The coastal dirt track rattled by under the wheels of the jeep as Jim made his way west along the southernmost road.
Most people his age would have retired by now, but he knew that he’d be doing this job until they buried him; in the fight for mankind’s future there was no retirement. He’d do his sleeping when he was dead.
In one way or another, he’d spent his entire life in the service of Archive. Like most organisations it had changed over time, but he could remember the simpler days. He knew there was no point dwelling on it: life would only ever become more complicated. It was a lesson he’d learnt in 1989.
In the space of a few days, his life had completely changed course. In a small bunker under London, he’d spoken with most of the other delegates and begun tentatively laying the framework for the Atlantic Ridge Colony. Drawing on multiple disciplines, a quarter-century of innovation had followed.
Although Siva had been factored into countless contingency plans, the destruction of the Moon had not.
With less than a year to Siva’s arrival, the lunar shards had seriously delayed the ARC’s completion; submarine service routes were in place, but he knew that the facility itself was still missing key people.
“General Broxbourne,” his jeep radio crackled, “Come in.”
Without slowing, he picked up the radio from the dashboard.
“Broxbourne,” he responded.
“Sir, this is a Heavy Rain alert,” the woman replied.
It seemed that another late-arriving lunar fragment was about to breach the atmosphere and impact locally. Even now, Earth was still being hit by small pieces of lunar debris; something that would continue until Siva arrived and made the situation worse.
“Multiple or single?”
“Single.”
“Deflector status?”
“Deflector is hot,” she replied, “Apologies for the interruption, I only made contact because you were topside.”
“Sound the alarm. Broxbourne out.”
Almost immediately, an air-raid siren’s whine reached him through the humid air. Most people were already working below, but this would at least warn anyone on the ground to check the skies and take cover.
Since the loss of the satellite networks, they’d been reliant on old fleets of E-3 Sentry aircraft to get their early warning radar data. It was fuel intensive to maintain, but it had already protected them against this type of event.
At the moment it was still possible to reach a nearby shelter, but he had total faith in those under his command. He pulled the jeep to the side of the dirt road and checked the skies. Aside from the chaotic cloud patterns, the one thing dominating the horizon was Mount Pico; the only clue that this area had once been volcanically active.
The siren noises faded and all that could be heard was the wind; a persistent breeze that reminded Pico’s occupants that they were surrounded by the vast Atlantic. Turning his attention to the wide expanse of Silveira Bay, he waited.
He saw the sea beginning to bubble white, then a cylindrical missile raised itself through the surface. Appearing to hover momentarily within the mass of frothing seawater, a bright burst of orange light gave it a jolt, and it pulled free of the water’s grip. Amid a cloud of steam, the missile accelerated away, curving into the sky as it navigated towards its target.
As if on cue, the incoming lunar fragment cut through the distant clouds, and appeared to head straight for the missile; an illusion that stemmed from the fact that he’d seen the missile first.
The missile adjusted course, angling up slightly to avoid a futile head-on collision. As the fragment continued its streak through the sky, the Deflector activated.
Angling itself steeply downward, the missile split itself apart and filled the air with a cluster of smaller rockets. Igniting simultaneously, they accelerated towards the portion of sky that was directly in the path of the lunar fragment. In a soundless meeting, multiple detonations flashed as the Deflector’s cloud of explosive projectiles tore at the fragment and directed it downward.
A second later the sound reached him; a rapid set of sonic booms that filled his ears and pummelled at his chest. Then the vibrations faded, leaving an impact cloud in the sky and lunar debris tumbling into the sea.
Although this system would be impotent against Siva’s arrival, it was at least protecting them while they continued to finish the facility. Hopefully their missile reserves would last that long.
“ARC Central, this is Broxbourne,” he spoke into the radio, “Confirm status.”
“Deflector success, Sir,” the voice replied, against a background of cheering, “Incursion neutralised, zero residual vectors.”
Without reaction or reply, he restarted the jeep and pulled out onto the road again.
He could imagine the celebration that must be going on at the central control room right now, but their elation somehow failed to connect.
For him, celebrations seemed almost pointless; if he took time out to acknowledge a success, there were always more problems waiting for him when he returned. In general he thought it best to behave as if every day was his last, because one day it would be. When the moment came, his life would just stop. Just as his wife’s had.
He glanced in the jeep’s rear view mirror.
Having just scattered her ashes at her favourite part of the island, he knew he’d never return here.
Before the ARC had become habitable, this place had been their former home. Like much of Pico’s original surface colony, their house had been washed away by multiple tsunamis at the end of 2013. When Siva arrived, the remaining fragments of structure would no doubt be scrubbed away too. There would be no evidence that they’d even had a life together.
Fixing his eyes on the road ahead, he continued his drive west to the ARC’s access hub.
ISLAND
As the sub’s compass continued to spin, the misty sediment that clouded the water began to disperse.
Through the forward window, Izzy saw a wide clearing that was flanked on either side by two pillars, their footings crowded with junkyards of vehicles. Like discarded toy cars, they’d been swept into dense piles by the tsunamis that had washed over the landscape. The pillars rose through the depths, out through the surface and into the grey daylight beyond.
Izzy heard the manoeuvring thrusters ramp up and felt the corresponding swell as the whole submarine brought itself to a relative standstill. The continuous whir told her that Tristan had engaged the Iseult’s station-keeping mode; minor positional differences would automatically be compensated for, keeping the sub in approximately the same location.
Izzy saw Marcus point sceptically at the compass.
“So is this like some sort of magic eight-ball?” he said, “Are we s’posed to make the sign of a circle and ask it a question?”
Tristan had just opened his mouth to speak, when the compass suddenly stopped spinning.
The unexpected timing caused her to laugh out loud, something that immediately diffused the tension and brought a smile to their faces.
“Let’s just find out where we are,” Tristan smiled, pointing upward.
Izzy watched as they rose slowly through the water.
She’d been underground for so long that she’d almost forgotten what daylight looked like. As they neared the surface she found herself blinking more. The light was almost too intense to look at, yet it was a pain she welcomed with a beaming smile; the darkness that had surrounded her for so long was finally dispersing.
The sub passed through the surface of the waves and out into the light, sending water cascading past the searingly bright window.
“Ow,” Marcus squinted.
A few drops of water still clung to the window, beyond which the outside world was becoming visible. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the overcast sky, structures gradually became more apparent.
“Damn,” Marcus blinked, “This can’t be… Tris, can you turn us a bit to the left… er… port, whatever it is.”
&nb
sp; She heard the manoeuvring jets at work, then the world outside slowly panned past the window.
The pillars they’d seen underwater cleared the waves by perhaps only two or three storeys. Both of them were topped with a fractured assembly of jutting ironwork and broken masonry.
With each degree of turn, she became more certain that she’d been here before. But it had never looked like this.
The tops of low-rise buildings drifted into view, looking like squat barges anchored to the waves. She then saw another victim of the tsunami’s attack; a building had been stabbed in the side by an entire train carriage. The structure hadn’t yielded to the injury though. In fact, the further the sub turned, the more she could see the building’s full height. Like an elongated pyramid, its triangular form rose from the water and pointed to the sky.
“Bloody hell…” Marcus muttered.
“The Shard?” Tristan cut the manoeuvring jets.
Izzy could see that the lower third of the building had been severely damaged; all the glazing was missing, as were most of the outer office spaces. In contrast, the upper portions still reflected the grey sky. Some of the floors had obviously been punctured by lunar debris, but the structure itself was intact.
The tsunami that had passed over southern England had been sufficient to reach inland and drown London, but this small glass island had somehow survived.
Izzy could see that Marcus seemed lost in unhappy thoughts.
“Marcus,” she said, “we might be able to get a better picture of what’s going on if you -”
“Yeah,” he snapped out of his stare, “Of course, sorry, I’ll get it ready.”
Over the next few minutes they gathered supplies and notified the other crew members of the Iseult. Although they didn’t know exactly how they would proceed, she knew things would be a little easier when they could breathe fresh air.
“Got your luggage?” she asked Marcus.
“Yep,” he patted a bulky-looking case, then looked at the airlock door, “Do we have to take the other baggage with us?”
“We can’t get out if it’s occupied,” Tristan arrived behind them, “Ready?”
Izzy nodded and pushed the button to open the airlock.
A faint smell of sweat escaped as the door slid open. Exactly as they’d left him a few hours ago, Bradley Pittman stared up at them from a small chair.
“Well hey there,” he tossed a book aside and stood to look them in the eye, “Time to leave already?”
Izzy knew that the improvised holding cell hadn’t been ideal, but it was the one area of the sub that wasn’t needed during the intended journey to Pico Island.
“Can I just say,” Bradley’s smug expression didn’t falter, “Room service ain’t what it should be.”
Although his inane optimism was clearly designed to rile her, she could read his micro-movements and body language like a book: the righteous indignation at his confinement, the insecurity at being denied conversation, and the overstated dominant posture.
“Don’t like your room?” she poised her hand over the airlock button, “I can always arrange for your check out.”
“Izzy,” Tristan quietly appealed to her better nature.
Bradley’s easy smile drained slightly, and he levelled a stare at her.
“Listen, sweet cheeks,” he spoke in a low tone, “We both know the deal. The only way you’re getting inside the ARC is by yours-truly using his Archive clearance. You know it. I know it. So you can quit your lame-ass threats. You need me.”
Back at the USV they’d realised that, after so long away, Tristan’s access codes to the ARC would be invalid. However, as one of Archive’s prime members, Pittman’s codes did not expire. Trading on the technicality, he’d managed to convert his life sentence imprisonment into exile.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” she returned his stare, “People didn’t exactly like the idea that you got to leave before they did. When General Broxbourne finds out what you -”
Bradley barked a laugh.
“Ha! You think he’s gonna keep me in chains? Not for one damn minute. Jim and me? We got history. Ain’t nothing gonna beat that. In this world, s’all about who you know,” he drew a deep breath and straightened his jacket, “Now, put me on the comm with Broxbourne, so we can dock this tin-can and get in there.”
Izzy understood his mistake immediately: he was under the impression that they’d already arrived at the Atlantic Ridge Colony. Despite his attempted nonchalance, his time in isolation had obviously felt a lot longer than a few hours.
Turning away from him, she could see that Tristan had also realised the error.
“You heard the man,” she did her best to suppress her smile, “Let’s dock and get out of here.”
DIRECTIVE
As ever, Jim’s sleep was not a fitful one.
The Protected Lineage Directive was Archive’s main means of controlling those involved in its enterprises. Those who made an outstanding contribution to Archive’s mankind-saving goal would be rewarded: their children would be included in any life-saving initiative before Siva hit Earth. The simple arrangement ensured people’s continued cooperation because they would want to protect their own children.
Over the many decades, the initiatives to save mankind had multiplied. Around the globe there were simple bunkers, complex underground villages, and underwater ventures like the ARC; the construction of which had only been possible because of technology invented by Sebastian Westhouse.
Pushing aside his pillow, Jim swung himself upright.
Force of habit made him turn to check that he hadn’t woken his wife, but of course her side of the bed was now unoccupied. He rubbed at his face then reached over and turned on the light. Although the floor was flat, the surrounding walls curved up to meet the ceiling above him; a design necessity, given the location of his quarters.
He got up and straightened the bed covers before moving through to his small adjoining living space. According to the time displayed on the computer’s screensaver, he’d woken several hours before his work day was due to start. He knew it would be pointless trying to sleep again, so he made the mental shift and began to process the things that would require his attention this week.
The ARC’s second desalination plant was due for its final test in the next few days. If all went well, it would lower the load on their primary plant and allow freer access to fresh drinking water; something that would instantly make everyone’s lives easier. He scribbled a note reminding himself to broadcast a word of thanks. If the new wristwatch communicator network was ready, it might even be possible to speak to everyone at once. They’d been reliant on old radio handsets with poor range for far too long. It would be good to have a consolidated communication system that worked on the base and the surface access dock.
Thoughts of radio communication prompted him to address the issue that had woken him in the first place.
There had been no word from the Sea-Bass vessel in over three months. Even taking into account the extreme changes to shipping routes and speed-impeding debris in the sea, Tristan Westhouse and his crew knew the protocols; they should have returned by now, or rendezvoused with another vessel to relay a message.
Although he’d already revoked the Sea-Bass’ security access codes, he knew he’d soon have to declare the vessel missing. But it wasn’t an easy decision to make.
The Protected Lineage Directive given to Sebastian Westhouse included his son, Tristan, who had himself contributed so much over the years. If Jim declared the Sea-Bass as missing, it would be labelled hostile and Tristan along with it.
The problem with being in Archive this long, he knew, was that historical associations inevitably began to impede judgement.
As if to reinforce the point, his mind dutifully provided another mental snapshot of his wife. Seated at a child’s play table on the opposite side of some one-way glass, she was setting out a range of spot-the-difference puzzles for Tristan to solve.
“Ah,
Gwen,” he rubbed at his eyes.
He found himself reaching for his desk drawer and pulling out a bundle of old papers.
He unfolded the stack of coloured photocopies and straightened out the edges. The last time he’d seen Sam Bishop’s original notebook had been in 1989.
Flicking through the photocopies, he saw the familiar names, dates and birth weights flit by. Several names were ruled through with red ink and annotated with the word ‘Substandard’; the Archive founder’s personal note that they no longer warranted further study.
He felt a small chill run down his spine; he could recall the ’89 Heavy Rain incident all too clearly. In a cramped bunker he’d only had a few minutes to photocopy the notebook.
He refolded the stack of pages and put them away, hoping that the action might help him to put away the memories too. As ever though, memories proved more resilient.
Crossing the room, he walked to the circular brass plate on the curved wall. The circumference was broken in one place by the presence of a single bolt; a hinge that allowed the plate to rotate and expose the room’s small porthole.
He twisted the plate open.
This far down, little light penetrated the depths. At night, the view was darker still. Against the jet-black ocean, all he could see was his own reflection staring in at him.
EXORDI NOVA
Several days after the massive wavefront had rushed through London and shaken the building’s foundations below, the sheer scale of the devastation had begun to reveal itself. Megan knew that before attempting to move through a flooded London, they’d first need to work out which direction to go. Every floor they’d climbed had given them a slightly better view than the day before. The hope was that by the time they reached the last accessible level, a direction might present itself.
“Time to move on,” said Terry, “Big day.”
The Bridge Page 9
