Meridian Days (16 page)

Abe's island was only a kilometre away from mine, but the journey seemed to take an age. As I went, I tried to convince myself that one of the guards had stolen the frost, but try as I might I could recall no one trying to conceal something as bulky as the half-shell on leaving the lounge.

The plain fact was that Fire had taken the frost, and I could understand her need to know whether the death of her sister had been an accident, or suicide. She had begged me to let her have the drug, but I had refused — and she had gone behind my back and stolen it. But I still felt betrayed. As I approached Abe's island, I resolved to ask Fire one question, one very simple question: I wanted to know if I meant anything at all to her, or if her show of affection over the period we had known each other had been nothing more than a ploy.

I came down gently on the path leading to Abe's villa, then concealed the glider among the shrubbery. Down below, in the bay, I could see my launch, moored to the jetty. As I began the climb to the villa, I was conscious of my increased pulse. I considered the times I had made this journey in the past, to share a beer and a quiet chat with Abe, and how very different the circumstances were now.

Now that the time had arrived to confront Fire, I approached the verandah with apprehension, the words I had arranged to say a jumble in my head. She was not on the verandah. I stepped through the open sliding doors to the lounge, and was immediately assailed by the tantalising scent, pungent and bitter, of burnt frost. I coughed, wafted away the fumes which hung in the air. I heard the sound of something move, and saw a blurred shape head for the door — Abe's pet pterosaur.

In the event, I did not have the opportunity to question Fire. She was sprawled on the chesterfield, her arms and legs spread in a posture of submission to the drug. The half-shell lay on the floor where she'd dropped it. I knelt beside Fire and took her hand. Her pulse was slow, her breathing shallow. New to frost, she had misused it, inhaled too much. This was not dangerous in itself, but it did mean that the quality of the recalled event — the death of her sister, presumably — would be enhanced, prolonged. There was nothing I could do but be with her when she came to her senses.

I opened an inside door and the rear exit to create a draught and clear the air, then returned to her side. So far, my only thought had been to find Fire and question her — I had looked no further. What mattered now was to get Fire as far away as possible from her mother's henchmen. We had the perfect means of escape — the glider — and could depart just as soon as Fire regained consciousness. We would then proceed, as planned, to an island beyond Main.

A shadow fell across the room. I turned. A figure stood in the doorway. I could not make out his face against the bright light outside, but the cut of the uniform was familiar. He advanced, and I could see that his side-arm was drawn and directed at me.

It speaks volumes for human fortitude, or sheer stupidity, that even in this situation I was thinking desperately of a way that Fire and I might escape the guard, make it to the glider and leave the island without being followed... Then more guards tumbled into the room, and it was with real shock that I realised we were going nowhere, that they would overcome me and return Fire to her mother, no matter what I did.

Even so, I dived at the leading guard with the vague notion of disarming him and blasting our way free. I was burning on raw anger, without a thought for practicalities. By comparison to the guard in the area of physical combat, I was an amateur; he knew what he was doing and he handled me with contemptuous efficiency. I failed to see him move, but I felt what might have been a boot planted firmly in my solar plexus, followed by a fist in my face, and I was flat on my back on the floor. I gasped for breath, nauseous, and the guards simply ignored me. They surrounded Fire, thumbed open her eyelids and checked her pulse. This done, one of their number unceremoniously lifted her and slung her over his shoulder, so that her long golden hair hung parallel to her tanned arms. They filed from the room without so much as a backward glance, left me cursing them in silence and holding back my tears. I tried to console myself with the thought that they would have searched Abe's island sooner or later, and that my leading them here had only brought forward the inevitable.

I was a long time on the floor, regaining my breath. I staggered to my feet and stumbled out onto the verandah. There was no sign of the launches on the sea. I dialled myself a cold drink from the dispenser and drank it as if I were dying of thirst. As the minutes passed, and the sense of injustice at what had happened began to abate, I came to see Fire's abduction as only an early move in the game of intrigue between Trevellion and myself — not the ultimate act of triumph on her part. Trevellion might have succeeded in recapturing her daughter for the time being, but the move was wholly against Fire's will, and I did not intend to sit back and admit defeat. Quite how I should proceed, though, was another question.

I looked around me at the island and thought of Abe. I had only ever been here in his presence before, and his absence now gave the villa and the island a terrible atmosphere of desolation, an air of redundancy. Everything I looked at, be it the drinks' dispenser on the verandah, the low wall where he had often paused to gaze out to sea, reminded me of him. I expected to see Abe emerge from the lounge at any second.

I recalled Fire's strange, if oddly appropriate, reaction last night, when she had insisted that the animals should be set free. I stepped from the verandah and took the path towards the cages and domes which held the various specimens of Meridian wildlife. These animals could survive in their enclosures indefinitely — they were fed and watered by a complex computerised system which Abe had designed himself — but their continued captivity, when Abe was no longer around to continue his work, seemed a crime. One by one I opened the cages and domes, then stood back as the animals inside either took full advantage and scampered to freedom, or cowered suspiciously in the security of their artificial habitats, regarding me dubiously. Those animals which took their liberty, and disappeared into the surrounding vegetation, filled me with a strange sense of joy.

One hour later all the cages and domes were open, and most of them were empty; from the dense green shrubbery of the island arose a chorus of birdsong, howls and grunts as if in lament at Abe's passing. My clothes wet with sweat, I made my way back up to the villa and helped myself to another beer.

I was considering what to do next when Abe's pterosaur flapped from an overhanging tree and landed on the verandah. It stropped its bill against my leg and squawked in a manner I interpreted as forlorn. We stared at each other for a long time, communicating some notion of our incommunicable tragedy. Then, on impulse, I stood and gathered up the bird and, despite its protests, ran to the edge of the verandah and pitched it into the air. It flapped frantically, plummeted in a flurry of beating wings and desperately peddling legs, then gained purchase on the air and soared majestically, neck outthrust in a gesture of indignity. It swooped out to sea, sending a thrill down my spine at the fact of its freedom — then turned back and came to rest on a headland perhaps five hundred metres distant. Defiantly, it flapped its wings once or twice, then folded them away with an air of finality. I cursed the bird and pitched my empty beer carton feebly in its direction. As I watched, the pterosaur waved its wings in agitation and dived into the cover of a nearby bush — not put out at my projectile, but at the arrival on the scene of a much bigger bird.

The helicab swung into sight over the headland, hovered and came to rest amid a swirling sandstorm on the beach at the foot of the path. At this distance, I could not make out the lettering on the flank of the bulbous fuselage, but the white logo on the blue field was unmistakable: the three scimitars, point to point to point, of the Telemass Organisation. The rotors slowed, drooped to resemble palm leaves. Someone climbed from the passenger's seat, removed his helmet and flung it back into the 'cab. He shielded his eyes, gazed up the hillside, then trudged across the beach and up the path. As he approached, I saw that he was small, dark-haired and bearded: Steiner's technical adviser, Weller.

When it became obvious that he was making his way to the villa, I slipped from the verandah and concealed myself in the surrounding jungle. Weller paused a matter of metres from me, a laser pistol in his hand, and looked around. For a terrible second I thought that he must have seen me from the beach — then, to my relief, he stepped through the open doors into the villa. For the next thirty minutes I heard the constant sizzle of laser fire, and the popping and burning of targeted objects. At one point the island shook with the impact of an explosion, followed by the greedy crackle of flames. I curled in a ball and wrapped my arms about my head.

When the firing stopped, I cautiously peered through the foliage. Weller emerged on the verandah, and through the door to the lounge I could see the burnt and twisted remains of Abe's belongings. A rear room was burning fiercely, and soon the villa was one raging inferno. The heat of its incineration hit me in a wave, rendering me breathless. It was all I could do not to gag on the billowing smoke and give myself away.

weller holstered his pistol and jumped from the verandah. I watched him retrace his steps down the path and across the beach, leaving a trail of symmetrical prints in the sand alongside those he had made on his way from the 'cab. He replaced his helmet, gazed back at the pyre of Abe's villa, and climbed back into the helicab. It rose, tipped nose-down and clattered away from the beach. The downdraught from its rotors hit the sand and churned it for a radius of fifty metres, obliterating totally all sign of Weller's footprints.

I stared at the flattened swathe of sand with sudden understanding...

I waited until the helicab was a tiny speck in the distance, heading for Main, then ran down the path to where Fire had moored my launch. I jumped aboard, gunned the engine and steered from the bay towards my island. By the time I beached the launch and sprinted up to my dome, I was sick with apprehension.

I had to calm myself as I sat before the screen. I imagined the dishevelled sight I would present to Doug, then dismissed it as irrelevant. What mattered was what I had to tell him.

I got through to his office.

A secretary answered and told me that Doug had left thirty minutes ago.

"Could you put me through to him?"

"I'm afraid not. I could let you speak to his deputy—"

"I need to see the Inspector. Did he tell you where he was going?"

"One minute..." The secretary consulted another screen. "He's attending an event on Trevellion's island, but he left instructions that he wasn't to be—"

I cut the connection, sat staring at the blank screen. In the confusion of the past day, I had quite forgotten about Trevellion's forthcoming live event; to which, I recalled, she had invited me. I had the urge to make my way there immediately, create a scene and demand the return of Fire... Then I had second thoughts. If I arrived exhibiting belligerence, Trevellion would have no qualms about having her henchmen forcibly eject me. However, if I turned up suitably attired and composed, as if outwardly accepting my defeat, then perhaps she might honour her invitation.

Thirty minutes later I made my way for the last time to Trevellion's island.

EIGHT///THE ULTIMATE EVENT

Darkness was descending by the time I reached the island. Already the party was under way. A band played loud, throbbing music, the noise meeting me as I drifted into the marina. On the summit of the island the dome was aglow, and beside it the lawn was illuminated like a sporting venue. I made the launch fast to the quayside and stepped out, recalling that, just a few days earlier, Abe Cunningham had accompanied me to the last event. There were fewer boats in the marina now, and consequently not as many guests waiting at the foot of the escalator which zig-zagged up the hillside. The two couples before me introduced themselves to the armed guard. They were allowed through with polite smiles and nods of courtesy. When it was my turn to pass muster, the guard blocked my way.

"Benedict," I said. "Trevellion invited me."

The guard turned and spoke into his handset.

There might not have been as many guests present tonight, but there was a disproportionate number of guards stationed around the marina, and at strategic positions up the switchback escalator. As far as I could make out, none of these individual were among the band of thugs which had raided first my island, and then Abe's, earlier in the day. I wondered if Trevellion had increased the numbers of her private army for tonight and, if so, why.

Still speaking into his handset, the guard turned to me and looked me up and down. He gestured curtly for me to pass. I tried to ignore him as I did so, but it was more difficult to ignore the stares of the dozen other guards on the way up. They made it clear that I was, despite my invitation,
persona non grata
here tonight. I was relieved that I had foregone earlier, rash plans to take the island by storm and rescue Fire single-handedly.

A servant — I noticed others stationed at the entrances to various passages — ushered me through the dome to the illuminated lawn. Again, like last time, my name was announced, along with my ex-profession. Again it caused the same lack of interest. A crowd of Altereds, Augmenteds and normals chatted animatedly on the lawn. I recognised Leo Realisto and Trixi the bush-baby, and hurried past before they saw me. Euphor-fumes fulminated from burners set on pedestals, the columns of smoke showing blue, green and red in the light from the floating lanterns. I resolved not to get too near the things. I wanted to be sober when I confronted Trevellion.

Fire was nowhere to be seen among the gathered guests, not that I'd expected her to be on show so soon after her abduction. Nor was Tamara Trevellion, though if she followed form she would make her grand entry later in the evening. I plucked a drink from a passing tray and surveyed the crowd for Doug Foulds, without success. There was much hilarity in the air, which was to be expected with the liberal placement of the euphor-fumes, but underlying the gaiety was a quite definite sense of anticipation. In night sky above the adjacent greensward, I made out a large, rectangular object, for all the world like an airborne stage.

I bumped into an acquaintance — someone whose launch I had once repaired — and we chatted for a while. I felt uncomfortable, and the fact that I'd found someone to talk to hardly helped matters. I was frustrated at being so close to Fire, and yet so powerless even to meet her, let alone take her away from here. I had to maintain a show of polite interest now that I was here, an act of bonhomie I did not feel, while at the same time wondering if, at the end of the night, I would be reunited with Fire — always supposing, that was, that Fire wanted to be reunited.

I moved on, finding that if I kept on walking I did not feel so conspicuous. I kept this up for perhaps fifteen minutes, then sat side-saddle on the long balustrade in the cover of a sculpture, effecting a pose of solitary interest in the view of the nighttime sea. From this position, I could make out the upper curve of Fire's dome. It was illuminated from inside, suggesting that someone was in the room. I plotted a course through the shrubbery, and at the same time checked the positions of the guards around the lawn. By now, Fire would have regained consciousness after her trip, and if only I could make it to her dome undetected...

I was about to move towards the Meridian cacti, the first place of concealment
en route
to her dome, when the floating speaker announced the arrival of Director Wolfe Steiner and Guy Weller, his technical adviser.

I felt a curious emptiness as Director Steiner stepped from the dome, followed by the short, bearded man I had seen that afternoon. I should perhaps have experienced anger and outrage at that moment, as heads turned and a polite patter of applause rippled among the gathering, but, although I was just a stone's throw from Abe Cunningham's killer, I was aware only of a negation of feeling within me. I think I realised even then that Weller and Steiner were no more than pawns moved in some game of Expansionist power-politics to eliminate pieces which quite by accident had strayed into the path of progress — though what progress, to what end, I did not know. I recalled someone, I think it was Doug, telling me that Steiner was a puppet at the beck and call of his superiors on Earth, and I think that I even began, without quite knowing why, to sympathise with the Augmented Director. He stood at the top of the steps, surveying the gathering with his rather imperious, upright demeanour. He descended into the crowd and circulated, closely followed by his adviser.

I felt suddenly removed from the reality of the party, alienated. I recalled the many incidents of the past few days, and knew that my experience of these events was what put me on the outside of this gathering, that it had little to do with the fact of my physical isolation. I pitied the guests, the insular, comfortable coterie of artists and agents and hangers-on — I pitied their ignorance of the fact that something significant was occurring beneath the surface of their everyday lives. Or perhaps my pity was nothing more than a defence mechanism; perhaps I wished that I too was just as ignorant.

My attention was caught by activity across the lawn. A spotlight picked out the arched exit of the dome, and the babble of the crowd modulated to a low murmur of expectation. Heads turned, and those guests without a view moved so that they might witness Trevellion's entry. From my position on the balustrade, I could see over the crowd to the marble steps bathed in silver light. As I watched, Trevellion stepped into the circle of illumination, her surgeon in close attendance. She paused before a floating microphone, inclining her head in minimal acknowledgment of the applause. She wore a golden shawl wrapped about her body and draped over one shoulder, and a matching tiara. It was perhaps some measure of how important she considered this particular event that she had bothered to dress for it.

Her cold, precise voice cut through and silenced the murmurs from the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen... It is, as ever, an honour to have you here..." As she spoke, I considered taking the opportunity, while the attention of the crowd was on Trevellion, to move off and attempt to find Fire. But something about Trevellion's tone, and later the content of the speech, kept me listening. She seemed, as I listened to the mundane preamble of pleasantries, a little more animated than usual, even excited. Compared with her usual icy monotone, her voice was imbued with emotion. At the same time it struck me that her speech had something of the farewell address about it. "Many of you here tonight have been my loyal friends and colleagues for the many years I have made my home on Meridian. I came here as an unknown artist, and for years have worked to change that. Only of late have I been able to say with any confidence that I have come close to fulfilling my potential. Tonight, I believe, I have created a work which will stand forever as a statement on trans-planetary colonialism — a work which will, I hope, resonate in retrospect with cosmic truths. I thank you for you support and friendship over the years." She gave a small bow, and a burst of applause sounded around the lawn. She held up an arm, connected to her body by a thin, webbed veil. At first I took the gesture to be one of valediction; then, as the crowd silenced itself, I knew that Trevellion had not yet finished her speech.

"A few words, if I may, about tonight's event." For perhaps five minutes she lost me with arcane, and probably meaningless, references to metaphor, symbolism, the place of live events in the pantheon of modern arts, and
performance
. She stressed the word, and went on to say that what we were about to witness was a construction of effect produced by techniques of artistry unknown to Meridian. By this time, the crowd was in a foam of delight at the prospect of the treat. I, for my part, saw Trevellion only as a charlatan, a pretender in the field of artistic endeavour whose soul was as corrupt as she fancied her talent to be great. She held aloft a webbed palm to dampen the chorus of speculation. "The event will commence in one hour." She stepped from the marble staircase and was immediately surrounded by Trixi, Realisto and the rest of her fan club.

While all the attention was focused on Trevellion's progress through the throng of her admirers, I ensured that the guards stationed around the garden were looking elsewhere. Then I casually left the balustrade and stepped behind the sheltering cacti, paused and considered my next move.

I judged that more than two hundred metres separated my present position from Fire's dome. Most of that distance was concealed from the lawn and the guards by an ornamental hedge and behind it a mass of tropical bushes — but I had no idea if any guards were stationed among the shrubbery, or if the area was under surveillance by remote control cameras.

I hurried on to the next point of cover, and from there passed deeper into the surrounding vegetation. Soon I lost sight of the guests on the lawn; even the music seemed distant, muffled by the intervening foliage. As I hurried through the darkened undergrowth, I came across neither guards or security cameras. I ran doubled-up towards the dome, showing as lighted sparks and slivers between leaf and branch.

I came to the edge of the garden and dropped into the cover of a bush. Miraculously, it seemed that the dome was unguarded. In the golden glow of light that spilled from the dome itself, I made out no threatening, black-uniformed figures. All was still, quiet. The party proceeding on the far side of the main dome might have been a million miles away.

My pulse increased as I transferred my attention from the garden to the dome. I took a breath as I saw Fire inside, seated cross-legged on the circular bed, with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She wore a white gown, her long blonde hair braided and coiled about her head. It seemed to me that she had never looked more beautiful.

So far my passage here had been easy, but I knew that that could not last. In the back of my mind I was aware that I'd had it
too
easy — and the pessimist in me was expecting the worse. I made sure one last time that the way was clear, then dashed across the crescent lawn to the clear wall of the dome.

From this angle, Fire could not see me. I moved carefully around the perimeter of the dome towards the hatch, then stopped. Now I was in her line of sight — or would have been had she held her head upright. She was regarding the bowl of her crossed legs in an attitude of sadness or loss and my presence, mere metres from her, went unnoticed. I rapped on the wall of the dome, expecting an immediate, delighted response. Instead, she looked up slowly and regarded me with the same large, emerald eyes of old, though dulled now, as if drugged. Her expression — or, rather, her distinct lack of expression — did not alter. She stared at me with neutral incomprehension, as if she had never seen me before in her life.

"Fire!" I called. I grabbed the handle and tried to open the hatch, but it resisted my pressure.

As if in response to my cry, a flicker of something briefly animated her eyes: troubled confusion, as if she was aware that she
should
know me, but nevertheless did not. Her lips moved to form a moue of pained contemplation. A cold weight of dread settled in my chest. "Fire!" I called again, heedless of the attention I might attract. I gestured for her to come to me, to open the hatch.

With the graceful movements of a narcoleptic ballerina, she unfolded herself from the sitting position and stepped across the room, the white gown flowing in her wake. Mystification clouded her eyes, even entered her expression: she was frowning, as if questioning herself as to whether what she was doing was right. I found her doubt even more painful than her earlier, blank expression.

"What have they done to you, Fire?"

I spread a hand on the glass dividing us, and, like a mirror image delayed by seconds, she matched the gesture with her own small hand. "Fire... open the hatch." I indicated the catch mechanism on the inner rim of the arched exit. Her hand dropped to the catch, her fingers gripped it and she grimaced with effort as she attempted to force it down. As she tried repeatedly and failed, her gaze looked through the glass, at me, and it seemed that some light of recognition stirred within her — recognition at once reassuring and terrible: she might have begun to realise who I was, but she was also coming to some understanding that she was imprisoned against her will.

When it became obvious to her that the hatch was locked, her hand fell to her side in helplessness.

"Never mind. Can you hear me?"

She nodded.

It was some time before I could bring myself to ask, "Fire, can you remember me?"

A delay. Uncertainty. Then, almost grudgingly, another, smaller nod.

I released a pent-up breath, confident that her confusion was the result of a drug administered to keep her under sedation, and not an amnesiac. "Good... Great." I paused there, uncertain how to continue. Then, "Can you do as I tell you, Fire? Do you understand?"

She frowned, nodded almost imperceptibly.

I went on, "Leave your room without anyone seeing you — can you do that? Come around the main dome to this garden. I'll meet you here. Then we'll take the tunnel."

She was nodding, as if in eagerness.

"Go on, then."