Gravity is Heartless

by Sarah Lahey

  Abruptly, he reconsiders his position: Of course, Lise will know what happened. This is what they talked about on the grass, after he was asked to leave. What did Quinn say? Did she tell them there was no sex? That he has trouble . . . No, no, she wouldn’t, she’s not like that.

  Maybe she told Lise that Mori didn’t realize the Sun was a star. When he looked up at the night sky, at all the sparkling stars, he never realized the Sun, their Sun, was one of them. Quinn explained this after they arrived in Kerguelen, that solar flares come from stars and the Sun is a G-type, yellow dwarf star. Surely, this is a common mistake. She’s a scientist. Not everyone can be expected to know the Sun is a star.

  Okay then, what did they talk about? Fuck, Lise knows. She knows everything. She was clearly compliant. She must have encouraged her daughter not to go through with it—of course, she did. He knew it. Lise doesn’t want Quinn to marry him. She thinks Mori is too old for her and not smart enough for her genius daughter.

  ***

  On board the Cloud Ship, Ada opens a delicate hand, “I feel rain.”

  The woman standing next to her, the one who tried to eat her serviette, agrees. “I know what you mean. I get that sensation all the time. It’s very strange.”

  “No, I feel rain. It’s raining,” Ada affirms. “Oh, this is lovely.”

  Quinn gazes at the swirling mist above her; gentle rain drips from the top of the cloud, and the tiny droplets splash on her forearms and scatter over the trays of food and into drinks. Guests giggle; some seek refuge under the bar, others stand in the open and shriek with joy.

  Quinn’s Band vibrates. It’s Mori. She steps away from the crowd.

  “Is it raining?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. It’s lovely. Did you do this?”

  “Down . . . now.” His signal drifts in and out.

  “Sorry? What?”

  “. . . as possible.”

  “What?”

  The call ends. She holos him. He doesn’t answer. She tries again, still no answer.

  Her gear is in the utility room located at the far end of the platform. Steadily, calmly, she makes her way, as fast as she can, in her white, knee-high, silicon boots. Her module is neatly stowed in a pigeonhole. Opening the device, she calls up the G12 and immediately switches it to climate function—live and predictive weather forecasting. It shows no rain; it’s cloudless, blue skies and a little moisture in the upper atmosphere. She resets and launches again: still no rain, less than 3 percent precipitation.

  Comprehending weather patterns is a complex task, it requires an understanding of atmospheric science, physics and chemistry. But sometimes it just comes down to common sense. There are no clouds over Kerguelen; it’s in the Southern Hemisphere, 40 degrees south, but still too far from the South Pole to be affected by a low pressure system. So where did this precipitation come from, how did it get here, and why doesn’t it show on her climate model?

  Shutting the program down, she heads out the door. It’s still raining. She shuffles to the edge of the platform and peers at the sky above—dark grey clouds from horizon to horizon. It makes no sense. She heads back to the utility room, reopens the module, and checks the data. The G12 doesn’t make mistakes. The climate model shows no clouds, no rain. She begins to doubt herself: Where is Mori? Why won’t he answer? Why is it raining, and what’s up with her climate model?

  Her father is a cynic. A doubter and a believer in conspiracy theories, he trusts no one and has taught Quinn to always have a contingency plan. She launches a suicide virus on her module. It eats everything it touches; the climate program is destroyed and the worm devours all her data. She has a backup—of course, she has a back up—buried deep in the SpinnerNet. She’ll sort it out later, but right now she needs to get everyone down, off the platform, as soon as possible. She has a bad feeling about this.

  Outside on the Cloud Platform, it continues to rain. Some of the guests are reveling in getting wet, standing in the open, letting the rain douse their skin and soak their clothes, while others have taken shelter under the tables or under the bar.

  Quinn spies Lise across the room and calls her over. They rendezvous in the middle of the room, Tig hovering beside Lise like a loyal Labrador.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?” Lise asks when she sees the look of panic on Quinn’s face.

  “It’s not meant to be raining. I’ve a bad feeling there’s more coming. We need to get everyone down.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just this once, tell me, honestly, what do you think of Mori?”

  “You want to talk about this now?’

  “Yes.”

  “He’s too old for you. He changed his surname name to Eco—says a lot about a person. His brother, Niels, is having fetal blood transfusions to rejuvenate his body and mind, he may never get old. And eMpower may have a hundred million pledges on social media, but they are in deep shit.”

  “Well, maybe you should have said something earlier, because this situation, right here, right now, it’s not good. Something is very wrong.”

  “Antarctica? Whose idea was it?”

  Fuck.

  “Shun Mantra,” Lise continues. “Know the name? Ever heard them mention it?”

  “No. Who the fuck is Shun Mantra?”

  “Startup with a lot of Coin. Mori and Niels are board members, and they’re making big political donations to New Federation. Dirac Devine. Global elections next year. He’s running, and New Fed has a ticket.”

  “Take the first Pod.” Tig points to Quinn. “You’re coming with me.”

  “I’m not leaving everyone here.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, actually, I’m not. You go with Lise. I’ll get everyone into the Pods, then I’ll follow.”

  Tig turns to Lise. “She comes with us.”

  Lise places her hand on Tig’s forearm. “I’ll go, and I’ll take Ada. You stay with Quinn. Look after her until she’s safe.”

  “Not the way it works—we go together.”

  “Not this time,” Lise says.

  They glare at each other, both determined to get their own way. Finally, Tig’s frown softens.

  “Fuck,” he concedes. “Go then, use the Comms, let me know when you’re safe.”

  “Comms?” Quinn asks. “What the fuck is going on?” Whisper technology uses an ultrasound algorithm to recognize voices and the electrical signals of users. It’s reliable and secure, but only used for highly sensitive information.

  Lise calmly cups Quinn’s face and kisses both cheeks. “See you on dry land.” She casually makes her way through the crowd, even pauses to chat with a guest, before raising a hand to Ada and calling her over.

  “Hey,” Tig interrupts. “What’s with the rain?”

  “A Sky River: a convergence of water in the upper atmosphere. Sitting right above us, it could get worse, much worse. It could bring down the Ship.”

  “Okay. How many guests?”

  “Two hundred and fifty-six, no, seven, two fifty-seven, counting you. We have, what, maybe ten Pods, so that’s . . . That’s? What is that?” Her brain seizes.

  “Twenty-five and a half. There are fourteen Pods, not ten, so eighteen people per Pod, too many. Each Pod carries four hundred kilos. We stretch it to six, a maximum eight guests in each. We do two rounds, it’ll take . . . a few minutes.” Again, he points a finger at her. “Get everyone together, send them to the dock. Whatever you do, don’t freak ’em out. I’ll get them into the Pods. Disaster averted.”

  She nods. It’s a good plan, a sensible plan. She may have underestimated his life skills.

  “Give me your boots,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Not the right footwear for disaster prevention.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” She unzips her silicon boots and hands them to him. He takes them, looks deeply into her eyes, then promptly throws them aside.

  A torrent of water hits the Ship.

  “Go,” he says, and she’s off, fleei
ng into the crowd. “Wait,” he calls after her.

  She spins around.

  “Switch that off.” He points at her cloud dress. “You look ridiculous.”

  Shit. “I’m not wearing anything under . . .”

  He gives her a look, like he’s known her forever and is somehow deeply disappointed.

  No time for regrets; her task is to save the day—or to assist the Cyborg who is about to save the day. Securing the crowd’s attention, she announces that the event is in two parts, and this is just the beginning. Amazing, yes, and now it’s time to descend, because there’s a lot more fun and excitement waiting for them on dry land and they are a little bit behind schedule. She maneuvers them into one giant herd, like they’re curly-horned sheep, shepherding them with her arms, from left to right, toward the dock.

  It’s going to be okay. Everyone will get off the platform. The rain will still come, but everyone will get down and they’ll wait out the storm in the research station. Disaster averted. They’ll all survive, and one day they’ll reminisce: what a funny old weird event this turned out to be. And then, while everyone is mingling and drying off, and giggling about how the rain ruined their best clothes and good shoes, she’ll use Mori’s QM to retrieve the G12 from the SpinnerNet and find out what the fuck is going on with the weather.

  Lightning cracks. Rain is imminent, a deluge pending, but there is time. She must not cause a panic; she must get everyone to the dock. Disaster averted.

  Except not yet. Guests begin to slip and slide across the platform. Water has greased the Aerogel base. Quinn falls, then rights herself, then falls again. She slips and stumbles, and everyone follows her lead, slipping and falling. Carefully, they help each other up and she continues to usher them toward the dock.

  The Pods are on the second round. Everyone will get down. They are wet and bruised, but they’re safe. Another piercing crack and it begins. A true deluge. The cloud mist above the platform dissipates. Quinn skates to the railing at the edge of the platform and tilts her head to the sky: blackness from horizon to horizon. It’s going to be big, but they only need a few more minutes, they’ll all get down.

  Disaster averted.

  A boom of thunder. The platform shudders; grumbling sounds erupt from within and the structure groans and crackles, then tilts to one side. They’ve been hit. The floor is now a southbound river. Quinn is flipped into the moving waterway; slipping and sliding, she glides on vale of water to the far end of the platform, the end opposite the dock, the end without an exit option. The railing cracks and falls away. The platform buckles, both sides tilting in opposing directions. She’s pinned against the far wall, trapped by gravity and falling water.

  The dock is where she needs to be, but she’s going nowhere. The structure suddenly drops and free falls for a few seconds before abruptly stabilizing.

  Shit, I’m going to die wearing a stupid cloud dress. The only way out is down. She could jump, if she had her wingsuit—yes, she could jump. Where is her wingsuit? Her backpack, of course; it’s with the luggage, and the luggage is in the utility room. She’s at the far end of the platform; it’s behind her. The wingsuit is in the room behind her.

  She crawls along the wall until she feels the door seal.

  It’s locked.

  She swipes her Band. The light switches from red to green—the door slides open. Inside, the roof is split and water’s gushing in; the storage compartments have tumbled from the walls and luggage is scattered across the floor. Her pack is fluorescent red—for safety—not hard to find. She grabs it and pulls on her wingsuit. This is her plan. It’s a stupid plan. She knows the pitfalls—she can’t fly in this rain—but it’s the only plan she has. Plan A—she’s got goggles, a helmet, and a parachute. She can fly the slipstream. It will take her away from the storm, out to sea. When the wind dies down, she’ll launches the shoot. It’ll break her fall, and she’ll land in the ocean. The wingsuit is made from a 4D, shape-shifting, transformable polymer and saltwater is a catalyst—first contact with the ocean and she’ll be buoyant. The chute might malfunction, the impact might kill her, but she won’t drown. Some comfort.

  There’s also an autopilot option. The suit can fly itself—at least, she thinks that’s what “auto option” means. She’s never actually tested the function, but it’s called auto, so surely it’s automated. Should have paid more attention when she bought the thing.

  She switches the suit to auto and it tightens around her, adjusting to her body form and weight. “I’m not going to die,” she says out loud. “Science will save me.”

  A crack of lightning and she flinches; her nerves are shot. Her heart pounds. The hydro engines on the platform pause, the magnetic field abates, and the structure begins to free-fall again.

  Quinn scoots to the edge and peers over into nothingness—a void of murky shadows and featureless mist.

  “Okay,” she says, “here goes. One, two, eight, nine, ten.”

  She jumps.

  Nine

  The rain came.

  “AND THE RIVER RISES, flows over its banks, and carries them all away, like mayflies floating downstream: they stare at the sun, then all at once there is nothing. A deluge.” That’s from Gilgamesh.

  The rain came. Never seen anything like it, a river poured from the sky. The Cloud Ship landed in a thousand pieces. And she was nowhere. And I couldn’t do it again. Not again. Fuck, to come all this way and lose her again, it wasn’t fucking fair. I had to make sure, though; I had to check, so we searched, Martha2 and me, we searched the oceans, and Martha2 was the one who found her. Instinct. She knows the winds. She worked it out and found her floating in the water. But I was too late. They got to her first. A black, metallic monster rose out of the ocean like some ModTech Godzilla and the tin machine took her away, under the sea. I was close, so close. But I’ll find her.

  Ten

  No one survived.

  QUINN HAS AN AVERSION to full-body immersion. Bathing is fine, rinsing is not a problem, paddling and dipping her feet into a stream is not unpleasant. But diving under the water leaves her cold. Water might cover 78 percent of the planet’s surface, but she prefers to walk the foreshore to diving under a wave. She likes to watch the rhythm of the swell, and she likes the idea of creeks and rivers and streams, the way the water bubbles and eddies around rocks and boulders. But, she doesn’t like getting wet.

  She wakes on a soft bed in a pale blue room feeling hungover and dehydrated. Her mouth is dry and her head hurts. A pungent smell hangs in the air. She has no idea where she is, and she can’t remember how she got here. She lifts her head, it throbs, and she drops it back to the bed and gazes around.

  She’s in a small room, an enclosed blue space. The walls aren’t solid walls; they’re membranes—translucent membranes filled with bubbling fluid. The air is blue and hazy, and a soft gurgling sound resonates, possibly coming from the walls. She’s inside a cell—not a prison cell, but the cell of a living organism. Quinn thinks she’s quantum, a nucleus, surrounded by metabolic activity. She’s inside the body of a water-borne organism, and she’s not alone. Outside there are others. She can see them; their papery shadows move in and out of focus on the other side of the membrane walls.

  She closes her eyes. She needs to remember.

  What happened? I jumped into an abyss.

  Where did she land? In the ocean. I landed in the ocean.

  She remembers floating. She was floating in the warm sea. Darkness came, and she watched the stars arrive. For hours and hours she gazed at the night sky, focused on the stars. Then dawn came, the stars disappeared, and there was a bird—a beautiful, rust-colored bird. It glided and circled above her. It was her bird. Her bird from the Island. Then a giant black behemoth appeared on the horizon. It scared the shit out of her, and the bird flew away.

  They fished her from the water. She remembers people talking to her, all at once; she couldn’t understand what was going on, what they were saying. Someone wrapped a recovery blanket
around her, and she liked the feeling—dry and comfortable at last. They asked her to hold out her arm, her right arm, and they took her Band, slipped it straight off her wrist and she hasn’t seen it since. That’s illegal. Why would they do that?

  She remembers what they said: The wingsuit took her fifty kilometers, right to the edge of the storm, and the recovery vessel Prismatic picked her up the following day.

  The ship is a monument to High-Tech design. Slick black graphene, one hundred and fifty meters high, it emerged from the ocean like a giant, thirsty insect, sucking and leaching water—that’s how it runs, on hydropower. In monsoons or tsunamis, it tethers itself to the seabed with expandable harnesses that move in sync with the bloating water.

  Now she remembers. She’s being kept in a cluster cell for rest and observation. Someone said that: a cluster cell, rest and observation. They explained that the clusters are continuous loops of semi-transparent rooms filled with blue light. Blue is the healing color.

  The door opens and a man enters. He stands by her bed and looks down at her. “Hello. Do you remember me? I’m Hau.”

  She nods.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Thirsty.”

  “I’ll send food. And clothes—you’ll need something to wear. Later this morning, de-briefing. Do you remember anything?”

  She nods.

  “Good. That’s good. The team will look after you. I’ll see you again in a couple of hours.” He turns to leave.

  She calls after him, “The smell. What’s the smell?”

  “It’s just the air. It’s full of microbes.”

  The air, just the air.

  He takes another step and she calls again, “The humming noise. What is it?”

  “Ah, the noise. Energy generation. We use a hybrid nanomaterial, an alloy of titanium; turns seawater into hydrogen fuel. It works as a photocatalyst, activating chemical reactions when exposed to sunlight. Has a wide-ranging spectrum; can even turn ultraviolet light into energy.”

  She nods. She understands—they’re drawing seawater up through the walls, over the titanium panels, and it resonates, makes an incessant gurgling sound.