by Iain Banks
The first cracks and rumbles broke over them.
'That isn't lightning, Broekman said.
The noises increased in volume and became more various, scattering into bizarre whizzes and screams against a background of sharp bangs and muffled crumping sounds. Captain Bleveans stood up. 'I guess we better get inside. Mr Janney, he turned to one of the Nadia's junior officers, 'see what we're getting over the radio. Get Harrison to try the low-tech military bands; even if we can't unscramble it we can get an idea of the traffic. Ladies, gentlemen…?
'I think I go back to my ship, Philippe said, rising with the rest. People began to follow Janney, who'd almost run through the nearest door into the ship.
'I too, Endo said. He looked at Mandamus, Orrick and Hisako. 'You may be best to stay here.
'I- Hisako began. She didn't know what to do; stay, go back to the Nakodo, go with Philippe?
'Inside, first, please, Bleveans said. They were ushered into the ship.
The horizon was a billowed cliff of light and darkness split with fissures of fire.
It stopped after a few minutes. A dull glow was left in a few places, as the rumbles faded away from distant hills. The officers had waited a few minutes to find out what could be heard on the Nadia's radio. It was silent. Whatever had happened, whatever sort of action or bombardment had taken place, it had done so without the accompaniment of any signals the ship's civilian communications gear was capable of picking up.
They used the VHF to contact a sleepy policeman in the office at Frijoles; he'd thought it was thunder. At Gatún the guards officer they talked to said he'd seen and heard it but didn't know what it was; they were awaiting orders from Panama and would probably send out a patrol in the morning.
They gave it a half-hour or so, crowding into the officers' mess and drinking some more. Hisako listened to them all, and to herself, and heard the sounds people make when they don't know whether to be frightened or not. The talk was light, jittery, inconsequential. Mandamus and Orrick did not return to their argument.
'Hisako-chan, you are not afraid? Philippe asked her.
'No. She held his hand. She'd stood in a corner, watching the rest. Standing close, he almost blotted out the rest of the crowded room for her.
'And now we must go.
'Can I come back with you?
That tiny frown, drawing in his black eyebrows. 'I think it isn't so good idea. We are closer to the combat and also… a tanker. He squeezed her hand. 'I have to worry for the ship. To worry for you too…
'That's all right. She stood on tip-toes and kissed him. 'Take care.
They went down to the water, down the long ladder at the side of the ship. The sky was milky in places, coming and going like some soft aurora. The boat hadn't arrived, but they could hear it coming through the fogbank.
She knelt down at the edge of the pontoon and looked at the water. The people behind her were still. She couldn't see their faces.
Whatever was wrong with the water? It was slopping and splashing very oddly and slowly; it looked wrong.
She drew back the arm of the kimono, reached down.
The water was warm and thick. The trees on the nearby islands looked very green. They floated above the creamy fog. The black prow of the first boat was appearing through the swirling mist.
The water felt slippy and too hot. She could smell it now; something of iron… for a moment she thought she couldn't withdraw her hand, but it did come out, though it seemed to resist, sucking at her hand, wrist, forearm. Her fingers were stuck together.
The sun came out, flooding everything in light. She looked at the blood dripping from her hand, wondering how she'd cut herself.
The blood dribbled down her arm to her elbow, and dripped from there and from her blood-glued fingers, falling in slow, ruby droplets down to the lake. But it was blood too. The whole lake. She lifted her gaze, from the red lapping tide at her feet, out across the calm, smooth surface, to the islands and the black boats. In the distance, a woman came up through the red surface, making a strange, plaintive hooting noise, and holding something tiny but bright between thumb and forefinger of one hand. Hisako felt her vision zooming in: the pearl was the colour of the fog and cloud.
The stench of blood overpowered her, and she fell.
Into her pillow. She dragged her face out, breathing heavily, looked round the cabin.
A chink of brightness where the curtain over one porthole let in light. The soft red glow of her old alarm clock on the cabinet, numerals refracted and reflected in the tumbler of water alongside.
She got up on one elbow, feeling her heart thud, and sipped at the water. It had become warm and tasted thick and stale. She fumbled her way out of the bed, to go to the bathroom and get some more.
On the way back she pulled aside the curtain over a porthole. The lit stretch of deck she could see looked the same as it ever did. She was looking in the direction of whatever had happened in the hills to the west, but if there was still any glow left in the sky, it was quite drowned by the Nakodo's own lights.
4: Water Business
She hadn't thought it would be so beautiful. The rugged, lumpy little hills around the canal were covered in trees displaying a hundred different shades of green, broken here and there by clumps of bushes and stretches of grass smothered with bright blossoms. She had imagined low wastes of monotonous jungle, but here was a landscape of such variety of texture and shade, and such delicacy of proportion, she could almost imagine it was Japanese. The canal itself was impressive enough, but — save when the ship had entered the gloomy depths at the bottom of one of the massive locks — its scale was not as oppressive as she'd expected. As the ship slowly rose past the enclosing walls, floating on a raft of swirling water, the manicured grasslands and neat buildings surrounding each great double set of locks came gradually into view.
At the same time, she thought, something of the smoothness and massiveness of the operation, the sensation of inevitability and contained power involved in the raising of the ship in such a stately, nearly majestic fashion, somehow transferred itself to her and to the others on the ship; she thought they all became calmer and less fraught as each set of locks was negotiated, and not just because with each step along and up that ribbon of concrete and water they were closer to their goal, of release from Panama and a clear run through the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico.
The repairs to the prop had been completed. In that week of waiting the situation had become worse, with the venceristas mounting attacks on the towns of David and Penonome and a brief raid on Escobal, which lay on the western shore of Gatún Lake itself. Worst of all, rockets had been fired at two tankers between Gamboa and Barro Colorado, inside the canal. The rocket fired at the first ship had missed; another launched at the second tanker had glanced off the vessel's deck. The canal authorities had told a tanker making its way through from the Caribbean coast to moor in Gatún while the situation was assessed.
Canal traffic had dropped off sharply: Dozens of ships were tied up against the docks of Panama City and Balboa, moored in the bay, or swinging at anchor further out in the Gulf of Panama, awaiting instructions or advice from owners, charterers, insurance companies, embassies and consulates. The Nakodo was already late; the permission to proceed came through from Tokyo as soon as she was ready to sail.
And it all seemed so calm, so orderly and assured. The precise lines of the great locks; the tidiness of the expanses of grass, bordered by the concrete at the side of the locks like inlay edging a lacquer cabinet; the quaint-looking but powerful electric locomotives that pulled the ship through the locks; the deeply eaved, oddly temple-like buildings set at the side of the artificial canyons of the locks, or perched on the thin concrete island dividing one set from the other; the feeling of procession as the ship made its way up towards the level of the lake, as though it was a novice being gently guided, prepared and anointed and clothed for some fabulous and arcane rite in the heart of a great basilica… everything m
ade the war seem distant and irrelevant, and the fuss about threats against the canal and the ships that plied it somehow undignified and paltry.
Miraflores locks, where the gush of fresh water descending from the lock above washed the Pacific's salt from the Nakodo's keel; Pedro Miguel, where the buildings around the locks sat in disciplined rows like solemn spectators, and where a bulk carrier passed them, sinking in her lock as the Nakodo rose in hers (the crews waved to each other).
Her ascent completed, the Nakodo cruised quietly on, through the echoing depths of Gaillard Cut and on into the ruffled emerald landscape beyond, where the canal swung gradually towards the lake, and a train moved, outdistancing them, to their right.
They'd seen a few Guardia Nacional, wandering about the edges of the locks or draped over jeeps and trucks parked on the various roads, or sitting smoking in the shade of the canal buildings… but they'd looked nonchalant, unconcerned, and waved back as the ship passed.
Hisako had been allowed on to the bridge after making great entreaties; Captain Yashiro was worried that if the ship was attacked, any sensible guerrilla would aim at the bridge. However he had finally compromised by agreeing she could stay on the bridge until they approached Gamboa. But it was all so tranquil, so patently normal, that she was pleased but not at all surprised when Gamboa slipped by to starboard, and she was not asked to leave the bridge and go below.
The Panama Canal Commission pilot was chatting in English to Officer Endo. Gamboa, and the mouth of the upper reaches of the Chagres River, moved slowly astern; the train which had overtaken them earlier left the town and passed them again, carriages rocking and wheels singing, only a few hundred metres away; The morning sun slanted over them, between small clouds which speckled shadows over the forested slopes. Only in a few places could she see the naked hillsides where the trees had been cut down and gullies and ravines had formed, scarring the smooth green land. The Commission pilot had said something about problems in the hills; trees cut down, topsoil washed away; dams silting up and so decreasing the available water the canal required to keep functioning. She hadn't thought of that; of course, the canal could not operate without water at its head; water was its currency.
Gatún Lake. They moved under a slightly hazy sun, through the vague shafts of cloud shadows, with the land starting to shimmer on each side and the V of the ship's bow-wave breaking against the shores further and further away.
They cleared Barro Colorado, leaving the island nature reserve behind to port. There must have been a little tension on the bridge after all, because she noticed that people talked a little more now they were past the section the two tankers had been attacked in.
They were in the main part of the lake now. Ahead of them, across the sparkling waters of the lake, its lines sharp and definite against the jumbled greenery of the lake's scattered islands, lay the lone tanker the authorities had told to remain there while the current emergency existed.
It was French, registered in Marseille, and called Le Cercle.
They didn't hear or see the explosion at Gatún, but the VHF call came through just as they were passing the moored tanker, and the masts of another ship — the Nadia — were appearing over the trees of Barro Colorado island, behind them.
They'd told her, her mother had told her, Mr Kawamitsu had told her, but she hadn't thought they were serious; she had to leave her mother and go to live in Tokyo to attend the Academy. For months, whole seasons, at a time. She was twelve. She didn't think it was allowed to desert somebody who was just little, but everybody seemed to think it was for the best, even her mother, and Hisako didn't even hear her weep the night after the confirmed offer of the bursary and place came through. Hisako looked at the palms of her hands that night — it was so dark she wasn't sure whether she could see them or not — and thought, So this is the way the world works, is it?
She felt oddly remote from her mother over the next few months, and really didn't seem to feel very much when she was taken to Sapporo station to board the train. She was looking forward to the ferry journey; that was about it. Her mother was embarrassingly emotional, and hugged her and kissed her in public. As the train pulled out, Hisako stayed at the carriage door, face expressionless, waving goodbye, more because she felt it was expected of her than because she wanted to.
At the Academy everybody seemed cleverer and wealthier than she, and the cello lessons very basic. They were taken to hear the NHK; she preferred it when there wasn't a cello work on the bill, because when there was she couldn't help listening to learn, rather than just to enjoy. On Sundays the hostel children were usually taken round an art gallery or museum, or into the countryside; Hakone, Izu, and the Fuji. Five Lakes, which was much more fun. She got to climb things and go on ferries.
To her dismay, the Academy teachers were just as scathing about her academic performance as the teachers in Sapporo had been. She remained convinced she had actually learned vast amounts throughout her life, and they were just asking the wrong questions. She came top in English, about average in her cello class, close to bottom in everything else.
Hokkaido was clean and clear and empty after Tokyo, on her first vacation, and fairly deserted and unspoiled even compared to the countryside west of Tokyo. Her mother took her walking in the woods, like in the old days. Once, the two of them sat beneath some pine trees overlooking a broad valley, watching the warm wind stroke slow patterns across wide fields of golden grain beneath them, and the tiny dots of cattle moving on the green swell of a hill on the far side. Her mother told her how she'd cried the night Hisako had left for Tokyo, but that really, she was sure, they were tears of happiness. Hisako felt ashamed. She hugged her mother, and put her head in her lap, though she did not cry.
She coped with Tokyo, she mourned for Hokkaido. Sundays were still her favourite days. Sometimes a group of them was allowed to go out without a teacher. They said they were going to museums but they really went to Harajuku to watch the boys. They strolled down Omote-Sando Boulevard, trying to look mature and sophisticated. Hisako's command of English began to be admired. She still came top in that, and her other grades were improving (not that that would have been difficult, as all the teachers pointed out), and she won a prize in the Academy's cello competition. She'd never won a prize in anything before, and enjoyed the experience. She wanted to use the small amount of money involved to buy some new clothes, but her mother's last letter had talked about a part-time job in a bar, so she sent the money home instead.
Another year; another too brief visit home to Hokkaido. The pace of Tokyo life, the urge to do as well in exams as any other child but to be a musical prodigy as well, even the regularity of the seasons; cold, mild, hot, stormy, warm; Fuji invisible for weeks then suddenly there, floating on a sea of cloud, a flurry of cherry blossom lasting hardly longer than a pink snowstorm… all seemed to conspire to sweep her life away from under her. Her grades went on improving, but the teachers seemed to make a special effort to remind her how important they were. She read novels in English; book in one hand, dictionary in another. She won all the Academy's cello prizes. She spent some on clothes, sent the rest home. She was getting used to the remarks about having a cello between her legs.
The Academy offered her a bursary for another three years; somehow she'd expected they would, but she didn't know whether to take it or not. Her mother said she must; Mr Kawamitsu said she must; the Academy said she must. So she supposed she had to.
Philippe had hoped there might be fish in the lake that would be attracted to their lights, as well as simply desiring the novelty of diving at night. So far, in their day-time dives, they had seen hardly any fish. The aquatic life in Gatún Lake had suffered twice over. First there had been a series of algae blooms caused by fertilisers washed down from the distant hills around Madden Lake and the far western shores of Gatún itself; then the fish and plants had been affected recently by deforestation chemicals used in the early stages of the war. The scientific station on Barro Colorado said t
he lake was safe to swim in again, but the plant community and fish. stocks were recovering very slowly.
Philippe's blue flippers waved back at her. The lake felt warmer than it did during the day, which surprised her. Perhaps it wasn't really any warmer; perhaps it just seemed so because she expected the dark depths to be cold.
The sense of placelessness, of being contained and cut off yet somehow free as well, was intensified by the darkness. With the day's silvery surface removed, the limit of visibility became what their lights could illuminate, and the lake felt both tinier and greater than it had before; tinier because at any moment they could see only a short distance around them, and so could have been swimming in some small pool, but greater because there was no immediate way of telling the surface was not far above, and the floor not far beneath.
Using the lights, the lake waters became like some swirling and disturbed version of space; in the white beams of their lamps a galaxy of minute particles was revealed, each mote glowing against the darkness like a swiftly passed star. Colours were more vivid, too, though there was little enough to see; just the blue of Philippe's stroking flippers and the bright orange of the line he was paying out behind them, to lead them back to the Gemini. She pointed her lights straight down, and saw the floor of the lake gliding greyly by, smooth and ghostly and quiet.
The National Guard reported there had been a venceristas bombardment of Escobal and Cuipo, followed by a retaliatory strike by Panamanian Air Force jets. This was the official explanation for the fireworks on the night of the Nadia's party. The incident made the Channel 8 news, briefly. Reading between the lines, it appeared as though whatever had first happened hadn't warranted the pyrotechnics they'd seen unleashed.
'Bullshit, Broekman said, leaning against the Nakodo's rail. He had come up from the engine room for a cigar, and met Hisako sitting near the stern on a deck chair, reading. She joined him at the rail, looking out to the heat-wavering line of green hills; the bombardment had taken place somewhere behind them.