Gradisil (GollanczF.)

by Adam Roberts

  It is goiŋ to happen. The things he had used to prettify Malet’s ego, about posterity regardiŋ him as a god, as somebody who reached out his hand and moved an entire world, this is the secret ambition in his heart. His mother helped give birth to a new nation - fine, but hundreds of human beiŋs have managed as much on the ground, from Solon to Stalin. He would move a world, and none have done this before.

  He is, to use one of Paul’s phrases, as happy as a marriage bell. He’s not used, in fact, to this sensation of happiness. It is almost uncomfortable; like a sort of thin pain in his chest, the expansion of gas in an awkward corner of his torso. He floats, rather than usiŋ the snap-twang, along the corridor away from Malet’s room. He emerges at the top (the bottom, the side, it hardly matters) of the atrium, close to the great transparent dome with its dartboard framiŋ of panes of weave-glass. There’s the whole world through the glass, and he - it is absurd that he has never been struk by this before, or perhaps not absurd but a pitiable reflection on the misery of his life in the Uplands - is on top of the whole world. He stares at it. Zhenia gave up all hope of this ever comiŋ to fruition long before she died. At least she kept her despair to herself; Farmer harassed and harassed Hope with his loss of faith in the project, badgeriŋ him into surrenderiŋ a second massive chunk of his fortune in order to buy the crabby older man out. And John disappeariŋ, probably suicide. All of them had given up, but he, Hope, had endured, and it was endurance, it seems, that won out. He’d beaten them all.

  He can’t believe it.

  Through the atrium’s dome the world is dark, acned with little nodules and rashes of light. But the sun is just around the corner, because the arc of atmosphere huggiŋ the blak horizon is alive in its blueness, intensely and purely blue, like the crown of lit-brandy fire on a Christmas puddiŋ. Oh happy day!

  A confident tourist launches himself towards the floor (the ceiling — the other end) of the atrium without utilisiŋ the comfortiŋ tug of the central line; and he flies, with that giddy spry Peter Pan-ness, straight along, the look on his face a delight purified by a residuum of primal fear at his fall. And that is life, Hope thinks. That’s the purest kind of happiness there is. He launches himself, like this flier, from the walkway and skims through the air down (or up, or along). He has got to call Véra. He must tell her, first away. Her and the children.

  There are ways of patchiŋ one’s mobile into the network that supplies Upland-groundliŋ traffic, but it’s absurdly expensive. Although of course, he can afford it now! When the deal comes through, he’ll have plenty of money! But, then again, it wouldn’t do to tempt fate - to throw money away too lavishly, and so he makes his way to the far floor and then along to the public phone hoods. His soul is thrummiŋ.

  The call takes about a minute to be connected.

  ‘Véra? Véra?’

  And there she is, on screen.

  ‘My darliŋ I have wonderful news,’ he booms, like an actor pro-jec-tiŋ a line to the very bak of a great atrium, and his elation is so intense that it even obscures, from himself, how unlike him, how inappropriate to their wounded marriage, this mode of speakiŋ is - almost as if he is mokiŋ her Russian ancestry, with actorish unselfconsciousness, the world is my stage, listen to me, dare link wander fool knee ooze! None of that matters now. The primal curse of a woman, which is to marry a man mainly for his money, and then for that money to vanish, would shortly be undone, he would return the charm to their life together, he would. The magic word spoken. The end in sight.

  ‘I’ve spoken with the investor I mentioned . . .’

  ‘This is MM again,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, it’s MM.’ Of course! Does she not know that’s wat he’s doiŋ in the Uplands? Did she think he’d gone off to gallivant?

  ‘And?’

  ‘Véra, but this guy’s goiŋ to bak me. He’s a bit wako, but he’s goiŋ to throw all his money at me. It’ll be the change for us all. It’ll mean money, it’ll mean the project is goiŋ to finally come off.’

  ‘Sol was in touch.’

  ‘Sol? Yes, he’s here, he’s come up here to be with me.’ Sol? ‘Why did he get in touch with you?’

  ‘He says you’ve discovered your father. He said you’ve — ’

  ‘Shsh! Not on the phone - the phone may be — ’

  Véra looks crossly out of the screen. ‘Don’t snap at me Hope. I’ll not talk to you if you snap.’

  ‘Véra . . .’

  By alludiŋ directly to Paul’s presence, and Sol’s intentions towards him, she had found the only way to spoil the elation of gettiŋ bakiŋ for MM. Sol was intent on killiŋ. But that would ruin the deal - it could hardly do anything other than ruin it. The whole business with Sol had, he understands, been pushed out of the currents of his mind by excitement, by the prospect of money, by the possibility that he could turn 15 years of failure into a glorious world-changiŋ success. But Malet will hardly give money to a murderer, to an assassin, a father-killer — ‘Véra,’ he says, and, stupidly, there are tears prikiŋ at the bak of his eyes, for fuk’s sake, tears — it’s the simple frustration of it. To come this close to success after all this time! And then to have it snatched away at the last moment! It’s intolerable, it cannot be tolerated. He cannot tolerate it. ‘Véra,’ he says, ‘Véra, wat did Sol say?’

  ‘He said that he was goiŋ to the hotel you’re at. Is he there?’

  ‘Yes he’s here.’ Hope can’t believe he is cryiŋ now. Somebody should punch him to shut him up! He’s nearly 40, and here he is cryiŋ like a child. But it’s so unfair! He blinks and double-blinks, tryiŋ to clear the water from his eye. It doesn’t, in the xero g, roll down his cheeks, but it bulges out, and bell-shaped blobs separate and drift away, propelled by the paddle-action of the eyelids.

  ‘He said that he was goiŋ to collect you, that the whole MM business was history now. I’ll confess I was pleased to hear it, Hope. It’s suked you dry. It’s taken all our money. You need to move beyond it.’

  His skin is prikliŋ with his tearfulness. ‘But it’s finally payiŋ off! This guy is goiŋ to bak the project - there will be lots of money now. I know it’s been hard, but it’s all comiŋ good now!’

  Véra looks suspicious. ‘You sure? This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve . . .’

  ‘This guy’s real! I mean, he’s a bit exentric, he’s got some pretty waky ideas. But he’s wealthy, he’s real, and he’s keen.’

  ‘Hope,’ says Véra. ‘Are you cryiŋ?’

  ‘I’ve got to go, love, I’ve got to go talk to Sol.’ He hangs up, and the abrupt termination of this conversation with his long-sufferiŋ wife acts, obscurely, as the trigger to a full sobbiŋ outflow of tears.

  six

  He gets his emotions under control, hangiŋ in the air faciŋ a wall, near one of the barcode-like fan grilles from which faintly-scented fresh air pulses gently. Every wipe of his overfull eyes spills pearls and uncut diamonds of brine into the air, to drift away into the general space, ultimately, perhaps, to be suked into grilles set in the walls and disposed of, or perhaps recycled. Hope needs to speak to Sol. That’s the crucial thing now. He has to make Sol understand that his deal has come through; that the whole revenge plan will have to find another venue.

  He makes his way up (or down) through the atrium, round the curviŋ corridor at the top, where the tall, spacious, luxury rooms and suites are located, and to the door. It looks like a downbelow hotel room door, that’s how lavish it is. Hope doesn’t have the key; he gave that to Sol, so he knoks. Knok-knok.

  There’s a pause, and then the door opens, Sol lookiŋ out furtively. ‘Come in,’ he says. ‘I’ve discovered something.’

  ‘Sol,’ says Hope. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Sol ignores this. ‘I cheked the manifests. He’s — ’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  Sol looks blank. He doesn’t like beiŋ interrupted. ‘Wat?’

  ‘How did you chek the manifests? They’re not public.’

  �
��I haked the - it doesn’t matter. It doesn - the important thing is that he’s not here under his real name. He must be travelliŋ under a seudonym.’

  ‘That’s unsurprisiŋ,’ says Hope. ‘He’s hardly likely to come bak here to the Uplands and announce to the world who he is. Even on American territory.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve said that,’ said Sol, with his peculiar sternness of voice. ‘I told you before. They don’t own territory up here. This is our territory. This hotel, all their trade, it’s all on our sufferance.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ says Hope, as earnestly as he can manage. ‘Listen to me Sol: the meetiŋ today went well.’

  ‘I’m delighted for you.’

  ‘It went very well. They’re goiŋ to bak me. Malet is goiŋ to fund the project. Fifteen years of my life, which I had begun to think must be wasted years, will not be wasted. Everything I’ve been workiŋ for - it’s validated.’

  Sol’s face has assumed its mask expression. His thin face. It’s not puffy as Hope’s still is, his is a true Uplander’s skinniness, the tight places where his skin snags on the bones beneath, the glassy blonde lids of his eyes, the eyeballs themselves shiny like polished stone. Hope must make him understand how important this project is (was). He must at least try. ‘Sol,’ he urges. ‘It’s been my whole life. We can’t wrek it now. It’s been,’ he repeated, his voice falteriŋ at the feebleness of simply reiteratiŋ the statement, ‘my whole life.’

  ‘Wrek it?’

  Hope suks in air, blows it out, too aggressive an exhalation to be a sigh. ‘We can’t kill Father here, not here. We’ll have to - postpone it. If we kill him here then it’ll collapse the deal. 15 years!’

  ‘I’ll tell you how it seems to me,’ says Sol, and he is speakiŋ in a low yet forceful tone. ‘Fifteen years is shit. It’s been twice that since he betrayed Mother,’ (that way he had of utteriŋ that single syllabic personal pronoun, pressurisiŋ it with such significance and loathing) ‘since he killed her, he’s had 30 years of sweet life with that partner of his, the other traitor, liviŋ in American luxury. That weighs heavily against me, that’s intolerable to me. Do you understand? For 30 years we’ve not been able to get to him, and now here he is, and we cannot let him slip away again. Wat - another 30 years? You think it would be fair to let him live on for another 30 years? He’s 68. He’ll live at least as long as that, if we don’t punish him. We must punish him now. The time is here. My brother, are you really sayiŋ - think carefully, and answer me: are you really sayiŋ that we should let him just go?’

  Hope has an intimation of the impossible vacuum chasm that exists between himself and his brother, and it makes him despair.

  ‘I’m just sayiŋ.’

  ‘Fate has donated him to us,’ says Sol, with infuriatiŋ certitude.

  ‘No, Sol,’ he says. But he cannot advance on those 2 words, he cannot think of a clearer or purer way of registeriŋ his feeliŋs. ‘No, Sol,’ he says again.

  Sol betrays the facial webwork of annoyance. It looks odd on his usually hypercontrolled visage. ‘Wat do you mean? Wat do you mean, No, Sol ? Wat does that mean?’

  ‘I mean — ’

  ‘You aren’t challeŋiŋ the facts?’

  ‘He’s our father,’ says Hope. This is a desperate strategy; this is ignoriŋ a decade and a half of intense if intermittent discussion between the 2 brothers, weariŋ away the sinew connectiŋ sons to father with the unbluntable flint of justice, of righteous anger, of the death of Gradi herself. But Hope can’t think of another argument. ‘We can’t fukiŋ murder him, he’s our father. It would be — ’ but, first with an umm, and then with a furious ach! he must admit he can’t think of the word, can’t remember the term, and so finishes lamely, ‘the Greeks had a word for wat it is.’ Then, repetition to cover the lameness of this: ‘He’s our father.’

  Sol has smoothed the web of lines out of his face, and taken refuge behind the mask again. ‘I can’t believe you’re tryiŋ that line of argument, ’ he says, levelly. ‘He betrayed our mother to imprisonment and death. Have you forgotten that?’

  ‘He’s our father,’ Hope repeats, stubbornly.

  Sol places his right forefinger in at the outside corner of his right eye, and his left forefinger in at the outside corner of his left eye, and just holds them there, as if holdiŋ the eyeballs in, or perhaps as if meditatiŋ. He speaks, again in a level, controlled voice. ‘This is the most selfish thing I’ve ever known you to say. Of your many, that’s the worst. You’re sayiŋ this to preserve a business deal you have just made. Think of that! Just to preserve some money-grubbiŋ deal. I don’t care for how much, or for how long you’ve been planniŋ the deal.’ He released the fingers, and 2 pads of whiteness sit momently at the outside of his 2 eyes, until the blood seeps through the skin to fill them again. ‘The truth is, you’re puttiŋ your profit before justice.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Hope, genuinely stung. He’s really wounded by that. ‘Oh,’ he says again.

  ‘I don’t wish to talk of this further,’ says Sol, becomiŋ pompous. ‘If you truly value profit over justice for our mother . . .’

  ‘How can you say that?’ retorts Hope, and, for the second time in an hour, tears are threateniŋ to pour from his eyes, smokiŋ the baks of the eyeballs with an acrid little flame. He dabs his face into the crook of his right arm. ‘I loved Mother more than . . .’

  ‘Prove it!’

  This is impossible. ‘Sol, you’re not listeniŋ to me,’ says Hope, without hope, and Sol proves the bleak truth of the assertion by immediately launchiŋ into some lengthy disquisition, not all of which his brother follows, about some immensely powerful nerve agent, some toxin, presumably the assassination weapon. But instead of followiŋ these ins and outs Hope’s focal length grows long, and Sol’s face becomes furrily blurred, and the background comes into sharp relief, and he watches 2 elderly but well-preserved hotel guests tryiŋ and failiŋ, tryiŋ and failiŋ, tryiŋ and succeediŋ, to hook themselves into the downward line, and descendiŋ through the atrium with delighted expressions on their faces.

  seven

  They spend the night together, in their expensive double room, brother and brother. Night is merely a convenience of the hotel’s timetable, of course; it’s night every 40 minutes up here. But people must sleep, and so for the first time in decades the 2 brothers go to bed in the same room. Hope tries again to raise the subject of his meetiŋ with Malet. He tells Sol about it, tries to get him to see how crucial a breakthrough this is. ‘It’ll change the Uplands — it’s the chance for the Uplands to break through. Think how we’ll be with a whole world-sized lump of iron as a raw material! We’ll become a superpower.’

  Sol is watchiŋ a news-channel, only half his attention on his brother. ‘It’s a beautiful dream, brother.’

  ‘It can be made real.’

  ‘That,’ says Sol, noncommittal, ‘will be a great day when that happens.’

  ‘But we can make it happen right now, with Malet’s money.’

  Sol snorts. ‘He doesn’t sound like a very reliable investor.’

  ‘Wat do you mean? He’s a trillionaire.’

  ‘All that stuff about Venusians? He’s wako.’

  ‘Exentric,’ corrects Hope, over-loud.

  ‘Wako.’

  ‘And even if he has his exentricities, but that doesn’t matter, that’s not the - his money isn’t wak, even if he is.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ says Sol.

  At this the conversation fails between them, and soon after Sol falls asleep. By the time Hope falls asleep in turn it is much later, and when he wakes he is alone in the room.

  It’s another day. Sol, already up and dressed by the time Hope wakes, tells him that he is goiŋ down to the lobby to arrange for a taxi-plane. Groggy with sleep Hope does not interrogate this statement further, although obviously this is the getaway craft, which must mean that Sol is planniŋ to commit the political murder sooner rather than later. But Hope doesn’t want to think about th
at, and turns his face to the wall as his brother leaves.

  He has to get out of the room. He doesn’t want to think about it. He pulls himself out of the sleepiŋ bag and pulls off the CO2 disperser; he moves about, turns his body into a process of circulation. He tries to distract his mind, but his thoughts keep returniŋ to his brother. His brother is driviŋ him beyond sanity. Just the presence of him, with that implacable bronze-hard will of his, that remnant of his mother in him. Why, Hope wonders, didn’t I get those genes? Essence of Gradi. So that essence went to Sol, and I got . . . wat? Here’s a window, lookiŋ out (says the slowly circliŋ legend) upon the oceanus noctis, although he doesn’t know wat that means. He’s at the end of the corridor now, where it gives way to the atrium. Here, Hope pauses. He looks along the length of the atrium, sees people risiŋ and sinkiŋ on the central lines, sees some of the more adventurous guests flyiŋ directly through the air. A young couple, 2 beautiful young men, arm snaked in arm, drift over to Hope’s window and look out. ‘See!’ says one to the other. ‘You can see the comet!’ Hope can’t see anything, and neither can the second beautiful young man, until his companion fingers the smartglass to magnify the image, and there it is: its head no bigger than a bright star, its tail a narrow-apexed triangle of misty white. It looks, to Hope’s eyes, like an icicle hangiŋ horizontally in the sky. Ominous. Hope has that gastric discomfort, that sensation of fear in his gut. It’s all leadiŋ inevitably somewhere bad.