Coalescent

by Stephen Baxter

  Copyright

  About

  Dedication

  ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  TWO

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  THREE

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  FOUR

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Copyright

  * * *

  This book was

  copied right, in

  the dark, by

  Illuminati.

  About The

  e-Book:

  * * *

  TITLE: Coalescent

  AUTHOR: Baxter, Stephen

  ABEB Version: 2.5

  Hog Edition

  Coalescent

  Stephen Baxter

  Children of Destiny Book One

  Dedication

  To Neil, Ann, Katherine, Anna, and Clare Baines

  ONE

  Chapter 1

  I have come to stay in Amalfi. I can't face going back to Britain — not yet — and to be here is a great relief after the swarming strangeness I encountered in Rome.

  I've taken a room in a house on the Piazza Spirito Santo. There is a small bar downstairs, where I sit in the shade of vine leaves and drink Coke Light, or sometimes the local lemon liqueur, which tastes like the sherbet-lemon boiled sweets I used to buy as a kid in Manchester, ground up and mixed with vodka. The crusty old barman doesn't have a word of English. It's hard to tell his age. The flower bowls on the outdoor tables are filled with little bundles of twigs that look suspiciously like fasces to me, but I'm too polite to ask.

  Amalfi is a small town nestling in a valley on the Sorrento Peninsula. This is a coast of limestone cliffs, into which the towns have been carved like seabird nesting grounds. People have adapted to living on a vertical surface: there are public staircases you can follow all the way to the next town. Nothing in Italy is new — Amalfi was a maritime power in the Middle Ages — but that sense of immense age, so oppressive in Rome, is absent here. And yet much of what shaped the horror in Rome is here, all around me.

  The narrow cobbled streets are always crowded with traffic, with cars and buses, lorries and darting scooters. Italians don't drive as northern Europeans do. They just go for it: they swarm, as Peter McLachlan would have said, a mass of individuals relying on the unwritten rules of the mob to get them through.

  And then there are the people. Just opposite my bar there is a school. When the kids are let out in the middle of the day — well, again, they swarm; there's really no other word for it. They erupt into the piazza in their bright blue smocklike uniforms, all yelling at the tops of their voices. But it's soon over. Like water draining from a sieve, they disperse to their homes or to the cafés and bars, and the noise fades.

  And, of course, there is family. You can't get away from that in Italy.

  Amalfi used to be a center for making rag paper, a technique they learned from the Arabs. Once there were sixty mills here. That number has dwindled to one, but that one still supplies the Vatican, so that every papal pronouncement can be recorded forever on acid-free rag paper, now made fine enough for a computer printer to take. And that surviving Amalfi mill has been operated without a break by the same family for nine hundred years.

  The swarming crowds, the thoughtless order of the mob, the cold grasp of ancient families: even I see visions of the Coalescents everywhere I look.

  And I see again that extraordinary crater, collapsed in the middle of the Via Cristoforo Colombo, with the plume of gray-black tufa dust still hanging in the air above it. Workers from the offices and shops, clutching cell phones and coffees and cigarettes, peered into the hole that had suddenly opened up in their world. And the drones simply poured out of the crater, in baffling numbers, in hundreds, thousands. Obscured by the dust, they looked identical. Even now there was a kind of order to them — but nobody led. The women at the fringe would press forward a few paces, blinking at the staring office workers around them, and then turn and disappear back into the mass, to be replaced by others, who pushed forward in turn. When it reached the edge of the road, the flowing mob broke up, forming ropes and tendrils and lines of people that washed forward, breaking and recombining, probing into doorways and alleyways, swarming, exploring. In the dusty light they seemed to blur together into a single rippling mass, and even in the bright air of the Roman afternoon they gave off a musky, fetid odor.

  I suppose I'm trying to compensate. I spend a lot of my time alone, in my room, or walking in the hills that loom over the towns. But a part of me still longs, above everything else, to go back, to immerse myself once more in the Coalescents' warm tactile orderliness. It is an unfulfilled longing that, I suspect, will stay with me until I die.

  How strange that my quest to find my own family would lead me to such mysteries, and would begin and end in death.

  Chapter 2

  It began at a strange time for everybody, in fact. The news had just emerged about the Kuiper Anomaly, the strange new light beyond the sky. London is the place to be when a story like that breaks, the kind of massive, life-changing news that you want to share with your friends, at the office watercoolers or in the pubs and coffee bars, and chew over the latest wrinkles.

  But I had to go home, to Manchester. It was duty. I had lost my father. I was forty-five.

  My father's house, the family home where I had grown up, was one of a short street of identical suburban properties: a neat little semi-detached, with scraps of lawn at the front and back. Standing in the drive on a dazzling, bright September morning, I tried to keep control of my emotions, tried to think like a stranger.

  When they were built in the fifties, not long before my birth, these little houses must have seemed desirable compared to the back-to-back terraces of the inner city, and a hell of a lot better than the tower blocks that would follow in a few years' time. But now, in the first decade of the new century, the brickwork looked hasty and cheap, the little flower beds were subsiding, and some of the exterior work, like the plaster-covered breeze blocks that lined the driveways, was crumbling. Not much of the street's original character remained. There were plastic-framed double-glazed windows, rebuilt roofs and chimney stacks, flat-roofed bedrooms built over the garages, even a couple of small conservatories tacked on the front of the houses opposite my father's, to catch the southern light. After nearly fifty years the houses had mutated, evolved, become divergent.

  The people had changed, too. Once this had been a street of young families, with us kids playing elaborate games that paused only when the occasio
nal car came sweeping in off the main road. One car to a household then, Morris Minors, Triumphs, and Zephyrs that fit neatly into the small garages. Now there were cars everywhere, cluttering every drive and double-parked along the pavement. Some of the small gardens had been dug out and paved over, I saw, to make even more room for the cars. There wasn't a kid to be seen, only cars.

  But my home, my old home, was different from the rest.

  Our house still had the original wooden concertina-style garage doors, and the small wooden-framed windows, including the bay at the front of the house where I used to sit and read my comics. But I could see how the woodwork was chipped and cracked, perhaps even rotten. There had once been an ivy, an extravagant green scribble over the front of the house. The ivy was long gone, but I could see the scars on the brickwork where it had clung, palely weathered. Just as when my mother had been alive — she'd gone ten years earlier — my father would only do the most basic renovation. He did most of his work for the building trade, and he said he had enough of building and decorating during the week.

  One of the few nods to modernity I could spot was the silver box of a burglar alarm stuck prominently on the front wall. Dad's last burglary had been a few years back. It had taken him days to notice it, before he had discovered the neatly broken lock on the garage door, and the smashed window in the car he rarely used, and the neatly coiled turd on the floor. Kids, the police had said. Panic reactions. My father had been defiant, but he had been troubled by the draining of his own strength, and his inability to fight back as he always had before against the cruel selfishness of others. I had paid for the alarm and arranged for it to be installed. But, I'm ashamed to say, this was the first day I'd actually seen it in place.

  Alarm or not, a single windowpane in the front door gaped, broken and unrepaired.

  "George Poole. It is George, isn't it?"

  I turned, startled. The man standing before me was bulky, balding. He wore clothes that were vaguely out of joint, perhaps too young for him — bright yellow T-shirt, jeans, training shoes, a chunky-looking cell phone stuck in a chest pocket. Despite his bearlike size you instantly got an impression of shyness, for his shoulders were hunched as if to mask his height, and his hands, folded together in front of his belly, plucked at each other.

  And despite the graying hair, high forehead, and thickened neck and jaw, I recognized him straight away.

  "Peter?"

  His name was Peter McLachlan. We had been in the same year at school, for most of our careers in the same classes. At school he was always Peter, never Pete or Petey, and I guessed he was the same now.

  He stuck out his hand. His grip was tentative, his palm cold and moist. "I saw you drive up. I bet you're surprised to find me standing here."

  "Not really. My father used to mention you."

  "Nice duffel coat," he said.

  "What?... Oh, yeah."

  "Takes me back to school days. Didn't know you could buy them anymore."

  "I've a special supplier. Caters for the style-challenged." It was true.

  We stood there awkwardly for a moment. I always did feel awkward with Peter, for he was one of those people who could never relax in company. And there was something different about his face, which took me a couple of seconds to cue in on: he wasn't wearing the thick glasses that had always been inflicted on him as a kid in the seventies. I couldn't see the telltale eye widening of contacts; maybe he'd had laser surgery.

  "I'm sorry about breaking your window," he said now.

  "That was you?"

  "It was the night he died. Your father didn't come to the door when I brought him his evening paper. I thought it was best to check..."

  "You found him? I didn't know."

  "I would have had to go into the house to fix the window, and I thought I shouldn't until you — you know."

  "Yes." Moved by his thoughtfulness, I gently slapped his shoulder. I could feel muscles under his sleeve.

  But he flinched. He said, "I'm sorry about your father."

  "I'm sorry you had to find him." I knew I had to say more. "And thanks for checking on him."

  "Didn't do him much good, I'm afraid."

  "But you tried. He told me how you used to look out for him. Mow the lawn—"

  "It wasn't any trouble. After all, I got to know him when we were kids."

  "Yes."

  "You haven't been in there yet, have you?"

  "You know I haven't if you saw me park," I said a bit sharply.

  "Do you want me to come in with you?"

  "I don't want to trouble you anymore. I should do this."

  "It's no trouble. But I don't want to impose..."

  We were circling around the issue, still awkward. In the end, of course, I accepted the offer.

  We walked up the drive. Even the tarmac was rotten, I noted vaguely; it crackled softly under my weight. I produced a key, sent me by the hospital that had notified me of the death. I slid it into the Yale lock, and pushed the door open.

  There was a noisy bleeping. Peter reached past me to punch a code into a control box set in an open cupboard in the porch. "He gave me the code," he said. "The burglar alarm. In case of false alarms, you know. That's how I was able to turn it off, when I broke the window to get in. In case you were wondering how... I was a key holder. But he had a deadbolt and a chain, which was why I had to break the window—"

  "It's okay, Peter," I said, a little impatient. Shut up. He never had known when to do that.

  He subsided.

  I took a breath and stepped into the house.

  • • •

  Here it all was, my childhood home, just as it had always been.

  In the hall, a hat stand laden with musty coats, a telephone table with a seventies-era handset and a heap of scribbled names, numbers, and notes piled up in a cardboard box, notes in Dad's handwriting. In an alcove Dad had carved out of the wall, a small, delicate statue of the Virgin Mary. Downstairs, the dining room with the scarred old table, the small kitchen with greasy-looking stove and Formica-topped table, the living room with bookshelves, battered sofa and armchairs, and a surprisingly new TV system, complete with VCR and DVD. The narrow staircase — exactly fifteen stairs, just as I'd counted as a child — up to the landing, where there was a bathroom, the master bedroom and three small rooms, and the little hatchway to the attic. The wallpaper was plain, but it didn't look as shabby as I'd expected, or feared. So Dad must have decorated since I'd last visited, five or six years ago — or had it done, perhaps by Peter, who stood on the doormat behind me, a great lumpen presence. I didn't want to ask him.

  It all felt small, so damn small. I had a fantasy that I was a giant like Gulliver, trapped in the house, with my arms stuck in the living room and kitchen, my legs pinned in the bedrooms.

  Peter was looking at the Virgin. "Still a Catholic household. Father Moore would be proud." The parish priest, kindly but formidable, when we were both kids; he had given us our First Communions. "Do you practice?"

  I shrugged. "I'd go to Mass at Christmas and Easter with my dad, if we were together. Otherwise I guess you'd call me lapsed. You?"

  He just laughed. "Since we know so little about the universe, religion seems a bit silly. I miss the ritual, though. It was comforting. And the community."

  "Yes, the community." Peter was from Irish Catholic stock, my mother's family Italian American. Both clichés, in our way, I thought. I stared up at Mary's plaster face, frozen in an expression of pained kindness. "I suppose I was used to all this stuff as a kid. Faces staring down at me from the wall. Seems vaguely oppressive now."

  Peter was studying me. "Are you okay? How do you feel?"

  Irritation flared. "Fine," I snapped.

  He flinched, and pressed his forefinger to the space between his eyes, and I realized he was straightening nonexistent glasses.

  I was suddenly ashamed. "Peter, I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. I'm not here to make you feel sorry. This is your time." He spread his b
ig hands. "Everything you do now, you're going to remember for the rest of your life."

  "Christ, you're right," I said, dismayed.

  I walked the few paces to the kitchen door, which was open. There was a musty smell. A cup, saucer, and plate sat with bits of cutlery on the table. The plate was covered with cold grease and dried flecks of what looked like bacon. There was a little puddle of liquid in the bottom of the cup, on which green bacterial colonies floated; I recoiled.

  "I found him in the hall," Peter said.

  "I heard." Dad had suffered a series of massive strokes. I picked up the cup, saucer, and plate and carried them to the sink.

  "I don't think the fall itself hurt him. He looked peaceful. He was lying just there." He pointed to the hall. "I used his phone to call the hospital. I didn't go into the rest of the house. Not even to clean up."

  "That was thoughtful," I murmured.

  I looked out of the kitchen window at the small back garden. The grass needed cutting, I noted absently, and the pale spires of ant colonies towered amid the green. In one corner of the garden, where they would get the most light, were the skeletal forms of the azaleas, my father's pride and joy, cherished for years — Christ, decades. But at this time of year they were as barren and stark as at midwinter.

  I looked down at the sink. Clean dishes, looking dusty, were racked up, and there was a stink of staleness from the drain. I turned on the taps and tipped the mold out of the cup into the drainer. The cold tea poured away, and green bacterial spots slid silently, but there was still plenty of scum clinging to the cup. I looked for washing-up liquid, but couldn't see any, even in the small, crammed cupboard under the sink. I pulled the cup out of the water again and looked into it, feeling foolish, futile, ensnared.

  Peter was standing in the kitchen door. "I'll bring over some Fairy Liquid if you like."

  "Fuck it," I snarled. I stepped on the pedal of the bin in the cupboard and threw in the dirty cup. But the bin was half full and stank, too, of what might have been rotten fruit. I got to my knees and began to root in the cupboard, pulling aside cardboard boxes and yellowed plastic bags.