Stephen Baxter - Moonseed

“I know,” Henry said gently. “It’s just that I don’t think there’s a choice.” Talking rapidly, he summarized his researches.

“Exponential growth starts slowly. One, two, four. But then it breaks out, eight, sixteen, thirty-two—”

Romano laughed. “So Edinburgh is being destroyed by a rock-eating bug from the Moon. I’ve never heard such rubbish in all my puff. If we were to order an evacuation because of that, the public would laugh in our faces.”

Henry shrugged. “Then tell them something else. That’s your problem. There really isn’t a choice.”

Romano stared at him for long seconds. Then she turned to one of the civilians near her, a tall, upright, silver-haired man who looked as if he might have once been a soldier. “Archie… Dr Meacher, this is Archie Ferguson, the Emergency Planning Officer.”

Henry nodded.

“I don’t have the authority to evacuate the city, do I?” Romano asked.

“No,” Ferguson said. His accent was soft, almost anglicized. “That’s a lot bigger than us. We’d need to establish a REC.”

“A what?”

“A regional emergency committee. The old civil defence arrangements would come into play. Regional government, involving the military, police, health, transport, environment. And the utilities — electricity, telecoms, water. Whoever. We’d need the power to requisition and raise funding—”

“Christ,” said Romano wearily. “You’re talking about the Emergency Powers Act.”

“Yes. We’d have to get it through Parliament.”

Romano shook her head. “Which Parliament? Westminster, or our talking shop here?”

Ferguson looked unhappy. “It’s not clear since devolution. Both, probably. It would take two or three days anyhow.”

Henry exploded. “Two or three days? What bullshit is this? Why the hell don’t you guys call in FEMA — the federal emergency guys — whatever your equivalent is here?”

“We don’t have a FEMA,” Ferguson said coldly. “We don’t work that way. On the scale of the disasters Britain generally faces, it’s not necessary, or appropriate. We have a system of flexible response, where the most appropriate agency—”

“Jesus.” Henry took a couple of paces in a tight circle, trying to stay cool. “So nobody’s in control.”

Ferguson said, “This isn’t Hollywood, Dr Meacher.”

“It sure isn’t. Call in our FEMA.”

More laughter, shaking heads, the crazy Yank. Romano said, “Dr Meacher, I’m not sure if a parachute drop of Hershey bars is quite what we need right now.”

“It’s not even clear how we’d handle a major evacuation,” Ferguson was saying ruefully. “We were geared up for major disturbances — particularly nuclear strikes — during the Cold War. But that’s all gone now. We sold off most of the regional bunkers. The military hospitals have closed. The Army is a lot smaller, a hundred thousand professionals, and most of them are tied up in Ireland or the peacekeeping zones.” He looked at Henry, almost apologetically. “We just weren’t expecting this.”

“No,” said Henry, more restrained. Take it easy, Henry. These people are trying to do their jobs, as best they can, and they’re listening to you. “Nobody was expecting it.”

“And we have to think about litigation,” Ferguson was saying unhappily.

“What?”

Ferguson said, “It’s happened in America. We have powers to act during an emergency, such as an evacuation. But does that imply a duty of care? We’re in a cleft stick. We’ll be liable if we don’t attempt to evacuate, but also liable if we do and we cause unnecessary suffering.”

Henry shook his head. “Believe me. The lawyers are going to be the least of your worries.”

Romano said, “Well, I can’t make the decision alone. I have to consult. The senior fire officer, who I bet will back an evacuation. The local authorities, who probably won’t.” She eyed Henry. “You know not everybody agrees with you. The geologists assigned by the Department of Environment, for instance. They’re putting out briefings. They say this is liquefaction. Just an earthquake. Localized. A couple of days it will all be over.”

“Bullshit,” Henry said.

“Maybe.” She eyed him. “But if you want me to act on what you say, I need you to press your case.”

I’m winning, Henry thought. She’s going as far as she can.

He said, “I’ll talk to your superiors, whoever. But that’s not enough. There’s no reason to think this incident is going to confine itself to Edinburgh. Even Scotland. I need to speak to your central government. The US government also…”

Romano arched an eyebrow. “Because you’re the only person who knows the truth. The man who can save the world.”

He closed his eyes. I wish I had some smart way to say this. And I wish I’d tried to get the word out before the shit hit the fan. “That’s about the size of it.”

“And you have to walk into my office.” She was silent a moment, visibly making her decision. “All right, Dr Meacher, we’ll see what we can do for you.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“I’ll make arrangements to get you to London. I’ll talk to RAF Leuchars. Might take a day or two. Do you want to find somewhere to clean up, to rest?” Romano turned to one of her officers. “You’d better get me the Home Office. And I’d better speak to the silver and bronze level commanders again…” And now Romano was distracted by a junior officer who had some pressing message, and with a last nod to Henry, she walked off.

Henry closed his eyes, rested for a second. But all he could see was Jane’s face.

He was still covered in blood and grime, some of it his own. Maybe he ought to find a paramedic.

Ted and Jack were directed to a Rest Centre in Musselburgh.

Musselburgh was a small coastal town a few miles east of the city centre. Ted had only ever been out here for meetings at the race course, and to take the misty sea air, and to walk along the river gardens. The Honesty Town, was the local motto. On the lampposts there were flags to attract the tourists” eyes, garish splashes of colour, mussels and anchors and lengths of rope.

Now, it seemed, the Honesty Town was going to have to soak up half of eastern Edinburgh. Already there was talk, he overheard, of setting up a tent city on the race course, soldiers labouring to install power lines and dig sewers and lay temporary roads on the turf.

The Rest Centre itself turned out to be set up in the Brunton Theatre, maybe the biggest and most modern building here, a 1970s sprawl of concrete and glass that seemed out of place in this small, quiet, respectable old town.

Ted and Jack were directed into the foyer of the theatre. This was dominated by a huge, unlikely sea horse sculpture, around which people, weary and bewildered, were trying to find a place to rest, somewhere to go. The theatre also, it turned out, doubled as the housing department offices. There were signs directing Ted where to go for Payment of Rents, Rates and Accounts, and there was a big notice board for house swaps. Now, the foyer was getting cluttered with blankets and chemical toilets and fold-up cots.

Ted made a discreet choice. He pulled his jacket tighter to hide his bandaged chest, and he hoped there was no blood on his face or hands. He could pass himself off as a “survivor” — at worst a walking wounded who could look after himself for now — and take charge of Jack. It had to be for the best; Christ alone knew what would happen if they got split up in this mess.

They had to queue up, in a long, tangled line at the door, to register. Jack clung to his hand, as he hadn’t since he was a small child, wide-eyed but silent; Ted felt proud of him.