by E. J. Swift
Of all the people they could have sent, it had to be him. Feodor, who has so much to lose. She knows exactly how he would have bullied and cajoled to ensure his name was first on the table, employing every last scrap of his influence in the Council, the way he has used it to keep Linus out of sight. Seeing him standing there brings a wave of despair almost greater than the sight of their invaders. She cannot think of anyone more damaging to represent their case.
An usher leads Adelaide to a seat. She can see the terror in the young man’s face, and she murmurs to him, ‘It will be all right.’
A brazen lie, for quite clearly, it will not be all right. But the usher’s hands steady; he backs away and at a nod from the foreigners, he leaves.
Feodor looks her up and down. He laughs, an unmistakably bitter sound.
‘So it is true. I didn’t believe Linus.’
‘You should have listened to him.’
‘Listened to a traitor?’
Adelaide drops her voice.
‘I heard you torched the Whitefly headquarters.’
For a moment she sees the scene: Feodor’s lackeys entering the laboratory with hammers and explosives, smashing up data drives and telescopes, sloshing fuel over the monitoring equipment, an excess of it leaking down in oily puddles. She sees again the tail of the explosion and she wonders if there was any warning for the people in the tower where she used to live.
‘I don’t know what you refer to,’ Feodor says smoothly.
‘Of course you don’t.’
They are both placed facing and below the Boreals, she on the left, Feodor on the right. At the centre of the row of Boreals is a large man whose uniform is heavily decorated. His lips lie slightly apart, revealing the upper front teeth and giving him an expression of incongruous merriment. He addresses her father first.
‘You are Feodor Rechnov?’
‘That is my name. You can refer to me as Councillor Rechnov. That is the capacity in which I represent the people of this city.’
‘And you—’ The Boreal glances down. ‘You are known as the Silverfish.’
‘That’s correct.’
Feodor laughs again.
‘That is my daughter, Adelaide Rechnov.’
‘Familial relations do not interest us.’ The Boreal looks at Feodor. ‘You represent the eastern side of the city.’
‘I represent the City,’ he says contemptuously. ‘Our city.’
The force of Feodor’s will has a physical weight. Adelaide has felt it before; in the past it has swayed entire Councils to Feodor’s way of thinking. Now she senses him consciously directing it towards these strangers. Difficult to say whether she wants him to succeed or not: they don’t yet know which way the current flows.
The smiling Boreal turns his attention to Adelaide.
‘And you represent the western side of the city?’
‘I do.’
Feodor cannot restrain a snort. Adelaide resists glancing across at him. She is his weakness; this is clear to her now in a way that it never was before. But he should know better than to reveal it to these outsiders. The city’s only hope for survival may be to work together, which means she and her father have to co-operate, however much each of them detests the prospect.
‘I am Commander-in-Chief Katu Ben,’ says the Boreal leader. ‘I represent Alaskan interests. You should note my colleagues Luciana Tan, representing the Sino-Siberian Federation, and Marc Bernier of Veerdeland. We’ll be leading the transfer of jurisdiction. We understand the city is divided, which is why we’ve brought you here today – to work through the practicalities of Boreal governance.’
‘The city of Osiris is an independent state,’ says Feodor forcefully. ‘It was declared as such in the year of twenty-three forty-six. Your presence here is unlawful.’
‘On the contrary.’ Katu Ben gazes at Feodor with a clear, unblinking stare. ‘The City of Osiris may have declared itself independent, but independence was never formally granted by the Boreal States – which, I’ll remind you, paid for every cent of its construction. You remain a colony of the states of the north.’
Feodor squares his shoulders, making the most of his imposing frame. He adopts a leisurely, benign smile.
‘You have not set foot in the city for over fifty years. What right do you think you have over its citizens?’
‘A legal right,’ says the Boreal calmly. ‘But the fifty years is, as you say, pertinent. Fifty years is a long time for a city to disappear. A very long time. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It’s not our fault if you ignored our distress signal,’ interjects Adelaide.
‘There was no distress signal.’
‘You’re mistaken. Or your technologies failed to intercept it.’
‘There was no distress signal,’ Katu Ben repeats. ‘Or have you been colluding with the Antarcticans this past half a century? For that, I have to point out, would be an act of treason against the Boreal States. If treason is proved…’ He trails away, looking at both of them with apparent surprise.
Feodor tenses in genuine outrage.
‘The Antarcticans have been as lax as yourselves in coming to our aid. We’ve had nothing to do with them. On the contrary, we’ve been left to rot. You want our city? Well, here it is. Take it, and pay for the repairs while you’re at it.’
‘Feodor, for stars’ sake—’
‘I mean it!’ he shouts. ‘They want it, they get it all, including your little western crusade, Adelaide.’ Feodor is on his feet now. ‘So I hope you’ve got the resources to patrol a border and keep down terrorist attacks. I hope you’ve got the solar skin and the bufferglass to patch up the leaking towers and pump dry the flooded ones, and fix the ring-net too while you’re at it – I hear one of your submarines has already ploughed through the northern barrier and now we’ve got a rabid shark cruising around the waterways. There’s a reason we keep that ring-net in place.’
‘Local governance is your concern,’ says the Boreal. ‘We are here simply to oversee. So – this is how it’s going to work. You will report to us. The city will be economically viable, and pay tax to the Boreal States like any other colony. My advice: take the time to read these directives – at your leisure, of course, but not too slowly. Take them back to your Council, and explain to them how the administration will work from hereon. That is the extent of your role. No more.’
His voice carries a note of warning, but Feodor does not heed it.
‘And if the Council refuse, as undoubtedly they will?’
‘They should not refuse.’
‘And if they do?’
‘If you refuse to comply with our entirely reasonable demands, the Boreal States will have no choice but to enforce them.’
‘Now we come to it,’ says Feodor. He folds his arms. ‘All bullies are the same at heart.’
‘Just so we’re clear, what exactly do you mean when you say “enforce them”?’ asks Adelaide.
The Boreal leader looks at her, and while he speaks his mouth remains in that perpetual upward curve. Nothing, says that smile, could delight him more to be in this room on this day, dispensing these orders.
‘Let me tell you something.’ He leans forwards conspiratorially. ‘I have had to obliterate cities of my own people under the eyes of the world to preserve the Alaskan state. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m a man of empty threats. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand you perfectly.’
The blandness in Katu Ben’s voice terrifies her.
‘I hope that you do.’
‘Threats don’t go so nicely with your policies of governance, if I may say so.’
Katu Ben lets his gaze rove over the empty Chambers. Adelaide can almost read the calculations as he evaluates every aspect of the wealth on display.
‘When it comes to rogue states, we aren’t left with much choice.’ He nods to his left and right. ‘As I’m sure our neighbouring nations would agree.’
A Boreal officer rolls over a trolley.
‘It’s been so very, very long, no one was sure what level of technology you were working with,’ says Katu Ben. ‘We have made the relevant documents available in various formats.’
‘Too kind.’ Feodor’s voice is thick with sarcasm.
‘We’ll leave you to absorb these in your own time. Well,’ Ben consults a device in front of him, ‘within the next twenty-four hours. We’ve arranged a handover ceremony to take place tomorrow evening, when the city’s new governor will be announced. You can put your DNA to these documents then.’
‘And the city’s new governor?’ Adelaide asks. ‘Am I right in assuming that’s you?’
Katu Ben inclines his head.
‘In the transitional stage. Until we find someone more permanent. Believe me, none of us wish to spend any more time here than we have to.’
‘Should have guessed,’ she mutters. ‘Should have fucking guessed.’
‘Now do you see? Now do you see, you stupid girl? Where your idiotic, thoughtless schemes have led us?’
‘Shut up, Feodor, they’re probably bugging us—’
Feodor’s hand tightens on her wrist. She shakes it off.
‘The Chambers are a sacred site!’ he shouts.
‘Not any more, they aren’t. Let’s get out somewhere we can talk, for stars’ sake.’
They hurry back to the aquarium lifts of the Eye Tower. Adelaide takes the lead, leaving Feodor no choice but to follow her, taking the lift to the seventieth floor and walking briskly through the tower until they reach the private shuttle platform reserved for Council use. Adelaide calls the shuttle pod. She can hear rain pattering on the roof of the tunnel. It hasn’t stopped since yesterday. Feodor pays it no attention; he is apoplectic with rage.
‘You are so very ignorant, Adelaide. You always have been – wilfully so. Why do you think you were never told about Whitefly? I couldn’t trust you. And now you see why it was necessary – now those monsters have come to shit all over us!’
‘You could never have kept it up, Feodor, it was a stupid plan. Think how everyone in the city feels now they know they’ve been lied to. Do you think they’ll trust you now?’
He looks impatiently down the tunnel.
‘It was the only viable plan.’
‘It doesn’t matter now. It was only a question of time, and now your time’s up. What the hell are we going to do about this? Have you thought about that?’
‘You think I’m going to discuss this situation with you like a rational individual?’
‘Don’t forget I represent the west.’
He snorts.
‘Of course, you’re all for terrier rights now.’
‘For some people, Boreal governance might be a whole lot better than life under the jurisdiction of your precious Council.’
Feodor’s cheeks redden, emphasizing the fine capillaries running through his skin. She can see the tic working in his cheek.
‘Better?’ he explodes. ‘Better?’
‘We’re both negotiating here. You for your side, me for mine.’
‘If you do this to spite me, you’ll be condemning the entire city.’
‘It’s not about spite. It’s about survival.’
She stares at the spotless white platform.
‘Do you ever think about all those people whose murders you authorized, Feodor? All those lives? Boreal lives, some of them. I’m not surprised you burned that laboratory.’
‘Your problem, Adelaide, is that you never look at the bigger picture. You’ve spent your entire life playing with your heritage as if it were a toy. You’ve never been put in a position where the only options are impossible ones.’
She looks up then, looks at him straight on.
‘I might have done that once but I’m not playing now. Work with me here.’
Feodor ignores her.
‘The fact is, I did what I had to do to protect this city and I’d do it over again.’
‘You make me sick.’
‘And your grandfather? Does he make you feel the same way? You should talk to him. Ask him why he initiated this. It might give you some perspective. We’re a small fish in an ocean of sharks, Adelaide. Our only hope was camouflage. I didn’t create Whitefly – I inherited it.’
‘Why don’t you send Linus in your place? He knows how to negotiate. He and I could work together. We might have a chance.’
‘I can’t trust Linus any more than I can trust you.’
‘What have you done with him, anyway?’
‘He’ll stay out of sight. Out of trouble.’
‘Put the bodyguard on him, have you? How is Goran these days?’
She turns away, too angry to continue. How can he remain so blinkered, after everything they’ve heard today? The call light on the platform is flashing, but there’s no sign of the approaching pod. Outside, the towers loom as dim, indistinct shapes through the translucent tunnel walls and the misty rain.
‘There has to be something we have,’ she says. ‘Something we can offer them, to leave us alone.’
‘Are you out of your mind? You heard what I said in there – Osiris can barely cover its repairs. You know the only way this city stays afloat is by keeping the west in its place. With a proper decision, taken with care, we might have found a way to contact land – the Antarcticans, perhaps, or the Solar Corporation. Maybe.’
His voice drops. He might be talking to himself.
‘It’s too late for that,’ he says. ‘You’ve doomed us.’
Adelaide looks at him. She can see the tiredness, the dejection, and for the first time she thinks there might be something behind that draconian exterior, some hitherto unsuspected emotion driving her father’s actions. But she cannot sympathize. She knows that nothing she could possibly say would convince him to see things differently. He might make a show of it now, but Feodor would never have made contact with land. The idea is outside of his lexicon.
‘Where’s this fucking shuttle?’ he snaps.
‘I don’t think it’s coming. You’ll have to walk.’
She leaves him alone on the platform, peering into the tunnel, as if by sheer force of will he can conjure up the pod. If they can’t work together, they’ll have to work apart. He to his people and she to hers.
Unless, she thinks. Unless there’s another way. If I can only get hold of Linus, we might have a chance to redeem this mess.
Twenty westerners and Adelaide Rechnov gather in an undersea room of an old warehouse tower. Dien. The gang lords: a Roch leader, the chain-link tattoo lurid around his bare neck. The leader of the rival Juraj gang, resurrected by his niece after Juraj’s assassination last year. The shadow-figures behind the manta trade, the black market. A table. A conference where guns are laid down in front of their owners and bodyguards hover at the exits. They talk. Lay out the possibilities, unfolding each like a piece of silk wrapped around a jewel. They let the possibilities shine, clear and unambiguous. Assassination. Rebellion. A strike on a Boreal submarine, knife to the heart, show them some southern steel. Dien argues. We need the City now. Over there they have firepower; stand together and we have a chance. A Roch counters: but then again, what if we’re better without them? What if we use them, what if this is our chance to set the City straight? How can we trust her, the Silverfish, a Rechnov? Why should she represent our interests?
Adelaide shrugs. You can go, she says. You can go, but know this. Your interests are tiny to theirs. They come from a bigger world, a world where cities are pieces in a game of dice. We’re krill to them, and they don’t care if we put a name to this article or not, but if we don’t I can promise you one thing: they’ll burn us to the Atum Shelf.
After the meeting she takes out her scarab and enters the code for her brother Linus. She can hear the whisper of static as the scarab attempts to connect with the Reef, but there is no response: the Boreals must be blocking the channels.
Let’s do it western-style, then. She dispatches one of Dien’s crew to the Undersea, bound fo
r the City with a handwritten note. The Boreals might have their submarines, but they can’t monitor every one of the city’s security points.
In Dien’s apartment she lies awake, haunted by thoughts of the Boreals: the memory of their cold eyes and soft hands, the smiling one impassive at their centre. Questions run through her head. Who are these people? Can she use them? Should she use them? Is she on the side of the west or the side of the City, or on the side of Osiris? How can she advocate for one without the other?
The schism between themselves and the Boreals seems insurmountable. The northerners have not sent diplomats to negotiate; they have sent an army to conquer. She knows, with absolute certainty, that they will never understand what it is to be Osirian, and they will not try to. They will never know the desolation of believing themselves the last. They will never feel the siren lure of the water, a call to abandon, to drown because there is nothing else, only this glittering, decaying, impossible city. They will not throw salt over their shoulders or raise a glass to the ghosts. They will not press wrists in greeting. To Adelaide, so often scornful of these customs that run through the fabric of Osirian society, they now seem infinitely precious. And she feels strongly, fiercely Osirian in a way she has never conceived of before.
But she has nothing. Her hands are not only tied, they are empty. What can Osiris offer the might of the Boreal nations? The City is already in turmoil, torn between the ungiving will of her father and the evangelical fervour of her brother. The west has been poised to spiral into gang warfare for months. Even if we unite, she thinks, what do we have?
‘Rechnov. Are you awake?’
Dien’s voice is soft as a feather.
‘Yes, I’m awake.’
‘I can’t sleep.’
‘Nor can I.’
She senses Dien feeling for words, battling with the thing she has been battling with since the Boreals appeared.