Elysium Fire

by Alastair Reynolds

  “No,” Dreyfus answered.

  “Then I suppose you acted to protect the needs of others.”

  Dreyfus nodded slowly. “That doesn’t excuse it.”

  “Sister Catherine told me you were placed in an impossible situation.” Georgi moved some of the symbol cards around, flipping a few of them over to show different pictures. “That’s all. If you were such a bad man, why would you come to us now?”

  “If she has to bear this, then so should I.”

  “It isn’t hopeless, Tom.” Georgi selected a symbol card and pushed it into Valery’s fingers. “Say it,” he encouraged, touching a finger to his own lips.

  It was a rabbit. Valery moved her mouth, and began to shape—awkwardly and tentatively—something like the opening vowel sound for the Canasian form of the word.

  “Good,” Dreyfus said. He squeezed her fingers. “Very good, Valery.”

  But the word died incomplete. Valery swallowed, weariness and puzzlement showing in her face, as if she could not understand why she was being put through this vexing task. If you lose language, Dreyfus wondered, do you also lose any comprehension of the point of it? But he forced himself to smile again.

  “These are early days,” Georgi said.

  “I can see how much you care. She couldn’t hope to be in better hands.”

  “Our methods may seem slow, but we have patience. That’s our greatest asset. And Valery is content here, I can tell you. She is very good with the flowerbeds. She has an eye for colours and harmony. I’ll show you how they’re developing, if you have time.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The three of them went to the flowerbeds, walking along the narrow paths laid out between the beds. Valery walked slowly but steadily, a hand always ready to catch herself if she fell. Around them there was a great deal of patient gardening going on. A male Mendicant was kneeling with a man, showing him how to plant new bulbs. Another Mendicant was watching as a young patient worked along one of the borders with a bright yellow watering can. There were red flowers painted onto the side of the can, daubed on in an exuberant, childlike fashion. The simple innocence of the flowers softened something in Dreyfus and he smiled, this time without putting any conscious effort into the gesture. Then he caught Valery’s eye and saw that she was smiling as well—either at the happy colours of the watering can, or at Dreyfus’s reaction.

  “Show me what you’ve done,” he said, beckoning at the beds in case the intent of his words was lost.

  Valery gave him a tour of her work. She said almost nothing, either because she had no means of voicing her thoughts, or was ashamed at her own limitations of expression. But her gestures were precise, the lesson she was giving him—in the arrangement of colours and patterns—one that she clearly expected him to heed, and so he did, nodding and stating aloud the things he believed she meant him to hear. Once or twice a frown of confusion or irritation troubled her features, but for the most part she did not seem displeased.

  Afterwards, they returned to the outdoor tables and drank tea. They held hands again. Dreyfus attempted to coax Valery into calling out the things on the cards, but she refused him, not unkindly, with a firm but serene shake of her head. He understood. The lessons—the hard path she was following—were a private trial best kept between herself and the Mendicants.

  Georgi came back to the table after helping with some minor carpentry, a saw still in his hand.

  “You see that she’s making progress, Tom. You don’t need to imagine it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But she needs encouragement. A sense that there’s a world outside these walls, waiting to welcome her back into it. We can’t do much about that—some of us barely remember what it’s like beyond Idlewild. But you can give her that goal, Tom. You’re a busy man, and we recognise that. But try to find time …”

  “I need to head back,” Dreyfus said, cutting the other man off, and instantly regretting the abrupt tone he heard in his own voice.

  “Of course.” Georgi rose from the table and bid Valery to do likewise. “We’ll accompany you to the path, if you’re going back that way. I understand you have pressing business. But can we count on you to come back to the Hospice before long?”

  “Yes,” Dreyfus affirmed. “Yes. Very shortly. I won’t let it go as long next time.”

  The three of them walked slowly out of the sun-dappled area, back towards the picket fence that Sister Catherine had opened. As they approached the open-air clinic, though, Dreyfus sensed there had been a shift in the mood. Voices were raised—one in particular. There was no anger, as such, but a heightened exchange was clearly taking place. Puzzled, he began to pick up his pace, even at the expense of leaving Georgi and Valery to follow behind.

  Sister Catherine came around a corner, planting her stick determinedly.

  “Oh, I’m too late,” she said, her face sagging with instant regret. “I’m sorry, Tom. I was hoping to encourage you to spend a little more time in the language compound.” She gave the other Mendicant a beseeching look. “Georgi—why don’t you take Tom and Valery back to see the flower-beds, and then take the high path, via the three falls?”

  Dreyfus prickled, sensing that all of a sudden he was an unwelcome presence. “Is there something I shouldn’t see, Sister?”

  “We trust each other, don’t we?” she asked.

  “I thought so.”

  “Then take my advice and go with Georgi. Nothing bad will come of it.”

  Dreyfus prickled again—but not because of Sister Catherine’s words, which he was sure were sincerely meant. But because of that raised voice, from just out of sight. It was impossible, it cut against all logic, but he knew beyond any doubt to whom it belonged.

  “He’s here, isn’t he?” Dreyfus said slowly, barely believing his own words. “Devon Garlin’s here.”

  Thalia watched the encroaching water with a peculiar detachment, fascinated and horrified in the same moment. It was a broad, shallow, fast wave—they were not going to be swept under between one breath and the next—but it was travelling quickly and Thalia saw no end to the water beyond the approaching front. If anything it was bulging, more water piling up behind the leading wave, like a crowd of people trying to squeeze through a gap.

  “This isn’t good,” she said, voicing a thought that she knew she should have kept private as soon as she spoke.

  “We should brace,” Sparver said, planting his hands on the walkway’s railing and gripping it tightly.

  Thalia and Brig followed his lead. The surge licked its way closer, seeming to pounce forward in the last moments. Thalia took a final look down at the still-dry ground, three metres below the level of the planks on which they stood. Then the water arrived, still moving with a clearly defined front. It had seemed like a liquid thing until that moment, but as it surged under the walkway its nature changed to something solid and dense, carrying a fearsome momentum of its own, more like a landslide or avalanche, sweeping a tumbling cargo of boulders and debris in its passage. The water rammed into the stilts supporting the walkway, jarring them to their foundations, and that angry, juddering vibration transmitted itself through to the planks and railings, threatening to shake them loose. Steadying herself, dizzy with the motion of the water, Thalia looked down again. The three-metre gap between the deck and the ground was half-submerged, and the level was still rising. There was no hope of accurately measuring the rate of the rise, not with the surging chaos of waves and debris as the water forced its way between the stilts. Maybe a metre a minute, she decided, which meant a minute and a half before the water was going to be flowing over the walkway, rather than under it.

  It was enough time, she decided. All they had to do was get to the section of walkway that climbed up to meet the island, and then they would have metres of extra height, and still more if they reached the highest ground on the island. If that proved insufficient, she would still have bought time to explore further survival options. Her situational training emph
asised immediate practicalities: what it took to remain alive for the next minute, and the minute after that, rather than concerning herself with ten minutes or an hour from now. It was hard-won pragmatism, distilled from hundreds of real-world scenarios faced by earlier generations of prefects. The lesson was that it worked—most of the time.

  So be it. She held her breath, slowly released it. Water continued to pass under them, a black conveyor belt dotted with industrial rubbish, lapping higher now, but no faster than her earlier guess.

  They kept moving. The walkway continued to vibrate, shaking violently every few seconds as some substantial item struck it. Every now and then the force came close to knocking them off their feet. There were sheets of material, lightweight construction blocks, cargo hoppers and pallets, some of them as large as a Panoply cutter. Thalia fixed all her attention on the island, and the hoped-for sanctuary of the elevated ground. It would be enough, she told herself, and they ought to be onto the sloping section within half a minute.

  “How deep was this water?” she asked Brig. “Before you pumped it out, I mean.”

  “Waist-deep. You could stand in it, here, anyway. But there were deeper lakes in some of the other partitions, and all that water was pumped into chamber eight.”

  “Can we expect all of it to drain out?”

  “No … I don’t think so. There are multiple locks in all the bulkhead walls, at different heights from the floor. They can’t all have opened.”

  “Why not?” Sparver asked.

  “Because there’d be a lot worse than this,” Brig said.

  Now the flood was a racing black carpet licking just under the level of the deck, with surges occasionally racing over the planks. On top of that the winds were still lashing, still pelting the walkway, waters and exposed areas of ground with an assortment of dirt, rubble and building materials. The bombardment was increasing in severity—presumably what had been a slow leak of air was now a raging dam-burst as the connecting lock opened to its fullest extent. It would ease eventually—there had to be an equilibrium at some point—but they were obviously nowhere near that moment.

  Then, between one step and the next, the walkway jerked, tilting sharply. Sparver, always steadier on his feet, managed to stay upright but Thalia was sent sliding into the open gap between the deck and the railing. Brig grabbed at her flailing right arm, and then Thalia managed to fumble for a grip of her own. Something large had rammed them underwater, knocking out one or more sets of stilts. Along its entire length, the walkway had developed a nauseating twist, and now metres of it were pitched below the level of the water.

  Awkwardly but steadily the three of them made it back to a level section. By now the water was welling up through the gaps in the decking, and the bombardment of debris had become a continuous vibration.

  They carried on, Brig pushing her suit to the limit, Thalia and Sparver doing all they could to assist, and then in the last hundred metres the walkway began to slope up out of the water, becoming a connecting ramp that took them up to the ground level of the gutted building and took them three or four metres above the still-rising water.

  The wind might have been peaking. Thalia’s suit registered two atmospheres now, but the rate of increase had been slowing and there seemed little chance of it climbing much higher. Even if it did, the suits could cope—and oxygen at least was not going to be in short supply.

  “It looks as if the gale’s easing off,” Thalia said, as they neared the top of the ramp. “We’ll still look for shelter, but at least we don’t have to worry about being hit from above.”

  “We were just in time,” Brig said, pointing to the lower section where they had just been. The walkway was severed now—broken into several pieces. One of the sections was riding away on the tidal surge, completely detached from the stilts.

  Only now that she was on firm ground—or what counted as firm ground—did Thalia give any thought to contacting Panoply.

  “Prefect Ng,” she said. “Requesting emergency extraction.”

  A thin, distant voice answered her. “Panoply, Prefect Ng. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  Thalia swallowed, looking around. The water had enclosed the island completely by now and was already well over the level of the walkways. Debris surged past like a vast flow of traffic, heading on urgent business.

  “Prefect Bancal and I are in the outer rim of the Addison-Lovelace Concordancy, along with a civilian witness. There’s been a containment breach from the eighth partition—air and water re-entering vacuum. It could be deliberate sabotage. We’re safe for the moment, but we expect the water level to continue rising.”

  “Reviewing your situation now, Ng. If it was deemed necessary to drill or blast through from space, could you tolerate a rapid decompression event?”

  “Yes … we’re suited. Whatever it takes. Send in weevils if you need to.”

  “A Heavy Technical Squad has been tasked to your coordinates. They should be on station within sixty minutes. In the meantime, can you call in local assistance?”

  She conferred with Brig for a few seconds, discussing options, before returning to the Panoply operative. “No good, I’m afraid. They’re not set up to deal with this sort of emergency, and they haven’t got anything that could cut through the outer wall in much less than thirteen hours. This is a skeleton crew of clean-up technicians, not a Heavy Technical Squad. Even if they could send more workers to us from the hub, there isn’t anything they’d be able to do in the time available to us.” She eyed the water level. “Is there any way they can get to us sooner?”

  “Negative, Ng. They will be on an expedited burn as it is.”

  Thalia accepted this without rancour. “If that’s the best you can do for us, so be it. When they arrive, tell them to liaise with the reclamation team in the hub—they know this place better than we do. We’ve arrived at a partially demolished building—the walls should protect us if there’s another air surge.”

  “Prefect,” said Brig, touching Thalia’s arm.

  “Wait a moment,” Thalia told Panoply, following Brig’s direction of gaze.

  A second surge of water was approaching from the same direction as the first, moving across the already flooded areas like a steep kink in a carpet. For a second or two Thalia studied it with a kind of disembodied detachment, as if she were only playing witness to a catastrophe involving some other hapless individual. If the first surge had easily swamped the three-metre height of the walkway, then this second influx contained a lot more water, perhaps three or four times as much again.

  “The lower doors must have opened,” Brig said.

  “So it would seem,” Thalia said. But she fought to keep her voice steady and clear as she continued speaking to Panoply. “This is Ng again. I have an update on our situation. There’s a lot more water coming our way.”

  “How much is a lot more, Ng?”

  “I don’t know, maybe three or four times the initial surge volume. I thought we’d be safe on this island, but it won’t be enough. You’d better get that extraction squad speeded up …”

  “Your urgency will be communicated, Ng, but they were already on an optimum crossing time. Nonetheless I am sure that if there is anything that could be done to shave some time off that estimate …”

  “They’d do it, yes. I understand.”

  “It’s going to overwhelm the land,” Brig said, staring with mesmerised fascination at the approaching water-wall.

  “We’ll have to ride it out,” Sparver said. “Find something that floats, something we can use as a raft.”

  “When you find us a raft, tell me,” Thalia said.

  “Would that do?” he asked, indicating an out-jutting spur of land which had trapped a section of the walkway. “All it needs to do is float. It should work for long enough for the swell to subside. We just need to get to it in time …”

  She heard the heaviness in Brig’s voice when she replied—not optimism, just a stone-cold certainty that they ha
d no other options. “He’s right. If it doesn’t sink, we’ll stand a chance.”

  “Do you have a plan, Ng?” Panoply asked.

  She was about to say that they had nothing resembling a plan, just an act of last-ditch desperation. But she bit back on those words and said: “We have a contingency. We’ll still need that extraction squad as quickly as possible.”

  “Understood.”

  “Good. If you hear from me again, our contingency worked.”

  They moved quickly, negotiating a vague, barely defined path that led them down to the spur. Only the final, sloping part of the walkway now stood above the water level, and that was slowly being submerged. Thalia guessed the initial surge had already reached five metres above the former ground level. By the time the secondary surge arrived, they would be under fifteen to twenty metres of water.

  Thalia thought of the hundreds of thousands of tonnes of water building up behind that step change. She had faced killer robots once, and that had been bad enough. But robots usually had a will and a purpose, or were at the very least operating at the behest of some other intelligence. There was always the faint possibility of negotiating with something that had a mind.

  The section of walkway Sparver had identified was only the size of a large door. It bobbed on the rising swell, only snagged at one corner by the spur. Thalia would have preferred something bigger, given the three of them, but they were lucky to have any raft at all. The planked decking was intact, and it still had parts of its railings on either side, which would give them all something to hold onto.

  “Get aboard,” Sparver said. “Water’s rising so quickly it’ll lift free any moment.”

  They climbed aboard one at a time, the raft tilting under their weight but maintaining buoyancy. Thalia squatted down onto her haunches, knees raised before her, and hooked her elbows into what remained of the railing, Sparver and Brig doing likewise.

  The black surge was almost on them.

  “Here it comes,” Thalia said, tightening her grip as best she could.

  Her fear had been that the rising wall would break before it hit them, but the one mercy was that mass of debris riding the water made it travel sluggishly. The angle of water tilted ever steeper, and with a jerk the raft broke loose from the island. The tilt increased—Thalia strained to hold on, the railing feeling looser than she would have liked. She felt a sickening sense of elevation, butterflies playing in her belly. All around them was a jostling, crashing confusion of waterborne debris, some of it much larger than their little raft. Huge, empty cargo pallets loomed over them, their glossy sides like sheer, weather-polished cliff-faces. The swell carried them higher, lofting them with an almost insouciant disregard for mass and physics and the intrinsic frailty of small humanoid organisms. Things crunched against the raft from all sides, ramming from below, raining down from above. Water crashed across the deck with iron force. The swell crested, and then dipped with sickening speed, before cresting again. Then another dip, a terrible jawlike trough opening up in the water before them, and Thalia did the only thing she could think of, which was to close her eyes, hold tighter than ever, and trust that the universe was not quite done with her today.