At the Edge of the Game

by Power, Gareth

  Plumes of smoke rise from hundreds of buildings. Urban Guard helicopters fly about to no effect. A new, more terrible rain has begun: the shapes themselves have broken through the final human defences in the Cylinder, and are coming down to earth for the first time in all of recorded history. Like a swarm of locusts they descend on the defenceless population and begin their murderous work.

  I run as fast as I can through the streets, pushing past terrified citizens seeking shelter. A fireball lands directly in the centre of a fountain, and all the water vaporises. The superheated steam is swept past me on the wind, sears my skin. I scramble onto Harcourt Street and follow the tramline.

  There is a third tremor, this one powerful enough to topple me. I lose my grasp of the force weapon, and it clatters along the street. A young boy stops and looks at it, torn between picking it up and heeding his parents’ calls. I push the boy out of the way and grab the weapon, ducking past the boy’s angry father.

  Our street. I can see the window of our living room high in the spired block. The lift isn’t working, so I rush up the stairwell. Where is this strength coming from? It’s as though gravity were halved, as though my lungs were three times the size.

  I hammer the apartment door with my fists, kick it, shoulder it, but it won’t open. Curse the heavens. What am I to do? Without her there is nothing. I’m losing my strength. Lying inert here, looking into the blank blueness of the sky through the skylight, I see a Shape flit past.

  ‘George.’

  Helen. I saw no door open.

  ‘Wake up, George.’

  She’s shaking me. The skylight is gone, replaced by a procession of saints or apostles dimly lit, flaking, disintegrating. A raftered church roof.

  How did you –

  I didn’t say that –

  ‘How did – ‘ I gag and cough. She pours a little water into my mouth.

  ‘How did you get me out of the city?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Shapes…’

  She helps me up. I get myself into a sitting position against a pillar. A suffocating space. A church crammed with people. A multitude in the kind of abjection and degradation that inspires not so much pity as the urge to run away.

  Families claim patches of territory on the pewless floor, slumped, eyes hooded in the watery light. A child is sitting on the step of the nearest confessional gnawing bread. A fire burns at the altar Pagan-style. Someone stirs a pot of something. Steam and smoke in the stale air. It settles in the lungs, adheres stinging on one’s corneas.

  We have our own patch, a spread tartan blanket. Helen lays her head on a pillow. There’s another. I take the other and set it against the pillar.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Carrick-on-Suir.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Somewhere in the south-east.’

  ‘Near Rosslare?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How did we get here?’

  ‘Jesus, George. How do you think?’

  A door creaks open behind. Three men dressed for the cold. One of them is Heathshade. All have shotguns. People rise and greet them.

  The man to Heathshade’s right - a priest - addresses the ragged congregation.

  ‘We have a deal,’ he says.

  Some people cheer.

  ‘St Molleran’s will share with us. We have this man to thank for it.’ The clergyman claps Heathshade on the back. Heathshade draws himself up, puffs his chest.

  ‘They wouldn’t open their doors to us. They told us to go away. But this man Marcus pushed inside. Someone raised a stick at him, but he grabbed it and threw it away.’

  The priest looks at him as though he were sent down from Heaven to rescue the flock. A trick of the light surrounds Heathshade’s skull with a very faint halo.

  ‘He went straight to Warburton and faced him down, shamed him. Warburton backed away, knowing he was in the wrong. But still he wouldn’t negotiate.’

  Heathshade breaks in. ‘So I says, ‘Listen to me - I’m a highly trained British Army combat specialist. I’ve been in do-or-die situations, and I know what I’m talking about. Understand this – I’m helping you to boost your survival chances. The people in the Friary ain’t your enemies, they’re your friends. Those bastards across the river are your enemies. You need to fight them. Form an alliance, share what you have, and listen to me. Believe me when I say this – I can help you to get your food back. All of it. Enough to last you months. I’m a specialist, I know exactly what I’m talking about, and on my mother’s life, I guarantee you we can root out those fuckers and get back what they stole from you.’

  They men in the room let out a triumphant roar, and woman rush forward to embrace him. It is, I don’t doubt, the greatest moment of his life. He catches my eye and winks.

  I resume my position behind the pillar, gazing over the cold mosaic floor where only the very young, the very old, and the very sick remain while the rest huzzah the would-be saviour.

  I approached the harbour from the south - over the ocean - to give him a few minutes' warning of my approach. Hovering, I inspected the area. The habitat was secured amongst the trees on the slope above the cove, safely out of range of the tide. The equipment and food crates were strewn about carelessly. The flatboat sat on the rocks down in the cove, empty. I could not see Dexter, but his recent activity was evident. The side of the iceberg closest to Dexter’s habitation was marked with several holes, which seemed to penetrate deep inside the ice. It was clear that he had done considerable work since I had left.

  I landed the ship at the edge of the water just outside the harbour, far enough away that Dexter could not pose me much of a threat. I stepped out onto the beach. I saw the old man about half a kilometre away, heading in my direction in the jet-powered flatboat. Seeing me, he waved, and I waved back.

  He grounded the flatboat on the sand and beckoned me forward. I remained at a safe distance.

  ‘Good to see you again, Xian.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Passable. You provided for my needs.’

  ‘Dexter, I'm sorry-’

  ‘No, you've done me a favour. This week has been good for me. I feel rejuvenated, reinvigorated. The days of isolation have cleared my mind, given me focus. If I could only describe to you the dreams I've been having since you went away.’

  ‘What are you trying to do here?’

  ‘I’ve been using the probes to tunnel in through the ice. Their lasers are powerful enough to burn through it, but at a slow rate. It will take me a few more days to reach the seaship.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Then I touch the past.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, who knows? As the old truism goes, it’s not the destination that matters. All I ask of you is to go away and leave me alone to deepen the peace I have discovered. The mystery of this place will reveal itself to me in good time.’

  ‘You mean you want me to leave you here?’

  ‘For now. Just promise me you’ll take good care of the ship. I may claim it back from you sometime in the future, but for the time being consider it yours.’

  ‘Dexter-’

  ‘Go!’ He pushed the boat back into the water and hopped in. Moments later the silent jet engine was carrying him away across the water.

  ‘I'll come back in another week!’ I called after him. He made no acknowledgement that he had heard.

  I watched his progress all the way back to the cove. I wondered if he was insane, and what I should do if he was. But I had no desire to take him from this place when it clearly meant so much to him to remain here. And there was certainly no way that I was going to stay to look after him. At least he seemed capable of looking after himself. That meant that I didn't have to feel too guilty about leaving him again.

  Does the Suir still flow through an ice tunnel? No one seems to care except me. From here, looking across the ice-topped Old Bridge spanning the frozen river, we can see the high barricade at the top of Bridge Street. Smoke rises
from Main Street chimneys. The paramilitaries sit there with food enough to last months, safe in their enclosure. Our survival – by which I mean the survival of Helen and I, as well as, I suppose, the group to which we now seem to belong - depends on one of two things. Either the winter finally ends – this accursed alternation between days of shattering cold and springtime warmth does not constitute a viable state of affairs – or we somehow defeat the Unity IRA and take back the food.

  Escape is not an option. They say that communication with Waterford ceased before the last big storm, and the route is still impassable. To leave town would be to ask for death.

  Anyway, maybe the Unity IRA is in control there too. If they’ve taken this town, they might have defeated State forces throughout the country. No point in leaving here to find similar or worse trouble there.

  Warburton says there are about seventy of them holed up in the centre of town, including their women and children. Doesn’t seem like that many. However, the fact that they have automatic weapons does count for a lot. There are no police or soldiers in here to lead us. The police were killed during the initial assault on the town.

  ‘Let’s go,’ says Heathshade, and we men follow him, even Warburton, erstwhile leader of the group. They seem to have swallowed Heathshade’s yarn about being some kind of military survival expert. The moment has passed when I might have been able to tell them it’s a lie. They believe in him now. They need to believe that someone has control, that someone can deliver them from this mess. They’d probably turn on me if I started naysaying.

  Following our heroic leader, we trudge downriver to the New Bridge, which we cross to an observation position covered by a thick, ancient wall. Only Heathshade, Warburton and the priest Friar Aspen are armed, and they only with shotguns. The rest of us… why are we here? Unarmed, we can do nothing. We’re tagging along to escape the indignity of not participating. To sit here behind an ice-coated wall yards from the enemy is to have evaded Useless Lump status. And so we observe. What field-of-combat assessments we are supposed to be making, I’m not completely sure.

  The IRA barricade is composed mainly of a couple of vans lying on their sides, in addition to which are arranged some planks, pieces of furniture, bricks, concrete blocks, bags of cement. A tricolour flies at the summit. A guard stands atop one of the vans, holding a machine gun. He spots us, fires off a round that hits the other side of the wall.

  ‘Crawl back under your rock, boys!’

  It’s a cultured voice, vaguely Anglo-Irish. The most pernicious of all nationalistic lunatics, that breed.

  ‘That’s Glandore,’ Heathshade says. ‘He is a cocky fucker.’

  Glandore. So that’s him then. Feared paramilitary leader, mastermind of the town’s takeover.

  Heathshade stands and empties barrels at him. The IRA man dives for cover. All of a sudden there’s much shouting, cursing, and running around in the enemy camp.

  ‘How do you like that, you bastard?’

  Heathshade’s pleased with himself.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says to us.

  We beat a hasty retreat across the river, keeping low behind the wall for safety. Submachine gun fire splatters the other side, sending sprays of chip and dust rising skywards.

  Back at the church, Heathshade summarises the tactical situation on a tourist map of the town. There are high barricades at the West Gate, at the top of Bridge Street, in the Church Street archway, and at the end of the Main Street. Approaches remain relatively open from the quay to the Main Street through back alleys, but these are likely to be covered by snipers stationed in upper Main Street windows.

  ‘We need a plan of attack, lads,’ he says.

  The light of authority is in Heathshade’s eyes.

  ‘We have to take the initiative. We draw them into an ambush. How do we do that?’

  He looks around, but no one deigns to answer.

  ‘Here’s how. We provoke them by attacking them.’

  At least he sounds like he knows what he’s doing. I’ll give him that.

  ‘But first,’ he says, ‘we need to know our own strengths and weaknesses. Weapons. Manpower. Local knowledge. You’re all locals, aren’t you? What do you know about their disposition? What do you know about them? Who are they? Are they locals too? I want you thinking. Tell me what you know.’

  Temporarily forgotten are cold, hunger, fatigue.

  ‘Good stuff, Conor. Excellent, Dan.’

  Each man wants to be the first to deliver a nugget of intelligence to the Great Leader.

  Claps on the back. Manly camaraderie.

  Heathshade’s got it all going on now.

  The icing on the cake: a woman - her name is Daisy Carruth, I believe. She brings a mug of soup to him, lays a hand briefly on his shoulder.

  He takes it in stride. I’ve seen him talking to her before, the two of them murmuring in a corner as her little girl sat nearby with one of the chocolate bars Heathshade stole in Banlian.

  This may well be the fall of civilisation, but it’s very probably Heathshade’s finest hour. These last few days in this town have been an unqualified triumph for him. I very much doubt that he’s ever had it this good. Hero, leader of men, attractor of women…

  But I fear that the charlatan’s winning streak can’t last, that he will lead the town, and possibly me and Helen with it, into the jaws of disaster.

  For two days I idled on my island. I scarcely had a conscious thought in all that time. My universe had contracted again to the circumference of the bay, and nothing mattered but rest, food and the warmth of the sun. But my mood soon began to change again. A desire grew in me to visit the other planets, to see at first hand how time, and whatever other forces might have been extant in the Solar System in recent millennia, had changed them. I made the necessary preparations and departed from the Earth on the third day after I had left Dexter to his spiritual quest, or whatever it was.

  The Unquiet Spirit's gravitational field generator protected me from the crushing effects of inertia as the ship accelerated to several percent of the speed of light in only half an hour. This was incredible technology, well beyond the capabilities of my time. Even without the huge relativistic boosters, the Unquiet Spirit could function as a serviceable, if slow, interstellar craft.

  I travelled sunwards to begin with, and attained Venus orbit in five hours. In my own day the planet had been in the late stages of an atmospheric seeding program. It had been beginning to show some signs of cooling as the carbon dioxide level in its crushingly dense atmosphere decreased. The thick, acidic clouds had been thinning, revealing from time to time fleeting glimpses of small patches of the scorched surface.

  Now the clouds were long gone, and so was the rest of the atmosphere. The surface of Venus was touched by perfect vacuum, its mountain ranges beset not by the hot, acidic winds of millennia ago, but now the unfettered particle wind emanating from the Sun. The unconcealed face of Venus was composed of wide, dry ocean basins and sinuous river valleys.

  I did not linger long over Mercury. It resembled the Moon of my own time far more closely than the streaked, smooth Moon that presently orbited the Earth. Its airless, cratered surface looked much as it always had. It looked like humans had never had much use for Mercury.

  Passing through the solar corona, the Unquiet Spirit accelerated towards Mars. In a few hours I was gazing upon the planet's icy surface from low orbit. Its red colour was no more. Its clear atmosphere of carbon dioxide was fifty times thicker than it had been in the 23rd Century, bringing it up to 500 millibars, on average. Mars was now uniformly covered with ice except on the most violently windswept slopes of the highest peaks. The windward side of Olympus Mons was particularly bare and jagged.

  The Unquiet Spirit powered away from Mars orbit and skirted around the densest regions of the Asteroid Belt on the way to Jupiter. The giant planet now had three red spots. One hugged the equator, as though shepherded by its companions in the tropics.

  Of the Galilean satel
lites, Io, Ganymede and Callisto were gone. At the time I imagined that they must have been dismantled for raw material in some advanced engineering endeavour. I discovered after I had returned to Earth that they now orbited the Sun as independent planets between the orbits of Jupiter and Saturn. Europa still circled Jupiter in its natural orbit, but had changed dramatically in character. In the 23rd Century its ocean had lain beneath a smooth crust of ice that shielded it from the vacuum of space. Now the ocean roiled within a thick atmosphere primarily composed of water vapour and sulphur dioxide. There was no land. Enormous bubbles of steam and sulphurous fumes erupted constantly through the tortured ocean surface. The expelled water vapour quickly fell again into the sea as sulphuric acid rain. Data gathered by the ship showed that the Jovian magnetic field had intensified greatly since the 23rd Century. As the satellite passed through this field, powerful eddy currents in the Europan interior heated its core, driving the extreme volcanic activity.

  Saturn had lost its rings. The thick clouds of its greatest satellite, Titan, shrouded the cold surface of that enigmatic world in perpetual twilight. Titan's methane oceans washed against jagged black shores of carbonaceous rock, and powerful Saturn-driven tides flooded regions the size of small countries every Titanian day.

  In the 23rd Century, the axis of rotation of Uranus had been almost perpendicular to the plane of the ecliptic. Now it was nearly parallel. Like the destruction of Saturn's rings, this phenomenon could have been natural in origin, but I doubted that it was.

  Though I had discovered no ruins, detected no ancient, dead spacecraft between the planets, it was clear that civilisation in the Solar System had at some time reached the level of large-scale planetary engineering. The Neptunian system contained the most overt trace of ancient civilisation. A threadlike, gold-coloured tether joined frigid, patchwork Triton and its parent Neptune, extending mysteriously into the giant world's turbulent atmosphere. Yet no other structure was visible on Triton. The shining cable seemed to be anchored deep inside its crust to no apparent purpose. The rest of the system had been swept clear. Neptune's partial rings were gone, and there were no satellites except Triton. There seemed to be no debris in Neptune's orbit more significant than space dust.