Tamaruq (40 page)

‘Silence, please! I will have silence. I will continue. As a joint venture, the city was an asset, the governance and value of which was divided between the three states. Each state had a representative on the Council of Osiris. Correct?’

The Boreals offer sullen acknowledgement.

‘The city of Osiris declared independence in the year twenty-three forty-six. However, according to records this was never formally recognised by the Boreal States.’

Linus Rechnov gets wearily to his feet.

‘It was agreed by the representatives on the Osiris Council at the time.’

‘That agreement depends upon their authority to speak on behalf of the Boreal States,’ answers Sosanya.

‘Certainly independence was never ratified,’ says Katu Ben, still in a tone of bemusement. Karis imagines this man stepping onto the Antarctican peninsula, with his murderer’s smile and a submarine fleet at his back. He would revel in it.

‘They were empowered as Councillors,’ argues Linus Rechnov. ‘The appointment gave them the legal right to make that decision. Their signatures validate the city’s independence.’

The Solar Corporation delegates are pulling up texts of international law, their hands enshrined in the faint glow of the projection. They whisper in consultation, apparently shielded from the translation chamber. The wait stretches out. Karis fidgets.

‘Unfortunately this is not the case.’

‘We have been independent for over seventy years,’ says Linus.

‘And appear to have made some dubious decisions in that time,’ says Sosanya, frowning.

Dien is standing, her hand jabbing at the air.

‘You’re talking about things so long ago none of us were even born. Hundreds of people died the night these people decided to stage their war inside our city. Why don’t you talk about what that really is—’ She glares around the Chambers. ‘Like fucking murder?’

‘We will come to the matter of human rights violation—’

‘There is another testimony you need to hear,’ says Linus. ‘And I think now is the time. Adelaide Rechnov, the Silverfish. She was badly wounded the night the Antarcticans attacked.’

‘Very well. Connect her.’

The wall behind the Africans flickers, resolving into an image of a young woman in a hospital bed. Her hair is very red. Her skin is very pale, almost translucent. There are tubes inserted into her nose and she is evidently having trouble breathing.

‘Will you state your name, please?’ says Sosanya.

The red-haired woman looks directly at the camera.

‘My name is Adelaide Rechnov. Also known as… the Silverfish.’

‘You have agreed to tell us about the night the Antarcticans arrived.’

‘Yes…’

With difficulty, the young woman describes the night of the attack.

‘There was no warning. We didn’t know what was happening. My brother told me it was the Antarcticans – I didn’t understand. First the Boreals, now this. What had we done to incite so much hostility?’

‘I’m going to ask you the same question I asked your colleagues. Were you aware of a conspiracy to conceal the city of Osiris from the world?’

A look of bewilderment crosses the woman’s face.

‘No,’ she says. ‘When the Boreals came – I can’t explain to you… how impossible that seemed. They might have been from another planet.’

Sosanya nods. ‘Thank you for your testimony.’

‘I want to say something.’

‘Go on.’

Adelaide Rechnov’s eyes close briefly. Karis can see the strain in her face. A membrane of moisture is forming on her skin with the effort of speaking.

‘I don’t know who is in that room. I don’t know where you come from. But… hear me now: you know nothing of our way of life. We have a city, yes. But we’re sea people. The sea is in our souls. We aren’t like you. The places you come from – what do they mean to us, to an Osirian? Until a week ago, I didn’t even believe… there was anything outside of… Osiris. All my life I’ve believed that. Believed a lie. You can never understand what it means to have your life turned upside-down – like that. So what gives you the right to make decisions about our fate? We have nothing to do… with your war.’

Magnified by the screen, those intense green eyes demand the attention of the room. Give me answers, say those eyes. Give me resolutions, give me an end. Listening, watching that face, Karis can see how this woman has commanded the hearts of both sides of the city. But however eloquently she makes her case, Adelaide and the Osirians do not stand a chance. The Boreals will never let go. It’s a matter of principle; to acquiesce is weakness.

‘The significance of your culture is noted, and regardless of the outcome, steps shall be taken to ensure its preservation,’ says Sosanya. ‘Unfortunately, we are all tied to the Nuuk Treaty. International law cannot grant independence where there is a prior claim.’

‘Then grant Osiris independence now, and we can act as a mediating force,’ Adelaide Rechnov argues. ‘We can be a bridge… between north and south. That was the original… purpose of our city. Why not use this as an opportunity – to see it done properly?’

The two Osirians in the room are nodding their agreement. Karis can see the approval in Sosanya’s face, but alongside it is caution. It’s too late for pleas or promises. Perhaps the African has already come to this conclusion for herself; at any rate, she calls a recess. Adelaide Rechnov hovers for a moment, her face broadcasting passion and fury like an avenging angel in one of those old
Retribution
shows, before the link dissolves, leaving behind an empty marble wall.

Her eyes lock onto the nurse as he hooks up the morphine, the nurse’s fingers, the crumple in the transparent plastic bag and the clear, precious solution within it. Her jaw is a clamp. Her lungs are drowning. Distantly she is aware that there are others in the room, doctors, surgeons, people talking in worried voices, hands adjusting medical equipment, but she can’t think about anything but the pain, the impossible pain, and the infinitely slow trickle of morphine down the tube into the needle in her arm and into her blood.

‘I lied,’ she whispers. ‘I said I wouldn’t… any more. But I did know. About the white fly…’

‘You did the right thing,’ says Mikaela. ‘Hush now. Don’t tire yourself.’

‘I’d like to take… the boat out.’

Ole nods.
Yes. Yes, we’ll go. We’ll go together. The three of us.

Mikaela hushes.

They are frightened. They are trying not to show it. They can’t hide it.

Delegates of the summit file from the Chambers. In the rush to talk to their own people and to find food and fresh air, Boreals and Antarcticans are pressed against one another. Karis finds himself directly in front of the cherubic-faced Katu Ben. The Boreal leans forwards slightly. Karis can smell his cologne, a sweetness to it, reminiscent of greenhouse flowers. He murmurs, softly enough that no one but Aariak and Karis can hear.

‘We’re going to torpedo the shit out of you.’

Karis feels Aariak stiffen, and his alarm deepens. For a moment he fears Aariak is going to punch the Boreal in the face, and Karis realizes with a slight shock that if she did he might be compelled to join her, and more, that he would relish the opportunity to bloody the Boreal’s smiling countenance, but then the funnel clears and they are through the other side of the doors, and Katu Ben is with his people and they are with theirs. He glances back once and sees the two Osirians in intense discussion.

Without thinking, Karis makes a motion to return. His way is blocked by an African, who speaks stiffly in Boreal English.

‘I’m sorry, we can’t allow collaboration between parties.’

‘You should come and see the view,’ says Aariak tartly. Apparently she has taken it upon herself to take Karis under her wing.

Karis follows. Some of the delegates are peering down into the open core of the tower, or studying the aquarium columns. They pass Luciana Tan examining a cabinet labelled as Neon artefacts, apparently unable to contain her mirth. Now he thinks about it, Karis has no idea what he would have said to the two Osirians.

Aariak leads them out to one of the famous balconies. As soon as he steps outside, the wind pummels Karis with shocking force and the exit door slams shut behind him. Karis draws in gulps of fresh air.

He has to admit that the view is impressive. You can see the peaks of the towers, attired in pleasing tones of silver and green, stretching away in regimented lines like oceanic warriors. Further away, you can also see the damage inflicted by a fluke missile: rents torn into the side of a tower, the solar skin at the edges of the crater burned and blackened.

He looks down and instantly regrets doing so. He’s never been good with heights.

He jerks back.

‘How do they live here?’

Aariak shrugs. She’s chewing on something, her jaw working furiously. Probably an energy-releasing gum. Karis wishes he had thought of that. She doesn’t offer him a wad of the stimulant.

‘What do you think?’ she asks.

‘About?’

Aariak waves an arm.

‘How it’s going.’

Karis hesitates, still undecided as to how honest it is in his interests to be. He decides he has nothing to lose.

‘I think we’re fucked. I think we should never have come here. I’m worried about the rest of the fleet. We know the ships aren’t ready, we’ve already lost two.’

‘I thought you might be. Don’t worry. Qyn has a backup plan. That’s what I wanted to say.’

‘Backup?’

‘You don’t think she hasn’t considered this possibility? Qyn wouldn’t send us here knowing the Boreals had arrived if she didn’t have a plan.’

Karis stares at her apprehensively.

‘What kind of backup plan?’

She winks at him.

‘Best if you don’t know, Io. You’re an analyst, not a defender. Leave the action to us.’

‘Then what am I doing here?’ he says, with sudden anger.

‘We need analysts too. Keep a close eye on the Boreals. Watch their expressions. Their body language. Look, I understand. You’ve fallen into this. It wasn’t how you expected to spend your summer. But you can be useful.’ She gazes at him earnestly. She’s what the Republic would call a true defender, Aariak. Reliable. Devoted. Qyn’s protégée. ‘You can do your duty to the Republic, Io, and you can do it well. I have faith in you.’

Her words prickle at him. He has a sudden, unpleasant memory of Shri Nayar sitting in his office while he issued the directive for her to do her civic duty.

‘And what about the city?’ he asks. He gestures towards the lines of towers. ‘What about them?’

Aariak shrugs.

‘This is war. Sacrifices are necessary. We all know that.’

She checks the time.

‘Recess is almost up. I’ll see you in there.’

She pulls the door open, battling for a moment against the wind, and ducks inside, leaving him alone on the balcony. Karis shivers. Once again, he forces himself to look down. He can see the streak of the waterway, very far below. The silvery wash is dotted with boats. A lot of boats.

Karis frowns. Even from this distance, there are definitely more boats than there were when they arrived. The Osirians, he thinks. They’re gathering.

Again he is overwhelmed with a terrible sense of premonition. All these people in a room, weighing up benefit and cost, only the cost is in lives, his own included. It doesn’t feel real. Karis wrenches open the door and hurries inside, not wanting to see the gathering boats below, or the majestic towers, orphans in what has so abruptly become a war zone.

He had never considered that open warfare might be possible within his lifetime. When he thought about life beyond Antarctica, which wasn’t often, it had a hazy quality, like a scene in a popcorn visual. He remembers an immersive where all of the Boreals had metal skins, and along these skins ran pulsing wires like veins, and the Boreals did inadvisable things like attempting to communicate with aliens, Karis had quite enjoyed it actually, in the way you can enjoy something stupidly brash and meaningless. Maybe it was in that immersive or maybe it was another one where they succeeded in making contact, and of course one of the characters had sex with the alien, which resulted in the birth of some diabolical cross-species which consequently evolved into a monster who consumed the entire planet, leaving only a few survivors exiled in outer space, and it was all the fault of the silver-skinned Boreal who couldn’t keep his bio-mechanical dick in his pants.

The afternoon is long and unsatisfactory for everyone and descends too quickly into the evening. By the time they leave the Chambers it is dark. The summit delegates are advised to leave the tower by one of the shuttle lines, instead of returning by waterway as they arrived. When Aariak asks why, they are told there is a protest outside. As Karis steps into the pod of the shuttle, twenty floors above the surface, he can see the glow of hundreds of boats gathered in the waterways below. The light is coming from flames. Torches, held aloft. The scene is disturbing; there’s something primal about it that releases a deep-rooted inner fear. Anyone can become a barbarian. He looks away, focusing on the smooth, rounded interior of the tunnel in front of him, which quickly blurs into light as the shuttle pod whisks him from the Eye Tower.

They have been given accommodation in an opulent Osirian tower. Karis and the other Antarctican delegates are each assigned a personal guard, something he finds more disconcerting than reassuring. Aariak invites him to join the defenders for dinner. She says they need to talk strategy.

The food is delivered by Solar Corporation officers who assure them it has been checked for contamination. Karis examines his plate: a classic Osirian dish, he is told, and overpoweringly salted. The food tastes as bad as it smells. The Antarctican delegation discuss the day with a vigour that exhausts him, patois punctuated with the occasional emphatic word of their individual languages of the home. Karis listens, having no desire to contribute, until Aariak asks, ‘What were your impressions, Io?’

She looks at him, waiting, and he hears again her earnest voice on the balcony.

You can do your bit for the Republic, Io.

Karis does his best to replicate her tone.