Elemental (4 page)

Read Elemental Online

Authors: Steven Savile

BOOK: Elemental
7.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Meanwhile, estimates of the time to full recovery now varied from six months to three years. The cranes and tow trucks necessary to clear the
streets would have to work their way slowly to the center of the disaster and there were no computer simulations capable of the necessary extrapolations. Where to put the extracted vehicles and how to get them there complicated the issue.
The cars couldn't be removed from the freeways, because there was no place to put them. Trying to save all these autos for their owners' eventual return meant finding storage space for them and logging their locations in a master database. Perhaps the surviving cars could be transported out to some wide-empty space out in the desert, from which owners could reclaim them. For a fee. Maybe. But did anyone really want to risk putting all these vehicles back into circulation where they could just clog the system again? The arguments were just beginning. (Some people advocated that this disaster represented an opportunity to remodel Los Angeles's dependency on automobiles and replace or augment the freeways with more light rail systems. But that particular alternative was not only an expensive proposition, it was not an immediate solution to anything.)
Even though the Vehicle Reclamation teams were now authorized to pile up cars in great towering pyramids of metal and glass and plastic wherever they found a big enough parking lot, there was enormous reluctance to do so. All those automobiles represented billions of dollars that nobody wanted to discard casually, especially not the far-removed owners. On the other hand, by the time the reclamation teams reached the majority of affected vehicles most of them would have rusted into near-total uselessness.
On the brighter side, the Los Angeles County Air Pollution Control District announced that air pollution levels for the basin had dropped dramatically. The air was cleaner than it had been since 1955 when the county finally outlawed backyard incinerators. An awkward spokesman embarrassedly announced that this was the direct result of taking a million and a half vehicles off the road, except that of course, those million and a half vehicles were still
on
the road. Just not moving anymore. But this was the
good
news. It was now safe to breathe in Los Angeles again.
Despite that incentive, the flood of refugees streaming out of the city continued, straining the resources of surrounding counties beyond the breaking point. By now, the first waves of escapees from the zone were spreading out across the continent, bringing with them sordid tales of nonvehicular terror and enough digital camera photos, phone-camera photos, and handycam videos to keep the news agencies happy for weeks. Even after the continuing live coverage abated and regular programming resumed, the networks still scheduled ongoing special reports. This was as much an opportunity as a necessity. Universal, Warner Bros., Fox, Disney, and Paramount all had their lots within the frozen zone. The production of at least sixteen major television series—including, ironically,
The O.C.
, were shut down. Although there were finished episodes of all prime-time series in the pipeline, once those were aired, new episodes would not be available until new production facilities were established, or until transportation to existing facilities could be resumed.
Every news and current events show from
60 Minutes
to
Nova
began multipart examinations of the collapse of an entire city, with alarming speculations about the possibility of similar crystallizations occurring elsewhere. Real estate values in small towns and rural areas began to climb.
The days stretched into weeks as refugees continued to stream out of the zone, sometimes as many as a hundred thousand a day. The nightly news kept a running tally on the numbers; the flood showed no signs of abating; but each succeeding day, those who had successfully escaped from L.A. seemed more and more despairing and desperate. While not quite ragged, they looked hungry and haggard, thin and wan. Many had gone for a week or more without fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh milk and other perishables. They had exchanged their tan healthy presence for more sallow dispirited complexions. The surrounding counties continued to absorb as many as they could, exporting the overflow to the rest of the nation as fast as transportation could be arranged. Amtrak borrowed Pullman cars from Canada and Mexico, and converted over a
hundred freight cars into makeshift passenger units. A number of Jewish families refused to board anything that looked like a boxcar.
Entering the fourth week of the disaster, as it became apparent that this was the new normal, disaster recovery teams entering the frozen zone discovered a startling fact—some people had created ways to survive their transformed circumstances. The most amazing finding was that some Angelenos had given up their dependency on their cars and learned how to
walk
. (No, that is not a misprint. The word is
walk
.) Computer analysis of urban residential zones revealed that more than 35 percent of all residential dwellings in Los Angeles had access to supermarkets, pharmacies, banks, and other essential services within a radius of ten blocks or less. For these people, walking might be an inconvenience, but it was easier than giving up their homes. Reports from the zone suggested that in some places, neighborhoods were reinventing themselves as actual communities.
Satellite maps revealed that fully 10 percent of those who were refusing to leave their homes were planting gardens in their backyards or on their front lawns. Others were creating a new economy using bicycles and motorcycles to transship goods from subway and light rail stations into the otherwise unreachable interior of the zone. Simulations projected that 20 percent of the city's population could survive without automobile access, possibly more if enough streets could be cleared so that trucks could deliver goods to local communities—but if enough streets could be cleared, the automobiles would return.
Surprisingly—or maybe not so surprisingly—a small but growing number of people liked the new normal, and were starting to voice the opinion that they did
not
want the automobiles to return. They actually liked being able to see the Hollywood Hills clearly. They liked the way the air smelled in the morning. They liked working in the garden, walking to the corner store, actually talking to their neighbors, and living at a less frenetic pace.
Teams of sociologists who studied the phenomenon—now called disvehiclization—observed that it was not simply a rejection of the automobile,
but of the entire technological cocoon that had enveloped daily life. The disvehiclized person was also more likely to leave his or her cell phone off, turning it on only for limited periods each day; the disvehiclized person rarely watched television; he or she also cut back on computer time, accessing the Internet only for essential news or shopping services.
But not everybody could afford disvehiclization; it was a luxury of the retired, and of those who could work from their homes. Those who still depended on day jobs could not survive without transportation. While the subway, light rail, and emergency bus lines were able to provide some measure of service, they were simply not designed to handle the traffic load, nor did they provide the degree of coverage necessary to the entire basin. In the first month alone, over a million people emigrated from Los Angeles to surrounding counties.
In Orange County, rents soared first, demand far exceeded supply. Real estate values followed quickly. Automobile sales took off as well, both new and used; individuals who felt their lives were dependent on their mobility were quick to replace their lost cars. For the first few weeks, car dealers all across the nation were shipping as many vehicles as they could into Ventura, San Bernardino, Santa Clarita, and Orange counties.
Commentators have called this influx of additional vehicles onto the avenues and highways of the counties surrounding Los Angeles the “squeezed mud” effect. Squeeze a handful of mud, it oozes out between your fingers; squeeze Los Angeles, and the traffic oozes out in all directions across the state. Cal-Trans projects that the post-crystallization era will see at least an additional million vehicles on the highways of the four counties surrounding Los Angeles.
Cal-Trans officials are also quick to point out that the recent stoppages on the 22, the 55, and the 91 are only localized anomalies, and not representative of any larger process. There is absolutely no reason to fear crystallization in Orange County. Absolutely no reason at all.
BY ADAM ROBERTS
 
Adam Roberts is a professor of nineteenth-century literature at Royal Holloway, University of London. He has published six novels under his own name:
Salt
(2000),
On
(2001),
Stone
(2002),
Polystom
(2003),
The Snow
(2004), and
Gradisil
(2005), and is responsible for the parodies of A.R.R.R. Roberts:
The Soddit
(2003),
The McAtrix Derided
(2003),
The Sellamillion
(2004),
The Va Dinci Cod
(2005), and
Star Warped
(2005). Roberts is an SF critic and reviewer, and he has a wealth of short fiction and academic publications to his credit.
“‘And Tomorrow and' is a comic piece,” Roberts said, “although not an especially cheery or giggly one. I was intrigued by the disjunction between, on the one hand, the Gordian-knot vehemence with which Macbeth unleashes violence upon the things that restrict him, and, on the other, the pedantically legalistic terms of the prophecy that is his eventual undoing. But I was more intrigued by the comic possibilities of reading this most bloody and murderous of Shakespeare's plays as an articulation of a very modern sort of heroism, the refusal to simply crumple, the refusal to give up, the discovery of a strenuous and dark Joy in the face of extinction. I was also struck that the pedantic and legalistic prophecies that doom Macbeth wouldn't stand up to ten minutes of cross-examination in a court of law by any half-decent contracts lawyer.”
Find more about Adam Roberts at
www.adamroberts.com
.
The castle
had been abandoned by almost all of its inhabitants. Its population had decided, little point in staying only to be slaughtered by the English army, and so they crept out by ones and twos throughout the night, and they made what peace they could with the enemy. Some even begged to join Malcolm's troop, so as to be on the winning side in the morrow's inevitable English victory. When Macbeth awoke, with only Seyton in attendance, he found his halls deserted, his battlements unguarded. “Let them fly!” he blustered, striding up the stone stairs to survey
the scene from the top of his tallest tower. “I bear a charméd life. I need them not!”
He looked down upon the investing force: a mass of humanity stretching as far as the eye could see. They had thrown down the boughs and branches that they had taken from Birnam Wood, and now stood in serried ranks, their armor and their weapons glittering in the morning sunlight.
“It looks bad sir,” said Seyton, in a miserable voice.
“Nonsense!” boomed Macbeth. “We cannot be defeated.”
“But the charm, sir,” said Seyton, cringing a little as if expecting Macbeth to strike him in his furious frustration. “Has it not tricked you? It said you would never vanquished be, till Great Birnam Wood should come to high Dunsinane hill.”
“Indeed it
did
,” said Macbeth, with enormous self-satisfaction.
“And we need but look, sir!” said Seyton, indicating the host that lay spread before them. “Malcolm's army has brought Birnam Wood hither!”
“Seyton, Seyton, Seyton,” said Macbeth, genially. He clasped his servant about the shoulders and gave the top of his head a little rub with the knuckles of his right hand. “You've got to
pay
more
attention
. The one crucial thing about magical prophecies is that they are enormously and pedantically
precise
. So, what—Malcolm's army cut down a few boughs and carried them along to Dunsinane! That's
hardly
the same thing as the forest moving! Ask yourself this … if you were a mapmaker—”
“Mapmaker,” repeated Seyton, nodding uncertainly.
“—yes, if you were
making a map
—for the sake of argument, you know—and you were making a map of Scotland, where would you put Birnam Wood? Over there on the distant hill”—he pointed to the horizon where the blue-green forest still lay like a cloud against the horizon—“the location of the
trunks
and
roots
and most of the
foliage
? Or here at Dunsinane, where a few thousand branches and leaves have been carried?”
“Um,” said Seyton, tentatively offering his answer like a schoolchild before a stern schoolmaster, “the first one?”
“Exactly! Birnam
Wood
is still on the
hill
. The prophecy has not been fulfilled. I am, accordingly,
un
worried.”
From below came the sound of repeated thuds. Malcolm's sappers, in the unusual position of being able to work without resistance from castle defenders, were knocking down the main gate with a large battering ram. “Right,” said Macbeth. “Better put on some armor. Not that I need it. More for the show of it than anything.”
With a great crash the gate gave way.
By the time he got downstairs, armored and besworded, Macbeth's main courtyard was filled with several hundred English soldiers. At the front of this fierce crowd were Macduff and young Siward. Siward made a rush at Macbeth, hurrying up the stone stairway to engage the Scottish king. Macbeth chopped his head off with a single stroke of his sword.
The crowd in the courtyard hissed their disapproval.
Rather relishing the theatricality of it, Macbeth cried out: “Begone, Macduff! You cannot kill me!”
The general hissing turned into a general laughing.
“Do you boast so?” said Macduff, cockily, throwing his sword from hand to hand and starting up the stairs. “We outnumber you, fiendish tyrant! Outnumber you considerably.”
“What you've got to keep in mind,” said Macbeth, “is that I bear a charméd life that must not yield to one of woman born. Actually.”
“Ha!” cried Macduff. “Ah! Ha! Well!” He seemed very pleased with himself. “Despair thy charm,” he said. “And let the angel that thou still hast served tell thee, Macduff—that's
me
—was from his mother's womb untimely
ripped
!' He stuck his chest out.
“You were still born of woman, though, weren't you?” Macbeth pointed out.
The courtyard had fallen silent.
“You what?” said Macduff.
“Born of woman nevertheless. Born—you. Woman—your mother.”
“Ah no, but Macduff was from his mother's womb untimely
ripped
…”
“Yes yes, Caesarian section, named after Julius Caesar, the Roman emperor who was born via a surgical incision into the wall of the abdomen rather than through the birth canal,” said Macbeth. “Yes we all know about that. But it's still a form of
birth
, isn't it? You're still
born
, and
of woman
.'
“No I wasn't.”
“Yes you were.”
“Wasn't.”
“What would you call it then? Are you really asserting that being born by Caesarian section is not
being born
?”
“Um,” said Macduff, a little confusedly. “Untimely ripped … um …”
“I tell you what,” said Macbeth. “Let's pop along to the castle library, and look it up in a dictionary. That'll decide the matter.”
“All right,” said Macduff, brightening.
So they made their way to the library, stacked floor to ceiling with dusty folios and quartos and octavos. There Macbeth pulled the
Dictionarius
from its resting place, plonked it on a desk and turned its heavy pages.
“Here you go,” said Macbeth, with his finger on the relevant definition. “
Sectura Caesaris
‘form of birth in which the infant is delivered through an incision in the mother's uterus and abdominal wall rather than the more conventional birth canal.' There you are—‘a form of birth.' In other words: you are still born of woman, regardless of whatever obstetric interventions happened to be used at the birth. You might as well say that the use of
forceps
meant that you were no longer ‘born of woman'!”
“Well …” said Macduff, scratching his chin. “I suppose you're right …”
“Have at you!” said Macbeth, standing back and raising his sword.
Twenty people had followed the two of them to the library; and so it
was that twenty people watched Macbeth and Macduff fight for about a minute and a half, clanging their swords together vehemently and grunting, until Macbeth swung a blow that Macduff failed to intercept, cleaved through his helm and split his head open. Macduff dropped to the floor dead.
“Right,” said Macbeth, cheerily. “Who's next?”
It took Macbeth
less than five minutes to cut his way through the soldiers in the library. No matter how they swung or stabbed, their swords always slid away from Macbeth's body. It was, as one of them observed (just prior to having his leg fatally severed with a lunging swordstroke, such that he fell and quickly bled to death) the
weirdest
thing.
Macbeth, his armor smeared with blood, strode along the corridor and out into the courtyard. With a cheer the crowd there surged toward him; but he was not dismayed. It was, from his point of view, a simple matter to stand his ground hacking and chopping targets as they presented themselves. His assailers soon discovered that swords aimed howsoever accurately and forcefully would glide from his armor as if they had been merely glancing blows wielded infirmly. When a hundred had fallen and Macbeth was still unscathed, the heart rather went out of the advance party. A few tried upping the general mood of heroic battle by yelling war cries and running at Macbeth. Many more retreated precipitously through the main gate.
Macbeth followed them.
The carnage that ensued passed rapidly through various stages, being by turns astonishing, distressing, and, ultimately, frankly, rather boring. Wherever Macbeth walked, his sword brought death to dozens. When its blade was too chipped to cut effectively, he simply threw it aside and picked up a sword from one of the many corpses he had created.
At the beginning of this assault by one single attacker, Malcolm ordered
a general charge. But from his vantage point of being on horseback on the hill, he realized—though he could scarcely credit it—that not one of the swords, maces, arrows, or spears aimed at Macbeth was able to pierce his skin. His casualties began to mount up. He changed tactics: ordering a phalanx of men to press forward in the hopes of tramping or crushing the singleton enemy. But that was equally ineffective, and after two score men or more had been slain the phalanx as a whole broke up. Malcolm issued another order for a general crush, and the entire army—tens of thousands of men—surrounded Macbeth and tried to press in. There followed a quarter of an hour of uncertain alarum. But Malcolm soon became aware that a great circular wall of his own dead soldiers was being piled around Macbeth.
By the end of the day Macbeth had single-handedly killed over eight hundred men. This slaughter had tired him out, and he made his way back into the castle—which was, of course, wholly overrun by Malcolm's soldiers—mounted the stairs to his chamber, and went to sleep in his bed. “Now!” cried Malcolm, when this news was relayed to him. “Kill him in his bed! Stab him! Smother him while he snores!”
But no matter how they tried, none of the men under Malcolm's command were able to force the life out of the supine body of Macbeth. Blades skittered harmlessly off his skin. The pillow placed over his face, and even partially stuffed into his mouth, prevented him from breathing; but the lack of air in no way incommoded the sleeping man. They piled great stones on him, but no matter how great the weight Macbeth's body was uncrushable.
Finally the dawn came and Macbeth awoke, yawning and stretching. After a little light breakfast of poisoned bread and adulterated kippers (neither malign substance having any effect upon him) he resumed killing. He took it easier on this second day, careful not to wear himself out; and accordingly he worked longer and more efficiently: by dusk he had killed over a thousand men. Malcolm's army, hugely discouraged, was starting to melt away; deserters slinking back to Birnam Wood and away to the south.
On the third day Macbeth killed another thousand, along with Malcolm himself. After that it was a simple matter to either kill off or else chase away the remnants of the army, and by dusk of this day the place was his.
It fell to Macbeth himself to clear away all the corpses. He had, after all, no servants—Seyton had been hanged from a gibbet on the first day's battle—and he could not command any. So over a period of a week or so he dug a large pit at the rear of the castle and dragged the thousands of bodies into it.
Life settled down
a bit after that. He found that he didn't
need
to eat; although he was still aware of hunger, and still capable of deriving sensual pleasure from good food. So he scavenged the nearby countryside and occupied himself with wandering about the empty castle, cooking himself food, heating himself bath water, thinking, sleeping.
He pondered the charms that protected him, meditating the precise limits the witches had established. They had not, for instance, said that ‘no
man
of woman born can harm Macbeth' (which would have left open the chance that a
woman
, or
child,
of woman-born could kill him): they had specified
none
of woman born. That seemed safe enough. The other charm was even more heartening:
Macbeth shall never vanquished be,
they had said,
until Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane castle shall come against him.
Vanquished meant killed by an enemy; but it also, he reasoned, meant poisoned, killed by sickness, laid low by old age, or any of the consequences of mortal existence. Until the wood actually uprooted itself and travelled wholesale to his castle, none of these fates could befall him. That was indeed a powerful charm.
After three months a second army came to beseige his castle. This time it was led by the English king Edward in person; and he brought with him, in addition to many soldiers, a huge assemblage of holy men,
wizards, magi, and people otherwise magically inclined who had promised to undo the charm that preserved Macbeth's life.
Macbeth rather welcomed the distraction. Life had settled into quite a tedious rut.
He made sure, this time, to do all his killing outside the castle walls, so as not to leave himself the awkward job of clearing dead bodies out of his corridors, rooms and stairwells afterward. And he especially took pleasure in slaughtering the magicians, most of whom were armed with nothing more than wands, books of spells, and crucifixes. Macbeth found and killed King Edward himself on day four, but it took a whole week for the army as a whole to become discouraged. Eventually the whole force broke up and fled, apart from a few hardened types who threw themselves at Macbeth's feet and pledged allegiance to him as the Witch King of the North. He swore them into his service.

Other books

Straight Laced by Jessica Gunhammer
For the Love of Suzanne by Hudecek-Ashwill, Kristi
MINE 3 by Kristina Weaver
Yo, mi, me… contigo by David Safier