samuel shuts off the engines, and the three siblings remove their harnesses. I’ve paid enough attention to how mine was fastened during the trip that, with some difficulty, I can free myself as well.

  “Now keep quiet and don’t make any unnecessary moves,” Antony says, pulling the gun out again. “If you pull any stunts, I won’t think twice about shooting a bullet in your legs.”

  Such cliché lines… but it’s best not to point that out.

  We get off the plane. The hangar is a flurry of activity, with people and machinery constantly on the move. The area is lit by long tubes that vaguely resemble neon lights. A huge number of people bustle about the vast room, all busy around aircraft and equipment.

  I don’t know… I feel like I’ve ended up in one of my sci-fi novels, I think for a crazy moment.

  A group of five individuals has approached the plane. Some are wearing cloaks like the ones Samuel and Antony have, while others have what appear to be mechanic’s overalls. I quickly notice that each of them has a weapon hanging at their side.

  “Junior Sergeant Sanders. Senior Airman Sanders,” says a muscular man in overalls, positioning himself in front of the two brothers. “I see you managed to get back.”

  “Sergeant Norshman,” Antony replies with a stiff nod. “We need to speak to the captain. It’s a gamma-class matter.”

  “I’m aware,” the other man nods, his square jaw set in a hard expression. “Need any assistance?”

  “The metaforeas needs refuelling and some recharges. And then…”

  Antony jerks his head in my direction.

  “Here we’ve got a suspected spy from the Republic. Please lock him in a cell until the captain decides what to do.”

  “You heard?” Sergeant Norshman says to a pair of hulking men.

  They immediately close in on me, and I eye them nervously. One of them grabs my shoulder and begins pushing me away, separating me from the group.

  I look back for help, but no one pays me any attention except Dawn. Our eyes meet, and I think I see a faint desire to step in reflected in hers.

  But then she adopts an apologetic expression and looks away.

  It’s getting worse and worse.

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