Gary Gibson - Final Days

The car bumped and juddered as it rolled on to the pontoon bridge leading to Alex Trouillot’s flight and fishing business, which extended across an entire platform of its own. Most of the available space was in fact taken up by a landing pad, on which sat two sub-orbital VTOLs that Fowler knew from prior experience could get them to Hong Kong in less than four hours. Next to the platform were moored two antique twin prop float-planes, which Trouillot used for ferrying retired business executives out to sea for deep-water fishing.

They parked alongside a shop front with a grinning plastic swordfish suspended overhead. Fowler hesitated for a moment before getting out. He’d called ahead a few days earlier, explaining what he wanted to do, but, after everything he’d seen in the last few days, there was no reason to assume Alex hadn’t fled along with the rest of them. Just then he sighted Trouillot through a window, his feet propped up on a desk as he sat watching a TriView hanging from a nail. Fowler closed his eyes in silent relief and gratitude.

He noted a box of cartridges sitting on Trouillot’s desk as they entered, also a shotgun leaning against the wall and within easy reach. The TriView flickered between images of alien growths and volcaoes vomiting ash and smoke high into the stratosphere.

‘Mr Fowler,’ said Trouillot, rolling easily to his feet, with a glance at Amanda. ‘And this must be—’

‘Amanda,’ Fowler replied, as he shook hands with Trouillot. ‘She’ll be joining us.’

Amanda’s eyes slid towards the shotgun, and then back to Trouillot himself. ‘We saw some signs of trouble on the way here. Had any cause to use that thing yet?’

Trouillot shook his head. ‘Fortunately, no. But I’ve seen an awful lot of people heading north up the highway, and I’ve also heard word of a lot of looters coming the other way.’ His gaze flicked over to the TriView, and back. ‘I’ll have to admit, when you called, Mr Fowler, I got to wondering if you’d found some place safe from all this crap.’

‘None that I know of.’ Fowler shrugged apologetically. ‘I just have some unfinished business out in the Far East, that’s all. I’d . . . prefer to pay with paper, if I may.’

Fowler hoped he’d judged Trouillot right. It would be a mistake to automatically assume everyone operating a plane in Florida was involved in smuggling, but that didn’t mean a substantial number of them weren’t.

Trouillot gave them both an appraising look. ‘Like that, is it?’

Fowler waited, saying nothing.

Trouillot sighed and held a hand up. ‘Fine. It’s not like anyone’s much in the mood for fishing these days, anyway. Let’s see what kind of notes you’ve got.’

Fowler reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a single roll, noticing the way Trouillot’s eyes widened when he saw how thick it was. He peeled a number of notes off and handed them over.

Trouillot thumbed through the notes, then his eyes followed the remainder of the roll as Thomas stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of money to be carrying around like that,’ he observed.

‘Enough for a down-payment on another sub-orb,’ replied Fowler. ‘But the rest of this is for you, if you can get us to where we want to go.’

Trouillot’s eyes flicked back to the screen, his expression becoming troubled. ‘Sounds good. Assuming I ever get the chance to spend it, that is.’

They took off less than an hour later, after Trouillot had run a routine systems check on one of the sub-orbs, and primed its engines. The craft shuddered violently, once its primary boosters kicked in at ten thousand metres, the sudden surge of power crushing the three of them back against their seats until Fowler could feel the metal frame of the acceleration couch pressing through its thick padding and into his spine. But just a few seconds later he felt his weight rapidly fall away, signalling that they were close to the apex of a long arc that would carry them halfway around the globe.

Amanda unbuckled herself from her acceleration couch and pushed herself over to the nearest window, while Trouillot, seated forward in the cockpit, continued talking to someone back on the ground. Semi-transparent weather maps and data feeds slid across the windscreen in front of him.

Fowler got up and joined her, and together they gazed down towards the surface of the Earth curving away below them, under the shadows of clouds drifting across the face of the ocean. They could see the water around the Keys, as bright aquamarine shading into vivid azure depths. Ominous clouds of ash drifted across the Gulf of Mexico.

‘I know I’ve said this already,’ said Amanda, ‘but I’m really glad we’re doing this.’

He rested one hand against her back, and reflected on how all the pain and worry and fear that had been keeping him awake for weeks on end had dissipated away the moment he’d decided to follow her to the Marianas. He didn’t even have to ask Amanda to know it was the same for her. Her eyes were no longer red-rimmed, and, when she smiled, she looked happier than he ever remembered seeing her.

I just wish we could enjoy it for more than just a few days , he almost said, but didn’t, unwilling to spoil the moment. They stayed there for a while longer, watching the world turn beneath them. Florida eventually passed out of sight as their craft boosted itself closer to the edge of space.

‘Look,’ Amanda said suddenly, her hands pressed against the glass. ‘Can you see? There’s more of them.’

He looked over to the west of California, now receding into the east, and saw several wide swirls of white cloud out beyond the coastline, about where the deep ocean itself started. Seeing the growths like this awakened something primal within him, as if he were a caveman staring up at a thunderstorm with no comprehension or understanding of the energies about to strike him down.

st into his guts. Creasing up, he felt an arm wrap itself firmly around his neck. Something ice-cold touched his throat, and consciousness rapidly slipped away.

TWENTY-ONE

Sophia, Newton Colony, 5 February 2235

Saul found his way back to consciousness by small, faltering degrees, at first only dimly aware of a slight greying in the darkness that pressed up close against his face. The floor on which he lay was hard and unyielding and, as he tried to move, he quickly found his hands were securely tied behind his back. The thick cloth of the hood covering his head felt uncomfortably tight, and his chin itched abominably against the rough fabric.

He twisted, wriggling like an eel, until he was lying on his belly rather than his side.

He soon realized, to his considerable relief, that his legs were not similarly bound, so he could stand and even walk. With his tongue he traced the rim of a tiny hole cut into the hood, to prevent him from suffocating. It wasn’t nearly large enoug.

With a bit of work he shifted himself into a kneeling position. He noticed how the light brightened or dimmed depending on which way he turned his head, which suggested the presence of either a window or a light. He became increasingly aware of background noises, which resolved into the rumble of machinery, and the sound of voices coming from a considerable distance.

He shouted for attention, his dry throat feeling as sore as if he had swallowed a razor. He suddenly felt an urgent need to urinate. Somehow, not being able to see began pushing him close to the edge of outright panic.

He swallowed with some difficulty before making a second attempt at shouting for help. What came out sounded more like the cry of a trapped or wounded animal than anything that belonged in a human throat. He yelled yet again, even though he had already concluded no help would be forthcoming.