Elysium Fire

by Alastair Reynolds

  The upswells and downswells continued for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute or two, and then—imperceptibly at first—the chaotic motion began to die away, as the water that had flooded into the chamber found its natural level. The entire floor was completely submerged, with no visible trace of any of the walkways. The islands were all underwater as well, with only the upper parts of the buildings pushing out of the swell.

  The water gradually calmed. Thalia surveyed her companions, gratified that they were both still on the raft. They seemed uninjured. If they felt the way she did, they would have their share of bruises and torn muscles, but given the stakes they had come through the flooding remarkably unscathed.

  She drew a breath, and realised she had not been breathing for some time.

  “That has to be all of it,” Thalia said. “Right, Brig?”

  “I think so,” Brig said. “It shouldn’t get any worse. I think this must be all the water that was in the eighth chamber. We were lucky.”

  “I wouldn’t call it lucky. I’d say we were pretty damned unlucky to have this happen at all. It’s sabotage, I’m sure of it. Those robots must have been monitoring us, acting as eyes and ears. Someone detected Panoply interest in this place and decided to snuff us out.”

  “If they were hoping it would make us less interested,” Sparver said, “I’m not sure they thought that through.”

  “No,” Thalia agreed. “It’s odd—clumsy, at the very least. And all that’ll happen now is that we’ll double-down with our investigation. Are you all right, Brig?”

  “Yes—bashed around a bit, but my suit’s holding.”

  “So is mine. Sparver?”

  “I won’t look any prettier by the end of the day. But I’m all right.”

  “You did well. If we hadn’t got to the raft—”

  “Wait,” Sparver said, interrupting her with an edge in his voice that she did not care for.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “We’ve started drifting. We were floating around on the swell just now, but now we’re moving again, heading towards the other bulkhead.”

  “That isn’t possible,” Thalia said. “It’s just a piece of walkway. It doesn’t have an engine.”

  “No,” Brig said. “But he’s right. I can track our movement against the ceiling. We’ve definitely picked up a drift, and it’s getting faster. There’s only one explanation: the water’s on the move again.”

  “But you said it must have emptied out of the other chamber.”

  “Equalised, at least. Now there’s only one thing that could make the water move again.” Brig looked past the prefects, in the direction the raft was moving. “It’s the lock into partition two. It must have opened on its own. The flood’s draining straight through.”

  “Is that good or bad for us?” Thalia asked.

  “The water level will go down once it’s spread into the other chamber. But I’m worried about how it’s going to get from here to there. Those connecting doors aren’t large, and with the amount of water trying to force its way through, and with us going along for the ride …”

  “What she means is,” Sparver said, “it’s going to get bumpy.”

  “Maybe it’s just the lower door,” Thalia said. “If that’s the case, then the flow’s mostly going to be under us. We just have to sit it out, wait for the levels to settle down again.”

  “No,” Brig answered. “With the way this current’s picking up speed, they must have opened one of the higher doors, at or just below the existing water level.”

  “You think it’s someone trying to help us?” Thalia asked, conscious now that their motion was gaining, the water on either side moving with them, but only because they were caught in its rush.

  “If they are, this isn’t how I’d do it,” Brig said.

  A roar was growing, carried to Thalia’s suit by the air that had not long returned to the chamber. It was a thunderous, waterfall roar. The swell they were riding was beginning to tilt in the direction of movement, while on either side steepening embankments of water were starting to flank the flow on which they were being carried. The bulkhead wall was coming nearer by the second. At the point where the water met it Thalia saw a dark circular aperture, the bottleneck they were shortly going to be squeezed through. The raft would fit, but there was no telling what sort of turbulence it would encounter as it made the passage. She dared not think what lay beyond. Let there be some sort of continuing flow, however treacherous, rather than a waterfall.

  She made herself hang on even tighter than before, pushing body and will to their limits, but just as she identified the connecting door as their most immediate difficulty, Sparver nodded urgently to one side.

  “Brace yourselves!” he called.

  It was one of the cargo pods, shouldering nearer as the water flow began to constrict on the approach to the lock. Another was looming in on the other side, with more beyond. They looked as huge as houses now, and just as sturdy. The debris had been moving almost sedately until then, caught in the deceptive stillness of the flow, but now objects were beginning to clang and jostle each other, fighting for space like frightened animals.

  The pod knocked them, then came rebounding back, seeming to gain momentum between strikes. Thalia tensed; each impact was stronger than the last, each one lifting the raft, until on the heaviest collision so far the raft flipped until it was nearly vertical.

  Everything slowed down.

  Thalia had her back to the water, her helmet dipping in and out of the flow. With a lurch she felt the railings buckle and then begin to give way. She sensed herself beginning to slip off the raft, into the sucking water. She unwrapped her elbows and threw herself belly down across the raft as far and fast as she could, scrambling her heels on the decking to gain some tiny purchase. She let out a groan of desperation—more scream than groan, when it burst from her mouth. And then Sparver had her, hooking his free arm around her right elbow, using all his strength to haul her over to his side of the raft. The pod that had struck them had rebounded again, and Sparver’s weight was causing the raft to tilt back to the horizontal once more. Thalia grabbed a railing and felt her heart hammering in her chest.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse. “If you hadn’t caught me …”

  They were through the worst of it. They had traversed the lock, and now the flow was calming, the obstacles in the water moving further apart, not closer.

  It was only then she noticed that Brig had gone. She met Sparver’s face, glanced back along the raft’s length—to the section of railing that had been ripped clean away—and then back to Sparver. He shook his head.

  “Maybe she’ll be all right,” she said.

  “I saw her go,” Sparver answered, and his tone told her everything she needed to know.

  The squad would arrive soon, she knew, and they would do all they could to find Brig, but that process would be strictly one of formality. Thalia’s mood hardened. It was one thing to be threatened in the course of her investigations, but the death of an innocent civilian put a cold fury right through to her.

  The water level eased as it redistributed itself between the opened partitions. It continued to shake them back and forth, but each time a little less violently than before, until it was safe for both of them to relax their holds on what remained of the railing. Sparver was the first to stand, his low centre of gravity giving him an advantage. He looked out beyond the raft, further into the second partition. Then he touched a hand to Thalia’s elbow and said: “Look.”

  She looked, staring out across the eddying, debris-filled chaos of the water. It was quite obvious why Sparver had demanded her attention.

  “The white tree,” she said.

  Sister Catherine had interposed herself on the path, blocking the way.

  “We didn’t invite him,” she said. “He just came. He arrived half an hour after you. Said he only wished to speak, to present his opinions, and then he’d be gone. You know we ca
n’t—won’t—turn anyone away.”

  Dreyfus made to squeeze by. She raised her stick, just enough to remind him of her authority.

  “Let me see him.”

  “You’ll make trouble, Tom.” There was a steely resolve in her eyes. “We saw what happened a few days ago, when you went to his speech.”

  “I didn’t think you took much interest in the news.”

  “I don’t—but I do take an interest in you. I won’t judge you for the past, but we won’t have a similar scene happening here.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pushing past as gently as he could.

  “Tom!” she called out.

  Dreyfus twisted around. “He didn’t arrive here at the same time as me by chance. It’s deliberate provocation.”

  “Then don’t rise to it,” she said, with a note of dwindling expectation.

  Dreyfus came into sight of the speaker. Garlin was standing before a small gathering of Mendicants and some of their more lucid patients. He had stepped onto a wooden chair, leaning slightly with one hand planted on the chair’s back, the other outstretched, smiling as he spoke about the benefits of life beyond the Glitter Band. Two suited civilians flanked Garlin, standing with their hands behind their backs. Dreyfus recognised the faces from some of the public broadcasts he had studied. They had a hard, single-minded look to them, like former soldiers or mercenaries.

  “You have their respect, and that’s all very well,” Garlin was saying. “The citizens of the Glitter Band, if they give you any thought at all, know that you serve a public good. But still you depend on handouts and favours, barely keeping the air inside your world while the rest of the Glitter Band drowns in prosperity. But the breakaway habitats would value your services very highly. A tithe, applied across all the habitats in our new community, would pay for the upkeep of the Hospice a hundred times over …” Garlin trailed off, his smile hardening. “I don’t believe who it is.”

  “I don’t either,” Dreyfus said, drawing the gazes of the Mendicants and most of their patients. “Get down from the chair, Garlin. Whatever game you think you’re playing, it ends here.”

  Garlin remained on the chair. His two bodyguards straightened up and puffed out their chests. “Game, Prefect Dreyfus? Aren’t you the one playing a game?” Garlin looked out to his audience, their attention split between the speaker and Dreyfus. “I’ve come here freely, as is my right as a citizen of the Glitter Band. The Ice Mendicants very kindly allowed me to speak, on the understanding that I would state my case and then leave. That was my intention—it was all very amicable. I was just coming to my concluding remarks when you stormed into the proceedings.”

  “I was already here.”

  “As you were already present when you interrupted my talk a few days ago?”

  “I didn’t interrupt. You picked me out of the crowd.”

  Garlin nodded sagely. “At least you were wearing civilian clothing that day. Unlike now, with that uniform and weapon of yours. Well, if the purpose is intimidation I feel suitably intimidated.” He narrowed an eye, squinting at Dreyfus. “Are you worried about something, Prefect? You certainly look like a worried man.” He straightened up, standing fully erect on the chair, once more the focus of attention. “We’ve all begun to pick up on the rumours, haven’t we? There’s something loose—something they can’t control. But rather than treat us as adults, men like Dreyfus would rather bask in their secrets. People are dying, I hear …”

  Dreyfus unclipped his whiphound. He held it in his hand, the filament not yet extended.

  “Julius Devon Garlin Voi, I am detaining you under the articles of public order, on authority of Panoply.”

  “What?” Garlin said, throwing his hands wide, looking around with a mask of plausible astonishment. “What have I done?”

  “You have committed actions detrimental to public order,” Dreyfus said. “Step off the chair, please, dismiss your helpers, and accompany me to my vehicle. We’ll continue this conversation in Panoply.”

  He felt a hand on his wrist. A soft voice said: “This is a mistake, Tom. Stop before it’s too late.”

  He tugged his wrist away from Sister Catherine’s grasp. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It shouldn’t happen like this. But I have my responsibilities. He can spread his lies about the breakaway movement as much as he likes, but when he starts spreading dangerous rumours …”

  “Even if they’re true?” Garlin asked, still on the chair. “Is it against public order to state the truth?”

  Dreyfus stepped nearer the speaker. “Come with me, Garlin. You wanted a reaction from Panoply—you’ve got one.”

  “You’ve got witnesses now, Dreyfus—don’t do anything you might regret.”

  Dreyfus touched the control on the whiphound which deployed the filament. Touching the ground, the filament formed a traction spool and allowed Dreyfus to release his grip on the handle. The whiphound tracked alongside him, waiting for an instruction. The two bodyguards moved in front of the chair, shielding Garlin.

  “Get out of my way,” Dreyfus said.

  “They’re going nowhere,” Garlin said. “They know full well that you’re exceeding your mandate.”

  “Track my gaze,” Dreyfus said in a low voice. “Mark and aquire three subjects.” He looked at the two bodyguards in turn, then Garlin, holding his focus for a short but definite interval. “Confirm acquisition.”

  The whiphound nodded.

  “Minimum necessary force. Incapacitate subjects one and two. Proceed.”

  The movement was almost too fast to track. The whiphound coiled and uncompressed, throwing itself through the air, flinging out its filament just as it landed within reach of the first bodyguard. In a fluid extension of the same explosive motion, the whiphound wrapped its filament around the lower left leg of the bodyguard, and then yanked it out from beneath the guard, hard and fast enough that the guard gave out a yelp of pain, even as the whiphound was executing a similar operation on the second man. In an eyeblink both men were on the ground, on their backs, staring out along their legs as if they were surprised to find them still attached.

  The right-hand bodyguard had caught Garlin off-balance as he toppled. Garlin leapt off the chair, just barely catching himself. He wobbled, threw out his arms, started backing away, then turned and broke into a semi-jog, as if he hardly dared run faster than that.

  “Nothing’s broken,” Dreyfus said, striding up to the two fallen bodyguards “That’s how it’ll be, if you’re smart enough to keep out of my way.” Then he turned his attention to the fleeing man. “Garlin! You’re already marked! Make it easy on yourself.”

  Garlin looked back. The whiphound was swivelling its handle to track him. For a moment, barely gathering his breath, he seemed to find a calmness.

  “I should thank you,” he said. “You’ve just proved every point I was trying to make.”

  “I saw him again,” Julius said.

  “What?”

  “Spider-fingers. I saw him on that bed, the way he was before. Just lying on his back, dressed in his black clothes, with that bag on the floor. Asleep. Except he looked half-dead. That hair of his was all lopsided. I think it’s a wig.”

  Caleb looked scornful. “You were imagining seeing him the first time.”

  “I wasn’t. I told you I’d seen him in that room and he showed up that day, didn’t he? So I wasn’t making it up.”

  “You overheard something, is all. Or caught a glimpse of him moving around and made up a story about him being asleep. Or got lucky.”

  “He was in the house then, he’s in the house now. You’ll see.”

  “What made you go back to that room in the first place, brother?”

  He looked at Caleb, fixing him with a pitying expression. “You know what. We’ve both felt it. We’ve been building up to something for weeks. There was a strange atmosphere about Mother and Father yesterday, and even worse this morning. They’re only ever like that when Doctor Stasov’s due.”

  Juli
us waited for Caleb to deny it, but even his brother would not have been that dishonest. There had been a heavy, apprehensive mood around the Shell House in recent weeks, as if the boys were being subjected to some quiet scrutiny, watched and measured in readiness for the next step in their education. Usually these build-ups led to a visit from Doctor Stasov.

  Julius had a tingle in his belly just thinking about what might be coming.

  They had been called to one of the main drawing rooms. Its walls were lavishly plastered and painted in pastel shades. It was full of antique furniture, old glass-domed clocks and writing desks, even a very strange kind of holoclavier that had solid black and white keys that you had to press down to make a sound.

  The boys were invited to stand on gold carpeting while Father and Mother delivered a lecture.

  “It’s time for you to learn a little more about the family name you’ve been blessed with,” Father said, puffing himself up with overdone solemnity. “Great things will come your way, because of that name. Doors will open and opportunities come your way. You will go through your lives feeling the respect and gratitude of a whole world, and many beyond this one. Your great-grandmother, Sandra Voi, was the architect of our very way of living.” He nodded at her portrait, set on one of the walls above an elaborate settee. “She made us who we are, and who we are capable of becoming.”