Nathan came away from Harry Sixsmith. “Jesus Christ on a bike,” he said, glowering.
“We heard enough,” Piers said grimly.
“Harry risked his own neck to come and warn us off. And he risked his neck again to persuade those guards to let us go. I never imagined anything like this.” He was pale, trembling, the muscles in his cheeks working. He glared around, at the arid ground, the mountains. “Maybe this is where the last act of humankind will be played out. The last survivors fighting over human bones, while the sea laps around their feet. Christ. Well, we can’t stay here.”
Piers said, “Nathan, I had a message. There’s trouble at the Ark. Some kind of mutiny. An attempt to scuttle the ship, so we would have to disembark.”
“They’re forcing my hand. What’s that prick Villegas doing about it?”
Piers’s face darkened. “According to the captain, he’s leading the revolt.”
“Christ, Christ.” Nathan shook his head. For a moment he looked utterly weary, his shoulders hunched, his head dropping, as if he couldn’t take another step. But then he straightened up, glanced around as if figuring out where he was, which way to go. “No time to waste. Piers, get these fucking sherpas lined up again.” He strode off.
As they moved away, Piers walked beside Lily. “It’s like a concentration camp,” he said. “The whole plateau. Worse than anything the Nazis dreamed up.”
“There has been so much horror in the world, Piers. We’ve been spared it, mostly, haven’t we? The drowning, the starvation, the plagues, the utter desperation—”
“That’s true.”
“Why? Why us?”
Piers looked at her. “Lammockson’s strong arm, and blind luck that we found ourselves in his shelter. And if we hadn’t been spared, we wouldn’t be here to ask the question, would we?”
Lily glanced back at the Maoist border. The big gates opened to allow Harry Sixsmith back inside. A road led away from the entrance, through whitewashed, flat-roofed buildings. The road was lined by posts, on each of which had been placed a human skull, jawless.
81
October 2037
From Kristie Caistor’s scrapbook:
The rise of the sea past a kilometer seemed to change the attitude of the Ark crew to the flooding.
In the year after the Ark sailed away from Nepal, the seas rose another hundred and fifty meters. The crew watched Nathan’s animated maps as one by one more lights were extinguished. Tehran. Cabramurra, Australia’s last surviving town. The great cities of southern Africa at last coming under threat, cities like Harare and Pretoria. Even South American cities like Caracas. Nathan’s onboard news services still picked up broadcasts from wherever he could find them, notably Denver, and other surviving high-altitude enclaves. But the logs showed that the crew were tuning in less to the images of human suffering, the endless migrations, the raft colonies, the petty wars, and more to altitude records and graphical summaries of the tremendous event unfolding around the world. As it approached its terminal phase the flood was becoming an abstraction in people’s minds, a thing to be tracked through numbers and grisly milestones.
Lily Brooke and Piers Michaelmas held a kind of private wake when the beacon from Avila was lost and Spain fell silent, and the Fathers of the Elect were defeated at last.
82
May 2038
The prow of the Ark plowed into the crust that covered the sea.
Lily stood with Piers on the foredeck, watching. It was as if they stood on an icebreaker pushing its way through the pack ice of the Arctic. But the crust on this ocean was not ice but garbage. Lily had small binoculars, and through them the surface scum resolved into a mess of plastic netting, soda bottles, six-pack rings, bin liners, supermarket bags, bits of polystyrene packaging. In the watery sunlight the colors were bright, red and orange and electric blue, artificial colors characteristic of a vanished world. Lily thought she could smell it, a stink of rot and mold and decay, but that was probably her imagination; this far from land not much would have survived the hungry jaws of the sea but indestructible, biologically useless plastic.
Lifted gently on the ocean’s swells, the rubbish stretched all the way to the horizon, where a small, ragged fleet of boats prowled. And beyond that was a band of dark cloud, ominous.
The sun was high, the sea warm. The Ark was in the Pacific, between Hawaii and California. This was the middle of the North Pacific Subtropical Gyre, a huge swirl of ocean currents that ran so deep that even the drowning of the land hadn’t made much difference to them. And this was the place where all the trash that got swept down all the drains into all the rivers into all the seas finally ended up.
“The world’s rubbish bin, two thousand kilometers across,” Lily said.
“Yep,” Piers said. He looked out, his prominent nose peeling from sunburn, his much-patched AxysCorp coverall shabby and faded. “What we see isn’t the sum total of the waste, actually, not even a fraction of it. Plastic itself is indestructible, but a plastic bag can be reduced, shredded, chewed and eroded, ripped to bits. It ends up as a cloud of particles in the water, all but invisible, passing through the stomachs of fishes and out again but never reduced or absorbed. Almost all the world’s plastic produced since the 1950s, a billion tons of it, is still in existence somewhere in the world.”
“Amazing. Well, it’s outlasted the civilization that produced it.”
“Oh, easily. It will outlast mankind, no doubt. A million years, maybe, until some bug evolves the capacity to eat it. What a contribution to the biosphere!”
“And here we are sailing into the middle of it.”
“Needs must, my dear,” Piers said. “Needs must.”
She glanced around. The Ark was accompanied by other craft, a small flotilla of sailing ships, solar-cell power boats, and rafts cobbled together from detritus, old tires and bits of corrugated iron, sailing under tattered blankets and sheets. Some of these vessels were so ramshackle they were barely distinguishable from the garbage through which they sailed, as if they had accreted out of it. “We could do without our escort. Following us like sea gulls after a whale. Kind of embarrassing.”
“Well, it’s not us they’re following but the typhoon.” Piers pointed to that black smudge on the horizon.
He was right. As the water warmed the ocean became less productive, the yield of fish and plankton diminishing, the surface waters becoming lifeless. But a typhoon stirred up the water across which it prowled, dragging up nutrient-rich colder layers from below, and in its wake there could be a brief bloom of life. So boats and rafts and ships, even the mighty Ark, were forced to dog the steps of the storms for the shoals they stimulated.
But it was a risky business. The warmer sea fed more powerful storms, and the loss of so much land surface gave the typhoons more room to play. A typhoon was an angry and unreliable provider.
Piers took the binoculars from Lily, and scanned the horizon.
“So what are you looking for?” she asked. “A Barbie doll to complete your collection?”
“I’m looking for the New Jersey, if you must know.” One of the nuclear subs operated by the rump US government in Denver, still patrolling the global ocean. “We got a ping earlier; we tried a sonar hail but there was no reply. There’s so much activity here in the Gyre you’d expect the government to take some notice.”
“They’ll probably start taxing us for the garbage we collect,” Lily said.
“Nathan might have something to say about that,” Piers murmured, the glasses pressed against his eyes.
The Ark neared the little group of craft at the heart of the garbage continent. The deck’s deep vibration dwindled as the turbines were throttled back. Lily heard a rattling of chains as the sea anchors were dropped, and felt a faint tug of deceleration as the ship slowed, shedding her huge inertia.
When the ship was still, Lily heard some kind of loudhailer, an amplified voice bellowing out: “. . . orderly process. I repeat, you, the newcomers, the big
fancy cruise ship and the rafts, pay attention please. Do not attempt to trawl the plastic, to scoop it up or upload it or extract it in any way. The plastic is the property of the commons. You may negotiate to purchase processed material from the trawling consortiums. Any attempt to primarily extract plastic without authorization will be met by lethal force. Please respect our laws and customs, and follow our orderly process. I repeat—”
A huge blast of feedback heralded the Ark’s reply. “This is Nathan Lammockson of AxysCorp aboard Ark Three. May I politely ask, who the hell are you, who appointed you, and who do you speak for? And by the way you split an infinitive.”
The answer came drifting back, uncowed. “You can call me the boss, Mr. Lammockson. My name doesn’t matter. I work for the licensed trawlers in this Gyre. They appointed me, in order that I and my police forces can keep order for the common good.”
“ ‘Keep order.’ We’re all on a garbage tip, and you’re the boss of the rats, right? Listen, pal, there’s a million tons of plastic washing around out there. Why the hell should I pay you?”
“You’re paying for the service of extraction, sorting, baling and loading, Mr. Lammockson. If you don’t like our service you’re welcome to go elsewhere.”
Nathan fell silent. Lily could almost hear his anger in the empty air. The boss resumed his peroration about his orderly process. After a time his voice was joined by parallel calls in other languages, Spanish, Chinese, Russian, Malay, Japanese.
The Ark’s engines didn’t start up again. For all Nathan’s blustering he wasn’t going anywhere.
The only effective legitimate power left on the global ocean was the US Navy, always overwhelmingly more powerful than the rest of the world’s forces. But those surface ships that were still operational hung around the shoreline of the reduced continental United States, acting as offshore bases, assisting with evacuations, guarding the shore from unwelcome emigrants. Only the nuclear subs still roamed the global ocean, and even they rarely intervened in disputes that didn’t directly affect the interests of the US. In the resulting vacuum, the only authority was local, bosses like the self-appointed controllers of this Sargasso of plastic waste. Nathan wasn’t in a position to challenge them.
And, like any bum, he needed the garbage. Already small craft were pushing out of the deeper mass of the encrusted sea, rafts and trawlers and factory ships, sailing to the Ark to hawk their wares. Some of the rafts were quite extensive, Lily saw, with slabs of bright green on their backs, floating farms around which birds fluttered. The Ark crew let down rope ladders, and the lifeboat hawsers lowered launches into the litter-strewn sea. Soon the trading would begin.
A small hand tugged at Lily’s leg. “Aunt Lily! Mum says I can go swim in the sea.”
Lily looked down. It was Manco, now seven years old and cute as a button. He had turned out blond, astonishingly, further proof that his father Ollantay had been rather less than a true-blood Quechua. But like most of the children growing up on the ship he had been burned nutmeg-brown by the sun. And, barefoot, dressed in ragged shorts and an ancient replica football shirt, he was full of restless energy.
Every time the ship dropped anchor, so long as the seas were reasonably safe, the kids were allowed to go swimming. Now that the last of the onboard pools had been turned into an electrolysis tank there was no opportunity to swim otherwise. But this was a crowded, messy sea.
“I’m not sure, Manco. Did Mum really say it was OK?”
He thrust out his lip; he had his father’s stubbornness, and his grandmother’s. “Well, I wouldn’t lie. Mum says if you take me I’ll be all right.”
Lily sighed. “She did, did she?” This was typical of Kristie, who wasn’t above using Manco in this way to win another cheap victory over her aunt. Now Lily had a choice of either disappointing her great-nephew, or spending hours in a rubber suit bobbing around on a shit-covered sea.
Piers raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “Oh, you’ll be fine, Lily. Look, the divers are clearing the water.”
Lily glanced down. A squad of the Ark’s divers had dropped into the water, and were pushing back a rope perimeter, supported by orange floats, scraping a cylindrical volume of the sea free of garbage. More divers plunged into the depths, armed with harpoons to keep off any predators, human or non-human.
“I’ll wear my rubber suit,” Manco promised. “And my nose filters! Oh, please, Lily. Mum says I can’t go unless you take me.”
“Here.” Piers tossed her a radio phone. “I’ll keep in touch.”
“Thanks.” Lily sighed. “Oh, what the heck. Come on.”
Manco scampered across the deck, heading for the stairs down to the robing room. Lily followed, trying not to give Piers any satisfaction by looking too reluctant about it.
83
Lily got herself and Manco into off-the-shelf rubber suits, and despite Manco’s protests spent long minutes checking the suits over. The wetsuits were one item that were wearing out fast, and it paid to be careful. And she made Manco put on an orange flotation belt, even though he insisted they were for “babies.”
Then they went back out and clambered down a rope ladder that dangled into the water from the deck beside the foremast. Manco let himself drop the last half-dozen rungs into the water, where he splashed around with the other children already there, squealing.
Lily descended more cautiously, and stepped into the small dinghy a diver held steady for her, drifting in the garbage just outside the float cordon. Once in the dinghy Lily blipped its electric motor to move a few meters away from the cordon. The little boat’s prow pushed aside soda bottles and plastic bags and cling film. None of this debris could have been much younger than twenty years old; most of it looked as fresh as if it had come out of the factory yesterday. Now she was down and dirty in the vast scum, she found it didn’t smell of anything but the briny seaweed tangled up in it.
She let the boat drift. She found the rhythmic rise and fall of the swell, the lapping of the water, almost comforting. She watched the kids playing beneath the vast gray wall of the ship. Some of them had a ball, and were belting it back and forth, yelling, arguing over the rules of some game or other. But others, including Manco, just swam, ducking under the water for long intervals—dives that would have been longer if not for the buoyancy of the flotation belts. It was a common observation that the new generation of kids, the very youngest of whom had never set foot on dry land, were drawn to the sea, the endless mysteries of the depths that always surrounded them. Nathan fretted about the work ethic among these dreamy oceanic kids, who might have to become the Ark’s next crew once the present complement grew too old to serve.
Lily glanced further down the length of the Ark’s hull. It was like drifting beside a sheer cliff. All along the ship’s length, hatches had been opened, rope ladders let down and small cranes deployed, as the scavengers nosed cautiously in to trade. It was like a movie scene, Lily thought fancifully, like South Sea islanders come to offer shells to a Navy ship.
But there was nothing cute about the trade going on here. It was a question of survival, on both sides. The Ark needed the produce of this Texas-sized rubbish island. She hadn’t been allowed into any port since Nepal; she had had to rely solely on her internal resources, and the produce of the sea. Nathan’s sea concrete and magnesium plants still worked, just. Slabs of the concrete patched faults in the hull, and were being used for partitions within the ship itself. But there was no replacement for plastic or various metals, for aluminum or steel or iron. So here was the magnificent Ark reduced to trading fresh water or sea concrete or spectacle lenses or a visit to the ship’s dentists for reclaimed plastic fishing net and sacks of polystyrene fragments.
The mood on the ship had been dreadful, too, since Nepal. Nathan had tried to keep quiet about what had happened in Tibet, but of course news of it had got out to the Ark’s crew. It was a confrontation with the nightmare that had plagued most thinking adults since the beginning of the flood itself: the extreme
end that might yet come to all of them. The encounter in Tibet had shattered Nathan’s plans. The Ark had got away from Nepal intact. But without a destination the voyage became purposeless.
On the gathering world ocean there were new hazards to be survived. Vast burps of methane, released from melting permafrost, could send chunks of fizzing clathrates to the surface, and fill the air with a noxious stink—lethal if it got too strong—or even create down currents that could sink a ship. As the weight of the water settled over the submerged lands, there were quakes and vast landslides, huge events that created tsunamis and whirlpools, events magnified if you happened to be drifting anywhere near the old drowned continents.
And at the very top of the Ark’s command structure relationships were near breakdown, with Nathan, Hammond and Juan Villegas locked together in a triangle of mutual loathing. It had been typical of Nathan not to do the obvious thing and throw Villegas overboard after his attempted mutiny at Nepal. Nathan seemed to see betrayal as a challenge, not a terminus. Villegas kept his life, and his job, no doubt after suffering some unspoken private humiliation. But Lily had not seen Villegas and Nathan share a single conversation since then, outside of formal exchanges on the bridge or in the crew parliaments.
Lily had come to think that the Ark was a classic example of the flaws in Nathan’s thinking. He always followed his vision and his grand impulses, but failed to think a project through to the end. The ship had never been designed in the kind of modular, multiply-redundant way that might have made her truly self-sustainable, over years or decades. Obsessed by his civilizing dream, Nathan had gone for style and looks, and had left function to sort itself out. Now here was the result, this ridiculous clone of the Queen Mary towering over the rafts that lived off this sea of garbage, steadily consuming herself to stay alive, like a starving body metabolizing its own internal organs.
Flood Page 41
