At the Edge of the Game (26 page)

Fifty miles east
of Carthage I had occasion to use the force weapon to fend off a swarm of
Shapes that encircled our firelit camp. I was hailed that night as the family’s
saviour. Ammatas saluted me in the manner customary to his tribe. Roxalana took
my hands in hers and called me son, called Helen daughter.

The next day we
came upon the Paradise of Grasse, ancient palace complex of the Numidian kings.
The local population had descended on the Paradise in desperation. They
overpowered the extravagantly uniformed keepers, who had called on them in the
name of the Royal House to desist from despoiling that which belonged alone to
the monarch and not to the people. They were imprisoned in the palace cellars. The
people slept in the great halls each night. By the time we arrived, they had
already fished the many lakes and pools to exhaustion. The groves had been
stripped of all fruit. Now the starving people were reduced to boiling flowers
and tree bark. Factions had emerged whose battles over rights of access to the
fountains, now the only source of fresh water, had left many dead and maimed. We
paused only a few hours to rest in the shade of some hazel trees. The next day,
we passed through deserted, smouldering Carthage without encountering a single
soul still living.

Now we were in
hilly country, the forests of which had been reduced to ash. Stars hit the
earth with greater frequency every day, and this region had been more heavily
hit than most. We came across a doe on the roadway. It stood with shaking legs
as it struggled to give birth to its fawn. Already weakened by starvation, the
burden of labour deprived the beast of the strength to flee from us. Ammatas
stepped up to it and sliced open its throat. He pulled the weakly struggling
fawn free from its mother’s womb and twisted its head until its neck snapped. So
it was that we filled our bellies just when it seemed as though we would never
see another morsel of real food. The women salted the meat left over after our
happy feast and packed it for the journey.

Now again we
are grievously short of food. At least the many streams that flow from the
hills still run cold and fresh. We are travelling through forest that has so far
been spared. But for all the nuts and roots we gather, our bellies shrink each
day.

 We emerge from
the forest into a sunken valley of spongy soil covered with thickly growing
tall grasses. A herd of okapi grazes along the rocky southern slope. Ammatas
orders the family to halt. He beckons me to accompany him forward through the
grasses. To within spear-throwing distance of the okapi we crawl. Ammatas
awaits the right moment and then, with agility belying his old age, leaps to
his feet and in the same movement hurls his spear in the direction of the herd.
The point strikes a juvenile male in the flank. The rest of the herd scatters. Ammatas
cries to me to follow him. He rushes after the wounded beast and, before I have
caught up, grabs it and wrestles it to the ground. I fall upon the animal and
keep my weight upon it as Ammatas squeezes the life out of it.

We return to the
family triumphant. We throw the carcass into the back of the cart, and the
children gaze upon it with delight. Finding no patch of ground fit to halt and
roast the okapi, we climb a steep slope to the open plain. There we behold, far
in the distance, the battling stone forms of the great edifices of Augustine
and Sidi Bou Merouan. We have reached Hippo Regius.

It is clear
that the city - no more than Carthage was - is no refuge. Smoke rises from
within its walls. We can see that it is still peopled. Something about the
disorder of the place tells us that the destruction wrought within is the work
of man and not any other agency.

Beyond Hippo’s
northern wall the Wadi Seybouse plunges over a system of stepped precipices and
collects into a small lake - known to some as Hipponensis Sinus - before
finally going over the edge of the African Wall itself. Such is the inordinate
distance downward to the Salt Desert that the Seybouse waters disperse into
spreading clouds of vapour long before reaching it.

We judge it
best not to approach the city. Though it is only mid-afternoon we set up camp
and roast the okapi on a spit. It is good indeed to eat flesh, but I worry that
the smell might draw city residents towards us. After the sun has set, stars
trail across overhead, always from the east. An impact flashes far to the
north, in the Salt Desert, and soon after the ground trembles. Now there is another
flash below the western horizon. The night advances, and the bombardment
continues. There is a major impact somewhere to the west of us, and this time
the ground heaves violently. Crashing sounds and cries in the distance suggest
that buildings are collapsing in Hippo. The children clutch their parents, but
cannot be comforted. A flame streaks over us, emitting a shrieking sound, and
bursts upon the higher Edough slopes. The forest all around the impact is
afire.

Dawn has
brought the sunlight back to us, but the terrible bombardment has not stopped. The
earth shakes continuously now. Before the sun has even freed itself of the
horizon, Hippo is struck directly, vaporised in an enormous explosion. There is
no sound, no movement, not even thought. I think to myself that I am flying
upon the shockwave, arcing with yaw and pitch. My crash to the ground, when it
comes, brings no pain at all.

The gale is
subsiding, the air cooling. The grass crackles and smokes. I can see no one
else. The smoke clears to the west and I behold a changed scene. Hippo Regius
is gone, replaced by a huge, glowing hole. Hipponensis Sinus is doubled in
size, but now contains not water but molten rock that drains over the African
Wall and down, solidifying in the air, towards the lifeless desert. Pain begins
to emanate from my torn legs and arms. Sound returns to my ears.

Somewhere to the
south, the bright flash of a crashing star, followed by another. I watch the
resultant double shockwave cross the sky, spreading ripples propagating through
the golden dawn clouds, only to be met by another wave travelling in the
opposite direction. The clouds writhe like the skin of a tortured animal as
they contort to display the interference pattern born of the mutual wave
destruction. The violently perturbed atmosphere lenses the sun momentarily and
burns my eyes right out of my head. I am blind, stumbling around, howling for
Helen.

‘What is it?’

‘Blind! I’m
blind!’

‘Calm down, for
God’s sake. You’re not blind. Open your eyes. See?’

I see.

It’s lashing
rain outside. Dirty, laden, evil rain that absorbs the daylight, leaves
everything in the most dispiriting gloom. This is no smoky African escarpment.

‘What’s wrong?’

The chip shop
suddenly comes back to mind.

 ‘Jesus. Must be
delayed shock.’

I’m soaked
through with cold sweat.

‘What do you
mean?’

I look at her,
scanning her face and body for signs of trauma.

‘Are you okay? I
thought in the chip shop that something bad was going to happen… with the baby.’

‘Chip shop?’

‘The West Gate. How
did we get back here anyway?’

‘George, you’re
not making any sense.’

‘The explosions…
hey – is it safe to be in here?’

‘What are you
talking about?’

I grapple with
the sudden notion that I’m not really awake.

‘What day is
today?’

She thinks for a
moment. ‘Monday.’

Okay, at least
that seems right. ‘And yesterday the electricity came back on.’

‘Yes.’

‘So then we
shouldn’t be in here, should we? It’s not safe.’

‘Why not?’

‘The gas
explosions. This house might collapse.’

‘You were
dreaming, George.’

‘The mudslide.’ My
voice shakes, which has the effect of unnerving me even more. ‘The executions. Did
they happen?’

‘Executions? Of
who?’

‘What about, you
know, the sex?’

She laughs,
deciding finally to be amused rather than concerned. ‘With me, you mean? Oh,
look. Enough. Lie back and relax. I’ll get you a cup of tea. You’ve obviously
had a bad night. A mostly bad night.’ She switches on the radio. ‘And listen to
this…’

A nasally
distinct voice comes through loudly.

‘…comprising
East Waterford, South Tipperary, South Kilkenny and South Wexford. Teams are
working throughout the region to restore power and services. Remain in your
home and wait for emergency services to reach your area.’

‘Is this real?’

‘Listen,’ she
says. ‘It’s a repeating message.’

‘Like the IRA
one.’

‘Listen.’

‘Make contact
with the authorities by phone or radio if possible, or display SOS signals that
can be seen from the air. Conserve food and fuel, and boil mains water for at
least twenty minutes before drinking it. Relief shipments are arriving at Waterford
port, and are being made ready for distribution in towns and villages across
the region. Tune into this frequency regularly for information updates… This is
a recorded message from the military authority in Waterford City, mandated
under the terms of the Emergency Powers Act to govern the south-east region,
comprising East Waterford, South Tipperary, South Kilkenny and South Wexford…’

‘Is that it?’

‘That’s all,’
she says. ‘But we got a call to the door a few minutes ago, while you were
still sleeping.’ A jibe? ‘There’s a meeting in the Town Hall in twenty minutes.
I presume you want to go.’

Already people
are streaming down the street. She’s keen to get a good position there so she
hurries me into my clothes.

The Unquiet
Spirit guided itself back into Earth's atmosphere. It glided over the South
Pole and dropped to a subsonic velocity a few hundred kilometres away from the
harbour where the iceberg was moored. I landed the ship on the beach downhill
from where Dexter had set up his habitation. I emerged, shading my eyes with my
hands, into the bright daylight. There was no sign of Dexter. I had expected
him to appear as soon as he was aware of my approach. I wandered around
aimlessly for a while, not sure what to do.

I found Cat
and the alien triped inside the habitat, cowering nervously under the bunk. Cat's
legs were tucked underneath his body, his head upright, eyes wide open and
alert. The triped sat half hidden behind Cat, huge eyes shining through the
darkness under the bunk. I approached them slowly, giving them time to
recognise me. Finally sure it was me, Cat crawled out of his hiding place and
made a big show of stretching and yawning. The triped followed cautiously some
moments later. I brought them back to the ship and gave them both something to
eat.

Dexter
still had not shown up. I spotted the flatboat adrift out in the waters of the
harbour, halfway between the shore and the edge of the iceberg. I had the
computer run an inventory of the vessel’s swarm of probes, half of which I had
left with Dexter for his work on the iceberg. It transpired that three were in
active mode. I accessed their signals. The first was in one of the tunnels
Dexter had cut through the ice. The second probe was somewhere dark, according
to its optical signal. I activated the probe’s powerful lamp and saw that it
hovered in a chamber whose decrepit metallic walls were covered with pipes,
ducts and compartments. On the floor of the chamber were what appeared to be
the remains of pieces of wooden furniture. I realised that I was looking at the
interior of the seaship trapped inside the ice.

The optical
signal of the third probe also showed darkness. Again, I switched on the
probe’s lamp and beheld a much larger compartment inside the ancient ship. There
was considerably more debris on the floor, though the dark, shifting shadows
cast by the lamp made it difficult to determine what exactly I was looking at. Two
points of faint light shone back at the probe from the far wall. I directed the
probe forward slowly to investigate. White in the harsh light of the probe,
Dexter’s face resolved itself. It was his wide-open eyes that reflected the
probe’s beam. He sat on the floor, back against the wall. He did not move. I
guided the probe closer to him. It was then that I realised that he was dead.

I went
outside and sat angry and confused on a rock at the water’s edge and flung
stones across the expanse between the shore and the edge of the berg. I became
consumed by the desire to propel a stone all the way across and hit the mass of
ice. But it was too far, no matter how hard I tried.

I wanted to
leave this place immediately and never return. I almost did so, but as I sat in
the cockpit, ready to start the ignition of the Unquiet Spirit, I thought of
Brinnilla’s grave far away on my island. I knew it had never been Dexter’s
intention for her to lie there alone forever. I knew what I had to do.

The young
sergeant sounds tired and uninterested. He must already have gone through this
soul-destroying process in other towns along the Suir corridor. The rostrum is
creaking, and since everyone is standing it’s hard to get a good look at the
soldiers and the small deputation of town councillors who are with them.