The New West Pier stretched out to sea on elegant arching supports. It was made of metallic/ceramic composites, reinforced internally by carbon nanotubes. At its far end two miles away, it rose high and widened out massively to accommodate the Cathedral complex, which soared above the Pier and faced back to the shore. Maglevs ran its entire length, with a station at the Pier’s gateway and another at the far end.
The Pier looked beautiful by day, with its clean white lines and swooping arches. But at night, Anwar thought, when it was lit…
He was standing on Marine Parade, the main road running parallel to the beach. He wore a light grey linen suit, with a darker grey shirt, the colour almost of the ocean. On the other side of Marine Parade was Regency Square Gardens. Eighteenth and nineteenth-century buildings made an elegant frontage to the road, including the Grand and Metropole Hotels. There was also one newer development, standing on the shore line near the gateway to the New West Pier: the i-360 Tower, built about 2015. It had a large observation pod, in the shape of a ring doughnut, going up and down the central spike of the five-hundred-foot tower.
He decided to walk along the foreshore. His luggage had gone on ahead of him, to the suite the New Anglicans had reserved for him in the nine-star New Grand Hotel in the Cathedral complex at the far end of the New West Pier. So much was called New, but Newness could be a mask. There you go again, looking for pockets of darkness.
The foreshore and beach were almost unchanged from last century. Marine Parade was on an embankment about twenty feet above the level of the foreshore. Staircases were set at intervals along the embankment, their railings painted green, with rust spots bubbling underneath.
He had been to Brighton a few times before, and remembered it for the sounds of conversation and music, and the smells of things being cooked and substances being smoked. His previous visits had been in summer months, and this was late September, with fewer people around; but something of that atmosphere still remained. The beach was pebbles, not sand. As the ocean drew them back and rolled them forward, then back and forward again and again, they made a bubbling clatter, like applause.
Set into the embankment was a series of arches, housing a mixture of small businesses: craft and souvenir shops, painting and pottery studios, cafes, fishing/sailing lockups. A couple of arches housed the Brighton Sailing Club. The larger and more opulent private yachts were berthed in marinas up and down the coast. The boats here were small sailing boats, small enough to be drawn up on the beach near where Anwar walked. The wind blowing in from the pewter-coloured ocean set their ropes ringing against the metal masts.
The embankment was mouldering brick and weathered concrete, in various shades of black and khaki, randomly cracked and randomly repaired. Weeds grew at the joints of concrete and brickwork. There were occasional pedestrian underpasses,leading to the other side of Marine Parade.They were walled with stained white tiles, like old public toilets (which they sometimes became).
It reminded him of his favourite immersion hologram.
He stopped about halfway between the two piers, and looked back at the New West Pier. His eyes, if he willed them to, could have adjusted to show him the Cathedral complex in fine granular detail, so he could compare it inch by inch with what he remembered of the original Royal Pavilion. He decided not to ramp up his vision. He kept his senses at normal most of the time, especially sight and hearing. To amplify them too much might betray his identity. He was looking forward to seeing the Cathedral close-up, however.
Time. He started walking back towards the New West Pier.
He flipped open his wristcom and told it the number he’d been given. The number answered promptly.
“Anwar Abbas, to see Archbishop del Sarto.”
“Yes,Mr.Abbas. Please go through the main gate and wait in the maglev concourse. Someone will meet you.”
Parked along Marine Parade were some heavy multi-wheeled vehicles. “Patel & Co, Builders. You’ve tried the cowboys, now try the Indians.” The slogan was nearly ninety years old, and on the back of it Patel Construction had become a major concern. They were here to refurbish a suite in the conference centre which would be used for the formal signing of agreements at the conclusion of the summit on October 23, assuming agreements would be reached. They wouldn’t, not entirely, but something would be cobbled together. Probably.
He passed through the security and identity checks at the main gate without problems: as far as they could define it, he was unarmed and had an identity. The main gate opened out immediately into Gateway Station. It was the full width of the Pier, and echoed its style: pearlescent white arches supported the glass roof, like a giant inverted ribcage. There were four platforms, and the maglevs simply travelled back and forth the two miles from Gateway Station to Cathedral Station. They were fully-configured bullet trains, white and streamlined, >with all the internal appointments. In view of the shortness of the journey something less elaborate would have done, but the New Anglicans wanted real trains, not a fairground ride.
Anwar stayed in the station concourse, as requested. One maglev was just arriving at Platform 1, not an unusual occurrence considering there were four of them and their two-mile journey took ninety seconds. Among the people disembarking was a tall man who made straight for Anwar. He wore a casual but expensive light grey suit and dark shirt, an outfit not unlike Anwar’s. His hair was dark, cut short, and receding. His build and gait was one Anwar recognised. Shoulder holster, he noted from the drape of the well-cut jacket,and a flat knife carried in an implant on the left forearm, under the sleeve. Slim build, like Anwar, but slightly taller. Thin face, high cheekbones. Meatslab.
“Mr. Abbas? I’m Gaetano Vecchio, the Archbishop’s head of security.”
They shook hands.
“So this is what a Consultant looks like. I don’t think I’ve met one before.”
“Ah...and who else has the Archbishop told?”
“Just me and her personal staff.”
Anwar didn’t push it, for now.
They eyed each other. Each of them knew the other’s abilities, and each of them knew that Anwar was in a different league altogether.
“She’s the one who wanted you here,” Gaetano added, “not me. But that’s a conversation for another time. For now,she’s anxious to meet you.”
Ninety seconds later they disembarked at Cathedral Station and rode the glass lift to the Cathedral complex.
Anwar recalled his previous visits to the original Royal
Pavilion: a deeply eccentric building, the definitive example of eighteenth-century European chinoiserie, swamped with flamboyant detail and surface ornamentation. In front of him was an exact replica, but clad in the same white ceramic/ metallic material as the Pier, and surrounded by other buildings, architecturally matching, forming the Cathedral complex. Everywhere were domes and minarets; stone latticeworks, balconies, arches, and spires; turrets, buttresses, crenellations. Even in the September afternoon light they gleamed.
The original Royal Pavilion stood in its own Garden, a small park of lawns and shrubbery and old spreading trees, with a main gate—the Indian Gate—commemorating the soldiers wounded in the First World War who were hospitalised in the Pavilion. This part of the New West Pier, widened and elevated, allowed space for a full replica of the Garden. It followed the year-round planting scheme of the original. Even in late September, trees and shrubs were in flower: hydrangeas, fuchsia, witch hazel, yellow broom, goldenrod. But there was no replica of the Indian Gate; again, the New Anglicans knew when to tread lightly. They’d decided that to replicate a memorial would be disrespectful and commercially unwise.