Ian McDonald - Desolation Road

“We want to be pilots like you, Ma,” they said.

“What?” said Umberto, who had wanted them to go into real estate with him.

“What?” said Louie, who had wanted them to go into law with him.

“We want to fly,” said Sevriano and Batisto, thinking of wind, wires, sunlight on wings, and the sensual roar of Yamaguchi and Jones aero-engines in push/pull configuration, remembering their own mother blissful and glowing after long afternoons thundering down desert canyons and skimming the rim rocks of haunted mesas. To them the earth held nothing more fair than the sky.

“If you wish to fly, you shall fly,” said Ed, who alone understood how the wind could blow through the blood. “Have you thought about how you’re going to go about this?”

“We talked to Mr. Wong, the career officer at school,” said Sevriano.

“He said to join the Company as commercial ’lighter pilots,” said Batisto.

“And you are sure this is what you want to do?” asked Persis Tatterdemalion, secretly delighted that her sons, at least, would follow her dreams.

“We are.” The twins produced application forms.

“Then you must follow your hearts’ desire,” she said, signing the consents at the bottom. For some reason she kept seeing Limaal Mandella’s face in the paper, like an ancient watermark.

And last of all on that day of beginnings, the sirens’ shout called a man onto a high balcony fronted with a black and gold Company banner. The man watched the torrents of workers, the busy-bee-bustling managers, the machines blossoming into life and motion. He watched the animating spark spread throughout Steeltown, lighting flames of empire and industry wherever it touched. The North West Quartersphere Projects and Developments Manager/Director watched the very first day dawn on Steeltown and was well pleased. Very well pleased indeed.

May 27, 06:13, seven ten-kiloton nuclear devices detonated simultaneously aboard the Praesidium SailShip Jonathon Byrde preparing to offload passengers, crew and cargo at the ROTECH orbital docking facility for transfer to the Skywheel space elevator. Three hundred and fifty-five thousand people were instantly vaporized in the blast. A further hundred and fifty thousand exploded bodies were recovered by ROTECH blitches and sheddles from lonely funeral orbits. Fifty-eight thousand survived the explosion in remote sections of the vessel or in cargo pods blown clear from the ship mainframe. Of these, twelve thousand five hundred died from exposure to intense radiation. A further seventeen hundred perished when their spinning shipsection burned to slag in the atmosphere before all could be transmatted to safety. Sixteen hundred ROTECH personnel, including the Jonathon Byrde ’s service crew of twenty-eight and nineteen Skywheel shuttle pilots leaving the drop-off end of the cable were killed. Ninety-seven thousand immigrants had already been transported to the surface when the Jonathon Byrde was destroyed. One shuttle with fifteen hundred passengers was knocked out of orbit into the path of the spinning cable and cleaved in half. A further two hundred and thirty-eight casualties resulted when the town of Dolencias Cui was bombarded by a hail of debris falling from orbit. A five hundred ton section of ship mainframe travelling at eight kilometres per second hit the llolencias Cui school and in a nanosecond rendered the town childless. Seventy-two thousand were never accounted for, among whom must have been the fanatic seven who smuggled the warheads aboard the SailShip.

The number of the casualties from the Jonathon Byrde was 589,545. A group calling itself the Whole Earth Army Tactical Group claimed responsibility for the bombing. In a tent under an oak tree on the utmost northern edge of the holy Forest of Chryse, where the land lifts up and tears like a folded chapati into the Hallsbeck Palisades, Arnie Tenebrae sat by her radio listening to the special news bulletin. She nodded, she smiled, she twiddled the tuner so she could hear it told again in a different voice. Her name would live forever now.

Marya Quinsana paused to take a sip of water and assess the situation. They were a good crowd: straightforward, uncomplicated talk. Wave the flag, beat the drum, let them think they have won you to their cause when you are winning them to yours; humiliate the bumpkin heckler, hammer the nail between the eyes and keep hammering, pound pound pound. Local elections were quite fun. She smiled to the local candidate, that sallow, clever young man, and took up hammer in hand.

“Citizens of Jabalpur! Do I really have to tell you these things? Do I really have to tell you that murdering thugs roam your country, burning factories and businesses, setting crops to the torch, driving settlers from their homesteads; do I have to tell you good citizens of the innocent folk slaughtered like animals in bomb attacks, shot down on their own doorsteps? No!”

The audience brayed its approval.

“No! I do not need to tell you these things, good citizens! You know it only too well! And you may ask yourselves, where are the armed constables patrolling your streets? Where are the Local Defence Units, where are the regular troops? Yes, where are the Jabalpur Volunteers, the First Oxiana Division, the Twenty-second Airmobile? I will tell you where they are!”

She treated them to a few seconds calculated pause.

“Sitting on their hands in their barracks, that’s where! And why? Why? Because your local opposition-dominated assembly doesn’t think the situation warrants that kind of intervention! So: three million dollars worth of finest military technology gathers dust and the local defence forces have neither arms nor uniforms to drill in because Campbell Mukajee doesn’t think the situation warrants that kind of intervention! Let him tell that to the Garbosacchi family! Let him tell that to the Bannerjees, the Chungs, the MacAlpines, the Ambanis, the Cuestas, and they will tell him whether or not the situation warrants that kind of intervention!”

She let them howl while she nodded to the candidate, then palmsdowned them into simmering calm.

“But best of all… best of all, my friends, the constables; your constables, your guardians of law and order, routinely escort Whole Earth Army demonstrators through the streets of this city! ‘Preservation of the right of political expression’ says Campbell Mukajee. Really, Mr. Mukajee? And what of the rights of Constantine Garbosacchi, Katia Bannerjee, Rol MacAlpine, Abram Ambani; Ignacio, Mavda, Annunciato and Dominic Cuesta, all butchered this past week by the murder squads of the Whole Earth Army?” The audience drew breath to thunder a condemnation, but Marya Quinsana played them like Blue Mountain tilapia on the line. “Escorting them? They should be arresting them!” She smelled frenzy-sweat and hysteria in the hall but still she did not release them. “There are Whole Earth Army representatives sitting in each of the three houses of this regional assembly who openly condone murder and violence and Mr. Campbell Mukajee has never once tabled a motion for their dismissal! He openly consorts with murderers and terrorists, he and his party: because of his bleeding-heart liberalism hundreds of your fellow countrymen have been butchered; he refuses to mobilize the security forces because he does not think the situation warrants that kind of intervention: his own words, ladies and gentlemen! And now… now… now he asks you to re-elect him and his party for another three years!

“And I know, I know in my heart of hearts that the people of Jabalpur District are going to say no, no, a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred, a million times no on Thursday to another three years of Liberal misrule and say yes, yes, a million times yes to the New Party, the party with the will, the party with the determination, the party with the power and your mandate, citizens, to sweep the Whole Earth Army from the face of the globe; on Thursday you will say yes to the New Party, yes to Pranh Kaikoribetseng, your local candidate, yes to victory and strength!”