Cloud Cuckoo Land Page 12

  Patrick stopped outside one of the main domes, swiped an ID card through a reader and the door popped open.

  ‘At all points, what we had to focus on improving was the probable survival rate.’

  Leonard stepped into the dome and Patrick locked up the door behind them both. Inside the yard, the sound quality was different; there was a faster, shorter echo than outside in the valley. The various sounds of heavy construction were contained and multiplied by the curved roof. Hammer blows, steel falling onto concrete, arc welding flashes, shouts, crane engines, all of these sounds were doubled up and bounced off the sloping walls. There was no great steel ship, no immense curving hull dominating the space.

  ‘The production line is divided into task specific zones, and if you look to your left, you can see what all the fuss is about.’

  Teams of men in white overalls were gathered around rows of metallic spheres, each with a radius of approximately four metres.

  ‘Contrary to popular belief, there is no “vessel”, as such. What you see here, Leonard, are the survival pods, designed to keep a single human being alive for a period of no less than thirty days. The outer casing is Titanium steel, wrapped around a carbon fibre shell.’

  Leonard followed Patrick over to the production line.

  ‘But how will they work?’

  ‘When the occupant finally closes the door mechanism, the pods are sealed with explosive bolts. The construction has been designed to resist violent shock, temperature change, submersion; they have an independent air, water, power and food supply, and they are fitted with distress beacons which will be satellite-tracked. The moulds are a standard size, they allow minimal movement, and can be self-adjusted. If you take a look inside, you will get a clearer impression.’

  Leonard climbed a short, three-step ladder and looked in. The spheres were hinged vertically, in two halves. In section, the layers exposed were: thick steel and even thicker carbon fibre, then a honeycomb of aerated foam padding, with wiring and plastic tubes running to the air supply, water feeds and human waste unit. The padded restraining harness was gimballed like a ship’s compass, so the occupant would be able to stay upright, even if the sphere wasn’t. Leonard couldn’t help but start to agree with the logic of it all; this was a hedged bet, a numbers game. There was no big ship.

  Patrick piped up again.

  ‘You see, if some of these units are lost, not all are lost; it’s a damage limitation exercise. What we’ve got to make sure of, is that enough of the population survive, so that we have a chance to re-colonise what might be left of the planet, do you see?’

  ‘Yes, I see what you’re getting at.’

  ‘As you probably know, there are projects designed to go out of earth orbit, but our American parent company has been reluctant to go that route. We concluded that we wanted to stay attached to the earth’s landmass. We hope to hold our solar orbit, so we are at least in line for approximate survival temperatures and weather patterns.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘We planned for three thousand, but we don’t have much time before the Ice Moon hits. We think we’ll manage to complete just over two thousand five hundred. And we expect to lose thirty percent.’

  ‘The pods are not even joined together?’

  ‘No but they are designed to move like a single fluid mass which can change its shape, and fit into any survival space which might present itself during the impact and through the subsequent aftershocks. Even if there is a huge upheaval of the earth’s surface, we calculate that there will be some survivors. There are also specialised pods, medical units, food stores, seed banks, water purification units and habitat construction pods.’

  ‘One more thing, Patrick.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who has been chosen? Who will be saved?’

  Patrick rounded on Leonard, looking phased.

  ‘As one of the so called “chosen”, that is a rather foolish question.’

  ‘I mean, who else?’

  ‘Ah yes, right I see. Well, why not come along to the clubhouse, socialise a bit and see for yourself.’

  ◊

  They stepped out of the construction dome and Patrick seemed thrown for a minute, unsure of the direction he should take.

  ‘It’s this way.’

  He skirted the curve of the dome and pointed to a structure built into the side of the valley.

  ‘That’s where we’re going, that’s the clubhouse.’

  Leonard followed Patrick, until they reached the foot of a flight of steps, brushed aluminium steps with wooden handrails. There was a gunshot up above, and then what looked like pieces of a smashed-up dinner plate rained down onto the steps.

  ‘Ah, they’re shooting on the terrace, do you like shooting?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Clay pigeon, they fire the clays from the roof. That one was good and powdered. Do you shoot?’

  Leonard didn’t answer.

  There were more gunshots as they climbed further up the steps. When they arrived at the decked landing, Leonard could hear some muffled music and chatting voices, then he turned and got his first sight of the clubhouse.

  The building was a very contemporary steel and glass affair, arranged on four staggered levels. The structural supports were wired up like sail boat masts and the different floor levels were slung from horizontal braces.

  More shooting came from a cantilevered platform up on the roof. He could see the spinning target clays, heading fast and low out over the valley before they exploded or sailed on untouched. Other projectiles came from the roof, small and white this time. They were golf balls slicing and hooking their way towards a patch of grass marked with a red flag pole.

  Patrick waved him on and they stood outside the entrance. Through the windows on the ground floor Leonard could see the cocked, bare elbows of several women with drinks in their hands. It was eleven o’clock in the morning but they were wearing evening dress and moving along a buffet table.

  ‘I’ll leave you here, Leonard. Just make yourself at home, get acquainted. Any more doubts or concerns, just ask.’

  ‘Thank you, Patrick.’

  Leonard stepped onto a pressure-sensitive mat and the door slid open for him. Inside, all the way down the right hand side of the ground floor was a curved marble bar-top and behind that, a very exotically stocked bar. At the far end of the room, a huge video screen was lit up with images which promoted the effectiveness of the survival pods. These images were cut against computer-generated sequences of the asteroid impact.

  Leonard took his hands out of his pockets and perched himself on a stool. The barman stopped twisting a white cloth into the neck of a glass and asked.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Cocktail, sir?’

  ‘Yes, OK.’

  ‘Pina colada, sir?’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  He got to work and Leonard rotated his stool away from the crushed ice and chrome shaker. He faced the valley, took in the whole view of the construction site through the windows, then pulled focus and watched the passengers at the buffet table. They were laughing and chatting, but it was that stiff and formal, self-protective laughter. It seemed like they were relative strangers going through the process of re-introduction; they were exchanging pleasantries, trying not to be nasty. If they didn’t have anything nice to say, they were not going to say anything at all.

  The cocktail was perfect, pack shot condensation on the glass with a subtle umbrella, a taller finer one than the usual squat pink jobs.

  Leonard, glass in hand, moved through the crowd and picked at the buffet. The problem was that you couldn’t do that without people wanting to know who you were. They were clever because they explained who they were first; so then they had a kind of right to ask the probing questions. A lot of them seemed to be based in Switzerland, they were multi-lingual, multi-tasking folk, prettier and taller than the average, consensus slice of th
e population. Leonard kept his own details sketchy; it was easy enough to leave those gaps about personal wealth and position wide open because the ‘folk’ were eager enough to fill in what they thought anyway. He felt uncomfortable enough in their company to make a blatant exit. He headed for the stairs and made his way up to the first floor. Here he entered another open-plan space, a busy, light-filled restaurant, with champagne coolers standing beside the tables and animated diners gesturing with their hands and scanning the menus.

  Leonard carried on around the landing and up onto the second floor. There was less glass here, more modern veneer, great panels of waxed walnut and doors with oversized hinges. Through the first of these doors was a lounging room, partitioned off with shining furniture, leather sofas and tilting, easy chairs. Leonard sat into an armchair close to the windows; he sipped his cocktail, rested his head back and closed his eyes. Then he started listening in to a nearby conversation. He’d seen the group when he entered, four middle-aged men and a couple in their mid-to late-twenties.

  The girl was trying to make herself understood, there was a point she was trying to make.

  ‘We need to create a much more humanitarian society. We have to put an end to the ego-centred way we’ve been carrying on.’

  One of the middle-aged men interjected.

  ‘We all know what you are trying to say but, well, it’s the way you say it that’s the problem. It’s pretty half-witted. You really should not be trying to make sense of things you are clearly not qualified to analyse.’

  The girl blushed, but didn’t move a muscle.

  The man then counted out the salient points he wanted to make, on the fingers of his right hand.

  ‘Selfishness, greed, the desire to win, the desire to then rule and impose one’s own favoured conditions. That, my girl, is what makes this goddamned world go round.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh I know so. And after impact, we will in any case be making the best of the opportunity to reinstall the accepted norms.’

  The girl stood up, her heart was obviously racing.

  ‘This is not some unique opportunity to shape the future. We are facing a terrible global catastrophe! There’s no point in speaking to any of you.’

  Leonard couldn’t resist taking a look, so he tipped forward and rotated the chair. He had turned into the group and quite suddenly included himself in their business.

  ‘Excuse me, didn’t mean to butt in.’

  ‘Yes, yes, hello, and who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Leonard.’

  ‘And what are you?’

  The first, and Leonard thought the most relevant thing he could think of, was: ‘I am a survival strategist.’

  Silence, a total lack of interest from the girl until she asked, ‘So what’s your strategy?’

  ‘Every man, every woman, for themselves.’

  Some chortles and nods of agreement from the old guys, and a frown from the girl. The man who had been arguing his point spoke up.

  ‘I’m Derek Dunbar. I’m an information architect.’

  The others listened but the idea of introducing themselves did not move around the group. Leonard looked across at the girl and asked her, ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m Vicky, I’m just somebody’s daughter.’

  Leonard finished his drink and thought about spinning his chair back out of trouble. But then she asked, ‘Do you want to come up to the roof?’

  Leonard stood, trying not to seem too keen. The old men seemed disappointed, they didn’t like the girl, but she was something to look at, especially as her skirt had a habit of inching further and further up her thighs as she shifted in her seat.

  ‘I won’t be long, Eddie.’

  ‘That’s alright love. No problem, show Leonard around.’

  She flattened the creases in her skirt, picked her jumper up off the arm of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  Leonard followed her up the last flight of stairs and out onto the roof. She seemed excited, at the very least she was relieved to be out in the daylight and away from the group. She made straight for the edge and looked over.

  Leonard stood behind her, and when she turned, she was much happier than before, her eyes were wide and elegantly shaped; she looked familiar.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

  ‘I’m a singer in a band, you’ve probably seen me on TV.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  She seemed wrong-footed by the question.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I…’

  ‘I just needed to get some air, that’s all.’

  ‘Who were those people you were talking to?’

  ‘Oh, they’re so pompous. They want their women to be intellectually submissive and nymphomaniac!’

  ‘But who are they?’

  ‘Power brokers, very wealthy industrialists, European fat cats…’

  ‘You mean like politicians, businessmen?’

  ‘No, not really. These guys are a cut above all that. They invent scapegoats, they stand behind the fall guys. In a few months, after the impact that is, they will make up a good part of the emergency government.’

  ‘Look!’

  She pointed at the queue of golfers waiting to tee up and drive off into the sky; they wore caps and tartan trousers and were constantly practising their swings.

  ‘What does your husband do?’

  ‘He’s a footballer. I suppose we’re quite unusual here, nearly everyone else I’ve met is a king or a Duke of somewhere. I just got a good PR man on the case and we made it in!’

  Leonard leant on the balcony rail.

  ‘This passenger list, it’s not exactly a democratic cross-section of society is it?’

  ‘Don’t tell me that surprises you at all? You made it in, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but that just makes me uneasy, I’m not so sure I want to be a part of it. It takes all sorts to make a world, right? But I fail to see how the heads of corporations and the military capitalists are going to help. What we are going to need very soon are essential personnel. Doctors, engineers, men and women who can pull other men and women out of the rubble.’

  ‘Are you essential personnel, Leonard?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. I don’t even know if I’m going to be a passenger.’

  ‘Of course you are, you can’t get security clearance if you’re not chipped.’

  ‘Chipped?’

  ‘Micro-chipped!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The ID tag embedded in your lip.’

  Leonard grabbed hold of his top lip and felt the skin between his fingers.

  ‘Oh yeah, that. The first thing I knew about that was when I was stopped at the gate. I had no idea I had a tag, I was tricked into it by a couple of very clever ladies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m only just finding out how this whole thing has been put together.’

  ‘God, you’re a beginner. Wherever you are in the world, if you’ve been tagged, you’ll be picked up. The microchips are linked to a Global Positioning System.’

  ‘Yes, as of yesterday I know all that.’

  ‘So you are saved. Why so glum?’

  ‘Well, now I’m here I’m getting the feeling this place is overrun by mean bastards, Aryan scientists and career criminals. The meek aren’t going to inherit the earth are they, it’ll be this bloody lot!’

  ‘It’s only what you’d expect though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but it’s just about the worst thing that could happen.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know’

  ‘They see the Ice Moon as a marvellous opportunity to clear out the old order and build a brave new world. They think it’s a chance to cut out all the dead wood, restructure society!’

  Vicky tilted her face up to Leonard’s; her big eyes engaged his.

  ‘Tell me, Leon
ard, how do you feel about being a part of this? Why is all this happening?’

  Leonard’s eyes flinched as a shotgun blast rang out somewhere over his shoulder.

  ‘I can’t say. It’s like all those times when you say to yourself - surely this can’t be happening to me, but of course time and time again, it is happening to you, it just is.’

  It was late February and the sun was warm on his face. He didn’t know what he could do about the bastards who would survive. The fact was, if the predictions were correct, eighty percent of the world’s population would be wiped out by the impact of the Ice Moon. Particles of the earth’s mantle would be kicked up into the atmosphere and would block out the sun for several years to come. It worried him, the whole thing worried him, and what he was supposed to do about it, for the moment, eluded him.

  Vicky moved away and turned her attention towards the group shooting clays. They had the west facing roof space screened off with Plexiglas panelling. The clay trap was basically a big green catapult, worked manually by a keen young man. After each firing, he cocked the throwing arm and reset the next clay disc. Then he waited for his queue to ‘pull’, which he did, sending the projectile screaming out over the valley. The people waiting their turn to shoot stood in a semi-circle behind the firing line watching the action, offering jeers and snide remarks. Every so often the man on the trap changed the flight of the clay and this time the disc was raked back, firing high into the sky before dipping down again. The man shooting had his back to the Plexiglas, he was wearing ear protectors and a fawn coloured, tweed jacket. He followed the arc of the clay as it rose into the sky, fired one barrel as the target reached the top of its curve, and missed. As the disc started to fall back, he followed the descent, waiting so long that by the time he was ready to fire the next cartridge, the barrel had levelled out. The gun went off and the buckshot struck a body; a man spun around, lurched backwards and dropped to the floor.

  ‘Shit!’

  Leonard looked to Vicky but she said nothing. The golfers stopped playing for a few seconds but then went back to their own business.