Survival Game

by Gary Gibson

‘Ah!’ cried Pierre, glancing round to see me, his face flushed with excitement. ‘You’re just in time. If only your father could have been here to see this!’

  If I’d had a knife at that moment, I believe I could have killed him without compunction. ‘Borodin said you needed my help,’ I replied through clenched teeth.

  ‘Here,’ he said, gesturing to a bank of screens mounted above the rig. Various readings scrolled across them, and there were several error messages. ‘There appears to be a misalignment . . .’

  ‘Move,’ I said to the technician.

  The technician glanced at Pierre, who gave him a small nod. He vacated his seat and I took his place. I tapped at the keyboard for several minutes, and one by one the error readings vanished.

  ‘I knew having you help would be as good as having Josef here,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t ever mention his name again,’ I said quietly, without looking around.

  ‘Then I won’t,’ he said. ‘I know you can never forgive me for what I did. But you deserve to see the culmination of everything we’ve been working towards all these years.’

  I gave the seat back to the technician. An alarm sounded to clear the stage, and seconds later it filled with light. Once it had faded, I saw that a large crowd of people had materialized on the stage. Amongst them I counted half a dozen imperial guards, plus a gaggle of civilians, most of them expensively – if conservatively – dressed. The majority were elderly, and several were in wheelchairs.

  The imperial guards worked to move the crowd apart, and from their midst a motorized wheelchair larger than all the others emerged, rolling down the ramp and trailed by half a dozen men and women wearing surgical smocks and masks.

  The wheelchair’s occupant was barely visible beneath a dense swathe of heavy blankets laid over his legs and chest. He was tiny and wrinkled, his wizened head completely hairless. His hands shook where they rested in his lap. His eyes were rheumy and unfocused, his complexion sallow and far from healthy. An oxygen mask was strapped over his nose and mouth.

  ‘That can’t be . . .’

  ‘Tsar Nicholas the Third,’ said Pierre. ‘Hard as it is to believe.’

  I gaped. Every official photograph or portrait I had ever seen of Nicholas showed a man in robust health, with broad shoulders and a thick, dark beard, his chest rippling with medals. But the figure before me was barely more than an ambulatory corpse.

  A doctor helped guide the wheelchair down the ramp. The newly arrived imperial guards followed behind, their machine guns at the ready as they scanned the workers and technicians standing around the stage. The rest of the Tsar’s entourage were the last down the ramp. A priest, dressed in black vestments and with a beard to match that of any imperial guard, remained on the stage, walking around and swinging a metal censer that trailed smoke as he made a blessing.

  Borodin appeared, stepping towards the Tsar and bowing low. He gestured to the Hypersphere. I was too far away to make out what he was saying but, given the circumstances, I could only assume he was explaining its operation.

  ‘What about the rest of them?’ I asked Pierre. ‘Those old people. Who are they?’

  ‘Members of Nicholas’ inner circle, I suspect,’ said Pierre. ‘Advisers, perhaps, or hangers-on. Isn’t that General Yakov amongst them?’

  I looked around until I saw a man in military uniform. The sight of him chilled me. General Yakov was in charge of suppressing the Twelfth Republic’s rebellion.

  ‘Yakov?’ I asked. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Well,’ said Pierre, ‘he looks as if he could do with a spot of rejuvenation himself.’

  ‘That must be why they’re all here. This isn’t just about keeping Nicholas alive – he’s buying their loyalty as well!’

  Borodin stepped towards the Hypersphere, and the Tsar was brought closer to it. I watched as Borodin took out the slip of blue paper that had once belonged to Herr Frank, and entered the code into the Hypersphere’s cage.

  The cage opened, revealing the Hypersphere like a pearl in a shell. The imperial guard moved out of the way, and the upper part of the Tsar’s wheelchair began to rise on hydraulics, tilting forward until its wizened occupant was able simply to reach out and place one claw-like hand directly on the Hypersphere’s naked surface.

  The breath caught in my throat as the surface of the artefact ceased its constant swirling motion. It transformed into a flat cobalt blue. I glanced up at the bank of monitors, seeing data flood across them at ever-increasing speed.

  The technician leaned towards his microphone. ‘Lock on coordinates,’ he said, then repeated the message.

  Borodin shouted something to the imperial guards standing next to the Hypersphere. They took hold of the wheelchair and eased it back, breaking the Tsar’s contact. The wheelchair sank back down on its hydraulics, and within seconds the Hypersphere had returned to its usual resting state.

  ‘Send the drones through,’ said Pierre, leaning on his stick. ‘Let’s see what’s on the other side of those coordinates.’

  The technician’s voice boomed across the courtyard. Workers moved the exploration drones onto the stage, then stepped back quickly before the light swallowed the machines.

  ‘Fifteen minutes should give us enough data for an initial assessment,’ said Pierre.

  I glanced towards the interrogation block. A truck blocked my view of much of it, but I knew Jerry and Casey must be watching the proceedings.

  Fifteen minutes later the drones transferred back over. Immediately, video and other data appeared on our monitor bank, and Borodin and others crowded around to see. The screens showed a dark and forbidding landscape, with titanic structures scattered across a moonlit plain.

  ‘Remarkable!’ said Pierre, with a tone of reverence.

  Borodin stepped up to Pierre. ‘Make your way to the stage with the others,’ he told the old man. ‘And you too,’ he said, glowering at me. ‘I’m not leaving you anywhere I can’t keep an eye on you.’

  He turned on his heel and followed the Tsar as his wheelchair was guided back onto the stage, trailed by the rest of his entourage.

  ‘Come along,’ said Pierre, and I followed him up the ramp, filled with numb despair. Borodin had won, and I had lost. Whether we lived or died was out of my hands.

  I glanced towards the Tsar, seeing how he struggled to draw breath, how his body shook from uncontrollable tremors. That he still lived seemed a miracle.

  Pierre’s technician spoke once more over the tannoy, and moments later we were somewhere else.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  We materialized on a vast and perfectly flat expanse of obsidian that came to a sudden end just metres from where we stood, sloping down to meet dark-veined rock. There was no sign of vegetation or life of any kind.

  The air felt dry and warm. Grey clouds scudded across the face of a moon that loomed so large and close that I felt I could reach up and touch it. Beyond lay a great whorled nebula, lit from within by the light of birthing stars.

  I turned the other way, seeing a pale ivory structure rising seamlessly from the expanse of obsidian. It rose up and up, reaching perhaps half a kilometre into the sky. It was thirty or forty metres broad at the base, but narrowed, so far as I could tell, almost to a point at its tip. I tilted my head back, seeing that the top part of the structure curved inwards over the obsidian plain.

  I looked around; there were more, identical, structures arranged around the edge of the obsidian plain. They formed a circle perhaps five or six kilometres across. And then it hit me: we were standing on the edge of a transfer stage big enough to transport a small city.

  Farther off, in the distance, were more, equally gargantuan transfer stages. I could see nothing else, no matter which direction I turned. Stages of an identical scale marched off beyond the horizon.

  ‘There’s something old about this place,’ said Pierre from beside me, ‘isn’t there? It feels abandoned, somehow, like the machines back at the Crag.’

  ‘Over th
ere!’ someone yelled.

  People gasped and shouted to each other, pointing towards what had at first appeared to me to be another, much smaller stage immediately adjacent to our own, albeit one that lacked any field-pillars. Then I saw that its edges were irregular, and that while at first glance its surface had appeared perfectly flat and black, closer inspection revealed a gelatinous ripple racing across its surface. It suddenly resolved into a hundred-metre wide lake of some oily black liquid.

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘The healing pool?’ I had told Jerry of its supposed rejuvenating properties during our journey across Delta Twenty-Five, and of the Tsar’s desire to be young again.

  ‘I cannot imagine what else it might be,’ Pierre replied, a quiver in his voice. ‘It certainly matches the Syllogikos’ description.’

  ‘But how can we be sure that’s really it?’

  ‘Because the Hypersphere brought us to this precise spot,’ said Pierre, a peculiar hunger in his voice. ‘And there is, after all, only one way to find out.’

  Pierre made his way towards Borodin, leaning heavily on his stick every step of the way, and spoke quietly to him. Borodin nodded and took the old man’s arm, guiding him towards a member of the Tsar’s medical staff. The doctor then led Pierre next to a trolley loaded with monitoring equipment.

  I watched, befuddled, as the old man removed his shirt, revealing a hollow chest and sunken shoulders. The doctors glued monitoring patches to his chest and scalp before leading him down off the stage and over to the shore of the black lake.

  I stepped towards Borodin while the crowd chattered in excitement. ‘Is that his reward? To be your guinea pig?’

  ‘He volunteered, Katya. Who wouldn’t?’

  The doctors held Pierre steady by the edge of the lake while he undid his trousers, letting them fall to reveal a pair of naked buttocks. Another took his walking stick, and he took a hesitant step forward, sinking up to his shins in the tarry black liquid.

  To my horror, the liquid formed feathery tendrils that slithered up to his knees. Suddenly he pitched forwards, quickly sinking beneath the surface.

  He was gone, with scarcely a ripple. I put my hand to my mouth, barely able to breathe. A fearful gasping and muttering rose up all around us.

  ‘Is he transmitting?’ Borodin called out to one of the medical staff.

  ‘All his life signs are normal,’ the doctor replied. ‘Heart rate, brain function and breathing are as expected.’

  ‘Breathing?’ Borodin stepped towards him. ‘How can he be breathing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the doctor replied, pointing at a screen. ‘But that’s what his readings say.’

  I saw the Tsar raise a feeble finger to one of the imperial guards, who leaned over his wheelchair and spoke with him. The guard nodded, then approached Borodin. ‘His Imperial Majesty wishes to know how long he has to wait.’

  ‘Only a short while, I’m sure,’ Borodin replied, sounding anything but certain. ‘Please assure the Tsar everything is in hand.’

  It became a waiting game.

  Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty. Borodin asked again and again for the details of Pierre’s vital signs, but nothing changed. It was as if Pierre were merely sleeping. More messages were shuttled between Borodin and the Tsar, and I could see his nerves were fraying even more the longer we waited.

  An hour passed, and still no sign of Pierre.

  Then, at last, a little after the two-hour mark, I heard a cry and saw hands pointing towards the black lake. Someone had emerged from it, spluttering and naked and shivering.

  I say someone. It was far from immediately clear it was Pierre; it might have been Pierre’s son, perhaps, or a young nephew. Gone were the drooping shoulders and sunken chest; instead the figure that came staggering up onto the shore was that of a dazed but clearly vital young man, staring around at the people watching him in blank confusion. The only clue that this really was Pierre lay in the medical patches still glued to his transformed flesh.

  The doctors rushed forward, helping him up onto the stage and seating him on a stool next to an equipment trolley. He followed without protest or question, blinking at everything around him.

  There was a sudden commotion as the Tsar struggled feebly to lift himself out of his wheelchair.

  ‘I will not wait!’ I heard him shout feebly, his arms trembling as he attempted to rise. ‘Take me there. Now!’

  One of the doctors made the mistake of trying to get the old man to lie back down. An imperial guard struck the doctor hard across the back of the head with his machine gun, and he sprawled on the ground next to the wheelchair, bleeding from a gash above one ear.

  A second imperial guard quickly pushed the wheelchair down to the edge of the pool, while others came hurrying forward to help. They rapidly stripped the blankets from the Tsar’s lap, one of them lifting him up in his arms as if he were cradling a wizened baby. A long coat fell from the Tsar’s shoulders, and I saw that beneath it he wore little more than a paper hospital gown.

  The guard took one or two tentative steps into the tarry black water, then carefully lowered the Tsar down. The ruler of the Novaya Empire clutched weakly at the guard’s arms for a moment, then let go, sinking immediately from sight. The guard stepped quickly back before he, too, could succumb to the waters.

  I struggled to believe everything I had witnessed. To one side of me, Pierre was being interrogated on the details of his life by a doctor, presumably to check if his mind was functioning normally. I tried to reconcile this youthful stranger with the old man I had known for so many years.

  Pierre saw me looking his way. ‘Katya,’ he said with a grin. ‘Look at me! It’s a miracle, isn’t it?’

  I didn’t know what to say, so I turned away. I watched with growing incredulity as several bottles of champagne were produced from a trolley. Glasses were filled and handed out.

  It was like being at a party in Hell. I wandered over to the nearest field-pillar and, out of sight of the Tsar’s entourage, slumped against it, staring out towards the horizon. The sight and sound of those old men and women drinking and chattering as if they were at some third-rate reception in the First Republic Kremlin made me sick. The sun rose, its light making the field-pillars look like the bleached bones of fallen gods.

  Finally, long after the champagne had run dry, the Tsar emerged.

  Like Pierre, he had been wholly transformed. It was like seeing one of his old photographs come to life: his back was strong and straight, his shoulders broad and muscular, his scalp and cheeks already darkened by stubble. His gaze, however, was unfocused, his jaw slack as if in shock. He stumbled and fell to his knees once he reached the shore, vomiting up black water as his imperial guards rushed to help him.

  I stood and came back around the pillar, watching as they guided the Tsar back up onto the stage, where he blinked and stared around himself in much the same way as Pierre had.

  Then a great shout went up, and several of the oldest amongst the royal entourage dashed towards the lake, throwing off their clothes once they reached the shore. Those in wheelchairs negotiated their way down to the lake with the aid of the imperial guards.

  The Tsar, who had stopped to stare at his own wheelchair in apparent wonder, turned to observe them. A grin spread across his handsome face, and he laughed in delight as a doctor guided him to a stool next to one of the equipment trolleys. He sat while a blood pressure cuff was fitted around his upper arm.

  Borodin walked towards the edge of the stage, where it dipped down to meet rock. He watched the old men and women sink deep into the black waters. Then he stepped out of his shoes and started to make his way down to join them, his cheeks damp with tears.

  ‘Mikhail, wait.’

  I saw General Yakov approach him. ‘The Tsar gives you his thanks,’ he said to Borodin. ‘He says he never doubted you for a moment. But there is something we must discuss first.’

  I thought I saw a flicker of uncertainty on Borodin’s face as Yakov led
him closer to where I stood, half-hidden around one side of a field-pillar. I ducked back a little and heard them come to a stop close by. They hadn’t seen me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Borodin demanded. ‘Why can’t he thank me in person?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mikhail. His Majesty informs me that you do not have permission to enter the pool. Mikhail – wait!’

  I moved back around the pillar until I could see them. They were looking away from me. Yakov had grabbed Borodin by the arm.

  ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself,’ Yakov hissed.

  ‘I refuse to believe this!’

  Yakov stepped closer to him. ‘Let me be clear, Mikhail. These are politically delicate times, and there are certain matters that . . . well, if your role in them ever came to light, it would reflect extremely badly on the Tsar. Do you see?’

  ‘Everything I have done has been on his direct orders!’ Borodin exploded, loudly enough that his voice carried far across the stage. I saw the Tsar dart a look towards him before resuming chatting with one of the doctors.

  Yakov made a hushing motion, and pushed Borodin back towards the field-pillar. I quickly moved out of sight again.

  ‘Of course,’ said Yakov. ‘But some things never stay hidden forever. You know that, Mikhail. And when they come to light, as they must, someone must be held accountable.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Borodin, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I am . . . not a well man, General.’

  ‘I know, Mikhail. The Tsar informed me himself. Tell me – how long do you have?’

  ‘A few months, perhaps,’ said Borodin, his voice full of bitter despair.

  Thunderstruck, I remembered Borodin’s handkerchief spotted with blood, his violent coughing fits . . .

  ‘It’s better this way, don’t you see?’ said Yakov. ‘Just let nature take its course. Better that than living long enough to see your name dragged through the mud, or wasting your newfound youth in some imperial prison.’

  ‘That sounds like a threat,’ said Borodin.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mikhail, you knew what you were getting into. Just take my advice and – Mikhail!’