At the Edge of the Game (21 page)

As I level off
and drift out through the huge archway, the heavy-traffic carbon fumes force me
to close my visor again. Although it might have been worse – most of the
traffic is leaving the cylinder. Now the welcoming sun warms me. My suit
levitator has only minutes’ worth of energy remaining, so I sink surfacewards,
managing to make a safe soft landing on the shore of the Terminal Sea. A wave
spreads up the stony beach and washes over my heavy-booted feet. I step into
the shade of a copse of palm trees and divest myself of the levitator and the
suit, both of which I cast into some bushes. I have to retain the silver boots
of the suit, though, which look preposterously huge with this black jumpsuit. I
also retain the force weapon, which is still good for another thousand shots. I
step over the low railing separating the beach from the pavement. There’s
almost no traffic on the coast road today. Were it not for the busy air traffic
around the Cylinder, one might imagine that the Far City was deserted.

The first
citizens I encounter are in a desolate street of tenements, vacant lots and
decrepit, poorly stocked shops. I keep a hand on the force weapon. I am a
deserter, and my garb will betray as much to any Urban Guardsman that might
come across me. The slovenly individuals native to this area disregard me as
they go about their business. These people have little love for the Urban
Guard, and certainly no inclination to turn in a deserter. Nevertheless, I feel
heartened by the weight of the force weapon on my shoulder. It can’t kill a
human, will merely stun, so I shall have no compunction about using it should
the need arise. I have one intention only, and that is to get home to Helen.

Sweating in the
heat, I reach the Georgian quarter, the central precincts of Dublin Far City. I
am in the vicinity of the ambassadorial palaces. Though there are more people
in the streets here, no one pays me any heed. Most eyes are turned upwards at
the flashing lights of the battle still in progress high above.

I turn a corner
onto St Stephen’s Green. The Cathedral bells toll the general alarm. Sirens
begin to whine. Many citizens run for the thick, black cast-iron blast doors of
the Cathedral. The Cylinder’s war-halo sparks and fizzes. Sparks of flame of
many colours arc away from the Cylinder’s side and fade in the clear air.

The earth
trembles. Water sloshes out of the fountains and pools all around the square. The
rain of fiery sparks intensifies until it is like a fountain of light. It
intensifies still further until it blazes like the sun. The ground shakes
again, more strongly this time. Hundreds of people are running for the doors of
the Cathedral. A rain of many-coloured fireballs reaches the ground. One
impacts close by and sinks through the cobblestone pavement, leaving behind a
black scorch mark. The flesh of those unlucky enough to be struck by the flame
chars and burns, and they fall to the ground in agony.

Plumes of smoke
rise from hundreds of buildings. Urban Guard helicopters fly about to no
effect. A new, more terrible rain has begun: the shapes themselves have broken
through the final human defences in the Cylinder, and are coming down to earth
for the first time in all of recorded history. Like a swarm of locusts they
descend on the defenceless population and begin their murderous work.

I run as fast as
I can through the streets, pushing past terrified citizens seeking shelter. A
fireball lands directly in the centre of a fountain, and all the water
vaporises. The superheated steam is swept past me on the wind, sears my skin. I
scramble onto Harcourt Street and follow the tramline.

There is a third
tremor, this one powerful enough to topple me. I lose my grasp of the force
weapon, and it clatters along the street. A young boy stops and looks at it,
torn between picking it up and heeding his parents’ calls. I push the boy out
of the way and grab the weapon, ducking past the boy’s angry father.  

Our street. I
can see the window of our living room high in the spired block. The lift isn’t
working, so I rush up the stairwell. Where is this strength coming from? It’s
as though gravity were halved, as though my lungs were three times the size.

I hammer the
apartment door with my fists, kick it, shoulder it, but it won’t open. Curse
the heavens. What am I to do? Without her there is nothing. I’m losing my
strength. Lying inert here, looking into the blank blueness of the sky through
the skylight, I see a Shape flit past.

‘George.’

Helen. I saw no
door open.

‘Wake up,
George.’

She’s shaking
me. The skylight is gone, replaced by a procession of saints or apostles dimly
lit, flaking, disintegrating. A raftered church roof.

How did you –

I didn’t say
that –

‘How did – ‘ I
gag and cough. She pours a little water into my mouth.

‘How did you get
me out of the city?’

‘What?’

‘The Shapes…’

She helps me up.
I get myself into a sitting position against a pillar. A suffocating space. A
church crammed with people. A multitude in the kind of abjection and
degradation that inspires not so much pity as the urge to run away.

Families claim
patches of territory on the pewless floor, slumped, eyes hooded in the watery
light. A child is sitting on the step of the nearest confessional gnawing
bread. A fire burns at the altar Pagan-style. Someone stirs a pot of something.
Steam and smoke in the stale air. It settles in the lungs, adheres stinging on
one’s corneas.

We have our own
patch, a spread tartan blanket. Helen lays her head on a pillow. There’s
another. I take the other and set it against the pillar.

‘Where are we?’

‘Carrick-on-Suir.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Somewhere in the
south-east.’

‘Near Rosslare?’

‘I don’t think
so.’

‘How did we get
here?’

‘Jesus, George.
How do you think?’

A door creaks
open behind. Three men dressed for the cold. One of them is Heathshade. All
have shotguns. People rise and greet them.

The man to
Heathshade’s right - a priest - addresses the ragged congregation.

‘We have a deal,’
he says.

Some people
cheer.

‘St Molleran’s
will share with us. We have this man to thank for it.’ The clergyman claps
Heathshade on the back. Heathshade draws himself up, puffs his chest.

‘They wouldn’t
open their doors to us. They told us to go away. But this man Marcus pushed
inside. Someone raised a stick at him, but he grabbed it and threw it away.’

The priest looks
at him as though he were sent down from Heaven to rescue the flock. A trick of
the light surrounds Heathshade’s skull with a very faint halo.

 ‘He went
straight to Warburton and faced him down, shamed him. Warburton backed away,
knowing he was in the wrong. But still he wouldn’t negotiate.’

Heathshade
breaks in. ‘So I says, ‘Listen to me - I’m a highly trained British Army combat
specialist. I’ve been in do-or-die situations, and I know what I’m talking
about. Understand this – I’m helping you to boost your survival chances. The
people in the Friary ain’t your enemies, they’re your friends. Those bastards
across the river are your enemies. You need to fight them. Form an alliance,
share what you have, and
listen to me
. Believe me when I say this – I
can help you to get your food back. All of it. Enough to last you months. I’m a
specialist, I know exactly what I’m talking about, and on my mother’s life, I
guarantee you we can root out those fuckers and get back what they stole from
you.’

They men in the
room let out a triumphant roar, and woman rush forward to embrace him. It is, I
don’t doubt, the greatest moment of his life. He catches my eye and winks.

I resume my
position behind the pillar, gazing over the cold mosaic floor where only the
very young, the very old, and the very sick remain while the rest huzzah the
would-be saviour.

I approached
the harbour from the south - over the ocean - to give him a few minutes'
warning of my approach. Hovering, I inspected the area. The habitat was secured
amongst the trees on the slope above the cove, safely out of range of the tide.
The equipment and food crates were strewn about carelessly. The flatboat sat on
the rocks down in the cove, empty. I could not see Dexter, but his recent
activity was evident. The side of the iceberg closest to Dexter’s habitation
was marked with several holes, which seemed to penetrate deep inside the ice. It
was clear that he had done considerable work since I had left.

I landed
the ship at the edge of the water just outside the harbour, far enough away
that Dexter could not pose me much of a threat. I stepped out onto the beach. I
saw the old man about half a kilometre away, heading in my direction in the
jet-powered flatboat. Seeing me, he waved, and I waved back.

He grounded
the flatboat on the sand and beckoned me forward. I remained at a safe
distance.

‘Good to
see you again, Xian.’

‘Are you
okay?’

‘Passable. You
provided for my needs.’

‘Dexter,
I'm sorry-’

‘No, you've
done me a favour. This week has been good for me. I feel rejuvenated,
reinvigorated. The days of isolation have cleared my mind, given me focus. If I
could only describe to you the dreams I've been having since you went away.’

‘What are
you trying to do here?’

‘I’ve been
using the probes to tunnel in through the ice. Their lasers are powerful enough
to burn through it, but at a slow rate. It will take me a few more days to
reach the seaship.’

‘And what
then?’

‘Then I
touch the past.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, who knows? As the old truism goes, it’s not
the destination that matters. All I ask of you is to go away and leave me alone
to deepen the peace I have discovered. The mystery of this place will reveal
itself to me in good time.’

‘You mean
you want me to leave you here?’

‘For now. Just
promise me you’ll take good care of the ship. I may claim it back from you
sometime in the future, but for the time being consider it yours.’

‘Dexter-’

‘Go!’ He
pushed the boat back into the water and hopped in. Moments later the silent jet
engine was carrying him away across the water.

‘I'll come
back in another week!’ I called after him. He made no acknowledgement that he
had heard.

I watched
his progress all the way back to the cove. I wondered if he was insane, and
what I should do if he was. But I had no desire to take him from this place
when it clearly meant so much to him to remain here. And there was certainly no
way that I was going to stay to look after him. At least he seemed capable of
looking after himself. That meant that I didn't have to feel too guilty about
leaving him again.

Does the Suir
still flow through an ice tunnel? No one seems to care except me. From here,
looking across the ice-topped Old Bridge spanning the frozen river, we can see
the high barricade at the top of Bridge Street. Smoke rises from Main Street
chimneys. The paramilitaries sit there with food enough to last months, safe in
their enclosure. Our survival – by which I mean the survival of Helen and I, as
well as, I suppose, the group to which we now seem to belong - depends on one
of two things. Either the winter finally ends – this accursed alternation
between days of shattering cold and springtime warmth does not constitute a
viable state of affairs – or we somehow defeat the Unity IRA and take back the
food.

Escape is not an
option. They say that communication with Waterford ceased before the last big
storm, and the route is still impassable. To leave town would be to ask for
death.

Anyway, maybe
the Unity IRA is in control there too. If they’ve taken this town, they might
have defeated State forces throughout the country. No point in leaving here to
find similar or worse trouble there.

Warburton says
there are about seventy of them holed up in the centre of town, including their
women and children. Doesn’t seem like that many. However, the fact that they
have automatic weapons does count for a lot. There are no police or soldiers in
here to lead us. The police were killed during the initial assault on the town.

‘Let’s go,’ says
Heathshade, and we men follow him, even Warburton, erstwhile leader of the
group. They seem to have swallowed Heathshade’s yarn about being some kind of
military survival expert. The moment has passed when I might have been able to
tell them it’s a lie. They believe in him now. They need to believe that
someone has control, that someone can deliver them from this mess. They’d
probably turn on me if I started naysaying.

Following our
heroic leader, we trudge downriver to the New Bridge, which we cross to an
observation position covered by a thick, ancient wall. Only Heathshade,
Warburton and the priest Friar Aspen are armed, and they only with shotguns. The
rest of us… why are we here? Unarmed, we can do nothing. We’re tagging along to
escape the indignity of not participating. To sit here behind an ice-coated
wall yards from the enemy is to have evaded Useless Lump status. And so we
observe. What field-of-combat assessments we are supposed to be making, I’m not
completely sure.