by Platt, Sean
Sūn didn’t buy the insinuation. She didn’t want to. It was too bleak. She could stomach anything as long as there was hope, but Stranger’s implanted idea left little room for faith. If any humans were alive now, it was only because the Astrals meant to keep toying with them, and any plans Sūn made to extricate humanity, the Astrals were already well aware of, giving them the green light to see what might happen. Forget about any genuine odds of survival.
She pulled the ball from her pocket and looked at her reflection in its shiny surface.
Don’t worry, Stranger had told her. They might know about your intention to meet with the other viceroys, but not what you would say. Just like they know I’m here, but not what I mean to do. Not the ways I’ve made some changes of my own.
But the words seemed hollow to Sūn now that she watched her vessel fill. The flow was smooth and orderly because only people who stumbled across the thing could board it. Stranger had told her that in other cities, vessel occupants had been decided in other ways — and yes, there had been rioting and bloodshed as citizens jockeyed for their places. The same wasn’t true of Loulan Mu. In Sūn’s city, the vessel’s existence hadn’t been announced. No one was looking, so it was only discovered by the lucky few who wandered far. A crew of hearty, healthy loners. People who hiked enough to discover something so hidden by chance.
The ball dropped from Sūn’s hand, striking the rocks underfoot and rolling away, before stopping quite suddenly at the feet of a man in worn sandals, surrounded by his family, holding several fishing rods and a box of lures and hooks.
He retrieved the ball at his feet.
Then he limped forward.
He handed the ball to Sūn and made a small, polite bow before limping up the gangway with his wife and children behind him.
Sūn watched the man. He didn’t fit the profile. A fisherman who’d come as if prepared, with rods and tackle and packs on his family’s backs — a fisherman with a pronounced limp who’d have trouble hiking for a few hours at most?
She gripped the small silver sphere. And as she did, Sūn heard Stranger’s voice as clearly as if he were whispering in her ear.
They know more than humanity realizes, but they don’t know everything.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Liza?”
“I know.”
“Liza!”
“I know, Mick! I know, okay!”
Mick held up the tablet. “No, this is from our man Tad. You know, the oceanographer? He says—”
Mick’s voice was rushed, urgent, jamming in words before Liza could cut him off. But she was just as rushed, equally urgent, feeling like she barely had the seconds required to rebuke her right-hand man. He was supposed to be helping her finish what needed finishing. The world had enough alarmist assholes, and had since well before Astral Day.
“That there’s a huge wave coming at us from Antarctica? Because their big ship just melted the goddamned ice cap? Yes, Mick, I know! Okay? Now get the fuck over here, and help me with this!”
Mick walked obediently toward the desk in their makeshift operations center. The place had the feel of a construction office: a converted trailer floored with cheap carpeting, possibly with company calendars on the walls showing heavy machinery moving dirt, cranes lifting girders. This command center was a bit simpler and starker, but that was mainly because Liza and her staff didn’t need much. Charlize was out front calling cutthroat pairs into a microphone. Jason and Lucy were entering results into the vessel’s passenger manifest just because it seemed right to have one. But really, Liza could have handled this by tossing weapons into a pile and announcing a battle royale. And really, now that the clock was ticking, that’s exactly what she wanted to do.
“How long, Mick?” Liza asked. “How long did Tad say we have before the waves hit?”
“Depending on the melt rate and—”
“Just give me a number. Make a guess.”
“Hell. Thirty minutes?”
“Thirty minutes?”
“We’re at the cape of Africa. It’s right there. He says it’ll hit us before the water from the north cap makes its way down here.”
“I just heard from Jabari, and—”
“I thought we were cut off?”
“Just a message. She —”
“But once we get to the satellite hookup, all the viceroys can talk for real, right?”
“I don’t think the meeting will happen. Did you see the feed from Etemenanki and Hanging Pillars? Anders and Cocoves are already on their vessels. I’m not sure about the rest. The Da Vinci Initiate never counted on a fucking Noah’s Ark situation. The dishes are either already underwater or will be soon, and I don’t see how we’ll hook up without them. It’s not like a solar sat-phone is the kind of thing that would fly under the Astral radar.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said!” Liza held up a hand, palm out, as if to halt her own panic. She’d been deluding herself, and the only way to keep calm in the face of a killer tsunami’s arrival a half hour from now was to keep on deluding herself at least a little longer. Liza’s rational mind understood that Jabari’s plan had probably fallen apart hours ago, when they’d learned the black ship was hovering above the northern pole. But she still had the Canned Heat cylinder in her pocket even now as if she might be able to open the covert frequency. Even as she yelled at Mick for his stupidity in wanting to believe the same.
“We thought they might just blow us to bits. Maybe there’d be some flooding. Either way, there’d always be a way to reach the communication points. That’s off now, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to try my survival odds in a Cradle submersible. I’d be much happier in the big ship the Astrals gave us for that exact purpose.”
“Which reminds me, Liza. The shipyards …”
“Forget it, Mick.”
“But there are hundreds of ships there. Some of them giant. I don’t exactly know how hard it is to drive one of those things, but they must have manuals, right?”
“I said forget it.”
“But Liza, half the city or more could probably survive on—”
“Mick! Focus. We only have a half hour. You know the Astrals are guarding the shipyards. You know we can’t just run over there and throw everyone onto freighters.”
“If we just—”
Liza grabbed Mick by the shoulders.
“You know I love you. You’re a great person, and you’ve always been a great help to me, and I really appreciate it and always will. You know that, right?”
“Of … of course, Liza.”
“Then don’t take it personally when I say this. But if you don’t let it go, I’m going to become a lot more interested in the bonus brackets. Me versus you. Just toss your ass out while I take your spot on the ship. I’ll be drinking Mai Tais on the Lido deck, and you’ll be swimming. You hear me?”
She’d meant it as a joke and a smile had made its way onto her face, but the smile was too toothy, an inch from earnest. The ticking clock was in her veins, in her blood. Maybe she would toss Mick to the wolves — or sharks — to get this done. She hoped he wouldn’t make her find out.
“All right, Liza.”
“They’re guarding the shipping yard. And the docks. That big boat there?” She pointed through the command center window. “That’s the only ride out of town. Now are you with me in getting it filled, or do you want to bang our heads against the wall and end up not finishing our business, leaving even more people to die?”
“I’m just—”
“Triage, Mick. Like I said. None of this is easy. It’s not like we can
(walk right past them)
fight the Astrals on this.”
Liza blinked at the intrusive thought, returning her attention to the cutthroat brackets. It’s what the Lightborn children had told her when they’d come to her office. It’s what Liza believed. But even if it was all pomp and circumstance on the Astrals’ part — even if she could disob
ey, knowing the guards wouldn’t stop her — she wasn’t ready to throw the baby away with the bathwater yet. Maybe the viceroys couldn’t meet on satellite like Jabari planned from the start, and maybe Liza’s plan to expose those chats to the Astrals wouldn’t work out. But there were other ways to show the aliens her loyalty. The end was here, and at least some of humanity was going to survive. There were other ways, if she toed the line, to be their new queen.
“Of course, Liza. What do you need from me?”
The door to the half office banged open. Charlize stood there, her pretty face puzzled.
“Viceroy Knight?”
“Yes?”
“The brackets you gave me. They’re supposed to be live and real time, right?”
“Correct.”
“So if someone is on here …” She held up her tablet. “It should mean they’re alive right now, not caught up in one of the flash floods or something, that they passed the checkpoint on the way into the square, all that?”
“That’s what Divinity told me. Why? What’s up?”
“One of the pairs isn’t responding. We keep calling his name over and over, and there’s nothing. Do we assume he forfeits, and the guy he’s up against gets to stay aboard?”
Liza’s eyes ticked toward the clock. It was 4:21. Seven full minutes had passed since Mick had guessed Roman Sands might only have a half hour left. Her pulse made itself known in the hollow of her throat, and it felt impossible to swallow. But she pushed on, forcing her focus. There was only one way they’d all get through this, and it was one choice at a time.
“Is it a high-profile pairing?” Liza asked.
Charlize shook her head and looked at her tablet. “Random guy. Carl Nairobi.’”
“Then move on. If he doesn’t show up to challenge his pairing, he loses the slot.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Charlize moved to close the door, but Liza stopped her.
“Charlize?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“How many more?”
She looked down. “Fifty?”
“And how many people are calling pairs?”
“Ten, ma’am.”
Ten callers. Ten pairs being decided at a time. That was five or more rounds remaining, and people always hemmed and hawed, soul searched on the whole condemning someone to death while saving themselves issue, walked to the gangway slowly, and generally acted like they didn’t know they were all about to be washed away any minute. Probably because they didn’t, and Liza had no plan to tell them.
“Get Jason calling pairs too. And Tanya. Anyone out there who’s not doing something indispensable. Anyone at all.”
Surprise — or perhaps alarm — crossed her face. But Charlize simply nodded and closed the door.
When Liza turned back into the room, she saw Mick at the window, looking south.
“It’s hard to believe that in twenty minutes this town will be underwater, and everyone will be dead.”
“Come on and help me with this,” Liza said, grabbing his arm. “Carl Nairobi might want to die, but I don’t plan to.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Carl Nairobi did not want to die.
At 4:41 p.m. South Africa Standard Time, Carl’s shitburg rundown sonofabitch Chrysler with the rusted-out front grill and the duct tape half peeling from the crack across the windshield struck the shipyard entrance fence. His eyes trained on the heavy chain and padlock strung through it as his big hands gripped the steering wheel. There was a bobblehead Jesus on the dashboard, and Carl often thought while driving that Jesus was nodding along with his music. This time his shaking made Jesus seem scared enough to hop off the dash and run away. That sounded about right to Carl because he wanted to do the same. Fuck bravery. Fuck being the hero the white man had said Carl tended to be. Right now he wanted to be a coward, get the hell out of Dodge, and hole up with some beers and a good woman.
Carl hit the fence at exactly 60km per hour, the chain and the fence’s center point squarely lined up in the rearview. But Hollywood seemed to have lied because the chain didn’t break, and the fence didn’t neatly pop open. Instead the big car hit the fence and dragged its gate five or six feet forward, bending it to shit, as the car wrenched to a stop. Luckily, Carl was spared the airbag’s assault. Someone had broken into the Chrysler and stolen them a decade ago.
“Dammit!” Carl told the empty car, pulling back from the seatbelt’s sting.
But there were people in the rearview, running straight at his marooned ass.
Carl climbed out of the car and grabbed his thug bat, nicknamed Motherfucker, from the back. The oncomers — a dozen or so people who didn’t look used to seeing a big black man brandishing a bat like he couldn’t afford a single fuck — skidded to a stop. A few had bats and boards as well, but Carl was pleased to see that the Astrals’ ban had worked on at least these former law abiders. There wasn’t a firearm visible among them.
“Come on. Step up to the bat, and let’s see what happens.”
“You a captain?” shouted one of the men.
“The fuck you talkin’ bout?”
“The shipyard.” The man pointed, keeping his distance. “You going for a ship?”
“The fuck else you think I’d be here for?” Carl swung the bat in tiny circles, like a pendulum made in Louisville. His arms were tensed, legs positioned to hit a home run. Just let this white man try to throw him back in a box. The days of racism were over in these parts, and Carl had won.
“Can … can we go with you?”
Carl’s arms relaxed, a little. The bat lowered a hair. His eyes scanned the group. They were a mixed batch, enough that it seemed someone had reached into a big bag of the world’s people and grabbed a handful at random. Beside the man who’d spoken was an unarmed blonde who hadn’t yet moved the hand from her stomach. She was pregnant, and now that Carl looked closer, there was a kid hiding behind her.
Before Carl could answer, there was a low hum that set his neck hair on end. He’d heard it before, over and over, and it was never a good thing.
A silver Astral shuttle came around one side of the shipyard fence. Then another circled from the other side. Walking beside the shuttles, as if escorting them, were Titans — two on Carl’s right, three on his left. There were no Reptars, but the Titans had those giant weapons they only carried when they meant business. That and the shuttles did nothing to relax Carl’s tension. Used to be, Titans wouldn’t touch you. That changed a few years back. Now — at least in Carl’s experience, in Roman Sands — they tended to shoot first and ask questions later, just like human police.
This was the sort of situation where Carl figured he was supposed to raise his hands. But then again, fuck that. He’d driven here because although he was willing to do as Stranger asked and not participate in the cutthroat competition for passage on the vessel, he sure as hell didn’t plan to sit home and drown. All boats floated, and the shipyard had plenty under lock and key. He’d come here intending to break through the locks and steal the keys necessary to keep his ass above water, and he wasn’t about to surrender now.
Let them shoot him if they wanted. He’d driven through several flooded areas on the way over, and if what he’d heard about the aliens melting Santa’s crib were true, it was about to get a lot wetter real soon. He could die now or take a chance of dying later. Desperate times, as the expression went, called for a man to stop giving a shit.
“You wanna shoot me, just do it in the chest. My mamma gonna want an open casket.”
The Titans didn’t raise their weapons. They marched slowly forward, shuttles hovering and humming along between them.
“I ain’t going with you. Don’t even try.”
The group of people hadn’t retreated. Carl could see nervous glances from several members, trading time between looking in Carl’s direction and looking back, behind a rise where Carl couldn’t see. There must be more Astrals behind, coming to surround them.
The aliens didn’t advanc
e, or level their weapons. Instead the Titans acted as they used to: staring mildly as if politely amused. The shuttles didn’t open or shift in any way Carl could see.
He lowered the bat. Let it hang near his side, ready if needed. His eyes moved to the fence. His Chrysler had wedged it up enough to crawl under — something he’d already have done if the ET patrol hadn’t shown up first.
“You ain’t gonna stop me from going in there.”
The nearest Titan smiled.
“I ain’t gonna do your stupid contest. Ain’t nothing worth that.”
The first Titan looked at the next; both of them nodded like idiots.
Carl kept his eye on the Titans. Approached the fence. And when the Titans and shuttles still didn’t move, he got to his knees, ready to spring if given a reason.
The man who’d spoken earlier was staring at Carl, a question in his eyes. Carl nodded, flicking his attention to the flanking aliens. Then the group came forward, and as they moved down the ramp toward the gate, the invisible third Astral contingent followed at a distance.
The man reached Carl.
“My name is Lawrence.”
“Fuck if I care!”
“Why aren’t they stopping us?”
“Who cares? Get in there if you wanna get.”
So the group made its way under the wedged-up fence while Carl waited with a wary eye on the Astrals. When they were all through, he ducked under, moving backward, and pushed the group back, retreating.
There was a sound from Carl’s rear. He turned and saw something that definitely would have made Dashboard Jesus jump and jive: The line of the ocean was much higher than it should be — much closer to the sun.
“We gotta hurry,” he said.
Lawrence looked where Carl had been looking, then several others in the group did the same. There were gasps as they realized what they were seeing: an ocean swell tall enough to swallow half the country.
Lawrence pointed. There was a small, apparently noncommercial slip off to the right. Docked there were several pleasure cruisers and fishing boats, none of which should be much harder to operate than a car.