At the Edge of the Game Page 7

  A similar foulness must have filled the ship of the dead. Helen and the others in the hold had little food, and only the clothes on their backs to keep them warm. The ship was not designed to accommodate so many.

  They want me to give the baby to the sailors to throw overboard. They talk about disease but I don’t care. We’ll all [die anyway(?)], so what can they do to me?

  When I had recovered sufficiently to endure the stench, Dexter led me down a short corridor on the Unquiet Spirit, into a dark chamber where the rumble of the ship's works came through the walls loudly. He switched on a light. Every surface in the room shone with condensation. Through a thickly paned window set in a door in the wall I beheld the bald head of an elderly woman. I took an involuntary step back. It was recognisably the Brinnilla Innes I had seen in old video footage and in photographs. She had been one of the beauties of her era, but now her appearance was horrifying, like a macabre waxwork, and not a particularly lifelike one. But unlike Helen, another woman now a corruption of beauty (I imagine that Helen was beautiful), at least Brinnilla had eyes that were open and, as far as I could judge, seeing. Dexter leaned forward so that his breath fogged the glass. ‘Yes, her colour is coming up. She's ready to come out.’

  He shambled outside to do something. I could not bring myself to look again at Brinnilla's gaunt, empty face. Instead I looked about the room, taking in its grotty, depressing unpleasantness.

  A movement at the door brought my gaze around. A dark shape darted away, something like a dog. I stared, not sure if I had imagined it. A small head peered around the doorframe, and it certainly was not that of any dog. In fact, I did not know what it was. Its circular, reflective eyes dominated its face. It was hairless, black flesh seeming to fold over itself in several stages, giving its countenance a layered look. It had large, vertically straight ears that came to sharp points. It looked around the doorframe again and regarded me, concluding that I was not an enemy. I was astonished at its legs, quite unlike those of any terrestrial creature. There was one slender limb at the front with two pairs of fingerlike appendages opposing each other like pincers. This did not appear to play a big part in the creature's motion, resting lightly on the floor when it walked. Then there were two stouter legs at either side midway down its abdomen, tipped with claws like those of a cat. In fact, now that I looked again I realised that the forelimb extended from a curved, elongated neck that began just ahead of the middle limbs. The claws clicked on the hard floor when it moved. At the back was the stoutest limb of all. It was similarly clawed with a wide, footlike pad, and provided most of the creature's forward momentum. The overall effect was one of a sightly overbalanced tripod. Its body was long and smooth, like that of an otter, but it had no tail.

  I squatted down and extended a hand towards it. It leaned forward on its front paw and sniffed. It made several high-pitched tooting sounds through its small, toothless mouth. Then it padded out of the room. Some moments later Dexter returned, wheeling a hospital-style trolley into the room. I judged from the look on his face that it would not be a good moment to ask him about the creature.

  ‘Your wife,’ I said, ‘is she in cryostasis?’

  ‘The accepted term is suspension. It was in my day, anyway. Now, I wish to say a short prayer.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said, uncertainly. For several minutes Dexter mumbled to himself, and I tried to look contemplative. All the while lights winked on and off at the console, throwing strangely coloured shadows about the dank room.

  ‘All right,’ he said at last. He pressed a button, and a loud, sharp hissing emanated through vents close to the floor. I staggered backwards, gasping and choking. Dexter glanced at me impatiently, apparently unaffected by the spreading gases. He stepped forward to support his wife. She was wrapped tightly in white dressing from her feet up to her neck. Her head, completely bare, lolled from side to side. I recovered enough strength to assist him. ‘Oh, Brinnilla,’ he said quietly as we lifted her immobile body onto the trolley. Then in a different tone: ‘Thank you, Mr. Xian. I will have further use of you in a little while. Now I need to free my wife of these restrictive wrappings.’

  ‘Of course.’ I made my way outside as quickly as possible and filled my lungs with the fresh ocean breeze. I leaned over the rail at the top of the metal stairs and closed my eyes. But the nausea was intensifying, not going away. Courses of blood pounded through my brain, and I could not hold my mind together, hard though I gripped the rail of the stairway.

  When my senses returned, I was on the warm sand. Brinnilla lay on a blanket a short distance from me, a light translucent canopy shielding her body from the full glare of the sun. Dexter sat beside her. I saw that the alien creature sat at the other side of Brinnilla, leaning against her. ‘Ah, you're back.’

  ‘What happened?’ I said. The dryness of my throat made me cough.

  ‘I was hoping that you could tell me.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Brinnilla is ill. Terminally ill. But I promised her she would see the Earth again, and I have kept my word. When she awakens she will feel the sun's rays on her face and the breeze in her hair. She'll see how green the trees are.’

  ‘How long was she in suspension?’

  ‘This last time, two thousand years.’

  ‘You also?’

  ‘Yes. Our voyage lasted ninety eight thousand years from the point of view of the Earth.’

  ‘And in shipboard time?’

  ‘On board, twelve thousand years. Brinnilla and I were awake for thirty five of those years. Whenever the ship reached a target location, we roused. It revived me four days ago when the ship attained lunar orbit. It alerted me to your signal and I came to investigate. I expected to find more than this.’

  ‘That was not a signal. I had no intention of attracting anyone's attention.’

  ‘So what were you doing?’

  ‘Scanning the moon's surface.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Curiosity. I couldn’t fly there. My ship is destroyed.’

  ‘So what do you think happened on the moon? It’s so different.’

  ‘God alone knows.’

  ‘My ship recorded no direct evidence of civilisation anywhere in the Solar System. I can't believe it's all just gone. Haven't you seen anything?’

  ‘I'm afraid not.’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Ninety-eight thousand years is plenty of time to erase everything.’

  ‘Is it? I wouldn't have thought so.

  ‘There’s been an ice age, remember.’

  ‘You've seen nothing at all here in a year? No ruins? Not the smallest piece of plastic in the dirt?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Have we come back, then, to nothing?’

  ‘I feel at home here. It still feels like Earth, don't you think?’

  ‘Look, do you see over there? There's some creature watching us.’ He pointed to the verge of the trees up the rocky slope.

  I smiled. ‘That's just Cat. He lives with me in the habitat. I noticed that you have an animal companion of your own.’

  ‘He's Brinnilla's. She adopted him on an Earth-like planet about halfway to Betelgeuse. We spent two months there. I didn’t expect him to survive the suspension process.’

  ‘Has he got a name?’

  ‘We call him the Triped. He seems to have spotted your friend. Those noises he's making are friendly ones.’

  I called to Cat, but he would not budge from his safe vantage point. He seemed unable to take his eyes off the alien. I got to my feet unsteadily and climbed towards him. He was obviously uneasy about my approach, but did not retreat. I picked him up. The little four-fingered hand-like paws clutched my shirt tightly as I carried him down to the black sand. Stepping into the shadow of the Unquiet Spirit's dark bulk, away from the glare of the sun, I saw that Brinnilla was awake. She was still lying flat on the ground, but her arms were moving. Dexter was talking to her. Cat took fright when we were a few metres from the newcomers and di
ved out of my arms. He beat an undignified retreat back to the habitat. I called him a couple of times, but he didn't stop running until he got to the entrance of the dome.

  ‘Brinnilla's awake,’ Dexter said. The old woman did not seem to be aware that I was there. Her eyes rolled around in their sockets unfocused. ‘Brin, I want to introduce a friend. Xian Chu.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  She gasped and gripped Dexter's sleeve.

  ‘It's okay, Brin. He's a friend.’ He looked up at me. ‘She's blind, I'm afraid,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a temporary effect of the suspension. And she's not yet in her right mind. Brin, dear, we're back on Earth. We're home.’ Then he turned to me again. ‘See how she perspires? She's very sick. I had to give her one of these a few moments ago for the pain.’ He showed me an empty syringe.

  ‘It still hurts,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Don't you feel the sun on your face, Brin? You're on a beautiful beach on Earth.’

  ‘It's dark.’

  ‘Brin, we're on Earth. You made it.’

  She began to cry.

  ‘Xian,’ Dexter said, ‘please pass me a syringe from that bag. Thank you.’ He injected his wife with some of the clear substance within. ‘She will sleep again. But she's too fragile to be getting these injections. I must be steadfast in the future.’

  ‘Can I help you take her back inside?’

  ‘No. She will derive strength from the sun. I would like her to live out her remaining time in the natural world. Help me secure this canopy so it won't blow down.’

  Dexter would not come to the habitat to see my home for fear of leaving his wife for even a few minutes. All the while she slept. As evening drew in I built a fire for him close to Brinnilla and brought him some meat and fresh fruit. He accepted them with a look of wonder on his face. He had been subsisting for years on a variety of amorphous pastes synthesised and recycled by his ship. I left him at about midnight sitting in silent melancholy beside the fire.

  In the morning I wasn't quite sure that I had not dreamt the previous day's events. I looked through the window and saw the Unquiet Spirit, exactly as it had been the night before. Dexter was standing close to the water's edge, gazing out to sea. He turned and saw me watching him. I waved. He raised an arm in response.

  A while later he appeared at my door.

  ‘Come in,’ I said.

  ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘My wife has died. I thought I should come and tell you.’

  I was at a loss. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘I'll let you know. Thank you.’

  Dexter decided to bury Brinnilla on the ridge, on a spot that commanded views of both the inland forest and the blue expanse of the sea. ‘She never knew she had made it home,’ he said as he drove the crudely fashioned cross into the earth. ‘At least I do.’

  I left him then. I was glad of the innocent company of Cat that day. In my year alone I had never felt lonely. Now I felt profoundly so.

  Being on the dole means you can steal a march on a decent fraction of the huddled masses in the ration queue. And huddled they really are against this harshly whipping wind that penetrates the cracked glass of the shopping centre doors in this cavernous, glass-topped retail space.

  Can it really be just a few weeks since summer ended? Last week’s snow has frozen solid and now there’s another layer on top of it. Feels like the country has been picked up out of the Atlantic and dropped in the circumpolar regions.

  We’ve had everything lately, every kind of weather, and every kind of weather-related disaster. Burst river banks, monster hail driven by gales, sudden snow cutting off towns and villages. A surprise after that when there was a thaw. Then the snow melted and the floods were back… until they froze as things went glacial. Fresh snow covered the ice, then froze, and was itself buried.

  Gardai walking up and down the line, ready for trouble. Well armed. Combat-ready. The Unity IRA has been taking advantage of the current crisis to get out and about, gouging small footholds for themselves about the city and the country at large. In all counties the army is on the streets, helicopters in the air. Skirmishes are common.

  The government speaks of contingency plans. I think that the only real plan is to get the hell out of the country before it’s too late, before everyone tries to get out all at once.

  Problem is, things aren’t much better anywhere within easy reach. The east coast of North America has its own climatic disaster to deal with. The UK, northern France, Scandinavia, central Europe – same problems as us. The Mediterranean – not so bad there. What shall we do, freeze here or pitch a tent in a crowded field in the country of Oc and live off Red Cross handouts?

  Helen is hard to convince about getting out. She listens to Heathshade, who is always so bloody sure of what he thinks about everything. ‘A bit of cold never hurt anyone. It’s fucking winter. What do people expect?’

  I finger the two social welfare cards in my pocket, worth more than money in this world of rationing. Equally vital is this notarised letter confirming that I’m her partner so I can collect in her stead. How well the system works in practice remains to be seen.

  They never took the Christmas lights down in here. Wires sag and sway like dead creepers, abandoned clothes-line, the rigging of a ghost ship. Not very festive at all, much like Christmas itself.

  Snow stopped Helen getting down to her parents in Waterford. She took out her frustration on me. What with the shortages, Christmas dinner was sausages and oven chips. Depressing fare at the best of times.

  Not that Christmas is high on my list of interests. My seventeenth Christmas involved icy asphalt, crushed metal, pulverised tissue. A New Year’s visit to the graveyard which inaugurated my life as an orphan.

  Wish I wasn’t standing behind these three shabby delinquents. Two men, one woman, I think. The red, puffy faces atop those crumbling frames are disconcertingly non-specific where gender, age, and even race are concerned. They squint up and down the line, eyes peeled for the law. Well they might. The homeless don’t qualify for this type of assistance. They form their own line somewhere down on the quays. Please God don’t let there be trouble with them.

  Got a little radio here. Stick the earphones in for a bit of isolation. News. They’re talking about the weather. Atlantic storm, says the radio man. Will hit our shores in about 48 hours. He says this with that sort of media breeziness that does my head in. He would use the same voice to report on a greyhound doping scandal or the year’s Tidy Towns winner.

  But hold – what’s he saying now?

  ‘From midnight tonight, electricity supply will be limited to two hours from 8AM to 10AM each morning, and from 5PM to 7PM each evening. Food distribution will be suspended throughout the country from 3PM tomorrow afternoon until the storm has passed.’

  Lucky break to be here today.

  But good luck must be balanced out with lashings of bad. These pieces of human flotsam in front of me are starting to kick up some sort of fuss. No, in fact they are only joining in. The actual incident is developing a little bit further up the queue. A big bloke up there with gelled hair a shiny padded overcoat grips another man by the scruff of the neck, and is shoving him towards a couple of Gardai. An Icelander. The Gardai take over, usher the man and his family towards the exit. ‘You need a card. Understand?’ No food for foreigners here.

  As the line starts to move the three delinquents in front of me are told they will get nothing here. Their reaction is predictable – streams of curses directed at everyone in the vicinity. The biggest one, a wheezing, slouching wreck, gives me a feeble push. Take care not to lose my place in the queue. The police arrive and fling the three of them in the direction of the side exit.

  I receive my rations and Helen’s without trouble. As I step outside, drawing in the cold and smoky air, I see that the last streaks of sunlit cloud all are that’s left of daytime. Venus shines brightly in the darkening sky. The lit windows of Grafton Street seem warm and welcoming. There are few peo
ple about – few shoppers, I mean, though plenty of loiterers and beggars.

  The street lights have not come on. Must be the rationing. Only the light from windows and the city traffic produce illumination as I make my way home. No wonder Venus is so bright tonight. I can’t remember the last time I saw so many stars.

  How many stars can be seen with the naked eye? Is it possible to see galaxies and nebulae beyond the reach of city lights? I don’t think I can see any now, although with my imperfect eyesight I’m not sure. It’s easy enough to identify Jupiter and Mars, also prominent in the sky. And Orion, with red Betelgeuse ripe for destruction, and that famous M42 nebula, if only my squinting eyes could see it.

  And where is the M50 nebula, if there is such a body, namesake of our semicircular motorway? Where is the Andromeda galaxy, and the Red Cow galaxy and Proxima Centauri? I wish I knew more about the heavens. All those mysterious, beautiful old names – Algol, Fomalhaut, Mizar. Merak, Arcturus, Canopus. Real places, all. This epiphanic moment makes me feel the physical reality of them.

  Kick the snow off the soles of my boots and open the front door. The light is on in the warm hallway. No one in the sitting room where, it sometimes entertains me to think, the flames of the fire cast out the released yellow light of the carboniferous sun.

  Helen is standing by the sink in the kitchen. Sitting at the table is Heathshade, sifting through a pile of magazines. I wonder whether they’re of the pornographic or the military variety.

  ‘Alright, George. I was showing these to your lady. Didn’t know she was so interested in World War II.’

  She throws me a pained look, which makes me smile.

  Upstairs the bedroom is freezing. There’s ice on the windowsill. But let me have a few minutes to myself. Let me get under the heavy quilts, fog emanating from my lungs, vapour for which the dry air has such thirst. So different to the humid paradise of the sitting room where beads of glistening water roll down the windowpanes, as not so long ago they ran down the other side of the glass during the cleansing warm rainstorm.