Stephen Baxter - Flood

Piers said, “Now hold on. Much of the flooding has come from flash flooding, freak rainstorms-”

“Caused,” Gary said, “by an exceptional loading of water vapor into the atmosphere, driven in turn by heat energy in the rising ocean. The science, the modeling is there, Piers. I grant you it’s patchy, and there’s no consensus. But Thandie thinks her data is good, and she’s going out to collect more. We’re talking about sea-bottom exploration, Lil. How cool is that? Thandie’s reporting this up through her own hierarchy, to the National Science Foundation in the US. But no government, no intergovernmental agency, will back her-in particular the IPCC, the climate change panel-because, she says, if they did it would be a tacit admission that there’s a real problem.”

Piers snorted.“Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she? As opposed to the possibility that her ‘science’ is a whole lot of nonsense.”

Gary said, “Well, now she’s got funding-thanks to me.”

Helen saw it. “Nathan Lammockson. She’s tapped him up.”

Gary grinned. “Old Nathan likes to splash the cash where it will do some good, especially if it’s visible. What could be more visible than saving the world? Anyhow this new program of exploration is being run out of Iceland, and that’s where I’m going. And I want you with me, Lily. I don’t know what we’re going to face out there. I’d like to have somebody with me I could trust.”

She smiled. “And I’m the best you could come up with?”

“You’ll do,” he said earnestly. “And besides you’ll help keep Nathan on board.”

Helen was frowning. She pointed to the south.“Isn’t that water level a little higher than it was before? That bin over there is almost submerged now-the shop fronts-I’m sure it wasn’t like that before.”

Harry the Marine was waving from the boat, in water that was waist deep.

“My God, you’re right,” Piers said. “We have to go. That’s that, then.”

For one last moment they stood together, the four hostages, Thurley. Helen said wistfully, “Don’t forget me. Or Grace.”

“We won’t,” Lily promised.

“Come on, Lily,” Piers snapped,“let’s get you home.” He grabbed her arm and hurried her down the steps, splashing in ever-deepening water toward the boat.

By the time they got back to Fulham the river had already pushed out dramatically, a small rise in level translating to a major wash inland over the shallow streets. This time there was no storm, nothing but a clear blue sky. Without apparent cause, the water just rose.

From the boat Lily hurried toward Amanda’s home. She glimpsed a police van splashing up the Fulham Road, heard an amplified voice ordering an evacuation. Residents were piling stuff in the street, carrycots and water bottles, suitcases, bundles of gear wrapped in blankets. Others, evidently intent on staying put even now, were feverishly sandbagging their drives and doors. The bowser was standing in a pool. Residents were queuing even so, in rubber boots and waterproof trousers, the Yuppies and Single Dad; water still poured from the brass tap. But there would be no more deliveries here, Lily saw.

Amanda’s front door was open. Lily hurried in. Filthy water poured down the stairs, black and reeking. Lily saw the two kids sitting before the TV, which was, by some miracle, working, the power still on. The kids looked subdued, unwilling to move.

Amanda came stamping down in her rubber boots, carrying rucksacks and clothes. She still wore her work suit. “Lily, thank God you’re back. Can you give me a hand with this lot? It’s started pouring out of the toilet again like last time. You’re supposed to drop a sandbag down there, but that didn’t work last time either. Well, this is it, isn’t it?”

Lily grabbed bundles. “I heard them calling for evacuation.”

“It’s on the news.” Amanda glanced around at the filth on the stairs, the damp, moldy patches on the walls. “Just when you think it’s over, when you’ve had enough it starts up again.” She seemed more angry than stressed, grim rather than panicking. Lily wondered if she was in some way relieved that the worst was here at last. Amanda called to the kids, “You’d better get up there and sort out what you want, you two.”

But Benj said, “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere, Mum.” He pointed at the TV screen. It was showing a live news broadcast, a helicopter view of cracked tarmac, fallen flyovers, crushed and burning cars.

Lily stepped closer, trying to read fallen signs.“That’s the M25. Junction with the M40.”

“That’s all we need,” Amanda said. “Is it something to do with the flooding?”

“Maybe.” But now postcard-sized cutaways showed more devastated junctions. All the major junctions around London’s orbital motorway had been blown up: the M1 and M11 to the north, the M40 and M4 to the west and Wales, the M3 toward Hampshire, the M23 south to Sussex.

“They’ve smashed up the roads,” Benj said simply. “The trains too. Nobody wants us.”

Kristie said flatly, “Watch the Cockneys swim dot com.”

The picture froze, broke up, and died.

Mean sea-level rise above 2010 datum: 5-80m

May 2017

Piers Michaelmas sent an oil company jet to pick Lily up from Denver, where she’d flown in from England, and bring her to Texas.

Houston from the air was utterly flat, a grid-plan cityscape set down in a country of low hills, pine forests, swamps and bayous. The only topography was man-made; the glass blocks of downtown looked like a huge sculpture set up on the plain. To the east was the bay, with the lines of the Ship Channel clearly visible and more industrial sprawl beyond. This was the area colonized by the petrochemical industry, domed storage tanks and spindly fractionating towers like a comic-book city of the future, spreading kilometers away toward the Gulf of Mexico. On the bay itself a tracery of levees and barriers gleamed, protection against the rising sea, huge constructions in themselves, brand new. But Lily saw that, despite the new defenses, the bay waters had already penetrated the old coastline, and pooled at the feet of the white storage tanks. All this under a pale smoggy sky, in heat so intense the air shimmered, a city under a grill.

Lily looked along the sweeping curve of the Gulf Freeway, hoping to glimpse the blocky architecture of the Johnson Space Center where tomorrow she was due to meet Gordon James Alonzo, a real-life astronaut. But it was lost in the detail.

On landing she took a call from Piers, advising her on where to meet him.

The airport terminal building was a glass block so aircon-cold she considered digging a sweater out of her carry-on bag. Then she had to walk a few meters under the open Houston sky to a waiting limousine, and it was like stepping into a sauna. When she got into Piers’s car it was so cold it made her shiver again.

Piers wore an open-necked, short-sleeved white shirt, and black shorts that looked like cut-down suit trousers. It was nine months since Lily had last seen Piers, back in London; she’d suggested meeting up when she found out they were both going to be in the Houston area. He patted her shoulder brusquely, and took her bag and lodged it on the floor. The car pulled out. The driver was all but hidden behind a screen of smoky glass.

“You still travel light,” Piers said.

“I live light,” Lily said as she buckled up. It was true; what she owned wouldn’t have filled more than two or three backpacks. “I’ve never felt the need to acquire much stuff. Certainly not since Barcelona.”

“Quite. It’s not really a time to put down roots, is it? Not unless you’re a banyan tree.” There was that mordant wit, the infrequent flashes of which had always made her feel warm. “So was the flight OK? How do you feel?”