Gradisil (GollanczF.)

by Adam Roberts

  ‘Your project,’ says Sol, blankly. He appears to be retrieviŋ information from some deep-buried database inside his compu-mind. He says: ‘You’re still devotiŋ your life to the Moving Mercury thing.’ He doesn’t phrase this as a question, and doesn’t inflect the words, but Hope cannot miss the rebuke in his words.

  ‘At least I’m not devotiŋ my life,’ he snaps bak, louder than he planned, ‘to tryiŋ to act out the fukiŋ Oresteia in real life.’

  Sol blinks, pauses, and then relaxes his face into a smile, his first since comiŋ into the hotel. The smile is more emoticon than emotion, but it is, perhaps, a gesture towards a more human sort of interaction. ‘Brother,’ he says, ‘did I ever tell you? When you first accused me of that I didn’t know wat the Oresteia was. Afterwards I went to look it up on my palmcomp, but wat I typed in was Rose Tyler. I got two dozen companies run by people with that name, fictional characters, all sorts.’ He lifts his beer, drinks, and then leaves the globe hangiŋ not far from his head, with the ostentatious ease-with-xero-g of the long-term Uplander. ‘I’m sorry it’s a bad time for you, brother,’ he says. ‘But you can see that we have to seize this opportunity . . . can’t you?’ When Hope says nothing to this, he carries on, ‘You’ve spent 15 years on this project . . . will another few days really — ’

  Years of frustration push the followiŋ words out of Hope’s mouth: ‘You’ve never believed in it, you’ve never seen the potential. I’m not doiŋ this for my own benefit, I’m really not. I’m thinkiŋ of the long-term future of the Uplands. I’m moved by my matriotism, and from where I’m sittiŋ from a truer love of the Uplands even than you. If Mother were alive she’d be right behind me.’

  ‘Mother was the most practical human beiŋ ever born,’ contradicts Sol. ‘She was always concerned with the here, with the now, not with some far-distant cloud-fantasy like — ’ He immediately reins himself in. ‘I didn’t mean that, brother. I don’t mean to be insultiŋ. But you have to axept that there are more pressiŋ things right now than — ’

  But Hope’s pitiful little dander is up now. ‘You talk about Mother as if you’ve known her for decades,’ he objects, querulously, holdiŋ his drink in both hands like an orb of royal state. ‘Sol, I barely remember her, and you’re 2 years younger than me. You don’t remember her. She’s just a name, she’s just a reputation.’

  ‘I don’t believe,’ replies Sol, primly, ‘that there’s anybody who has spent longer researchiŋ or readiŋ about our mother than I.’

  ‘That’s my point. That’s not the same thing as knowiŋ her.’

  ‘Her blood is in me.’

  ‘And me too - but apart from that you might as well be any Upland-infatuated groundliŋ, if you’re sayiŋ that. I wasn’t 10 years old when she — ’ he is goiŋ to say died, but the truth is they neither of them know for how long she lived after her capture by the Americans, so he alters it to ‘ — was taken, and it’s not as if she was a constant presence in our childhood for those first 10 years. It’s not as if we saw much of her - be honest.’

  ‘She loved us,’ says Sol, mask-faced.

  ‘I’m sure she did, brother. But she was certainly an absentee parent.’

  ‘She had,’ says Sol, his voice startiŋ to quiver dangerously, ‘some rather important things to attend to duriŋ those early years . . .’

  ‘I know, so she gives birth to a nation but she was shit as a mother.’ But, even for Hope, this is too much like blasphemy, especially here, inside a buildiŋ that is hurtliŋ through the spacious territory that some of her more ardent followers have taken to calliŋ Gradiland, this nation she forged out of her own will. So Hope crumples his face up and shakes his head and says, ‘Sol, Sol, Sol, why are we arguiŋ about Ma? Let’s not go bak over all that. You know I love her as much as you do. She’s as much my mother as yours.’

  ‘You say you love her,’ Sol says in a voice that counterpoints calmness with plangent unhappiness, ‘yet you’re prepared to let him go free, just because you’re worried about some meetiŋ with some billionaire American.’

  ‘It’s not like that. I just think we need to talk about it,’

  ‘We’ve talked about it ad nauseam.’ This is true.

  ‘He,’ says Hope, ‘is our father, after all.’

  But they’ve been over and over this, between them, over the years. Sol, who has spent a certain amount of time in Russia, replies ‘He is an obmanshchitsa.’ This word means ‘deceiver’ or ‘betrayer’.

  Hope lowers his head. ‘It’s just that you talk as if he shot her himself. You talk as if he actually pulled the trigger. He wasn’t personally responsible for the SWAE, after all.’

  ‘Trace the cause and effect bak, and the whole chain starts with his betrayal. Besides - besides, who believes that? About the SWAE? I mean, who believes she truly was SWAE?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  There’s a short silence, which is to speech what vacuum is to matter.

  ‘Is there really a chance,’ Sol asks, perhaps genuine, ‘that this investor will bak your scheme? Do you really think? Doesn’t seem likely to me. An American investor? Why would he advance the cause of the Uplands?’

  ‘Because it will make him rich.’

  ‘I assume he’s already rich.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I don’t know,’ sighs Hope. ‘It’ll require a different pitch to the usual. Usually I pitch to rich Uplanders, and I play up the contribution it will make to creatiŋ an independent and wealthy nation. But you’re right of course, the matriotism line is hardly goiŋ to convince an American billionaire. I’ll have to think of something else.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like the matriotism line has persuaded any Uplanders either,’ says Sol.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ Hopes repeats. ‘It isn’t that they’re not matriotic - they are, generally. They just like the Uplands small and quaint and the way they remember them. They can’t see the bigger picture.’

  Sol unsniks himself, leaviŋ his globe of half-drunk beer hangiŋ in space; and Hope cannot stop himself thinkiŋ that’s probably the most expensive beer on sale in any bar, and you’re not even goiŋ to drink it. But Sol has lots of money, enuff not to think about things like that. He didn’t invest his entire fortune, and more, in the dream of shuntiŋ an entire planet across millions of miles of space. ‘Are you goiŋ?’ Hope asks.

  By way of reply, Sol says, ‘Give me the key.’ And as Hope hands over the whimsically key-shaped chip, he adds, ‘I need to chek out the room. I need to - store some things there.’

  ‘My brother, the terrorist,’ says Hope, half to himself, and is distracted by the motion of several people away to his left. One of them, he realises with a rustle of annoyance, is - yet again - the clownish Wilfrid Laurier. He catches Hope’s eye, and waves to him, fiddliŋ now with his feet, readyiŋ himself to leave his table and come over to, wat? Be introduced to Hope’s brother? Talk up MakB? Try to pimp him some first-class prostitution? But Sol, with the insolent ease of the show-offy Uplander, has discarded his snap-twangs altogether, and, haviŋ visually ascertained which level the room is at, has pushed off like a swimmer and is floatiŋ a bullet-line for the entrance to the circular corridor of that level.

  ‘Hi,’ says Laurier, arriviŋ. ‘Was that a family resemblance I noticed?’

  ‘My brother,’ says Hope, lookiŋ after the planetary body in miniature Sol has become.

  ‘I’m sorry I missed him. Hey, I wanted to invite you, officially, to the openiŋ; but your brother, hey, he’s welcome too!’ But Hope is not listeniŋ. He is heariŋ in his mind Sol sayiŋ ‘I mean, who believes she truly was SWAE?’, and wonderiŋ about it, and worryiŋ about it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, to Laurier, ‘I’ll have to catch up with you later - I’ve got to go give a presentation now to a potential investor.’

  four

  SWAE is an American acronym, shot while attemptiŋ escape; and as he prepares his presentation for Malet, Hope finds his imaginatively-enhanced memory strayiŋ bak to where he had bee
n when he heard the announcement that Gradisil Gyeroffy had thuswise been killed. It was world news. Every network had carried the announcement, and it had generated a maelstrom of commentary and outrage. The fact that there had been no details meant that speculation was suked into the news vacuum. Had she been swaed soon after her capture by the Americans in ’02? Had it happened shortly before the announcement in 2115? Had it happened at some time in between those 2 dates, and the US had delayed announciŋ it, knowiŋ that it would create global outrage? Hope had been at college, in Bern, when the news swamped the news outlets. Sol had phoned him at once, from Uppsala, and (in effect) ordered him to fly straight there. Which, of course, Hope had done; the 2 brothers actiŋ their roles, active, passive. Hope found Sol in tears; the only time in his whole life that he had ever witnessed that sort of moisture on his brother’s face. Sol was drunk too. Sol drank all the time, and had done so since his early teens, but Hope had never before seen him actually drunk, as he was that one occasion. He had sworn a grand oath, like a screen villain, raisiŋ his arm and waggliŋ his twig-like fingers at Hope and sweariŋ by my hands that he’ll pay, he’ll pay, just let me take his life and die myself. The next day Sol made no reference to this outrageous promise, and Hope chose to believe that it had been the alcohol speakiŋ and that his brother had no memory of makiŋ it.

  But, no. Sol had actually begun orientiŋ his life around the brown-dwarf stellar intensity of Gradi’s death. He decided, moved by nothing more than the intuition of grief, that the announcement of SWAE was a lie, and that Gradi had been cold-bloodedly executed by the US, perhaps years before. This helped focus his grief. But it was easier for Sol than for his brother. Hope, at 24 had been a shallow and self-obsessed individual, and he knew it - a life constrained like a geisha’s foot by money and indolence, an upbringiŋ that had done nothing to channel his excessive sensitivity and self-indulgence into a healthful version of adulthood. He despised himself most of the time, even as he continued in the self-oriented grooves of his life. But even at 24, Hope had possessed enuff insight to realise that Sol was seiziŋ on this announcement with the sort of savage glee that is not incompatible with genuine grief. Years of hazy uncertainty about the fate of their mother had, finally, precipitated out into something that admitted of action, of movement towards. He had a purpose in his life. This had not been the effect on Hope’s life. Indeed, it had been 2 further years before he had, in conversation with various individuals whose names history has recorded, chanced upon the Moving Mercury idea.1 They had wanted him to act as a figurehead for the project - Gradisil’s eldest son, the Upland Bonny Prince, a minor celebrity. At first Hope had been happy with beiŋ merely a figurehead; but soon an osmotic process had steeped his dreams in the idea itself, and he had taken a more and more active role in the movement. He had used almost all his money - and a very large sum had devolved upon him upon his mother’s death - in buyiŋ a quarter share, and then a half share, in MM, and in fundiŋ various necessary research exercises, AI virtual projections, hardware mok-ups and, of course, travel. Where his brother had fixated on killiŋ a single individual, he had become psychologically addicted to manoeuvriŋ a whole world to bring long-term prosperity to the Uplands; but both of them had been propelled, the pool-ball strikiŋ the pool-ball and lurchiŋ it into smooth motion, by the death of their mother.

  And wat of that actual death? The event has been dramatised by a number of EU screen dramas and 3nimations, and, as has been the case for many of the memories a child should have of his or her parent, the fictionalisation has overwritten the reality. That this is so has been the been the bane of Hope’s life; there has even been an art-house screen drama made about this facet of the existence of Hope and Sol, the way the sheer fame of their mother has meant that real memory has been overwritten by ersatz. Which means, in turn, that when Hope thinks bak to Gradisil’s demise he sees it as a montage of dramatic angles, the rain-vexed landscape (had it even been rainiŋ when Gradi was SWAE? Who knows?) the desperate dash across an open space, the small dark woman runniŋ literally for her life. Maybe it had been nothing like that. Who knows? Rat-tat, bang.

  He generally prefers 3nimations to screen dramas. At least 3nimations use actual images of Gradi, brought bak to melodramatic life by the powers of information processiŋ. Some of the dramas he had seen have employed actors who resemble Gradisil very little, which is, to say the least, distractiŋ to her son when it comes to embellishiŋ the scant actual memories of her he has in his head.

  Hope is waitiŋ now, in the tightly curviŋ corridor outside one of the Worldview’s most expensive suites, for Malet’s staff to allow him axess to the great man. He is nervous, nervous. He has had a dozen meetings like this over the last decade and a half, and none of them have brought results. It is very hard to continue believiŋ that MM will ever come to fruition. Very hard, and the effort of tryiŋ to keep faith with the project is exhaustiŋ and crepitates in his head. He’s frightened of failiŋ; but then he’s frightened of everything, so it is not failure particularly that torments him.

  The door opens, and a woman floats out. Her head is shaven, a white ground upon which myriad little blak dots are visible, giviŋ her skull from a distance a grey, crepuscular sheen. There’s a firmness, a razor-steel quality to her eyes, her mouth is set in a level line, and her body is clothed in tight thik cloth that reveals her sinewy figure but no detail - it is enuff to brew an erotic reaction out of the anxiety, the memory and the sense of powerlessness in Hope’s head. That absurd, jak-in-box reflex, that Pavlovian erotic twitch. He hates himself for it. Get a grip, keep your thoughts steady. ‘You can come through now, Mr Malet is waitiŋ,’ she says, and Hope must apply the bromide of his own willpower to his suddenly perky erotic imagination. Why does it surprise him that a man of Malet’s wealth would employ handsome women?

  ‘Thank you.’

  The leather strap whisks down flikeriŋly in his mind, to purify the texture of his skin from pudgy into gleamiŋly hurtful, you - bad boy —

  He pulls himself through, hand-over-hand.

  The decor of the Worldview emperor suite is haut-moderne, spacious, aquamarine walls with vermilion inset holopattern and a long strip of window providiŋ a spectacular sight: the world, the sky. The net-line of the world’s horizon has gathered all the land and ocean and all the litter of cumulus and everything into a neatly demarcated arc at the bottom of the view; above is nothing but the rippleless sea of blak immensity. Light in the room means that not even the stars are visible.

  ‘Mr Malet,’ says Hope, his left hand on the wall, his right reachiŋ forward. He’s floatiŋ a little higher than Malet, who has his feet fixed in the middle of the floor and looks as if he is standiŋ. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ says Hope.

  ‘Mutual,’ says Malet.

  He is a handsome man, regular features set proportionately in his oval face. The top of his head has that towelliŋ texture of thik hair close cropped. His eyes are a startliŋ, bright, pharmakos blue-green, the colour of pigeons’ breasts. He wears the same sort of clothing as his assistant; an almost monkishly understated outfit for so wealthy a man; indeed he and his 4 attendants are giviŋ out a slightly ascetic, cultish vibe. Hope tries not to be distracted. Malet smiles, applyiŋ the considerable pressure of powerful will to bend slightly upwards the iron rod of his mouth.

  Rather than float, rudely, in mid-air in front of this wealthy and powerful man (funny how the little social protocols seem to have developed spontaneously in this new land) Hope hooks an arm through a strap and settles himself against the wall. There are 3 people in the room, apart from the aristo-faced Mr Malet: the woman who had shown Hope in and 2 others, both male, both shaven-headed, both weariŋ the same outfits. It looks almost cultic. Hope beams at them, runs his right hand over his scalp. ‘I feel a bit over-hairy,’ he says, offeriŋ the observation as a way of lighteniŋ the mood, ‘in present company!’

  The mood does not lighten.

  ‘So, Mr Gyeroffy,’ says Malet. ‘You wan
t my money?’

  ‘Not all of it!’ says Hope, and laughs. But why is he tryiŋ the joky approach? It’s clearly not appropriate; clearly not goiŋ to work; clearly he should —

  ‘Pitch,’ says Malet. ‘Please - feel free. Pitch.’

  ‘Let me tell you wat my company plans to do, Mr Malet,’ says Hope, in a soberer voice. ‘Let me tell you of wat your investment could mean for — ’ and this is the point, usually, when he would say the Uplands, but that’s not goiŋ to play here, in the American hotel, with this American trillionaire, thrice the cover-star of US Wealth, so he substitutes, ‘all humanity’ and hopes that there’s enuff species-pride in Malet’s handsome head for the worm to nuzzle in there, the meme to fix itself. He looks to the man immediately on Malet’s left, whose shaven red hair has grown bak just enuff to give his silver white scalp a rusty look; and then to the man to his left, with skin the colour of sherry and oil-blak eyes, a thoroughly Brahmin look about him to be sure, very handsome. He does not trust himself to look at the woman. He needs to keep his wits focused on the task. ‘Is there an input for my thum?’