Free Kethani by Eric Brown

heart was thudding, my mouth dry, the usual reactions of an inexperienced teenager to being phoned by a girl.
    “The thing is, I have a wall that needs fixing. A couple of cows barged through it the other day. I don’t suppose...?”
    “Always looking for work,” I said, experiencing a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. “I could come round tomorrow, or whenever’s convenient.”
    “Sometime tomorrow afternoon?” She gave me her address.
    “I’ll be there between two and three,” I said, thanked her and rang off.
    That night, in the main bar of the Fleece, I was on my third pint of Landlord before I broached the subject of Elisabeth Carstairs.
    Jeff Morrow was a small, thoughtful man who shared my interest in football and books. An accretion of sadness showed in his eyes. He had lost two people close to him, over the years; one had been his wife, killed in a car accident before the coming of the Kéthani; the other a lover who had refused to be implanted.
    He had never once commented on the fact that I was not implanted, and I respected him for this.
    The other members of our party were Richard Lincoln and Khalid and Zara Azzam.
    “I met a woman called Elisabeth Carstairs yesterday,” I said. “She teaches at your school, Jeff.”
    “Ah, Liz. Lovely woman. Good teacher. The kids love her. One of those naturals.”
    That might have been the end of that conversation, but I went on, “Is she married?”
    He looked up. “Liz? God no.”
    Richard traced the outline of his implant with an absent forefinger. “Why ‘God, no’, Jeff? She isn’t—?”
    “No, nothing like that.” He shrugged, uncomfortable. Jeff is a tactful man. He said to me, “She’s been looking after her mother for the past ten years. As long as I’ve known her, she’s never had a boyfriend.”
    Khalid winked at me. “You’re in there, Ben.” Zara dug her husband in the ribs with a sharp elbow.
    I swore at him. Jeff said, “Where did you meet?”
    I told him, and conversation moved on to the health of my father (on his third stroke, demented, but still hanging on), and then by some process of convoluted logic to Leeds United’s prospects this Saturday.
    Another thing I liked about the Tuesday night group was that they never made digs about the fact that I’d never had a girlfriend since they’d known me—since my early twenties, if the truth be known.
    I’d long ago reconciled myself to a life mending dry-stone walls, reading the classics, and sharing numerous pints with friends at the Fleece.
    And I’d never told anyone that I blamed my father. Some wounds are too repulsive to reveal.
    It was midnight by the time I made my way up the hill and across the moors to the cottage. I recall stopping once to gaze at the Onward Station, towering beside the reservoir a mile away. It coruscated in the light of the full moon like a stalagmite of ice.
    As I stared, a beam of energy, blindingly white, arced through the night sky towards the orbiting Kéthani starship, and the sight, I must admit, frightened me.

    “I tried repairing it myself,” Elisabeth said, “but as you can see I went a bit wrong.”
    “It’s like a jigsaw puzzle,” I said. “It’s just a matter of finding the right piece and fitting it in.”
    It was one of those rare, brilliantly sunny November days. There was no wind, and the snow reflected the sunlight with a twenty-four carat dazzle.
    I dropped the last stone into place, rocked it home, and then stood back and admired the repair.
    “Thirty minutes,” Elisabeth said. “You make it look so easy.”
    I smiled. “Matter of fact, I built this wall originally, twelve years ago.”
    “You’ve been in the business that long?”
    We chatted. Elisabeth wore snow boots and a padded parka with a fur-lined hood that that made her look like an Eskimo. She stamped her feet. “Look, it’s bitter out here. Would you like a coffee?”
    “Love one.”
    Her house was a converted barn on the edge of the