Stephen Baxter - Moonseed

But still, Venus had set, and the light was a little more normal.

They walked, to Arthur’s Seat.

She studied him. She said, “Aren’t you freaked out too?”

“Sort of. This is spooky stuff. But the bigger part of me is—”

“Excited.”

“Yes.”

“By what? Nano-machines from the Moon? String theory? The end of the world?”

“Not really. Just about figuring stuff out. You were right. That’s the thrill.” He smiled. “Especially right now, when I have the excuse to skip the detail.”

She felt the urge to punch his smug face.

“How do you know where Mike will be?”

“I don’t. But I have a hunch.” He turned to her, evidently gauging her reaction. “You know, he’s kind of changed over the last few days.”

“I know,” she said. And I know why, she thought. Mike’s figured it out too.

They climbed the Seat. Henry stopped a couple of times to inspect the grass, which had turned, in places, brown and wiry: dead, poisoned somehow.

They reached the dust pools, a ragged garden of them a thousand yards across. The police had given up trying to tape off the perimeter, but there were many of them here, in their fluorescent emergency-yellow ponchos, patrolling. Jane saw how the officers, many of them very young, kept a wary eye over their shoulders on the advance of the quicksand.

Outside the ring of police officers she spotted a group of scientists working close to the quicksand perimeter, with handheld probes and white-box lab equipment and flickering laptop screens. They were wiring the Seat, in Blue’s term. A couple of them were preparing a small, turtle-shaped robot which looked as if it was going to be sent into the quicksand itself.

And there were TV and radio crews, with big fold-up antennae pointing at the sky. The tone of the broadcasts had abruptly changed, Jane thought; now that people had died, it seemed a great city was gathering itself in fear, and the earnest tones and body language of the reporters conveyed that, cartoon-style.

Around the broadcasters and scientists there was a broader ring of sight-seers, mostly teenagers and young adults. Some were studying the quicksand, or watching what the scientists were doing, or listening soberly to the news people. Others were just, it seemed to Jane, enjoying a novelty in the sunshine.

It was, in fact, crowded here. There was a lively mood. Like a Bank Holiday crowd.

It wasn’t hard to find the Egress Hatch encampment; it was at the centre of the densest knot of sight-seers. The cultists were sitting around in their pyjama uniforms in a rough circle, as close, it seemed, as the police would allow them to the quicksand puddle. At their centre was the leader, Bran. He had on a Madonna microphone headset, and was strolling easily before the quicksand, his words amplified by a bank of ghetto blasters. He looked for all the world like a stand-up comic, she thought. His audience was no passive congregation; they laughed and whooped as he spoke to them.

Hamish Macrae had mastered the seduction of humour, she thought. He had grown up a lot since that lift shaft.

And here, as Henry had appeared to expect, was Mike, sitting among the cultists. He was still wearing a white lab coat, which stood out among the pastel colours of the cultists” pyjamas.

Jane moved forward — she had to step over a few rows of cultists, who dipped out of her way with gentle smiles — and hissed until she had Mike’s attention. He looked back at Bran as if wistfully, but he unfolded his legs, stood and climbed out to her.

Henry spoke first. “I was worried about you. We missed you at work.”

Mike seemed surprised. “You did?”

“Well, Marge Case makes lousy coffee. Anyhow, you don’t have the pyjamas for this.”

Mike smiled weakly. “Pyjamas will be provided.”

“When?” Jane snapped. “When you all beam up to the fucking mother ship?”

Mike wasn’t reacting. “You can’t mock this, you know. Bran mocks himself.”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “I noticed. He’s smart.”

“Dad thinks we should get out of here,” Jane said. “Out of the city. We want you to come. We need you.” She hesitated. “Jack needs you.”

Mike frowned. “I think I’m needed here.”

“Why?” Jane said sharply. “To atone?”

Mike wouldn’t reply.

Henry touched her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

She flared. “We can’t just leave this little arsehole.”

“What are you going to do, slug him and haul him over your shoulder? You know, these guys will have to come off this rock soon anyhow. The rate of progress of the dust—”

“Moonseed,” Mike said.

“What?”

“That’s what Bran calls it. Moonseed.”

Jane said, “Why?”

“Because it comes from the Moon.”

She held Mike’s arm, just for a moment. “We’ll be waiting,” she said.

He nodded tightly, already looking back at Bran.

“Moonseed,” Henry said. “It’s a better word than quicksand. But it’s still just a word.”

“I think Mike’s gone crazy,” she said.

“No. You mustn’t think that. None of them are crazy. Bran isn’t crazy. I think Bran has looked at the same evidence as me and come to the same conclusions, in some way I don’t understand. Now, given all that, how is Mike supposed to react?”

She felt herself get more angry. “This is all bullshit.”

But Henry was still talking. “In a way Bran’s thinking has gone far beyond mine; he isn’t questioning the data he sees, or trying to construct hypotheses about it. He is already trying to deal with the consequences. He was brought up to expect a lack of disturbance. A stable world to live in. A long life. Hell, we all were. Now, that’s gone. Bran is offering a way out. At least an explanation. Very skilfully presented. And Mike, and the others, are accepting that. I can’t blame them for that.”

“But it’s all guff.”

“I agree. But I don’t have a smarter alternative to offer anybody right now. Do you?” He studied her. “So why are you so angry today?”

“Because of Mike. Because of you, you smug bastard.”

“No,” he said.

No, she thought. Because I don’t want this to be happening. I want it to be yesterday, when I still had control of my life.

His hand covered hers. “I know,” he said.

“What?”

“About Mike.” He glanced at her. “That’s it, isn’t it? The quarantine breach. How it got out.”

“Yes. And it’s killing him.”

“He couldn’t have known. It wasn’t his fault. If we can get him to—”

A soft warble came from his jacket pocket; he pulled out his mobile phone. He opened it up and listened. “Yeah… Shit.”

“What?”

“Something at the lab. An explosion. I have to go.” He paused a moment, unwilling to leave her. “There’s nothing you can do about Mike now. Come with me. Then we’ll go to your family, and get the hell out of here.”

She hesitated for a second, looking back at the crowds at the base of Arthur’s Seat, her brother among them.

And, visible at the heart of the concentric circles of people milling and laughing and arguing, there was the Moonseed pool, spread like parachute fabric over the Seat. It glimmered softly, the familiar contours of the Seat slowly dissolving into its silky, seductive smoothness; and the silent light-bursts at its perimeter came steadily now, as the Moonseed ate its way through the ancient basalt.

She grabbed Henry’s hand, and they started to run.

When Ted Dundas got back from the train wreck, he found the house empty, save for Jack.

Jack stared at the blood and dirt on Ted’s face. Ted let him get used to it. It wouldn’t be the last blood he’d see.