Regeneration

by Stephanie Saulter

  It can’t be connected, he thought. Standard BioSolutions is too big, too powerful, too much a bulwark of the Establishment to engage in anything as criminally stupid as sabotage. And if they did, he reflected grimly, they’d be a hell of a lot more effective at it.

  Unless it had been intended less to damage than to intimidate, to demonstrate the extent of the industrial intelligence and logistical capacity Thames Tidal Power was up against. If that was the point, the saboteurs had miscalculated badly.

  He was still trying to judge the likelihood of coincidence over conspiracy when his guest arrived. She was a norm woman some years older than himself, sharp-eyed and sharp-voiced, dressed in the well-tailored, unimaginative style of corporate executives everywhere. He offered his hand and she took it, almost managing to mask her momentary surprise as the double thumbs wrapped around her own. She shook quickly and let go.

  Not bad, he thought, considering.

  “Councillor Varsi, I’m Moira Charles. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “It’s always good to meet the people who maintain the city’s infrastructure.” Mikal gestured toward the window, and the excuse for the meeting. He was quite certain it was not the real reason, and that she would not fail to grasp the full meaning behind his words.

  She stood for a moment, regarding the bridge with a satisfied smile. “We were delighted to work on such an important monument, part of the nation’s heritage. What a stunning view you have of it. Do you like the new look?”

  “Its preservation adds to its story,” he said diplomatically, showing her to a chair.

  She started by fishing for information about the city’s ongoing building and restoration programs. Mikal gave her nothing, and waited through a monologue on the various subsidiaries—horticultural products and high-yield agriculture, pharmaceuticals and processed foods, paints and sealers and solvents—that together made up the behemoth that was Standard. The largest division was conspicuous by its omission. He decided that if she didn’t mention it soon, he would do so himself.

  “We’re really a collection of local businesses that have expanded through investment and collaboration,” she said finally, with the slight straightening of posture and change in tone that told him she was at last approaching the point of the meeting. “Some of the founders were community leaders from this very area, much like yourself.”

  Probably not that much like me, Mikal thought. “Bankside BioMass,” he said. “The first network of local waste-conversion plants. I’m aware of the history.”

  “Indeed. Bankside still provides more than a third of London’s energy needs. They’ve been a reliable, safe supplier for a very long time.”

  And would like to maintain that reliable, safe income stream for even longer, no doubt. Aloud, he said, “It’s been almost a century since they ran entirely on waste, I believe. Most of the country’s gross agricultural output now goes into the converters.”

  “It’s true that recycled biomass isn’t sufficient, especially for large conurbations like London,” she replied smoothly. “That’s another way in which the energy industry supports a wide range of employment, from farming and haulage to organic chemistry and heavy construction. It’s a well-established, robust infrastructure.”

  “Hence your company’s opposition to the Thames Tidal venture.” Might as well get it out in the open.

  “Opposition isn’t quite correct,” she said. “We’re not averse to the development of new technologies. But this one is proceeding very swiftly, with a great deal of secrecy and isolation. The industry has legitimate reservations about that.”

  “You think the heart of London is secret and isolated?”

  “I was referring to the company’s refusal to engage with partners in the field. We can’t know whether the quantum technology, in particular, is safe—”

  “—and yet the planning and patent authorities seem convinced.”

  “With respect, Councillor Varsi, the best minds in quantum engineering don’t work for the government.”

  No, he thought, and they don’t work for you either. They’re members of Thames Tidal Power. How that must piss your people off. Bankside had tried hard to get in with TTP, proposing a joint venture that would give the larger business access to TTP’s nanoscale bioelectric storage: the secret to growing the layers of cellular substrate that could safely sequester vast amounts of energy. Pilan had told them to get stuffed. Mikal bit back a smile at the memory.

  “So,” he said, “what are your legitimate reservations, exactly?”

  She managed to look both pleased that he had asked and pained at what his question obliged her to point out. “Turning the estuary into an open industrial site, for one, on top of what they’ve already installed in the river and the city.” She gestured at the window, toward Sinkat. “We can’t know for certain what impact that will have on the marine environment. It’s also vulnerable in a way that a closed and secured plant isn’t.”

  “Are you suggesting,” Mikal asked tersely, “that the facilities might be targeted?” Sharon’s account of the previous night’s sabotage was vivid inside his head. He treated Moira Charles to a slow, loaded, double-lidded blink.

  She glanced away. “I hope no one would be so irresponsible. But desperate people do foolish things, and it’s much harder, with an open site, to protect against intrusion—or accident. It’s also not clear how a company as unconventional as Thames Tidal would react if something were to go wrong.” The sharp gaze was back on him now.

  “I see,” he said. He thought he did, now. “So what would your recommendation be, Ms. Charles, were something unfortunate to happen?”

  “They should be transparent—accept assistance. Utilize the expertise of the wider industry. We really do think a more collegial approach would be beneficial.”

  “So you’re hoping that in the event of some . . . how can I put this? . . . threat to the project, wiser heads would prevail?”

  “I am, and I’m confident that you’d be one of them.”

  That knocked him back. He didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “You have a great deal of faith in me, Ms. Charles.”

  “I believe it’s merited. We pay attention to the politics of this city, Councillor Varsi, and we’re impressed by how effective and evenhanded you’ve been.” A soft chime sounded, the signal that their time had come to an end, and she got to her feet. “I look forward to a long and cordial relationship, here, or in Westminster.”

  He had risen also and now he stared down at her in consternation. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her laugh was high, and false. “I’m sure you know there are rumors that you’ll stand for Parliament at the next election.”

  “I wouldn’t win.”

  “You might.”

  He managed to keep the incredulity off his face, but only just. Standard BioSolutions are in the pocket of the Traditional Democrats. Or vice versa. Either she’s telling me they’re switching sides, or this is a Trad play—but for me? Both possibilities were equally implausible.

  “Independents do better at local level,” he said. “I’d have no chance without the support of a party.” He looked at her inquiringly.

  “That wouldn’t be difficult to get,” she replied. “The question is, which one?”

  “You think there’s more than one option?”

  “I know there are.”

  “That’s an interesting proposition, Ms. Charles.” The floor beneath his feet felt like it had become the deck of a ship, tossing on an uncharted sea. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  “Excellent.” She smiled, a smile so insincere that it might as well have been a frown, and shook his hand again, brisk and brief. “I’ll be in touch.”

  5

  Aryel Morningstar dropped out of a blustery sky, landing between a row of battered water tanks and a cooling tower and sending a few pigeons fluttering up in alarm. She stepped further into the tower’s shadow and scanned the roofscape and grounds of the blocky, faceless co
mplex of buildings. She would have been picked up by the security cams of course, but she was relieved not to see any actual people: an advantage of the early hour and inclement weather. She had planned for one and was thankful for the other, although the sky was gray and lowering, and the sharp bite to the wind told her that the inconstant lashing rain she had flown through could at any moment turn to sleet.

  The fenced and gated yards were deserted, as was the wide strip of treeless, sodden lawn surrounding the compound. The perimeter wall with its rampart of barbed wire covered in bird droppings bordered an urban hinterland of cracked pavements and crumbling warehouses. Nothing moved in it save for a fox trotting purposefully toward the shelter of a clump of scrubby vegetation at the back of a damp parking lot, and a few rooks cawing at each other in the branches of a blasted tree.

  Satisfied, Aryel turned her attention to the roof on which she stood. She’d spotted the entrance as she swept down: a door being pushed open and a figure just inside. She could hardly blame whoever it was for not coming out to meet her in these conditions. She advanced to the far end of the row of tanks, saw a uniformed guard peering out and beckoning to her, and darted across the gravel-strewn surface.

  The guard—norm, male, middle-aged—had thought to bring a towel, which she accepted gratefully, pushing back the hood of her bodysuit to wipe her face and a few sodden locks of hair. The rest of her was dry; the bodysuit, a variation on the gillung model, was adapted to repel water and keep her warm aloft. She shook her wings vigorously, leaving behind a trail of droplets as she followed the guard down several flights of concrete steps.

  She was conducted first to the governor’s office, then a senior custodial officer and staff psychologist led her down another corridor, unlocked a door and stood aside to let her in. The door hissed closed behind her and she heard the soft thump of the bolts sliding home.

  The room was plainly furnished: drab carpet, light panel in the ceiling, a stand against the wall bearing a water bottle and cups, a table with an inset tablet screen and a few chairs.

  The woman sitting in one of them looked up. “Well,” she drawled, “this is an honor.”

  Aryel moved to a chair opposite and sat down, hooding her wings a little to fit over the back. She rested her hands on the table before her. “Hello, Zavcka,” she said. “Is it?”

  A flicker of sardonic amusement passed over the woman’s face. She was classically beautiful, with sharply angled cheekbones and a strong, patrician jaw, but the lines were deeper now, and there was a rasp to her voice that she did not trouble to hide. “Not really, no.”

  “In that case, thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  Zavcka Klist briefly drummed long, elegant fingers against the table before she folded her hands together in mocking imitation of Aryel’s pose. “I was curious,” she said. “This isn’t the kind of environment you’re used to these days, is it?” She indicated the bare room with a tilt of her chin. “I couldn’t fathom why you would want to visit me here, after all this time.”

  Aryel watched her quietly for several seconds before responding, “Will I have the option of visiting you elsewhere?”

  Zavcka stared at her for a heartbeat, then threw back her head and barked out a harsh laugh. “You know, that is a consideration. When I’m back in my own home, will I be inclined to entertain requests for audience?” She chuckled again at the absurdity of the idea. Her fingers were trembling slightly. “From you?”

  “I don’t know. Will you?”

  “I suppose it depends on the reason for your visit.” She rapped her knuckles softly against the table, laced her fingers together, leaned forward. “Why are you here, Aryel?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  “I expect it concerns my impending departure from this glorious abode.” Her voice dripped scorn. “I shouldn’t be surprised that they told you. What do you want?”

  “They told me,” Aryel replied evenly, “because I represent those of your victims who remain alive. You have done damage, Zavcka. There are people out in the world whom you have hurt. You’re about to regain a measure of freedom and we would like to know what you’re planning to do with it.”

  She was watching closely, and thought that for the first time Zavcka looked ever so slightly shaken. The lips thinned into a tight line, fingers rubbed at knuckles, then clenched into fists. She wondered if it was bravado she was hearing in the ragged timbre of Zavcka’s voice.

  “I’m planning,” Zavcka said, with an attempt at something like the old arrogance, “to have a hot bath, dig out some decent clothes and eat a proper meal. I’m planning to enjoy not having to listen to any more stupid damned questions. What else do you think I could be planning?” Her voice was rising in spite of herself. “I’m going to be tagged and monitored. I won’t be allowed to leave the house except under guard. I can only receive visitors they approve. My stream access will be restricted, I won’t be able to engage in business beyond the management of my own affairs, I can’t even talk to any of the industry people I used to know. I am not going to be free. I’m not going to be able to do fucking anything!”

  It was almost a shout.

  Zavcka glared at Aryel, sitting quietly and regarding her gravely, and seemed to realize for the first time that she was leaning over the table in her fury, halfway out of her chair. She dropped back into the seat, flexed her fingers and placed her hands in her lap, out of sight. “All that’s changing is that I’ll be a prisoner in my own home, with the dubious privilege of paying for my keep instead of being a guest of the State. And believe it or not, I’m grateful. So you and all these people you’re worried about can fuck right off. There is absolutely nothing I can do to affect any of you. All I want is to be left alone.”

  Aryel waited until Zavcka’s breathing had calmed a bit, though there were still two spots of high color in her cheeks and telltale twitches in her arms. She was genuinely angry and, Aryel reflected, no less dangerous for it.

  She said, “You might find that difficult.”

  “Why?” Definite bravado now. “Don’t think it’s enough of a punishment for my sins? You don’t trust the authorities to keep me isolated?”

  “We’re not the only ones who take an interest. You’re a popular figure in some circles.”

  “Give me strength. If I have to talk to one more psychiatrist—”

  “I’m sure they’ve found you fascinating, but that’s not who I mean.”

  “No? Who—? Oh.” Zavcka’s smile was mirthless. “You mean the—what should I call them?—longevity enthusiasts?”

  “The police call them the Klist Cult.”

  “Do they now.” Zavcka cleared her throat, brought one hand cautiously into view, picked up a cup of water from the table in front of her and took a sip. “Well, charming as it is to have fans, I don’t know why it would concern you. Or the police. They still won’t be allowed to contact me, whether I want them to or not. And I don’t.”

  “You don’t want to talk to the only people who believe you’re innocent? Who hold you in esteem?”

  “A fat lot of good that does me,” Zavcka snapped, though the question appeared to catch her off guard. She turned the cup slowly in her fingers, looking at it as she spoke. “There’s nothing I can do for them either, no matter what they believe. They can’t share in what I have. There’s no point to them being obsessed by it.”

  “Celebrity doesn’t have much to do with logic,” Aryel pointed out.

  Zavcka glanced up at that, dark eyes flashing with recollection, and again that hint of dry amusement. “You never did like it, did you? Hasn’t stopped you using it, though.” She focused on the cranial band, its thin line circumscribing Aryel’s face beneath her damp hair. “I understand you’re more successful than ever these days. Your sins have all been forgiven—”

  “Zavcka . . .”

  “—and you’re at the heart of Bel’Natur, taking advantage of everything I worked to build. Well”—she gestured dismissively, and both
hands remained in sight now, resting on the tabletop—“maybe those cultists are on to something after all. You can’t count on being around indefinitely, can you? I may outlast you yet.”

  “You might,” Aryel said without rancor, “but given how hard you’re trying to distract me from the fact that your hands keep shaking, I wouldn’t bet on it. Are the meds not getting to you, are they not working, or are you not taking them?”

  Zavcka stared, this time definitely taken aback. It looked like she was winding herself up for a riposte, but then decided against it. Her shoulders slumped and she chuckled bitterly.

  “No hiding anything from you, is there? They get them to me all right, when I request them. I forgot to ask last night.” She pointed at the cup of water.

  Aryel understood. “You took them just before I arrived.”

  “Mmm.” Zavcka sounded tired. “Another thing to look forward to: not having to ask for permission to not be ill.” She regarded Aryel wearily. “You never got it, I suppose.”

  Aryel shook her head silently.

  “Lucky you. Anyone else?”

  “Once we knew what to look for, we could identify the people at risk among those who share your sequences. They’ve all received tailored epigenetic suppressants.”

  “What about the one who had it badly—Rhys?”

  “Rhys opted for a dermal implant so he gets his meds automatically. He hasn’t had a seizure in years.”

  “And the sister?”

  “Gwen never developed symptoms.” Aryel looked at her appraisingly. “Even in here, I’d’ve thought you’d have had news of her.”

  Zavcka shrugged. “They’re keen for us to stay abreast of popular culture, and she’s hard to miss. But I can’t say I’ve been terribly interested.” Her gaze turned penetrating. “What about the other sister?”

  Aryel felt a warning chill run up her spine, although she’d known from the start that the conversation would inevitably turn to this. The precise nature of Zavcka’s interest was part of what she had come here to learn, but it was important not to make it easy, nor to trade away more than was absolutely necessary.