At the Edge of the Game

by Power, Gareth

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Mr Xian. We get that berg into safe harbour and we wait for it to melt. We can’t let this opportunity pass us by.’

  ‘What opportunity?’

  ‘To touch something from our own world. To return, however fleetingly, to the past.’

  ‘Dexter, it could take months, or years, for the iceberg to melt.’

  ‘Are you in a hurry, Xian? Do you have somewhere to go?’

  So it was that we set about getting the iceberg into a harbour on the Portuguese coast. The work was done almost entirely by the ship’s computer. It extended a system of cables down onto the berg, where they attached themselves securely by burrowing deep inside the ice and spreading tendrils like roots of a tree. The computer then calculated the precise type of thrust required to pull the iceberg into the nearest harbour, eight kilometres down the coast. This was a delicate operation that took an entire day to complete. The slopes of the harbour were steep and heavily wooded. It looked as though the ground had subsided in places, perhaps a number of times, sending huge chunks of rock and earth plunging into the deep water.

  With the iceberg at last safely moored in the harbour, we set the Unquiet Spirit down on the gravelly shore. We went outside to gaze at the great, shining mass of frozen water, shoes in the lapping wavelets. Dexter declared that he would use the Unquiet Spirit's flatboat, which had never been used during the long intergalactic expedition, to examine the iceberg at close quarters. He ill-temperedly made it plain that it was all the same to him if I came along. This was all the excuse I needed, and I opted to stay behind. As I expected, this served contrarily to annoy him. I helped him load the wide, flat-bottomed craft, and watched him speed across the water, propelled by the boat's silent underwater jet engine. Observing through binoculars, I saw him tentatively touch the side of the iceberg. He chipped away some ice fragments and looked them over for a while. Then he threw them into the water. He continued on a slow circuit of the berg.

  I slept in my cool room for a couple of hours, rising in time to see him return to the Unquiet Spirit. He had a look of manic enthusiasm on his face. He responded to my questions in short bursts, irked that I was speaking to him, interrupting his flow of reason, yet at the same time wishing to give voice to his thoughts. He paced the ship's living space. When I told him he should try to relax, he left the room. A few minutes later I saw him return across the water to the iceberg, hunched over, willing the vessel forward. He spent hours sitting in the boat, simply staring at the wall of ice in front of him.

  A sailor came in. He told us the engine had stopped. We were stuck in the ice… [illegible]… walk to the land and get help. They didn’t come back.

  When Dexter returned I suggested that we return to the island and rest for a few days. ‘You look tired,’ I said. ‘I know I am.’

  ‘No. We must stay. This is important.’

  ‘Look, Dexter,’ I said, ‘it's not that important, really. Try and maintain a sense of proportion.’

  ‘As you have already pointed out,’ he said, ‘it could take months or years for the iceberg to melt naturally. In order to solve the mystery of what is encased within, it will be necessary for us to increase the rate at which it melts. I propose that the best way to do this will be to tow the berg into warm southern waters. In fact, I further propose that we should tow the berg eastwards along the equator until we get to your lovely island, Mr Xian. By then, I have calculated, the berg will be substantially melted, and we can ground the ship on your beach to study at our leisure.’

  ‘How long would that take? More particularly, how much fuel would it consume?’

  ‘That’s not your concern. It’s my ship.’

  There was madness in his eyes. He was defying me to show dissent. I wondered if he would physically attack me if I said the wrong thing. I turned and left the room. I was furious. I was not willing to spend weeks on such a fool’s errand. I was even less willing to allow him to waste precious fuel in so pointless a fashion. Without the ship, we would be without hope. It was the one resource we had that could not be replaced in some form or other. It had enabled me to explore this world, gave me an exhilarating freedom I had not experienced in the silent, marooned year before Dexter's arrival. I could not allow my universe to contract again to a few square kilometres.

  I rose not long after dawn, having slept little. I resolved to act decisively. I found Dexter sitting on the stairway outside. Evidently, he had not been able to sleep either. He was nibbling unenthusiastically at a piece of fruit.

  ‘Good morning, Dexter.’ My strategy was to appear outwardly conciliatory.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said warily.

  ‘A busy day ahead.’

  ‘Yes.’ He took a few more bites.

  ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ A few more silent moments went by. ‘Don't worry, Xian. If you don’t want to participate in this project, I'll fly you back to the island first.’

  I did my best to smile, and said nothing. I watched him gather his equipment together for another boating trip around the berg. To my dismay, Cat and the alien, who were both fascinated by the water, leapt into the boat just as he was pushing out. I had no option but to stand and watch them go. All I could do was hope that Dexter would treat the innocent creatures well when I was gone. I set to work without delay. I gathered together some cases of food from the storage hold and stacked them in the shade of the overhanging trees outside, shielded from Dexter's line of sight by the bulk of the ship. With some difficulty I extracted the disassembled parts of a small plastiform habitat and brought those outside too. I went through the rest of the list I had prepared, locating and putting outside various other items Dexter would need to live comfortably in the cove: an air-conditioning unit; a fridge; a small electric stove; some medical equipment and supplies; a computer with a copy of the ship's database; half of the ship’s probes; a generator; a camp bed. I hoped it would be enough for him. I left him no radio or other communication equipment. I didn't want him to be able to contact me once I was gone.

  Then I wrote him a short note:

  Dexter, I am very sorry, but I cannot allow you to waste the ship’s fuel. I will return in one week. I hope this will give you enough time to see sense. Perhaps in the meantime the probes will be able to burn their way inside the ice and enable you to study the seaship.

  I left the note attached securely to a food crate and quickly went inside. He had seen nothing. I eased the ship into the air. The ship glided out over the expanse of water, stirring up high columns of spray. I maintained the ship in a steady hover for a few seconds. I could imagine Dexter’s speechless shock, his disbelief, at the sight of the ship lifting off, soaring away without him. I ascended rapidly and headed north.

  The inland country was beautiful and dramatic, dominated by oak forest that spread over spectacularly deep, narrow valleys and wide plateaux. I directed the ship north over France, crossing the edge of the ice sheet at the latitude of southern England. I passed over the Pole at top speed. Heading south over the Bering Sea, I encountered stormy weather. To avoid the worst of it I increased altitude, flying above the thick clouds in the harsh upper-atmosphere sunlight. In a couple of hours I had reached the tropical latitudes and the archipelago in which my island was located. Heavy rain was falling near the bay, and I had to wait until visibility improved before I could sink below the clouds and follow the coastline to my home, where I touched down on the wet sand of the beach.

  I ran through the rain to get to the habitat. Everything was as I had left it inside. I lay down on my bed in deep relief. Without meaning to, I fell into a deep sleep, and did not wake until mid-morning the next day.

  COLD STATION

  A warm morning of after-rain stickiness, t-shirt weather in February. But it turned darker in the afternoon, much colder. Now it’s snowing, already inches deep.

  We’ll have to see out the night here in the freezing car and
hope for the best. Helen supported Heathshade’s plan to just keep driving blind, but I would have none of it, a fit of assertiveness that ought to have pleased Helen but did not. What I get from her is that look of non-specific disappointment that has become her wont of late.

  She seems to think this morning was my fault. Standing knee-deep in the hardening mud of the spent landslip, Teresa and the boy watched as the John Paul weakened on the islanded roof. Open-throated bellows came when he tried to move his hanging leg. The sound brought to my mind the image of a dying ancient elk set upon by some ravenous reptilian hunter. I stood near them but said nothing for dear they might think to ask something of me. I don’t think they knew I was there until Heathshade came over and said: ‘We’re going.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ Teresa said.

  Helen was already sitting in the car. It was exactly as though if I didn’t get in, it would be the last I ever saw of her. I didn’t move at once. I felt the need in some way to defy that that telling strike, to deny its potency.

  But I couldn’t hold out for long. How could I? I followed Heathshade across the muddy ground.

  Feels like it happened weeks ago and not this morning. Now the engine is off. Snow crystals gather on the windscreen wipers, specks against black. We have become refugees in land falling to pieces, seeking to overtake the tightening boundary of civilisation before it’s too late. Maybe it’s already too late. It feels like it is, sitting here in this desolation. Not magnificent desolation either, only the banal Irish brand that was so easy to disregard in times past. Suppose we’re lucky to have the car to shelter in, this wind-shaken tiny car. I found some of the owner’s things in the glove compartment this afternoon. A few photos from a sun holiday. Heathshade spotted exposed female skin and snapped one off me. ‘Let’s have a look.’ He held it in one hand while the other turned the wheel to round a corner. I opened the window and threw the other pictures out.

  The greatest desolation of all is in my head. In the manner of an Antarctic explorer, I ought to step outside declaring I may be some time. Then never come back. Walk to Rosslare, leave these two sour, unpleasant people, one of whom I love. Regain some self-respect in the process.

  It’s so cold on these heights. Fluttering lacework of ice washed now by rain again, glowing globules falling from unseen reaches above. I stretch out my gloved hand to catch one. It passes through as though unimpeded, leaving behind a momentary hiss of vapour. Enemy gore is what they say this is. I don’t know that I believe them yet.

  We require pressure suits to survive. They protect both from the thinness of the air and from the attendant cold. I’m at last, after weeks fearing this moment, at the Front. Shapes await us somewhere above, and our assault begins very soon. There are more than a thousand of us here - we sit and wait close to the edge of the Central Chasm, waiting for the chaos and death to commence.

  The Chasm, the circular shaft at the core of the Cylinder, is more than three stadia across. It stretches the entire length of the Cylinder, from the hot depths of the earth far up into the unknown expanses of cislunar space. It is lit by the shifting colours of the writhing Cosmos as all things, the planets, stars and galaxies, swoop towards final heat death. It is also the theatre of the war we wage against the enemies of the world. This shower of incandescent matter tells of the battle raging not far over our heads, the battle we are soon to join.

  I think of Helen and our unborn child. I know I shouldn’t - if I am to survive what’s to come, my mind must be filled only with battle thoughts. By now I should have been back home with her. My term of conscription was to have ended two months ago, but I have not seen her since I was stationed on the edge of the African Wall. I know only from the brief notes that reach us sporadically that she is well. The last note I received was nearly two weeks ago.

  They tell us this is a time of emergency for the world. The Reserve has been mobilised. Forces have been shipped from all over the globe. The force of which I am now part comprises soldiers of at least ten nationalities - men from beyond the Western Ocean, from the ends of Africa, from the islands of the tropical seas, even Neanderthal mercenaries from the ice wastes of Europe. All are the same inside these glittering silver pressure suits.

  Our sergeant gives the order to check force-weapons. We get to our feet and do so. These are the only weapons we have that are effective against the Shapes, but we are not even sure whether they actually harm them. All that is certain is that they can repel them. The Shapes dive and harry, passing through bewildered warriors, melting organs together, scrambling minds. No Shape has ever been captured. When they are seen it is only as indistinct blurs of colour and form.

  Recent weeks have seen the war reach a crisis point. The front has shifted downwards ten kilometres. Our forces have been thrown back by assaults of unprecedented ferocity and scale. Appeals have been broadcast in the Dublin cities and elsewhere for able-bodied men to report for duty. Now we are to become part of the world's great counter-offensive. If we succeed, we may be able to return the war to its previous status quo. If we fail... No one knows what will happen if we fail.

  A piercing blast sounds in the earpiece inside my helmet. The call to assemble. We line up in formation. Soldiers in row order step into the Chasm and drift upwards towards the fighting. One man, a southern-African, plunges into the gloom silently as his suit levitators fail. I am in the twelfth row. I step into the air and ascend with my squad. Our sergeant is barking orders over our squad channel, keeping us in formation. I drift forward momentarily to dodge a globe of liquid fire falling towards me. The sergeant screams at me to hold my position.

  The first of our squads reaches the front line. Within seconds, burning bodies are falling all around us. Shapes are emerging, like swarms of hornets, from orifices in the Chasm walls. The sergeant cannot keep the fear from his voice as he orders us to hold. I discharge my force-weapon for the first time in anger, but the shot misses and strikes an already charred patch of wall. I fire again and a Shape splits in two. It continues to whirl and dive, its two halves taking several seconds to come together again.

  The sergeant rallies us, manages to induce us to deliver a wide-angle volley. A many-headed Shape charge is repulsed. He urges us onward. The Shapes charge again from high above. We deliver another volley. Again they are repulsed. Men from other squads find heart join us. There are now upwards of forty of us, all under the command of my squad sergeant. We volley again and again, each time pushing the Shapes higher, each time gaining courage.

  In our helmet earpieces we hear the following assault force begin their ascent. If we can just consolidate the gains we have made here, the skirmish will have been carried. The sergeant readies us for another volley. But now I hear screams coming from the men on my left, and from the men on my right. An ambush. The Shapes are pouring out of the wall underneath us. We are cut off from the ascending supporting forces. Men all around me turn to fire and plunge into the depths. The sergeant is killed.

  I cut my suit levitators and fall, gaining speed, through the Shape line below. I fall through the next assault wave as it prepares for its part of the fight. I fall further and further, weeping and screaming, though the undermanned fortifications down below. Soon the battle is visible only as faint flashes high above. My senses return to me, and I re-engage the levitators, slowing myself to a stop.

  Over the coming minutes, burning bodies in hundreds tumble down, terminal velocities slower than that of my still-living form. I try to muster courage to ascend, rejoin the battle, but the horror is too much. Instead I drop slowly towards the city and Helen. Globules hammer the roof of my helmet, miraculously failing to burn through. They pop and splatter, but the thin aluminium holds. Fluid runs down the glass, pockmarking the white layer on the bonnet, creating shadowed craters in the tentative light of the cloud-diffused low-angle dawn sun.

  Christ.

  I reach back to wake Helen, who lies underneath a mass of blankets. She stirs with the greatest reluctance.
r />   ‘You all right?’

  She mumbles and exposes her face to the cold air.

  The door is obstructed by the snow outside, and needs some kicking and shoving to open. Heathshade curses himself awake.

  ‘I need a piss,’ he says. He rolls down the window and – for a second there I thought he was going to kneel on the seat and just do it from there - climbs out.

  Urine steam rises from a caldera of hissing snow, carrying back to us as aerosol despite the pelting rain.

  I trudge farther afield than he, being fully human. The low ridge puts me out of sight. The path ahead continues upward through the snow, albeit on a shallower grade. To the left of the road is a steep decline littered with glacial scree, bottoming out into a narrow valley floor. To the right is a steep hill face that rises perhaps another hundred and fifty feet.

  Back at the car, voided, I am fairly thoroughly soaked by the rain. Heathshade is changing his clothes. Now stripped down to his underpants, he whips these off too.

  I help Helen through the snow to a place of privacy, and then step away. The rainfall starts to come harder, pounding the smooth snow. The cloud overhead is darkening so that the sun no longer makes it through. We’re in a shadowless murk.

  Helen and I scramble back to the car, too late to avoid saturation as the rain becomes a blinding cascade that beats a powerful tattoo on our unprotected heads.

  In the back of the car we get out of our drenched clothes. Heathshade, in the front, presses his face against the window.

  ‘It’s washing away the snow,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’ll wash us away too.’ He turns the ignition key. The engine engages after some spluttering. The wipers wave uselessly against the force of the water.

  I reach forward and grip his shoulder. ‘Hey, don’t try to drive blind.’