Lament for the Fallen (31 page)

They are travelling up a clear channel, hugging the elevator cable to their left. They pass through the top of the hub of the space elevator, and he realizes it is not attached to Achenia. After all he has heard he is surprised at this. They fly rapidly through a ringed station spinning slowly around the cable, lit windows looking out, shapes moving inside.

The cable continues out the top, and the surface of Achenia is suddenly to their right. This close it is so large he cannot see it curve. The glass elevator station is a mere annex next to the unending bulk of the orbital city; the cable is almost invisible. Looking up, he can see it extending far into the distance. Further than Achenia, and then ending in a massive asteroid, like a small moon. It is difficult to see the cable, dark against space, but the safe channel leaves a faint boundary with the hurtling debris. Like a water drop on frosted glass.

To their right, they are approaching a huge open chamber; other ships of various shapes and styles fly in and out. All appear to be going away from the planet rather than down towards it.

They enter and settle at the back against what Joshua initially takes for the far wall. The canopy dissolves once more. The landing bay is open, and he looks up on darkness. The inside of the hangar is silvery, bright and warm.

Joshua remains seated, feeling nausea and vertigo only partly due to the gravity shift as they landed. He is not sure if he has the strength to rise.

Fodiar stands and beckons for Joshua to follow as a set of stairs form, leading down to the landing deck. The hatch opens. Samara slides out, and the narrow platform leaves the craft and floats out after Fodiar.

Joshua follows rapidly. If he can remain close to Samara, perhaps he will not feel so isolated.

There is no sound here. Each ship landing, flying, without any but the most subtle whisper. Fodiar turns towards a doorway at the back. He walks ahead down a short, winding spiral until gravity has shifted again.

Joshua, dizzy, trembling, follows. Out into the city beyond.

39

‘Knight to F6.’

They would be the first to admit that it is an inconvenient place to play their weekly game of chess. The small platform floats somewhere towards the middle of Tethys, Achenia’s ocean.

The two players have no board between them. The one reclines on a comfortable sofa and within the shade of a linen awning. The other is a puff of colour draped over the deck and stretched out in the sunshine.

Once they spent a decade playing beneath the cascade of a waterfall. Their games have attracted a following on the connect, with occasional lobbying for even more outlandish locations.

‘I do suggest that next time we choose a spot where my coffee doesn’t take half an hour to reach us. The last cup wasn’t quite hot.’

There is a considered silence as potential moves are surveyed and analyzed.

‘You have not said.’ The words are spoken tactfully, an almost reticence of reserve.

‘That is because unless I direct all my concentration towards the game I will lose inside of thirty minutes. I hope to, at least, last forty-five.’

‘It is not that bad.’

‘It is indeed that bad. I have not won a game in seventy years. Over two thousand games since you even fumbled. Could I suggest we switch to something that requires an element of luck? We could try backgammon. This game is far too regimented.’

He notes, with grim discomfort, that the current betting has him falling in another three moves.

The colour dapples, spreads further over the platform and on to the water. It could almost be said to be purring.

‘There is still the potential you may win. For many years we were evenly balanced.’

‘It took you thirty years to understand the nuances of the game. Now, cease your distractions.’

The man in the shade pinches the bridge of his nose and commits himself, ‘Knight to C3.’

Another flurry of wager changes and he sighs as the consensus is that it will be checkmate in two. He cannot see it himself.

‘I do appreciate your advice, though. It would mean a great deal to me if you would guide me. I have never written a samara before.’

‘It’s easier to be a judge than an entrant. I’ve never written one either.’

The colour intensifies, returning to the craft.

‘Very well, tell me and I’ll do my best.’

The colour quivers in pleasure.

The Three’s tale
Level Ball

A fire devoureth before them; and behind them a flame burneth: the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them.

Joel 2:3 King James Bible

‘We are the fire before the flame.’

The captain’s voice, captured and transmitted to the millions watching, is fearless. His team stand behind him dressed in haggard clothing. Faded, threadbare, carefully patched and spotlessly clean. They are barefoot and their legs and arms sinew and bone. Knotted on each shoulder is a red cloth. In their eyes is the yearning of the many who wait in the Upper Level and of those who are no longer with us.

‘We are the ice that binds.’

The opposing captain is equally unafraid. His voice amplified across the Lower Level and into the distant stadia surrounding the turf. His team jump and hop. Heavy muscle shielded behind cold blue padded uniforms and silver helmets. Their white boots grip the dense lawn, sharp metal studs churning the grass.

There are no umpires. There are no rules.

Save for one. A single goal ends the game.

Each year, a few moments from now, the game ball will fall from beneath the Upper Level and on to the field of the Lower Level. Each team will fight to secure control of the ball.

Each will attempt to bring the ball to their own goal and there to score.

For the blues, victory will return the game ball to the endless tunnels that will see it fall, a year from now, and restart this game.

For the reds, victory will end the confinement of all those who struggle in the Upper Level. The great gates will open, and they will be released back into the world from which they were forced. The game ball will be lost for ever and the game ended.

That is the way the game has been played for centuries. That is the way it was created. A joke at the expense of the reds. They cannot win. Their anguish and striving for freedom have been turned into televised entertainment for the viewers at home and in the stadia on the Lower Level.

Maybe, once, there was a memory of why they should suffer so. Perhaps some below wonder at the unfairness and fear burdened upon those above.

That is cast aside now. Nothing matters on game day save for who will secure the ball.

The words have been spoken. Cameras hover above. Silence descends upon the field.

The players look up.

The ball falls.

Each team is already moving. The blues have formed an attacking wedge and charge directly at the red captain. His team scatters.

There is laughter in the commentary box. The cowardice of the reds means the game will be over before it has properly started. The shortest recorded game was only five minutes.

The red captain does not move as the blues maul into him. His body is smashed to the ground. His flesh torn apart by the talons on their boots. Red stains on white leather.

The blue captain is at the head of the wedge. The ball bounces for the first time right behind them. And is instantly snatched.

The blue captain shouts. His voice ascends with the roar of the crowd.

The reds did not flee. The sacrifice was a diversion. Watch them now as they run. Complex patterns. Running ahead and behind and across.

The blues cannot see which of them has the ball. They are still in a tight ruck from their attack. Their captain is behind them. He does not realize what is happening.

The blues open up, watching carefully. There are only so many exits to the chains and ladders, so many ways to the Upper Level. A group of reds breaks for C gate. The blue captain nods but does not chase. He sends a group of five. He is watching for the diversions.

Another group of reds exits the chaotic cross-hatch of runners and makes for E gate. Again, the blue captain directs a group to follow.

So with the groups heading to G, K and D. Then he leads the last of his team to B gate, ignoring the remaining three red runners attempting to distract them on the field.

Players are already ascending the stairs, squeezing through the maze of alleys and ladders that lead hundreds of metres up into the sky. Just because you are ahead does not grant security. The ladders move, unexpectedly ending, leaving men stranded.

The blues chasing up C gate have caught up with the reds, cornering them on a chain ladder. They are twisting it, shaking hard. The reds cling on. One falls ten metres and lands on his back.

There is no advantage to entering the ladders first. All the blues need do is return the game ball to the Lower Level. It doesn’t matter if a red is still holding on to it at the time.

Up and up they go, gradually hauling in the clambering reds.

The cameras follow the chase. Their rotors are silent, their eyes unblinking. They are now 100 metres up. Only three of the red groups are still moving. The blue captain has signalled to his team to consolidate, to focus on these remaining sprints. The blue groups who have dispatched their red quarry are now working their way around the remaining groups, channelling them into a single set of ladders.

The ball has still not been seen since it first bounced. It does not matter. It will be found when all the reds have been forced back to the ground.

No red has ever made it above 250 metres, and they still have a long way to go.

The men are unflagging, but the game is slowing. Ladders are wet with sweat and blood. A blue slips, misses his grip and plunges. No matter, they still outnumber the reds.

The original K group of reds has found a ladder that appears to offer them a clear run. The player at the bottom notices a group of blues heading to cut them off. He scrambles across, leaping for a parallel ladder, and pushes himself to get ahead and above.

With a scream, he flings himself into the pursuing blues, binding himself to them. Four of them plummet with him towards the field below.

The blue captain roars in frustration. He pulls his men in tighter and sends them up against the remaining reds.

The reds are exhausted and will soon be crushed. Then, a shout from one of the blues.

His captain looks to where he is pointing. Far across the tangle of ropes and ladders. Three reds. The ones they ignored below. They are much higher up. They have had a clear run.

The blue captain feels his heart stop. One of the reds is grinning. He is holding the game ball.

Too late. He must now chase. His men are almost spent. Not only must they gain height but they must cross the vast expanse of the chain-ladder field.

Quadrotor cameras weave through the levels, moving to get close to the dwindling reds.

Three hundred metres. Four hundred metres. Higher than the game has ever gone.

Pandemonium in the commentary box. Panic in the stadia. Terror at home.

The cameras are now following the red carrying the ball. He is young. Scarcely into his teens. His body is drenched with sweat, his breath hardened gasps. His eyes, though, black and unyielding.

They are entering the final level.

The ladders here are oiled. Slick on purpose.

The exhausted blues struggle. Their boots slide. Two more fall.

Everyone moves carefully.

Triumph at the top. The reds have reached the gates. They tumble through L on to the Upper Level.

The blue captain has abandoned his attempt to catch them in the ladders. He has focused only on getting to the top. A few minutes later they are through H gate.

There is chaos.

Cameras have never been to the Upper Level. The programme director and his crew are struggling to figure out where to send them or how to present what they’re seeing.

The blue captain still has eight of his men. He stands aghast.

There is no field. They have arrived in the midst of a tangle of cardboard and wooden shelters. It is cold up here, and people are clustered around fires burning inside standing barrels. The shacks lean against each other. Narrow passages between them.

The people are gaunt, barefoot and clothed in rags. Yet they are cheerful. There is a tumultuous bustle of activity. Single-room shops. Traders carrying food. Children running through the alleyways. Chickens squawk from the rooftops barely above head height.

Smoke from tens of thousands of cooking fires lingers over the sprawling city. There is mud and the smell of manure and offal.

Somehow the blue captain must find his way across towards L gate and the goal beyond. He forms his team into a wedge and they run straight.

They smash through houses, trampling chickens and furniture beneath them. There are shouts of outrage behind them and angry faces in the wreckage.