Osiris (osiris project)

by E. J. Swift

  Vikram didn’t care any more. He felt reckless and giddy.

  “It was you, wasn’t it? You killed him. You gave the order.”

  “I sanctioned a Council decision. You may go and tell that, if you wish, to your friends in the west. And when you do, remind them that the mode of execution is in good repair and that if anyone wishes to follow Eirik 9968, they know where their path will end.”

  “He was innocent. He did nothing but fight for the rights of people he owed no allegiance to.”

  “Then he and I have something in common. How ironic.”

  “You have nothing in common with Eirik. You murdered an innocent man.”

  “He was an inciter, a terrorist and a common killer. And if you don’t want to be taken as one too, Mr Bai, I suggest you reacquaint yourself with silence and leave this session. Speaker, I urge this house to order.”

  The tug on Vikram’s arm grew persistent. He kept his eyes locked on Feodor; all of his burning rage channelled into one single focus.

  “I hope your sleep is haunted by ghosts,” he said.

  “Remove him.”

  “Mr Bai!”

  “I hope they come to you in your sleep and tell you how they died.”

  Feodor remained unmoved. Vikram’s minder had an inexorable grip on his hand. Now there were other hands, on his arm, on his shoulders, pulling him away from the podium. In seconds, the faces of the Council were obscured from his view. The clamour inside the Chambers was muffled as the great wooden doors swung closed. Doors like that would never be made again. Vikram stared at this sign of wealth in mute fury, first at Feodor Rechnov, and then, increasingly, at himself.

  He had been in front of the Council-and he had lost them. How had he lost them? How had he lost control?

  “They never do, I’m afraid.”

  “What?”

  His minder was still with him. A woman in a narrow suit. She smiled sympathetically. She had no reason to be sympathetic. It felt like pity.

  “Decide anything. They don’t decide anything. Try again next month. Persistence can get results.”

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been writing letters for? How long I’ve been petitioning, just to speak? Twelve months. That’s an entire year. How long d’you think it’ll take to get another hearing?”

  She shrugged. “That’s the way it goes. I might say you were foolish to lose your temper.”

  “You might say a lot of things,” he snapped.

  He realized she was waiting for him to leave, no doubt under instructions to ensure he did not cause a scene. He tried once more.

  “I can come back later. Talk to them again. You could help.”

  “I don’t think so. Not today.”

  “Tomorrow then.”

  She did not reply. The doormen were exchanging glances. He strode angrily away, only to hear the woman running after him. “Don’t forget your coat,” she said. “It’s cold out.”

  It was a kind gesture but it annoyed Vikram all the more to have to turn around and go back to the cloakroom. The attendant returned his unsightly coat. He yanked it on and heard the lining rip.

  Helpless anger rumbled in the pit of his stomach. It was a warning. He knew what that rage could do and there was a reason he had worked so hard to still it. Images he had thought long banished rose up one by one. Mikkeli with a gun. Mikkeli floating. Her body shedding water when he pulled it onto the decking.

  Where had those events lead? To a green cell and a flooded tank. Mikkeli was dead. Eirik was dead. And Vikram had sabotaged his one chance in front of the Council. He had failed all of them.

  A security guard was walking towards him. Anger wouldn’t help now. He needed strategy. He needed time.

  He turned back to the cloakroom. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  The attendant eyed him warily. Vikram clutched his stomach.

  “I think I might be sick…”

  With a look of distaste, the attendant jabbed a finger. “It’s that way.”

  He walked meekly past the guards to the end of the hallway and out through the secondary doors. He was back in the main corridor. There were no windows, just soft lighting and soft carpeting, his worn down boots noiseless upon it.

  He went left towards the lifts. No one was about. Fifty metres along was a statue of an early Teller, and just behind it, a small cubic space with glass cabinets housing Neon Age relics on either side. It was said that back then, people had lived to one hundred and fifty years, and they looked the same as they did at fifteen, their skin fresh and beautiful, their organs plucked from their bodies and replaced with newly grown ones. In this way they had achieved immortality, until the Blackout.

  He slipped around the statue. The alcove overlooked the interior of the scraper. He could see the shadow of the lifts moving up and down inside the aquarium, people trapped in a watery world. It was a bizarrely pretty parody of imprisonment.

  He turned away and studied the cabinets instead.

  Engraved and personalised hologrammic device, he read. Twenty-second century, Alaskan.

  He thought of Mikkeli’s precious map, pictured Alaska on it. The map had been their great secret. At night they had spent hours poring over the outlines of land, guessing where their ancestors had come from, until Naala found the map and said it was illegal and burned it in front of them. There were no maps in the cabinet.

  The Eye Tower’s security was surprisingly lax. He had been searched at the border and on the way into the tower and the Chambers, but for all the Councillors knew he could be part of a larger conspiracy. He could be here to scope out the building. He might have a partner armed with explosives. Evidently they felt confident that he posed no kind of threat.

  They were right. He didn’t. Not today.

  Strategy was patience. Vikram settled on the floor, leaning gently against the cabinet. He would wait.

  The City clock chimed three times on the hour; a deep, austere vibration. Vikram started. He’d let his mind wander. He heard what he was listening for: the sound of the great doors being levered open and well-shoed feet hurrying out of the Chambers.

  The Councillors spilled into the corridor. Vikram watched them sweep by, oblivious to his presence in the alcove. Feodor passed, deep in conversation, and Vikram lowered his eyes in case a sense of mutual animosity should draw the other man’s gaze. He could not see the younger Rechnov. In the rush Vikram was afraid he had missed him, but then he spotted the sleek, charcoal-suited figure, a heavy coat slung over his arm, the auburn tint in his hazel hair.

  Linus was one of the last out and he was alone. Two pieces of luck, which was more than Vikram deserved.

  Linus turned right. Vikram waited for the last stragglers to amble pass and hurried after him.

  The young man walked briskly, Vikram following a short distance behind. The corridor curved gradually and Vikram lost sense of how far round they had come. Linus went through a set of doors. The skyscraper was even larger than Vikram had supposed. Within its outer ring was a maze of tiny corridors. These too were carpeted, with wall-hung lamps and decorations which Vikram had no time to look at; portraits and long lists of names.

  A little way ahead, Linus stopped. He put on his coat and did up each of the buttons and a feather collar. Then he disappeared through a door.

  Vikram followed, opened the door and stepped silently out onto a balcony.

  He was at least a hundred floors above surface. The skyline was spectacular: a medley of pyramid tops, flat, pointed and asymmetric, swathed in nylon mist. The wind met him ferociously. Another day, he would have admired the view, but today he had no time for it.

  Linus was leaning against the wall, his feet casually crossed. A coil of smoke rose from the glowing cigarette reversed in one gloved hand. The upturned collar cut sharp angles across his jaw. Vikram guessed that the coat was lined with feathers too.

  He shut the door gently behind him.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Linus looked a
round. Surprise flickered for a moment in his eyes. Then it vanished, to be replaced by a cool, relaxed assessment.

  “Not at all,” he said. He had a face that contained both strength and delicacy; the Rechnovs were undeniably a good-looking family.

  Vikram took out his own cigarettes. His hands, lacking mittens, had become paws. The cellulose packaging of his cigarettes almost defeated him. His fingertips skidded on the top of the first tube, fighting to extract one from many.

  “Shit.”

  He saw the cigarette fall before he felt it depart his fingers. It wasn’t as if he could afford to throw them away. He brought the packet to his lips and teased out another with his tongue. The smell of oranges lingered on his fingers.

  Linus passed him a lighter. Vikram cupped the flame and passed it back. They stood in silence.

  “You must have been waiting some time,” said Linus at last.

  “Twelve months.”

  The Councillor gave him a quizzical look.

  “Since I began writing letters. But that’s not what you meant.”

  “No.”

  “You’re wondering why I followed you.”

  “I could take an educated guess.”

  Vikram gestured. “Please do.”

  Linus exhaled a thin stream of smoke. In his smart coat, he was well protected against the cold, and he appeared in no rush.

  “I’m sorry that your case was not considered. It would appear that the hearing today was something of a formality.”

  “You’re on the Council.”

  “Yes. Well, in an advisory capacity-that’s all it’s really here for now.”

  “Maybe with more preparation-more evidence…”

  “Actually, it’s nothing to do with preparation. You could do as much work, amass as many studies as you like. The outcome would be the same. It always has been, ever since the earliest attempts of the WRM-the Western Repatriation Movement, back in seventy-four.” I know who they were, thought Vikram, but he refrained from interrupting.

  “Not that the NWO has helped your cause, sadly.” The Councillor paused, apparently musing over the issue. “I’m Linus, by the way. And I know who you are. Obviously.”

  “Linus, nice to meet you,” Vikram muttered. Introductions weren’t really his thing; perhaps it was there that he had stumbled. Choosing the wrong name, or something. They pressed wrists anyway, his own skin fish-bone dry with the cold, the material of Linus’s glove smooth and unidentifiable. “I have to ask-why do you say that? About the Council? When you’re on it, I mean.”

  “Oh, there’s many reasons. What you’re proposing-radical social reform-it doesn’t really sit with the Council any more. They tried it already.”

  “They used to be more philanthropic.”

  “They used to be younger,” Linus said. He must be quite young himself, in his late twenties, Vikram thought. Fourth generation, anyway. Linus seemed to sense the scrutiny, because he raised one eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”

  “If you mean that age affects resolution and liberality, then yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “You’re what-twenty six? Twenty-seven?”

  “Twenty-five.” The age Mikkeli had been.

  Linus laughed. “Young, anyway. That’s the thing. You remind these people of themselves a long time ago. They know they lack that conviction now and it shames them. And just in case you’re wondering, the man I was duelling with earlier is Feodor Rechnov. My father.”

  Vikram did not mention that he already knew the connection. He was not confident that he could keep his voice free of emotion.

  Linus seemed unaware of any tension. “Then again, you have to remember what some of them have been through. What they’ve lost.”

  “That’s too convenient an excuse. At least let someone else try.”

  “Someone like you?”

  Vikram shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Linus retrieved a silver case from his coat pocket. He took out two cigarettes and offered one to Vikram.

  “Thanks.” Vikram slipped his own packet away.

  “Not a problem.”

  Again the lighter was passed. Vikram cupped the flame and drew deeply on the cigarette. It brought on a rush of light-headedness. Evidently tobacco was rolled stronger in the City, or it had less junk in it.

  Linus inhaled gently. There were no lines around his mouth. Vikram wished he could tell what the other man was thinking. There was something unnerving about the controlled politeness, as though Linus were prepared to tell Vikram anything, secure in the knowledge that if he felt the information were even fractionally at risk, he could have the westerner tossed over the balcony without a second thought.

  The cold was beginning to penetrate through Vikram’s thinner coat. The preliminaries were over. He would get no clues from a Rechnov.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  “After today’s exhibition, I suppose you do.” There was no judgement in Linus’s voice, only dry fact.

  “You’re a Councillor. You must have influence.”

  “Very little, I’m afraid.”

  “But you spoke up today. For the west.”

  “I did. As you saw, it was a futile case.”

  “Then tell me what I need to do. You know these people. I don’t.”

  “Oh, I admire anyone who will stand up and take on the Council. But you’re wasting your time.”

  “Thanks.” Vikram stared moodily out. “That’s really useful.”

  “There are other routes, of course,” Linus continued. “Less orthodox routes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Find yourself a patron; someone rich and popular.” Linus finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out carefully on the rail. “Someone like Adelaide Mystik, perhaps.”

  “Adelaide Mystik? You mean-” He stopped, confused by the oblique reference. “Why would I talk to her? She’s a-she doesn’t do anything.”

  “Exactly. Like most celebrities, she doesn’t do anything. Therefore I would imagine she has time to do many things, if approached the right way. And she’s influential.” Linus looked thoughtful. “Yes. Talk to her. Don’t say I suggested it-just turn up as if it was your own idea.”

  Vikram felt wrong-footed, but could not pinpoint where or how it had happened. Instead he asked, “Why would a Rechnov support the west?”

  Linus’s smile was slow and closed. “An interesting question. One that would require time to answer. I don’t have time. But I do have a query for you. Did you know Eirik 9968?”

  “Would it make a difference if I did?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Well, I didn’t know him. Not to speak to.”

  The lie slid easily off his tongue. It occurred to him that if he said it enough times, he might begin to believe it, that knowledge of another person was as frail as mist.

  “He was wrongly numbered, I believe. Assigned a 68. He should have been a 65, for Tasmayn. Not that it makes a difference now. Funny the way that our origins are disregarded nowadays.”

  The snippet of information could only have been dropped as a test. Vikram kept his face impassive.

  “What’s the name of that stone, inside the Chambers?”

  “Stone?”

  “Yes. The pillars.”

  “Oh. It’s called marble. Rather beautiful, isn’t it. Mined in quarries over a century ago. Finally shipped across from Patagonia. Quite a feat.” Linus paused. “Ah yes. This might help you-I won’t need it.” He handed Vikram a card. “Good luck. Don’t freeze out here.”

  The door closed on him before Vikram could reply.

  Find yourself a patron. Linus’s turn of phrase rang oddly in his wake. Not someone like my sister, but someone like Adelaide Mystik. As though Adelaide were a completely separate entity. It didn’t sound like a recommendation. Then again, what did Vikram know about these people?

  He recalled the Rechnovs, gathered on the balcony to watch the skadi execute Eirik. Their family portrait seemed even stranger now than it
had done last week. There were four fourth-gen siblings, he knew. Vikram wondered if that had been calculated prescience in light of the later population control laws. Linus was evidently on the Council. There was the other brother, and then the infamous twins. Axel, the ex-jet set boy who’d disappeared. And the daughter. Beautiful, catastrophic Adelaide, who refused to use her family’s name and headed up socialite group the Haze in a whirl of parties and social misdemeanours. Crazy Adelaide, mad like her brother, mad in the way that could only end badly. Last famously captured necking from a bottle at Axel’s remembrance service, or whatever the feed had called it, because the kid was surely dead. And Linus was suggesting that Vikram solicit her help?

  Vikram looked at the card. It sat snugly in the palm of his hand, about the size of a playing card, but thicker. The card was red with a pink rose motif, and running across it in gold type was the inscription.

  Adelaide Mystik invites you to Rose Night at the Red Rooms, to be held on the second Thursday of the month, attendance after the hour of twenty-one.

  The back was watermarked. It had an Old World feel to it, pre-Neon, even.

  Something struck him on the cheek. He looked up. Hail. Cursing the weather’s erratic switches, thrusting the card into his coat pocket, he retreated indoors.

  Two guards were approaching down the corridor.

  “Time’s up, kid. Out with you.”

  They marched him back to the lift. Hands folded in front, eyes averted, they accompanied Vikram down the hundred floors, across the mosaic-tiled lobby, past the evergreen trees and down again through the flood control floors. They opened the doors for him to go outside. As he passed, one of them grabbed his collar.

  “Hey-don’t forget to check out your picture in the newsreel.”

  The other grinned inanely.

  “We don’t have your damn newsreel in the west,” Vikram flung back. “Don’t you know anything?”

  The doors hissed shut. Vikram was left at the waterbus terminus, watching the next load of passengers embark in the freezing hail.

  5 ADELAIDE

  The Rechnov offices were quieter than she remembered. Through doors left ajar or windows with the blinds half drawn, she caught glimpses of her father’s employees. They were smartly but plainly dressed, their workstations clean, uncluttered. These days, amidst the eternal rumours that bits of the City were falling apart, she supposed the company was more concerned with maintenance than creativity.