Osiris

by E. J. Swift

  Nils produced a bottle of raqua and the three of them wandered about the ice, passing the bottle back and forth and admiring the spectacles. They settled at the edge of a crater where a crowd had gathered around a group of musicians. In the centre, a heater was wedged into a small pit. The smell of frying saufish and kelp dispersed through the foreign scent of the ice and skinny dogs came to lap at the meltwater.

  Through the remainder of the night and the daylight that followed, Vikram almost forgot about his private mission. Sometimes, whilst they were laughing at each other’s drunken antics, he felt the pang of a missing part, because Mikkeli should have been there to complete their quartet. And then Adelaide Mystik drifted back into view, her green eyes becoming the lights from the ring-net, the gaze of the dead.

  “Look out!”

  They had been on the ice for twenty-four hours when Vikram saw a man at the edge of the field hurl himself to one side. A moment later, a harpoon sunk a foot deep in the patch of ice where he had been standing. A second harpoon struck the ice five metres along, then another.

  Nils got unsteadily to his feet.

  “Fucking hell, it’s the fucking skadi.”

  They could see the boats crouched a little way from the ice field. Struck by panic, other revellers leapt to avoid the deadly spikes. Some fell into the water. Hands reached down to rescue them but some were pulled in after and washed away from the field, caught by invisible currents. In the darkness, Vikram heard their cries growing fainter and fainter.

  “Come back! Come back!”

  In the confusion, it was a minute before Vikram realized that they were moving away from the towers. Already a stretch of freezing water lay between the ice field and safety. Some of the revellers refused to move, or were too intoxicated to perceive the danger. They leapt and cartwheeled, hurling fire beacons into the air. Dogs barked, small bodies racing up and down the field. The skadi fired a second wave of harpoons. Beneath the yells and clinking chains and the noise of straining ice, Vikram heard something new: a deep, rhythmical thudding.

  “Drake! Where’s your boat?”

  “I don’t know! I can’t see it!”

  The fry-boat kitchens were unhitching and pulling away. A man threw himself onto one of the roofs. He slipped and crashed into the sea with a shriek. Other than the abandoned torches subsiding on the ice, there was no light. But Vikram could hear the sea. The gap between ice field and towers was widening.

  A figure lurched towards them, arms whirling overhead.

  “It’s the end of the world! Swim, swim, the ghosts are coming, swim for your lives!”

  Vikram turned to Nils and Drake.

  “Come on, we need a boat.”

  They ran towards the nearest fry-boat, whose vendor was clumsily packing away her wares, catching one another as they stumbled over abandoned bottles or melt holes. Again Vikram heard that deep, rhythmic thudding. It sounded like drums. The sound was metallic, a clanging, resonant thunder, accompanied by throaty cries.

  With no warning, the sky lightened. The sea and the ice turned to shimmering gold. Instinctively all three of them dropped. Belly down, Vikram peered out across the water.

  From between two towers emerged a monster of fire. Its flames shot three storeys high into the air. Smoke spewed from its core. The fug billowed before it, reaching over the ice. As it moved forward, ash rained down on the ocean.

  It was a boat, and it was entirely aflame. From the prow of the thing protruded the effigy of a colossal shark fashioned from wires. The wires glowed white with the heat. Flames jetted from the gaping mouth.

  “Lights of australis,” whispered Drake. “What is that?”

  “Its Juraj’s gang,” said Nils softly.

  The burning barge had an escort. On either side, nine rafts rode low in the water. Each platform was stacked with drums upon which their crews hammered out a relentless beat. Vikram felt each boom in the ice beneath his stomach.

  “That’s not all,” he said. “It’s Juraj. What’s left of him.”

  Mesmerised, they could only stare. As the blazing craft drew closer, Vikram saw that the carcass of one boat had been dragged on top of another. At its peak, the gang lord’s body was strapped to a crudely erected mast. As the flesh shrivelled and peeled away, Juraj’s skeleton emerged like a warped chrysalis, the bones black and distorted.

  He had no limbs. They had been removed. In place of limbs he had crude prosthetics, longer than arms and legs could be, and spouting fire.

  Tapers of flame fell upon the raft drummers. They kept beating. The rest of Juraj’s gang were dancing maniacally on the rafts as they accompanied their dead leader to his final grave. As they approached the ice field, their yowls filled the night. The drums grew louder and louder, faster and faster.

  “They’re catching up,” said Nils.

  Vikram swore. “They’re sending it at the skadi.”

  The skadi, at last realizing their danger, began to shoot. The pyre glided forward. The rafts let out a shrilling chorus of ai-ai-ai! The drums pounded. Now the skadi were frantically trying to retract their harpoons. But the spears were embedded and the tow ropes were metal chains. The skadi barges were tethered to the ice field. The pyre was moving faster than they could tow.

  The drummers whooped.

  Ai-ai-ai! Ai-ai-ai!

  Almost leisurely, two crafts drifted towards one another.

  Juraj’s pyre ploughed into the first skadi barge. The flames reached out. Vikram clapped his hands over his ears.

  The explosion was deafening.

  Debris rained on top of them. Burning embers sizzled where they hit the ice. He curled into a ball, arms protecting his head, feeling the sting as something struck his back.

  Vikram was the first to recover. Ears ringing, he helped the others to their feet. Drake was bleeding. Vikram led them to the edge of the ice field, ducking the sprays of gunfire. In a matter of minutes, the sea would be swarming with skadi boats.

  He saw a stray shot catch one of the fry-boat vendors still struggling to unmoor. The woman was flung backwards in a spray of blood. Bent double, they ran towards her boat.

  Nils started up the motor whilst Vikram and Drake hauled the dead woman out onto the ice. There was nothing they could do for her now. As they steered away from the ice floe, he heard bolts striking the boat roof. The night blazed with fire and searchlights. The drums and the cries grew ever more frantic. The ice, gleaming yellow beneath the flames, was spotted with inert bodies.

  As they pulled away from the battleground, Vikram saw something like a comet streak through the air from the rafts and explode alongside another skadi boat.

  Drake was visibly shaking.

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

  They were drawing near to the first tower when dazzling white light blinded Vikram. A speeder lay directly in their path. Vikram veered the boat sharply right. The searchlight followed. He increased their speed. The light lost them momentarily, then switched off.

  He could hear the drone of the smaller, higher performance motor as the speeder approached.

  Grimly, Vikram began to lurch the boat in a zigzag pattern. It was large and unwieldy and he could hear its sides groan with the strain. The sea was getting choppier too. Bad news for the speeder and worse news for them. The fry-boat was not designed to be out on open water, and now they were a good half kilometre from the towers, moving further away from the fire fight.

  Nils swore as he leaned out of the hatch, watching for the speeder.Shadows scooted past. He thought it was the other boat, but now it had vanished entirely. The noise of the waves masked the two motors. He could sense the other boat out there. Waiting. Listening.

  “Vik, I can’t see them.” Nils whispered this time. He came to stand beside Vikram. Drake took up position at the hatch.

  “Where the hell are they?” muttered Vikram.

  He reduced the engine power. They were almost drifting now. So was the speeder.

  Residue noise from the fire
fight echoed across the water. From a distance, it looked like a strange ritual, a dance between flames on the water surface. Vikram could not tell who was winning.

  “Why don’t they just open fire?” hissed Drake.

  “They want prisoners,” said Vikram. “Juraj’s gang are so crazed they won’t stop until they’re all dead. The skadi need examples.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Run for it.”

  Nils nodded. “It’s our best chance.”

  “Hang on tight.”

  He took a firm grip himself as he swung the boat back towards the city and hit full throttle. Instantly the searchlight flickered back on, some hundred metres away, and began roving the waves.

  The boat lurched forward, jamming into the encroaching waves. Vikram wrested the craft first one way, then the next. Crates of kelp and fish shunted from side to side. His elbow cracked against metal, sending bolts of pain up to his temples. Spray dashed in his face. In seconds he was drenched.

  “Where are they Drake?” he yelled. Drake hung precariously out of the hatch.

  “Right on our tail, seventy metres,” she yelled back.

  “Watch out now, you’re coming into the city.” Nils, clinging on beside him, could see a little better.

  “You’ll have to direct me.”

  He was steering blind now. He could only trust Nils’s directions. He sensed the first towers looming up on either side as they barrelled back into the maze of the city. A shot glanced off the roof.

  “Fifty metres!” Drake shouted.

  “Shit.”

  Vikram began to weave. Their only chance now lay in using the towers as cover.

  “Listen. You two have to get out. I’m taking this over the border.”

  “You’re what?” Nils hung on as the boat lurched.

  “I have to get over the border tonight. I can’t explain.”

  “It’s that bloody girl, isn’t it? That Rechnov woman?”

  “This is the best chance I have. All the skadi are back there, the border will be as close to unguarded as it ever is.”

  “Vik—”

  “Just do it, will you? They won’t follow you.”

  “Yes, they’ll follow you, you idiot—we should stick together!”

  “Come on,” said Drake. She staggered up the boat. “Nils, come on. Tell us when, Vik. And good luck.”

  Nils was shaking his head, plainly furious, but Vikram had no more time. As they approached Market Circle, he choked the throttle, slowing the boat just enough to skid past a decking. Nils and Drake leapt from the hatch and dropped flat to the decking. Vikram powered ahead once more. He risked a glance back and saw that the speeder had followed him. Nils and Drake were safe.

  Now it was just the two boats. Vikram’s only advantage was that he knew the western waterways. He closed his eyes momentarily, allowing instinct to take over. Through Market Circle. Out the other side. This part of the west was quiet. He was following the route taken by the waterbus on the day he went to the Council. As he approached the border, the speeder was hard on his tail, but his assumption had been correct—there were only two skadi boats stationed at the checkpoint.

  Setting the boat on a direct course through the gap in the border net, Vikram ducked low. The shooting came late; the border guards had not expected his clumsy vehicle to charge. He hurtled straight through, searchlights sweeping overhead.

  He was in the City.

  The speeder was chasing him, and now one of the border boats as well. He kept the fry-boat straight. He had to get out fast, but they would not be able to shoot so easily deep in Citizen territory. He chose a residential tower—swung the boat in close and leapt from the fully powered vehicle. He hit the decking hard, hurting his ankle, and rolled. Jumping to his feet, running to the doors, he pounded the open button. The doors slid apart and Vikram darted inside. He heard a shout as the skadi spotted his exit, and then the doors slid shut.

  He was inside a clean, low lit lobby with four lifts. He ignored them and ran into the stairwell. The skadi would be following.

  He raced up the stairs until he heard the sounds of them entering the building. Now he had to be silent. He removed his dripping shoes and socks and carried them. He moved on up in bare feet, as quietly as possible, unaware if his pursuers were doing the same. His heart was pounding so fiercely he was sure they must hear it. There was no shortage of electricity in the City; every floor had the same low night lighting. No dark corners to hide in.

  Ten floors up, he came out of the stairwell and ventured into the corridors. He limped past the numbered doors of apartments. He was acutely aware of his appearance, tattered and soaked. He had a fresh cut on his temple which he could feel now was bleeding. His only hope was that at whatever time of night it was, the Citizens who lived here were all sleeping.

  And then he saw it—so simple, so easy. The fire alarm.

  He kept going, through the heart of the tower, looking for a stairwell on the other side. First he needed somewhere to hide. With every step, he felt the fear of capture heighten. Sweat lined the inside of his clothes. He didn’t dare look back. What if there were cameras? What if they were lying in wait?

  He kept going up until he found what he was looking for—a cleaning room, full of mops and buckets, with enough space for a skinny man. He limped back into the corridors. The fire alarms were posted at every level. He took a deep breath, glanced once around the silent corridors, and smashed it with his good elbow.

  The noise was shrill and instant. Vikram ran back to the cleaning room and slipped inside, pulling the door to. From his tiny prison, he listened to the sounds of the tower waking up. Running footsteps pattered on the carpets as people evacuated their rooms. Their voices were groggy and confused.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Where is it, where’s the fire?”

  “Orla, get back here now, don’t run!”

  They streamed past him. An age seemed to pass before they had all gone. When the noise had faded, Vikram slipped out and continued back up the stairs. He had no doubt that the fire fighters would be investigating that floor within minutes. The skadi would guess who the culprit had been, but the confusion had bought him time.

  He kept going, fighting a great flood of weariness, until he saw the sign for a bridge. He urged himself on. Just as far as the next tower. Walking across the closed, windowless bridge he felt trapped and nervous, and hurried through the tunnel as quickly as he could persuade his exhausted limbs to move. In the morning he was going to have to find himself some clothes that would pass in the City, and track down Adelaide’s restaurant—but for now all he wanted was a bolthole to curl up in for the night.

  He took the lift. When it reached the first level underwater he felt the hairs raising on the back of his neck, but he doubted the skadi would expect him to go down; they knew the horror underwater held for ex-prisoners. The Undersea station was silent and deserted. Vikram ran down the giant escalators, feeling the damp chill of tunnels blasted out of rock below the seabed. Salt trails ran down the cracks between display boards flashing up taglines for skating exhibitions, electro recitals, the annual gliding race, gold-level Guild ratified Tellers, the annual gliding race. They were all months out-of-date. On the dusty screens, the letters scrambled themselves and fingers beckoned. Adelaide Mystik’s virtual eyes followed him as she lifted a Sobek scarab in the palm of her hand, her lips o-shaped to blow him a kiss.

  The dripping walls of the platform were streaked with lichen. The weight of the ocean bore down upon him, and his head pounded. The idea of spending more than a few minutes minutes here was terrifying, but he needed to hide. He jumped onto the tracks and walked into the tunnel.

  15 ¦ ADELAIDE

  It was after midnight, and everything outside the penthouse was the same except for the yellow security bar bisecting the wooden door. Adelaide reached past it and deliberately twisted the handle. It was locked, as she expected. She took out her old key and pushed it
into the keyhole. It didn’t fit. Axel had changed the locks. She sat down in front of the door and waited for someone to come.

  Two years had passed since she had stepped out of the lift to find this same door, her own front door, wide open, a gateway for the landslide of her possessions. The way in had been blocked with a cabinet. When she clambered over one heel snagged and her foot slipped out of the shoe. She grabbed the door frame for support. The trail continued into the penthouse: shoes, clothes, pictures, cosmetics. She heard glass smash.

  “A?” she shouted. “Is that you?”

  The tinkling sound reverberated on and on. Then there was silence. Adelaide abandoned her shoes and wriggled into the hallway. Not knowing who she was about to meet, she padded through the ransacked rooms. The door to her bedroom was ajar. She pushed it cautiously.

  Her twin crouched in a myriad of broken glass. Shards winked at the ceiling and each other and Axel. He was sucking on one finger. A line of blood ran down his wrist and his shirt sleeve was scarlet. Adelaide looked at the wall where her mirror had hung. The rivets that had held the glass were still there, with clinging fragments of silver.

  “Axel?”

  He stared at her. Scratches marked his face. For a moment she thought he didn’t recognize her. Then his features bunched.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t live here.”

  She almost laughed. “What are you talking about, A?”

  “I said you don’t live here.” Axel raised himself slowly. A shower of glass fell from his clothing.

  “You’re bleeding,” said Adelaide.