Osiris (osiris project)

by E. J. Swift

  If Vikram’s dishevelled appearance perturbed the waiter, there was no trace of it in his face. It had taken all of Vikram’s nerve to walk into the changing room of the watersports centre, and walk out again wearing a mishmash of stolen clothes, expecting at any moment to hear a shout of discovery at his back. He checked his watch, looked back once at the entrance to The Stingray. No sign of Adelaide.

  “Sure.”

  He followed the waiter through a stone archway. Inside, the restaurant opened out into a glittering cave. The tables were scattered a discreet distance apart, round with turquoise cloths and almost all of them occupied. A female pianist was playing something light and fluid. The waiter led him to an empty table with a single rose laid at each of the two places. He pulled out a chair and took Vikram’s coat. Vikram sat awkwardly.

  In this place he felt every minor injury with ten times the intensity he would have anywhere else. The previous night was a blur of fire and drums and the distant rumble of engines which he had woken to in the tunnels. His head ached. He was covered in bruises whose origins he could not recall; even his face was scratched.

  “Is this the first time you have visited us, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction.”

  “Thank you.”

  Was he supposed to say anything else? The waiter bore his stolen coat away. Vikram looked about him. The walls and ceiling of the restaurant were covered with mosaics depicting fish of every imaginable size and shape. The mosaic was beautiful but he barely saw it because in between the tiles were large portholes with external lights that revealed the real ocean.

  The hairs rose on the back of his neck. His nerves were so frayed he almost jumped up and fled; he had to press his hands against his knees to stay put. He reminded himself that Adelaide had never been in prison. She could not have known about the portholes. Even if she did, she did not know what they meant to Vikram.

  The waiter returned with a menu and a glass of something green, which he said was complimentary.

  “While you’re waiting, sir. We always look after Miss Mystik’s guests.”

  “Is she usually late?”

  “I’m sure you know better than I do, sir.”

  There was no answer to this, so he perused the menu in silence. It was, as the decor suggested, primarily a seafood restaurant, but Vikram hadn’t heard of most of the dishes listed. He tasted the green drink. It tingled, hard and bright down his gullet; he imagined he was swallowing diamonds.

  He glanced at the other diners under pretence of studying the menu. He didn’t recognize anyone from the Rose Night, but his time there had been limited. The clientele seemed less effusive than Adelaide’s set. Conversation was quiet and intimate. Vikram felt like an impostor. He touched the gleaming set of cutlery before him. It left a smeary fingerprint. He put his hands beneath the table, feeling guilty for ruining the aesthetic perfection, and then guilty for feeling guilty.

  A woman at the table opposite was talking earnestly about the Colnat Foundation. Vikram hid a smile. He had never read Colnat’s report, but he knew that it described the standards of living in the west as poor (an understatement but a statement at least), and that it had sparked off a minor “save-the-west” movement in the City.

  Eirik had spoken enthusiastically of Colnat. The Citizen was an idealistic man, a man Vikram had admired at the time. Colnat had had visions of redeveloping the west. He wanted to set up schools. For a year or so he was a common sight, crouched in the prow of a boat, scribbling notes with industrious fervour. He was accompanied everywhere by his dog, a great scruffy animal. The dog contracted a disease and died; it was said that Colnat never recovered from the loss. At any rate, he went back east not long before the riots and was not seen again.

  The woman opposite was talking as though the initiative was still running.

  “Of course schooling is the key to it,” she said. Her voice was low, urgent. “If Palenta could just be persuaded to support the motion, we might have a chance of pushing it through…”

  “Under what clause?”

  “I don’t know. The Aek Amendment. Even the Ibatoka.”

  “Have you heard Palenta speak?”

  “Oh, I don’t know him personally, darling. This looks delicious, doesn’t it?” The couple’s knives and forks clinked, and their conversation reverted to trivia.

  Vikram didn’t have any education; it was Mikkeli who had taught him how to read and write. Now and then, those days adopted his thoughts like driftwood. Hazy recollections of Naala’s boat, with its fumes of alcohol and icy sweat. Keli hoarding books, her index finger running under the lines whilst the letters loomed large and slowly familiar.

  A fish swam past the porthole. Where the hell was Adelaide? Was she even coming? His stomach was rumbling with hunger. He felt more and more ill at ease. He found himself checking for exits, wary of a trap.

  The couple opposite had reached dessert. The woman was lingering over a concoction in a tall glass, dipping the spoon with delicate, precise movements.

  “Loviisa wants gliding lessons, but I think water-skiing is more beneficial, don’t you? Gliding’s such a hassle. But she will go on.”

  “I know. Toi’s been nagging me for a waterbike since last midsummer.” The man leaned over and tapped her hand. “But let’s not talk about them. It reminds me of her.”

  They weren’t really a couple, Vikram realized. Not officially, the way people did things this side of town, where relationships were ratified by Tellers and salt. And something else: they were in love. He supposed guilt and grief were common luxuries here. He thought of the girl with the red bow in her hair. She was part of it. So was Adelaide Mystik. He could not condemn the City as false outright, but none of it seemed real to him. It was too brassy, too effusive. How could you trust the sadness of someone who had never seen that cold could kill? Who had never seen a gun fired, never been afraid to sleep?

  He checked his watch. Adelaide was already twenty-five minutes late. Vikram drained the green drink, and as the waiter passed, held up his glass. He might be here for a while.

  17 ADELAIDE

  Vikram was putting on his coat, about to depart. Adelaide congratulated herself on her timing.

  “The waiter said you’d be late,” he said. “Personally, I’m amazed you showed up at all.”

  She heard, subdued but not quite disguised, the note of contempt. She refused to be bothered by it.

  “I wasn’t going to,” she said.

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  A waiter appeared at their table. “Good afternoon, Miss Mystik. Will you be dining with us today?”

  Adelaide scanned the menu. “Yes, I believe we will. I’ll have the rainbow-fish. With karengo squares on the side. Vikram? I’ve kept you waiting, I owe you lunch.”

  “What do you recommend?” he asked the waiter.

  “The chef’s special is excellent, sir. Marinated swordfish fillet.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “We’ll take a bottle of my usual,” said Adelaide. “But first, aperitifs.”

  “Octopya, madam?”

  “Exactly.”

  With a slight bow he moved away, taking several empty glasses of Vikram’s with him. Adelaide placed one hand on top of the other.

  “Now,” she said. “Business. I assume you can break into an apartment?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “If I remember right you’ve been in jail.”

  “Not for breaking and entering.”

  “What for?”

  “Assault,” Vikram said.

  The waiter arrived with two conical glasses containing blue liquid and a metal appliance. Over each glass he balanced a slotted spoon with a sugar cube. Spigots from the metal appliance dripped water slowly through the sugar. Adelaide watched, silent, until the process was complete. She pushed one glass toward Vikram and sipped her own
. It was the hit she needed. Fire and ice in one gulp.

  “I love the first taste,” she said. “The doorway to possibility.”

  Vikram tried a mouthful and made a face of disagreement.

  “You were saying about your conviction,” she prompted.

  “I was involved in the riots three years ago,” Vikram said. His voice was chilly as a Tarctic wind. She had never met anyone so unforgiving. “I did a lot of things like a lot of other people and I hit one of the Guards.”

  Adelaide nibbled on a crystallized apricot. “How did it feel?”

  “Like the beginning,” he said.

  “How long were you in jail for?”

  “Two years.”

  “That’s a long time underwater.”

  He leaned forward. Shadows made his eyes dark. A nerve flickered in his throat. “Why does this matter to you?”

  She smiled. “Just curious.”

  “I don’t care for your curiosity. Where I come from there’s no place for it. Tell me where you need to get into.”

  A thought occurred to her.

  “You’re not an Osuwite, are you?”

  He looked at her coldly.

  Adelaide’s plate slid neatly in front of her. “The rainbow-fish, madam.” The fish, belying its name, was a warm rose colour. “And the swordfish.”

  The waiter filled both their glasses with weqa and placed the bottle on a stand, withdrawing discreetly.

  “It’s wild swordfish, by the way,” she said. “They catch their seafood fresh every morning. Probably confiscated from an illegal fishing boat.”

  She prised a segment of rainbow-fish from the delicate spine.

  “My grandfather told me that when Osiris was first built, these fish were all they ate. But they were vastly overfished. And now, they’re exceptionally rare… you have to stalk the shoals for hours. But you know how they catch them?” She waited, but Vikram did not offer a guess. His fork was poised over his plate. “Their tails glow in the dark,” she said.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Adelaide’s reaction had been the same the first time she heard the story. Now she shared some of her grandfather’s indignation. She took a bite.

  “Delicious. Enjoy your swordfish.”

  “I will.”

  He cut into the fillet with quick, precise movements. Adelaide lingered over her fish, watching him surreptitiously. His dark hair was overlong. The ascetic planes of his face seemed inadequate for those whirlpool eyes. Haunted eyes? She wondered. Or just wary?

  “So where is it?” Vikram asked.

  “Top floor of three-zero-one-east.”

  “Sounds expensive. Who lives there?”

  “Nobody, at the moment. My brother used to,” she clarified. She sampled the weqa. It tasted saltier than usual and she pulled a face. Vikram sighed. He sat back and met her eyes squarely.

  “Your twin brother, right? The one there’s a huge investigation about?”

  “Axel. Yes.”

  “A crime scene.”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “But you get my point. I’m guessing it’s somewhere secure.”

  “Otherwise I wouldn’t need to break in, would I?” Adelaide squeezed a lime quarter over her fish. “Would you like a karengo square? They do them well here.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “On the karengo, or the break-in?”

  “The seaweed. As to the break-in, I think you’re fucking crazy. You know it’s instant jail time if we’re caught? Are there cameras?”

  She nodded. “And a security bar. I can bribe someone for a swipe card and to cut the cameras, but I need you for the locks.”

  Vikram shrugged. “Your money.”

  “My family’s money,” she agreed.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. In exchange, you’re going to get us a second address with the Council and persuade them to start a winter aid programme.” He paused. “I’m assuming you’ll want your part done first.”

  “Of course,” she said serenely.

  “In that case, I want your word that you’ll keep helping me until I’ve achieved my own ends.”

  Adelaide speared her few last flakes of fish.

  “Let’s be honest with one another, Vikram. My motivations are selfish, and I don’t care about your people. You certainly can’t trust me. On the other hand, I’m probably the best chance you’ve got.”

  He was silent, but his fingers tightened around the stem of the weqa glass.

  “There’s a song in the west about prison,” he said eventually. “They’ll put you underwater where the sun will never rise. And the mud will take your tongue because you’ve told too many lies. That’s how it starts. And in the end, you lose your head.”

  She looked at the untreated cut on his right temple and thought, what in hell’s tide am I getting myself into?

  Vikram hadn’t finished.

  “I could never explain what underwater’s like to someone like you,” he went on. “But I do promise you, if we get caught, I’ll drag you all the way with me. So do we have a deal?”

  Adelaide met his eyes, those watchful eyes. Below the chink and chatter of the restaurant, the pianist spilled her rippling chords, notes like surf and jetsam. She thought of her grandfather’s piano, out of reach in the brocaded rooms of the Domain. Out of reach, like Axel. But the penthouse would hold the answers she so badly needed.

  “I believe we do,” she said.

  Vikram clinked his glass to hers. Neither of them blinked.

  PART THREE

  18 VIKRAM

  T he hallway outside the penthouse was silent. It was four minutes past three in the morning, and the lifts were still, poised on different levels of the skyscraper. Vikram crouched in front of the yellow-barred door, his eyes level with the second keyhole. He selected a slim metal pick from a set and inserted it into the lock. He liked to think of this as a skill rather than a profession, but there had been enough occasions where he’d helped Mikkeli on the break-ins of her later career.

  Just busting a lock was enough to push the memories forward. The dripping green cell. The porthole. He felt too large for the door and its frame, as though he had grown and the corridor had shrunk. He closed his eyes, used his ears instead. Metal scraped on metal. Now he began to feel the personality of the lock, its strengths, its lines of weakness. Gently he manipulated the pick this way and that.

  “Will you hurry up?” hissed a voice behind him. “We haven’t got all day.”

  Vikram sucked in a breath and told himself, very sternly, not to respond. It had taken precisely forty-four seconds to break the first lock. That wasn’t quick enough for Adelaide, who had moaned and cursed and once, poked him with the plastic sheathed toe of her shoe. Anyone else pestering him like this would have received a black eye for their pains. Today, he had no choice but to be with Adelaide.

  He had told her that if they got caught, he would take her down with him. Realistically, he knew there wasn’t a chance. If they got caught, Vikram was as easy a scapegoat as ever she could find. That was the only reason she had agreed to the deal.

  He twisted the pick twelve degrees left.

  “I mean, really, how long does it take?”

  Her impatience was a physical scald on his back. He sensed her fidgeting behind him. He twisted around and scowled up at her. She was practically on top of him, arms folded across her chest and both eyebrows elevated. Her red hair was tucked under a woollen hat. He supposed this was her idea of a criminal outfit.

  “It’s a science,” he said. He tapped the deactivated bar. “Your money might have got us the swipe card for this, but it won’t buy you a picklock. So shut up and give me some space.”

  Adelaide’s eyes narrowed but she took half a step backward. Vikram returned his attention to the lock. Twenty seconds later he heard it-a whisper of a click. The door popped ajar. Vikram sat back on his heels. His satisfaction was tempered with a stab of fear; he’d done it now. Second offences sent you plummeting towa
rd the seabed without a trial.

  “Aren’t you the clever one?” Without waiting for him to move Adelaide ducked under the yellow bar and disappeared inside.

  “You better hope that alarm doesn’t work,” he said.

  Her voice floated back to him. “It’s disabled.”

  “I hope you’re sure.”

  “I told you. There was a code to change the code. Only me and Axel knew it.” Vikram heard the sound of a cupboard door opening all the same. Then Adelaide’s smug tones. “I was right.”

  For about the fifth time that night, Vikram wanted to strangle her. He didn’t bother telling her that if she’d been wrong they would have known by now, just glanced back at the empty corridor behind him-the final curl of the stairway rail, the red carpet, dimly lit, and the security camera trained on Axel’s apartment. It was off. Adelaide’s bribe had given them fifty-nine minutes to get in and out. They had about fifty-four of those left. He’d assumed she’d got some minion to do the actual bribing, but she had reacted to this implication in amazement. I’m hardly going to trust anyone else, she said. It made sense. She had a cajoling voice; with the additional seduction of money it was no doubt irresistible.

  He slid the set of picks back into his jeans pocket, feeling a rush of gratitude towards Drake, who had sourced the tools for him without asking any questions. He followed Adelaide inside and shut the door behind him.

  He was in a rectangular hallway. A row of identical pot plants marched along the right hand wall. They were ordered in ascending height, with about an inch between each. Their withering leaves pointed in the same directions. Vikram counted: there were twenty-two. A watering can sat at the end of the row. He peered in. Any water had evaporated.

  Stacked against the other wall were columns of shoeboxes. Each had the same label, neatly aligned in the bottom right hand corner. Vikram checked his gloves a final time and eased the first lid open. A pair of stout brown boots rested inside. He checked the soles. They were unworn. The next box contained the same shoes, also unworn. He prised out a box from the middle of the stack and raised the lid, knowing by now what he would find. He pushed the box back again.