The Sky Road tfr-4

by Ken MacLeod

  “Recorder: on. Regular meeting of the Council, Friday 9 May 2059, Myra Godwin-Davidova presiding, five members present.” She looked around, then looked back at the recorder’s steel grille. “I move that we shelve the agenda and go straight to emergency session. Starting with the death of Citizen Davidov.”

  No dissent. Seconds of silence passed.

  “Don’t all talk at once,” she said.

  Valentina Kozlova (Defence) spoke first. “Look, Myra—Comrade Chair—we’ve all spoken to you about Georgi’s death. We were all very sorry to hear of it.”

  Myra nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Having said that—we need to decide on our political response. Now, obviously the police in Almaty are investigating, and so far there seem to be no indications of foul play.” She shrugged. “That, of course, is hard to prove, these days. However… Georgi Yefrimovich had a great deal of responsibility—” she gestured vaguely at Andrei Mukhartov, the International Affairs Commissar “—and in the circumstances, natural causes do seem likely.”

  Myra sighed. “Yes, I appreciate that. And I appreciate what all of you have said to me. Let me say for the record that personally I don’t accept that Georgi’s death was anything but an assassination.”

  She faced down the resulting commotion.

  “However,” she continued, “I don’t ask or expect any of you to take this as more than a suspicion. At the moment, even the question of who might benefit from it is very unclear—if Georgi was murdered, it might have been by one side or the other. Possibly some elements in the space movement saw him as an obstacle to their… diplomacy. Possibly some forces opposed to the space movement thought we’d think exactly that, and had him killed as a provocation. Or maybe, just maybe, his heart gave out. Whatever—it’s come at a bad time for us.”

  Mukhartov grunted agreement.

  After a moment of gloomy silence Valentina spoke again. “We’ve all studied your message,” she said. “What’s your own suggested course of action?”

  “We try to stop them, of course. Damned if I want the fucking UN back on top of us, let alone one controlled by the goddam space movement and its proxies.”

  Valentina leaned forward. “For my part,” she said, “I agree with your assessment. We have to be ready for the new situation in which the space movement controls the ReUN, and with it the Earth Defense battlesats. But—” she hesitated a moment, sighed almost imperceptibly, and continued “—I think that the death of Georgi, the understandable suspicions this has aroused, and the, ah, unexpected and unauthorised increase in labour-camp output may have given your response a… subjective element.” Kozlova glanced around the table. “The coming shift in the balance of power can’t be stopped by us, or by anybody. The most we’ve been able to do—thanks to Georgi’s diplomacy—has been to help keep Kazakhstan neutral, with a tilt against the takeover. Even they wouldn’t take direct action against it, though God knows Georgi tried to persuade them to. They assured us they just didn’t have the clout, and I believe them. Now you seem to be suggesting that we throw our weight, such as it is, against it. My own view is that we’d accomplish more by staying neutral. It could work to our advantage—if we accommodate ourselves to new realities in good time.”

  Myra unfroze her face. “Get in on the winning side, you mean?” she suggested lightly.

  Yes, exactly,” Kozlova said. She seemed encouraged by Myra’s response, or lack of response. “After all,” she ploughed on, “we ourselves are in a way part of the space movement, we go back a long way with it, and the Sheenisov are as much a threat to us as the barbarians and reactionary governments are to some other enclaves. Frankly, I think we should put out some diplomatic feelers to the other side before the crunch, which as you correctly point out is a matter of days or weeks away. And we’re not exactly in a position of strength at the moment. So there is indeed a certain urgency to our decision.”

  “Interesting,” Myra murmured. “Anyone else?”

  Denis Gubanov (Internal Security) broke in sharply. “The Chair spoke in her message of states being suborned and subverted. I don’t think we should let ourselves become one of them! Whatever the rhetoric, and the propaganda of inevitability, it’s obvious what’s going on. Imperialism took a severe blow with the fall of the Yanks, but the blow wasn’t fatal, worse luck. Monopoly capital always finds new political instruments, and the space movement, so-called, has proved an admirable vehicle.” He snorted, briefly. “Literally—a launch vehicle! Through it, the rich desert the Earth. Why should we help them on their way?”

  “More to the point,” said Sherman (Trade and Industry), making his disdain for Denis’s rhetoric emphatically clear, “there is the question of what we will do for a living when the camps are worked out.”

  “We could always—” began Kozlova, as though about to say something in jest, then glanced at Myra and shut up.

  “What?”

  “Nah. Forget it. The business to hand is what we do now, about the coup.”

  Myra let the argument go on. There was a case, she admitted to herself, on both sides. But Valentina had been right—there was a subjective edge to Myra’s response. The space movement’s central element was Mutual Protection, and Mutual Protection’s central element was David Reid. If the space movement got its way he would be the most powerful man in the world.

  No way was she going to let that bastard win.

  3

  The Ship o the Yird

  An hour later, after a run across town that was bloody hard in (and on) my boots, and a hasty wash and change into my work clothes, I stood at the station bus-stop with my steel safety-helmet in one hand and my aluminium lunch-box in the other. Packing my lunch was the only non-basic service that my landlady provided, but for me that was enough to forgive her the absence of breakfast, dinner, laundry and reliable hot water.

  The sun’s growing heat was burning off the morning mist on the loch and between the hills. I felt as though I might at any moment rise and float away myself. My eyes felt sandy and my brain felt hot, but these discomforts did not diminish the kinder glow of elation somewhere in my chest and gut. In a strange way I could hardly bear to think about Mer-rial—every time I did so brought on such an explosion of joy that I quivered at the knees, and I almost feared to indulge it to excess. I wanted to keep it, hoard it, dole it out to myself when I really needed it, not gulp it all down at once. (Which is of course a mistaken notion—that particular well, like all too many others, is bottomless.

  What I thought about instead was another woman—the Deliverer, under whose memorial I had met Merrial, and under whose remote and ancient protection she and her people lived. (Protected from persecution, at any rate, if not from prejudice.)

  Over the past four years, History had been one of the arts I. had struggled to master. It hadn’t been easy, even in Glaschu, where the place fair drips with it, as they say. The baffled aversion expressed by Merrial was a common enough reaction. In a time of so many opportunities, and a place buzzing with innovative work in so many fields which could be applied to bring about manifest human betterment, it seemed perverse (sometimes even to me) for a vigorous and intelligent young man to turn aside from such arts as Literature, and Music, and Kinematography, or from the sciences: Astronomy, Medicine, the many branches of Natural Theology; from the improving pursuits of Practical Philosophy and Mechanical and Civil Engineering—to turn aside from all these useful works of the intellect, not even for the understandable and, within reason, commendable attractions of business and pleasure, but to fossick about in mouldering documents and crumbling ruins, and to fill his head with bloody images and mind-numbing figures from the mega-dead past.

  It was a distasteful and faintly disreputable fascination, with a whiff of necrophilia, even of necromancy, about it. But, whether we will or no, we’re all historians, each with our own outline of history in our heads. This was a point I’d often had to make to sceptical listeners, from parents and siblings through to patronage c
ommittees and on to friends and workmates in drink-fuelled debate. We pick up the outline from parents and teachers and preachers, from songs and statues and stories.

  In the beginning, God made the Big Bang, and there was light. After the first four minutes, there was matter. After billions of years, there were stars and planets, and the Earth was formed. The water above the sky separated from the water below the sky, which brought forth all manner of creeping things. Over millions of years they were shaped by God’s invisible hand, Natural Selection, into great monsters of land and sea. The Earth was filled with violence, and God sent an asteroid, Katy Boundary, to destroy it. The sky was dark at noon for forty days, and almost all the living things were destroyed. Among those who survived were little beasts like mice, and they replenished the Earth, and burrowed into it and became coneys, and climbed trees and became monkeys, and climbed down and became Men—

  — ape-men and cave-men, Egyptians and Babylonians, Greeks and Romans, Christians and Americans, Chinese and Russians. The Americans fell but their empire lived on as the Possession, until the Deliverer rose in the east and struck it down. Troubled times followed, and then peace.

  So why disturb it—answer me that, lad!

  Because the truth is more interesting and ultimately more instructive than a farrago of fable? I had acquired the taste not just for truth but for detail; for the peculiar pleasure that comes from seeing the real relationship between events in terms of cause and effect rather than narrative convention. It’s a satisfaction which I’ll defend as genuinely scientific.

  But what use is it, eh?

  To that I had no ready answer, except to define the result as art, in the same way as the method could be defined as science. The argument that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it failed to impress most people, convinced as they were that there was no risk whatsoever of history’s more ruinous errors being repeated. So I had to reach for the argument that real history told a better story because it was a truer story; that reality had its own beauty, sterner and higher than that of myth.

  The particular story I wanted to tell was of the life of the Deliverer. My proposal for a thesis on her early years as a student and academic in Glasgow, long before she became the figure known to history, was only the beginning of my own world-conquering ambition: to reconstruct, as much as one can across that gulf of time, the mind and personality and circumstance that had shaped the future that was now our past.

  It might take decades of research, years of writing. Whatever else I did, this biography would define my own: a life for a Life. Perhaps it was an unconscious balking at that price, or some half-baked, self-justifying attempt to pay my dues to what my more practical-minded contemporaries called “real work”, or something more positive, a dimly felt attraction to the world of material striving and measurable success, a turning towards the future and away from the past, that led me that summer to Garron Town and the Kishorn Yard.

  “Thank God it’s Thursday,” said a cheerful voice behind me. I turned and grinned at Jondo, who was leaning against the bus-stop sign and eating a black pudding and fried-egg roll. Behind him a score of workers were by now queuing up. Vendors of snacks, hot drinks and newspapers worked along the line.

  “It’s Friday,” I pointed out.

  “That’s what I meant,” he said around a mouthful, hand-waving with the remainder of his breakfast. “Force of habit.” He swallowed. “Pay-day, at any rate.”

  I nodded enthusiastically. Half my pay was telegraphed straight to my account at the Caledonian Mutual Bank; out of the remainder I had to pay for my lodgings, food and drink, and a modicum of carousing at the weekly fair. By Friday mornings I had just enough cash to get through the day. Pay was high, but so was the cost of living—the project had pulled up prices for miles around it.

  Jondo was a man about my own age, his beer-gut already as impressive as his muscles. His long red hair, now as usual worn in a pony-tail, and his pale eyes and eyebrows gave him the look of a paradoxically innocent pirate; inherited perhaps from his ancestors who’d gone a-viking, and come to this land to pillage and settled down to farm, and to whom the Christian gospel had come as good news indeed, a welcome relief from heathendom’s implacable codes of honour and vengeance. He spoke with the soft accent of Inverness, where—rumour had it—there were Christians still.

  I tried to imagine Jondo drinking blood at some dark ceremony. The momentary absurd image must have brought a smirk to my face.

  “What’s so funny, Clovis?” he growled. Then he smiled, balling up the waxed paper and chucking it, wiping the grease from his hands on the oily thighs of his overalls. “Ach, I know. A good night with your tinker lass, was it?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Aye, well, each to their own, I suppose,” he said, in the tone of one making a profound and original observation. “Here’s the bus.”

  The bus, already half-full, drew to a halt beside us in a cloud of wood-alcohol exhaust, its brakes squealing and its flywheel shrieking. I hopped on, paid my groat to the driver and settled down in a window seat. Jondo heaved his bulk in beside me, gave me another lewd grin and a wink, released an evidently satisfying fart and went instantly to sleep.

  Some passengers busied themselves with newspapers or conversation, but most dozed like Jondo or stared bleary-eyed like me. The discrepancy between the time-honoured four-day week and the project’s more demanding schedules reduced Friday work to a matter of clearing up problems left over from the past week and preparing for the next. Not even the inducement of double time could make more than a handful of the labour-force encroach on the sanctity of Saturday and Sunday, although it could make most of us work overtime through the week. No amount of patient lecturing from managers with clipboards and redundant hard hats could persuade us to adopt what they considered a more rational work pacing.

  The bus lurched into motion. I lit a cigarette to dispel Jondo’s intestinal methane and laid my temple against the welcome throbbing coolness of the window. As we crossed the Carron and passed New Kelso I gazed beyond the suburb’s neat bungalows to where morning smoke rose from the tinker camp. A vivid image of Menial asleep—the tumble of black hair, the white-sleeved arm across the pillow—lit up my mind. I wondered what my chances were of seeing her through the day. I didn’t even know which office she worked in, and a desultory fantasy took shape of finding some fantastic excuse to visit them all: of working my way through the administration blocks and drawing-offices, spurning the flirtations of giggling girls and pensive older women with hunky pin-ups above their desks, until I finally walked into an engineering lab to find Menial alone and in a day-dream of her own, about me, into which my real arrival would be a passionately welcomed incursion…

  Probably not.

  My head swung away from the window as the bus turned left on to the main road along the northern shore. I jolted upright, making sure my head didn’t swing back and crack against the pane. Even at this hour in the morning the road was busy with commuter traffic and heavy trucks. The bus chugged slowly along, picking up yet more passengers in Jeantown, another village that the project had expanded, its packed buildings teetering perilously up the hillside. Out on the loch a pod of dolphins sported, their leaps drawing gasps and sighs from the less jaded or dozy of my fellow-passengers.

  Then, with a great clashing of gears and screeching of flywheel as the auxiliary electric motors kicked in, the bus turned right, on to the road up into the hills between the two mountains, An Sgurr and Glas Bhein, that dominated the northern skyline of the lochside towns. To me, this afforded an inexhaustibly fascinating view of further ranges of hills and reaches of water. Everybody else on the bus ignored it completely. Someone opened a window to let out the smoke and let in some fresh air; a bee blundered in, causing a ripple of excitement and much brandishing of rolled newspapers before it bumbled out.

  Above the last houses, above the meadows, the trees began: twenty-metre-tall beeches, then pine and
rowan and birch, all the way up to the crags and the scree. Centuries ago these hills had been bare of all but rough pasture and heather, cropped by the infamous black-faced sheep. But these same bare hills had somehow sustained the sparse guerilla forces of Jacobite and Land Leaguer and Republican. Far below I could see the rocky peninsula known as the Island, a sheltering arm around the harbour, still with a small bunker on its top. During the First World Revolution a thirteen-year-old had written herself into local legend by bringing down a stealth fighter with a nuclear-tipped rocket-propelled grenade. In Jeantown’s poky museum you can see an ancient photograph of her: the grubby, grinning cadre of a Celtic Vietcong, posed with the rocket tube slung on her shoulder, beside unrecognisable wreckage on a scarred hillside where to this day nothing will grow.

  Over the top of the saddleback and down into the long, dark glen where the Pretender had evaded Cumberland’s troops, where the Free Kirk had preached to the dispossessed, and where, later, the Army of the New Republic had cached their computers, the hardware of their software war against the last empire. The grim glen opened to another fertile plain of woods and fields and recently grown town, Courthill. Beyond it, at the edge of the sea-loch, lay the great scar of the Kishorn Yard. There was a trick of the eye in interpreting the sight—everything there, the cranes and the platform and the ship, were much bigger than their normal equivalents, like the Pleistocene relatives of familiar mammals.

  The bus pulled up at the works gate. The stockade around the yard had been constructed more to protect the careless or reckless from wandering in than to safeguard anything it enclosed. I nudged Jondo awake and we alighted in a dangerous, fast-moving convergence of buses and cars and bikes. We strolled through the gate just as the seven-o’clock klaxon brayed. Hundreds, then thousands, of workers streamed through the gate and swarmed out across the yard. The place looked like a benign battlefield, crater-pocked, vehicle-strewn, littered with the living. I clamped the heavy helmet on my head, and with Jondo puffing along behind me, plunged in; ducking and dodging along walkways, over trenches, under cables; leaping perilous small-gauge railway tracks and over waterlogged trenches and dried-up culverts (drainage here had always been a bit hit-and-miss); past haulage vehicles and earth-movers, air-compressors and power-plants, portable cabins and toilets set down as if at random in the muck, until at length we reached the immense dry-dock that was the focus of the whole glorious affray.