Ark

by Stephen Baxter

  Edward Kenzie and Patrick Groundwater came bustling up. They both wore AxysCorp coveralls emblazoned with bus numbers, ′B-6′, the same number as Kelly and Holle. ′Thank God.′ Patrick grabbed Holle′s arms and kissed her. She thought he looked more strained, more tired, greyer every time they got together. ′Are you OK?′

  ′I′m fine. It′s just, it′s a work day and you′re not in a suit.′ She forced a laugh. ′It makes everything seem real.′

  ′Oh, it′s real, all right,′ Edward Kenzie growled. ′And getting more real every damn second.′ He was plump, determined, and angry, Holle thought, angry at the encroaching flood, or angry at the swarming crowds who were causing such peril to his daughter and grandson, and his project. He was listening to an earpiece. ′They′re loading our bus. The National Guard have kept this doorway clear. But they lost control of the main entrance and there′s some kind of pitched battle going on around the old school group entrance. You wouldn′t believe it, that it′s come to this.′

  ′That′s the flood for you,′ Patrick said. ′It reaches us all, in the end.′

  The exit door was opening at last. It was a big heavy security gate that had replaced the old theatre entrance. They picked up their gear and formed a shuffling line. Holle saw a glimmer of daylight for the first time that morning, and heard shouting.

  She turned for one last glance back at the theatre. A forest of cables and pulleys hung from the ceiling, from which the Candidates had been suspended during zero-gravity sims, assembling spacecraft components and squirting themselves this way and that with reaction pistols. She remembered how they had swooped like birds, laughing, while their tutors had watched, smiling, earthbound. Now she was leaving this haven, and would never play such games again. She turned away and walked out into the daylight.

  28

  Out in the open air the sky was clear, blue as a bird′s egg; it was a beautiful Colorado fall morning of the kind the old-timers said you rarely saw any more. To the west the Rockies rose, serene as always, grand above the human fray. But Holle was shocked at the barrage of noise, and an overpowering stink of burning.

  There were people everywhere, confronting lines of cops and National Guard troopers. The crowd was surging around the main entrance on Colorado Boulevard. The intention was to take the Candidates south down Colorado, and she could see that the roadway was being kept clear, a corridor of fencing and barbed wire manned by troopers stationed every few metres. The buses were lined up waiting for them, fat with armour, their windows sealed up with bullet-proof plate, weapons bristling from gun ports. There was her own bus with B-6 clumsily marked on its unpainted flank.

  The Candidates were smuggled through a wire tunnel towards the junction of Colorado with 17th Avenue, and the buses. And suddenly, beyond the fence, just a metre from Holle′s face, were hostiles, as Don called them, mostly young men, but older folk and women and children too. Some, crushed by the great weight of the people behind them, were pressed up against the wire so hard the diamond mesh pushed into the flesh of their hands and faces. When the Candidates were recognised there was a kind of howl. The mob pressed harder, and the fence actually swayed. Troopers fired warning shots in the air.

  Kelly flinched. ′Jesus.′

  ′Just keep moving,′ Don murmured, his automatic rifle ready in his hands.

  Edward Kenzie grunted. ′Strategic errors. You′re too close to the City Park and its eye-dee camps. And we should have got you guys out of here long before evacuation day.′

  ′But they′re not all eye-dees,′ Holle said. ′Look, that guy is in a cop uniform.′

  ′It′s all breaking down,′ Don said bleakly. ′There just isn′t room for everybody in the big new fortified camps in the Rockies. Even if you were a federal worker or a cop or a doctor or a lawyer yesterday, if you lost out in the block ballots you′re on that side of the fence now, suddenly you′re an eye-dee, just as worthless as the rest.′

  Holle knew the basic plan, the city′s response to the final crisis. Although the experts said it might be another year yet before the waters actually lapped over the steps of the Capitol and the famous ′mile-high′ engraving, Holle had heard that from downtown sky-scrapers you could already look out over the city, and see the bare peaks of the Rockies Front Range to the west, and to the east a shimmer of blue-grey, the ocean that had drowned America. And as the eastern states collapsed, Denver, the largest city for a thousand kilometres and the home of the federal government for nearly twenty years, had become a sink-hole for refugees. Holle had seen satellite images of the great transportation routes turned to muddy brown threads by the unending columns, each pixel a human being, adults laden with children and old folk and pulling carts and barrows.

  President Peery and his administration had fled already, nobody was sure where to - perhaps to the great Cold War bunker buried deep inside Cheyenne Mountain. The bulk of the urban citizens, those selected by the lotteries and who had chosen to go, were being shepherded west to new fastnesses in the Rockies, cities of tents and plastic panels thrown up on the remaining high ground. The main official evacuation route ran from the south of here, along Sixth Avenue which then became US 6, and from there along the 470 beltway to the I-70 and west. Holle and the rest of the Project Nimrod people, however, were being sent south of here, down Colorado Boulevard through Glendale to Englewood, and then they would take the I-285 towards the south-west, where some would be siphoned off to the Mission Control complex at Alma or the launch centre at Gunnison. Both of these centres had been well provisioned and fortified.

  This was the best the government could do in this final emergency, as its very capital was overrun, and its control over the people and their resources began to dissolve. This was the plan.

  But right now Holle still hadn′t got on the bus.

  ′See that pillar of smoke over there?′ Kenzie said harshly. ′The State Capitol building burning to the ground. These people make me sick. They should be building fucking rafts. Not taking it out on the cops or smashing stuff up or screaming at a bunch of kids.′

  Kelly′s baby started crying.

  And the fence collapsed.

  Holle saw the glint of wire-cutters. The great press of people did the rest. Hundreds of ragged bodies spilled forward onto the ground. The troopers, reacting to bellowed commands, stepped back, firing into the swarming mass. Blood splashed and there were more screams. But the danger came not from the initial heaping of fallen people but from those who followed, who stayed on their feet and stepped over the bodies, armed with knives, clubs and machetes.

  Holle saw all this in a few blurred seconds. She stood in shock, still clutching her pack.

  Then there was a crush from behind as the bus passengers closed up, driven by Don and the other military. ′Get on the buses! On the buses! Drop all your shit, just get on the buses!′ Holle fought to stay on her feet, to move forward. Her pack was ripped off her back in the crush. She didn′t know where her father was.

  The eye-dees closed in. Now Candidates were fighting, using fists and feet. She saw Wilson Argent in his bright costume driving his fist into the face of an eye-dee who was trying to haul him out of the line.

  But she was close to the buses now. The first bus was actually moving off, its doors and windows sealed up, driving purposefully with people clinging to its doors and its armoured roof. She was only a couple of metres away from B-6, but a mass of people were still in her way.

  ′Holle! Here!′ It was her father. Over the heads of the struggling crowd she saw that he had got to the bus. He was clinging to a rail with one hand, and was reaching out to her with the other. ′Holle! Grab my hand! Come on—′

  Holle launched herself through the crowd, struggling and pushing. If she could just get to her father she could yet be safe. She reached out. His hand was half a metre away.

  Kelly screamed, somewhere to her left. ′Get off me!′ A couple of eye-dees had hold of her. She swung her fist, but, clutching her baby in his papoose, ther
e was little she could do.

  Holle didn′t even think about it. She hurled herself into the struggling mob. Sheer momentum carried her past Kelly, who broke free. Holle landed one satisfying fist in the face of an eye-dee - a middle-aged man, she saw, his face bloodied, dirt-streaked yet neatly shaven, a bewildering detail.

  But he didn′t fall. He grabbed her by her shoulders and hauled her bodily out of the melee. Now more hands grabbed her arms, legs, somebody even got a handful of her short hair, and she was hauled away into a crush of squirming bodies and legs. She was being carried away from the bus, from her father. Panicking, she struggled. She was kicked and punched. Nobody reacted when she screamed, because everybody else in the world was screaming.

  Then she was dumped on the ground, still surrounded by the mob. A face loomed over her, a man′s face, neatly shaven. The man she had first attacked. ′I′m sorry!′ he yelled down at her. ′Sorry! It′s for my daughter. Try to understand …′

  She felt hands at her neck, her waist, her clothes being pulled from her.

  A blinding pain erupted in her head.

  29

  ′You might want to put those on.′

  A breeze on her face.Something hard,lumpy under her back. Fragmentary impressions. She felt water trickling into her lips, stale, sour. Was somebody fooling around, Wilson or Kelly maybe?

  But she wasn′t in the dorm. She shook her head, trying to get away from the trickle of water, and moaned. Her head hurt.

  She opened her eyes. She saw a slab of blue sky, between the walls of two tall buildings. The water hitting her face came from some overflow pipe, high on the wall above her.

  Disgusted, she rolled over. Every movement set blinding lights flashing in her eyes. She was sitting in the dirt, on flagstones. And she was stripped to her underwear. ′Shit.′ She closed her arms over her chest and crotch.

  ′I said, you might want to put those on.′

  She turned around. Somebody sat in the shade, leaning against one wall. He had bare feet, ragged jeans, a jacket with a logo faded almost to invisibility. His hair was a black mop, and he had a wisp of beard. He couldn′t have been more than seventeen, eighteen. He was staring at her chest.

  ′Quit looking at me.′

  ′Well, you′re the one with her boobies out. I say again, you ought to put those on.′ He was a Latino, she thought, his voice lightly accented.

  She looked, and found a heap of filthy clothes beside her, a kind of coverall, an undershirt. They stank. ′These aren′t mine.′

  ′I know. The guy dumped you here, he left them. Said they were his daughter′s. Said you′d understand.′

  She stared at him. ′Where are my clothes?′

  ′He took ′em. Guy with the daughter. Fancy red and blue gear, right? I thought I knew your face. You′re a Candidate. What′s it like to be famous?′

  She heard shouting, whistles blowing, a crackle of radios somewhere nearby. Dogs barked. She stared at the garbage clothes, uncomprehending. ′This guy - this man. What was he trying to do, make out his daughter is a Candidate? Who did he think that was going to fool? We know each other. Our families, our tutors - you know us.′

  ′That′s true, but it′s a kind of mixed-up day, don′t you think? Lot of people going to end up in the wrong place today. Can′t blame a man for trying. And he didn′t do you much harm. Left you your boots.′

  So he had, she saw; her blue plastic boots were still on her feet, below bare legs.

  ′Course,′ said the Latino kid, ′I left you your boots too. Mind, blue ain′t my colour.′ He cackled another laugh, and she saw his teeth had great gaps. ′You put your clothes on now.′

  ′These aren′t mine.′

  ′Well, you can tell that to the sweep when it comes, can′t you? They come block by block.′ He got to his feet stiffly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

  ′What sweep? Where am I?′

  ′Corner of Garfield and East Colfax.′

  Only a couple of blocks from the City Park, where the museum was. She got to her feet, ignoring the banging in her head. She could hear the whistles, the dogs coming closer. If she could talk to the cops maybe she could get some kind of escort back to her people, and this nightmare would be over.

  The kid was staring at her again. She couldn′t stand here in her bra and pants. She grabbed the filthy, ragged clothes and pulled them on. She snapped, ′I′m going to star in some kind of porn movie in your head tonight, aren′t I?′

  He shrugged. ′Could have taken your boots. You were out cold. Could have hurt you. You could have done a lot worse than have me find you.′ The whistles and barking grew louder. He turned to face the north end of the street. ′Coming that way, I reckon. Listen. Tell them you know how to mix concrete.′

  ′Tell them what?′

  ′Just remember. Woah, here′s the man.′

  A squad of military types, National Guard maybe, came marching around the corner from the north end of the block. They wore body armour and helmets that hid their faces. To Holle′s disbelief they carried a net, like a fishing net, stretched out on two poles, extended across the width of the block. Engines growled behind her, and when she turned she saw a lorry, a big farm wagon, pulled up at the south end of the block. More troopers jumped down and lined up in front of the truck. They carried nightsticks and wielded handguns, and they had dogs that barked and snapped.

  Now the units from the north end began to work their way down the block. Only Holle and the kid stood here in the street, but troopers broke down the doors of the properties to either side, yelling orders that anyone inside had to come out. Holle heard shouted protests, the yap of dogs, the crack of weapons - even a dull crump that must be a grenade.

  People came trickling out of the houses, some ragged eye-dee types who must be squatters, but others who looked like regular residents, old folk, a young couple with a kid of about ten. Some had belongings, others came out empty-handed, bewildered. There weren′t many, maybe twenty. Holle guessed that most had gone already, trying to join the official exodus west.

  A family had to be dragged out of one house. A girl, just a teenager, was hanging onto her dog, a ragged mongrel. Pets weren′t allowed on the evacuation marches. Maybe that was why this family had refused to leave. Eventually a trooper got hold of the dog and threw it against the wall. The girl′s father held the girl back as she raged and wept.

  And that net swept on down the street, step by step, inexorable as the flood itself, driving them all forward towards the waiting truck.

  Holle pushed through the sullen civilians towards the net. None of the troopers looked like an officer. She couldn′t see their faces, their eyes behind their faceplates. ′Hey! Can you help me? I shouldn′t be here.′

  There was a rumble of laughter. The troopers didn′t break their step, and she had to back up.

  ′None of us should be here, lady. What you gonna do?′

  ′I′m a Candidate.′

  ′Yeah, you look like it.′

  ′I should be on the buses to Gunnison. Maybe there′s still time. I′m Holle Groundwater. My father′s Patrick Groundwater, who—′

  ′Yeah, and I′m Kelly Kenzie′s left tit. Just get in the damn truck with everybody else.′

  Holle glanced around. She saw that the people driven out of their homes were clambering meekly onto the bed of the waiting truck. This couldn′t be happening. To these other people, yes. Not to her. ′I′m a Candidate! Oh, listen to me, you fools—′

  A nightstick came out of nowhere, wielded in a gloved hand, and slapped across Holle′s face. She was thrown to the ground. Maybe for a second she lost consciousness again. The line closed on her, the heavy net dragging across the ground. She tried to move, couldn′t. She got a kick in the chest that knocked her back out of the way, rolling like a rotten log.

  Somebody was pulling at her. ′Come on. Up you get. That′s it …′

  Leaning on the stranger′s arm, she got to her feet, and managed to stagger away
from the advancing line, one metre, two. But now she was nearly at the truck.

  ′Are you all right, dear?′ The person who had helped her up was a woman, maybe sixty, solid, her hair a mass of grey. She was wrapped in a heavy coat and had a backpack on her back and sturdy shoes on her feet. She, at least, had been prepared for the day.

  Holle said, ′All right? I—′

  ′I know. None of us are all right today, are we? And now it′s come to this.′ The woman climbed up a short stepladder onto the truck bed. She reached down and helped Holle up in turn. ′I lived here with my husband, even before the flood, you know. It was our first home but we never thought we′d stay here. A nicer place in the suburbs, when we could afford it. That was the plan. Well, that never came about, did it? But I don′t complain, and nor did Herb before the consumption carried him off in ′35. We′ve had it better than many in this suffering world, haven′t we?′

  More civilians clambered aboard, and the troopers closed up the truck. Holle looked around for the Latino boy. He was still in the street, surrounded by troopers. She called, ′What are you doing?′

  He shrugged and took a step. His leg was withered and he limped heavily. ′Can′t walk, can′t work. Never could. Special Processing for me. Just remember what I told you.′

  The truck′s engine coughed to life, and it rolled away with a jerk. Looking back, Holle saw the troops were preparing to repeat the sweep operation in the next block, with their net and their dogs and another empty truck. And the Latino boy was being led away, into the shadows.

  Standing with the others in the back of the swaying truck, the weak stink of biofuel exhaust filling her head, Holle was driven, not south and west to the I-285 and Gunnison, but the other way, east along East Colfax and then north along Quebec Street, towards the I-70, the main route from the east. After a few blocks they merged into a larger convoy, trucks mostly carrying civilians but a few laden with troops and other gear.