The Abyss Beyond Dreams (74 page)

As pump house demand across the city fell drastically, the Watling, Highbrook and Ruslip reservoirs all had their sluice gates opened to maintain the correct levels. They were supposed to open
only a few inches, but instead they kept going until they were fully open. Huge jets of water thundered out. As the small nightshift crews tried to shut them again, the mechanisms broke, jamming
the gates in that position. Surge waves ploughed along the emergency culverts down towards the Colbal. But the culverts merged, and they’d never been designed to cope with three simultaneous
releases. Water foamed up over the lips of the culverts, turning streets into streams, flooding into terraces and offices and factories.

By six o’clock in the morning, two thirds of Varlan was without fresh running water, and the reservoir sluice discharges had inundated the lower boroughs next to the river. Raw effluent,
flushed out of the sewer pipes, bobbed along on the overflow, drifting into buildings on the eddies and swirls.

*

‘It is the radicals!’ the councillor for the Durnsford constituency declared, glaring at Slvasta from his position beside the First Speaker’s podium. ‘I
say the sheriffs should round them up and send the lot of them to the mines.’

He was given a rousing cheer from across the tremendous marble chamber. Bienvenido’s National Council building was centred on the vast amphitheatre where councillors sat in tiers behind
huge wooden desks to debate and scrutinize legislation. The walls were supported by thick fluted columns and hung with huge ancient oil paintings that depicted times from the world’s first
millennium. Statues of past Captains and First Speakers gazed down from their high alcoves on the six hundred councillors. Five hundred and ninety-nine of them were members of Citizens’ Dawn.
But, as Slvasta had discovered during the Captain’s opening ceremony, that didn’t actually mean uniformity. The chamber was alive with ever-shifting alliances clamouring for their
‘fair share’ of the national budget. Town against countryside, finance and industry, regions, the Varlan caucus, trains against boats, farming, the regiments. They all had their
interests which had to be protected, urgent projects that needed funding, for which they required support. It was actually a lot more democratic (or at least balanced) than Slvasta had realized.
That first day, he’d been approached by five separate factions, all eager to have him vote in favour of their bill in return for support on anything he wished to introduce to the Council.

But right now, differences had been put aside so they could all condemn him. He dropped the fist-sized red ball into the cup at the front of his desk, indicating that he wished to address the
chamber.

The First Speaker, on the floor of the amphitheatre, rose from his ornate onyx throne. ‘Representative for Langley has the floor; pray silence and respect.’

Slvasta got neither as he walked down the aisle to stand beside the First Speaker’s podium.

‘Silence!’ the First Speaker’s voice and ’path declared across the chamber.

‘Mr Speaker.’ Slvasta bowed to the podium, as was tradition. He stared round at the ranks of desks, most of which had the yellow ball of challenge in their cups. The contempt and
scorn radiating down on him was a psychic storm. ‘My honourable colleague from Durnsford has levelled a serious charge. I really don’t care that he slanders me with association;
however, he does immense wrong to the people who simply speak up for a better life. He claims radicals are responsible for the calamity in this great capital city of ours. Could he perhaps name
which pump house the sheriffs have confirmed was sabotaged? Of course he cannot, because we all know there has been no such declaration. We are also aware of the perilous state the city’s
water utilities have been in for a great many years. Have the companies who own this precious utility which is vital to all of us, rich and poor alike, improved their pipes and pumps in the last
ten years? Have they heeded the pleas of their engineers for funds and more repairs? Have their vast profits been invested wisely in new facilities that would alleviate any problem such as we now
face? Has there been a debate or inquiry by this esteemed chamber in the matter by the very members who now claim to know so much about pipes and engines and reservoirs? Of course not. For
complacency has become Bienvenido’s watchword – an example sadly set by this chamber. And for which this chamber must take responsibility.’

The torrent of vocal and ’pathed abuse was overwhelming. The First Speaker had to hold up the gavel of silence for over a minute before the honourable representatives quietened down.

‘I repeat my question,’ Slvasta said when the noise subsided. ‘Can you name an act of sabotage? No. This was a catastrophe waiting to happen. I say to you, my honourable
colleagues, don’t try to cast blame outside; instead look where it truly lies. Any impartial inquiry will find where the fault for this disaster actually falls. If arrests are to be made, it
should be among those who own the water utilities, whose uncaring greed is responsible.’ He bowed again to the First Speaker and made his way back up the aisle. This time there was no
jeering, only sullen glances. Several of the yellow challenge balls were removed.

‘Brilliant,’ Bethaneve’s ’path reached him as he sat behind his desk. ‘You smacked it right back at them. Everybody who’s receiving the gifting from the
Council clerk will know you’re the people’s champion now.’

Next to the First Speaker’s podium, the councillor for Wurzen was demanding that the regions should not be taxed to pay for setting the city to rights. Slvasta watched him with growing
respect – someone who was trying to protect his constituents. ‘I think it takes more than one speech to establish that.’

‘It was the perfect start we wanted.’

‘Besides, who bothers with the gifting from in here? Watching mod-spiders excrete their drosilk is less boring.’

‘Stop being so negative. The pamphlets will be all over this. Uracus, Slvasta, you need to focus.’

‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘I know.’

*

Varlan was the hub of all four of the continent’s major train lines; the Great North-Western Line, the Southern City Line, the Eastern Trans-Continental Line and the
Grand South-Western Line; each ran out of the city in rough alignment with the relevant compass point. For all their prominence, passenger trains only formed fifteen per cent of the traffic; the
rest of it was freight trains, unnoticed by the majority of the residents. The trade they generated was phenomenal, bringing in raw material for the factories, then exporting finished goods out to
the furthest province. They were the city’s economic arteries, as well as supplying most of the food to markets and homes. Just how essential they were to Varlan’s survival had become
obvious to Slvasta when the Josi bridge was damaged. The rail lines were a terrible weakness; anyone who could control the flow of goods in and out of the city could dictate their own terms. Of
course, the government knew that as well, which was why any such attempt would be met with a swift and extreme response. What was needed, then, was a blockage which took time to repair – a
repair which could be prolonged even further with small strategic strikes.

The cells chosen were from the top layers of the network: people who had been recruited right at the start, those who had proved themselves to be loyal time and again, as well as being totally
committed. Weapons caches were finally broken open, and explosives distributed. Nine groups met up for the first time in the late afternoon five days after Varlan’s water supplies were
disrupted. Each of them took a cart out of the capital, riding them to railway bridges, not just on the four main lines but on the nearby branch lines that could be used as alternative routes into
Varlan.

After darkness, they crept across the supports and arches, placing bundles of explosives precisely in the places they’d been told – locations that
Skylady
had worked out
were the maximum load points. At two o’clock in the morning, fuses were lit. Ten minutes later, explosions crippled seven bridges.

News seeped into the city as the dawn cast a crisp light across the buildings and waterlogged streets. As before, it was markets such as the Wellfield that alerted friends and business
colleagues to the absence of trains. Ex-sight began to scan round, perceiving marshalling yards full of the trains that should be heading out. Railway workers were summoned in early, and packed
into special trains that headed cautiously along the tracks. Head office staff were called in and swiftly dispatched by horse and cab to further assess the damage. The chief sheriff of every
borough was roused; they converged on the Justice Ministry offices, along with senior government officials and Trevene’s lieutenant. By seven o’clock in the morning all of Varlan knew
the rail bridges north, east and west of the city had been sabotaged. No natural collapse, no derailment blocking the lines, no water surge washing away supports, no structural failure of ageing
structures. They’d been blown up. Giftings from people who’d travelled out and returned were shared across the whole city, confirming the destruction. The only communications left open
were the roads, the river and the Southern City Line.

‘I cannot get anyone to respond,’ Bethaneve said in frustration. She was sitting at the kitchen table in Number Sixteen Jaysfield Terrace, fingers pressed against her temple as she
sent ’path after ’path into their network. ‘I just don’t understand what’s happened.’

‘The trains from Willesden station are leaving on schedule,’ Slvasta confirmed, as ’paths came slinking through the complex network strung across the city, relaying messages
directly from five separate cell members at Willesden, sent there specifically to tell them what the Southern City Line managers were doing and saying. ‘The company’s been
’pathing out general reassurances since six o’clock. Three teams of sheriffs have been sent to guard the closest bridges.’

‘Uracus! They can’t have intercepted all our demolition squads – they just can’t. That makes no sense. Trevene either knows all about us or he doesn’t. He
wouldn’t have arrested just two squads and left the rest alone. Where are they?’

‘Maybe running for cover. Or they had some kind of accident. It was a lot of explosives they had piled up on those carts.’

‘I don’t like it.’ For the first time, Bethaneve actually showed uncertainty. ‘We would have heard about it if the carts exploded.’

‘So they didn’t explode. They threw a wheel, or a horse spooked and bolted. Who knows?’

‘I need to know!’

He wanted to tell her to calm down, but that would be a mistake, he knew. She was running on raw nerves now. And terrified. ‘We’ll know soon enough. At least they haven’t been
arrested.’

‘How do you know that?’ she shouted.

‘Because we haven’t been arrested.’

‘All right. Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘I have to go.’

She nodded, her hair falling down over her face to hide a forlorn expression. ‘Be careful.’

‘I will, but I need to be at the National Council.’

‘Everyone’s in place. They’ll gift your message out uncensored.’

They embraced. He could feel her trembling, and assumed she knew he was equally scared behind the hardest shell he’d ever manifested. His ex-sight perceived Andricea, Coulan and Yannrith
waiting for them in Number Sixteen’s entrance hall below. ‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘Let’s go. I want to know you’re at the safe house before I make the
denouncement.’

‘Let’s hope it is safe.’

‘Ha! Now who’s the cynic?’

She smiled and hugged him closer. ‘
Please
be careful.’

‘You too.’

It took a long moment for them to let go of each other.

At the bottom of the stairs, Coulan and Yannrith looked equally pensive, while Andricea looked positively gleeful.

‘How’s it going?’ Slvasta asked. He and Bethaneve had been so busy with the rail bridges and preparing his National Council appearance they’d left the other half of the
operation to Coulan and Javier.

‘Distribution’s been running pretty smoothly,’ Coulan said. ‘The caches were opened at four o’clock this morning, and we’ve armed the majority of grade
threes.’

‘What are grade threes?’ Slvasta asked.

‘The comrades we believe can be trusted with weapons,’ Bethaneve said as they went out into the road where two cabs were waiting. ‘After all, we can’t supply every grunt
on the street. That would be anarchy, and we want precision.’

‘Right,’ Slvasta frowned. Something she’d said bothered him, and he couldn’t figure out what or why. ‘What about the snipers?’ He hated the idea of that
– it was cold murder – but the others had talked him round.

‘They’re all active and ready,’ Yannrith said.

‘Okay, then.’ He looked at Bethaneve as she stood poised beside the cab – wearing a simple burgundy-red dress, her hair held in place with clips, those broad features burning
with concern – working hard to memorize the image perfectly. Because if this all went straight to Uracus, it would be the last time . . . He grinned at his own pessimism.

She mistook it for encouragement. ‘See you tonight, my love.’

‘See you tonight.’

Coulan and Andricea climbed into the cab with Bethaneve. Slvasta shut the door, and the horse started off down the street at a fast pace, with Andricea’s mod-bird zipping through the air
high above. He and Yannrith got into their cab, fuzzing the interior.

‘Crud!’ Yannrith grunted.

‘I know. Every day I have to ask myself if this is real.’

‘It doesn’t get any more real, captain. Not today.’

Their cab made good time across the city. It was a cloudless cobalt sky vaulting the capital, with the hot sun glaring down. Slvasta didn’t know if that was auspicious or not. The
morning’s river mist began to clear urgently, evaporating out of the wider boulevards and avenues. It exposed the deep puddles and long streams running down the middle of streets, still
lingering six days after the pipes had burst and the reservoirs discharged into the city. The water was dank and sluggish now, steaming slightly under the morning sunlight. Whole boroughs were
still without fresh water; those living closest to the river took buckets to the quayside and hauled them back home just like people from the Shanties. The northern boroughs had laid on emergency
tank carts, rationing each household to two buckets a day. The silt and filth that had been swept along by the tide of water had been deposited in rooms and along roads as the levels fell. Borough
council work crews struggled to clear the stinking mess away. Fire carts were helping to drain basements and cellars with their mobile pumps. People were starting to mutter about how it would have
been so much easier if they had mod-apes and dwarfs to help. Every engineer employed by the water utilities was working sixteen-hour days as they strove to repair the network and restore
supplies.