The patrol boat sits there. It’s big, with a tower and globes and big twin guns at each end. Can’t remember when I last saw a steel hull in the bay. “Might it be British?” suggests Mo.
I don’t know. “I heard the last six Royal Navy vessels were rusting in the Medway, waiting for fuel that never arrived. Anyway, don’t British ships always fly the Union Jack?”
“The Chinese or Russians would have the fuel,” says Lorelei.
“But what would the Chinese or Russians want with us?”
“More raiders,” Lorelei wonders, “after our solar panels?”
“Look at the size of the ship,” says Mo. “She must be displacing three, four thousand tons? Think of the diesel it cost to get here. This isn’t about swiping a few secondhand solar panels.”
“Can you see the launch?” I ask the kids. “The motorboat?”
After a moment, Lorelei says, “No sign of it.”
“It could be behind the pier,” says Rafiq, edgily. At this point Zimbra pushes through between my calf and the door frame and growls at the lumpy denseness in the hawthorn by our gate. The wind brushes the long grass, gulls cry, and the shadows are sharp and long.
They’re here. I know. “Raf, Lol,” I murmur, “up to the attic.”
Both of them start to object, but I cut them off: “Please.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” says a soldier at the gate, and all four of us jump. His camo armor, an ergohelmet, and an augvisor conceal his face and age and give him an insectoid look. My heartbeat’s gone walloping off. “We’re friendlier than your earlier visitors today.”
It’s Mo who collects her wits first. “Who are you?”
“Commander Aronsson of the Icelandic Marines, that ship is the ICGV Sjálfstæði.” The officer’s voice has a military crispness, and when he turns to his left, the bulletproof visor reflects the low sun. “This is Lieutenant Eriksdottir.” He indicates a slighter figure, a woman, also watching us through an augvisor. She nods by way of hello. “Last, we have ‘Mr.’ Harry Veracruz, a presidential adviser who is joining us on our mission.”
A third man steps into view, dressed like a pre-Endarkenment birdwatcher in a fisherman’s sweater and an all-weather jacket, unzipped. He’s young, hardly into his twenties, and has somewhat African lips, sort of East Asian eyes, Caucasianish skin, and sleek black hair, like a Native American in an old film. “Afternoon,” he tells me, in a soft anywhere-voice. “Or have we crossed the boundary to evening?”
I’m flustered. “I … uh, don’t know. It’s, um …”
“I’m Professor Mo Muntervary, formerly of MIT,” says my neighbor, crisply. “How can we help you, Commander Aronsson?”
The commander flips up his augvisor so we can see his classically Nordic, square-jawed chin. He’s thirtyish, squinting now in the direct light. Zimbra gives a couple of gruff barks. “First, please calm down your dog. I do not want him to hurt his teeth on our body armor.”
“Zimbra,” I tell him. “Inside. Zimbra!” Like a sulky teenager, he obeys, though once inside he peers out between my shins.
Lieutenant Eriksdottir pushes back her augvisor too. She’s midtwenties and intensely freckled; her Scandinavian accent is stronger and ess-ier. “You are Holly Sykes, I think?”
I’d rather find out what they want before telling them that, but Mr. Harry Veracruz says, with an odd smile, “She certainly is.”
“Then you are the legal guardian,” continues Lieutenant Eriksdottir, “of Lorelei Örvarsdottir, an Icelandic citizen.”
“That’s me,” says Lorelei. “My dad was from Akureyri.”
“Akureyri is my hometown also,” says Commander Aronsson. “It’s a small place, so I know Örvar Benediktsson’s people. Your father was also”—he glances Mo’s way—“a famous scientist in his field.”
I feel defensive. “What do you want with Lorelei?”
“Our president,” says the commander, “has ordered us to locate and offer to repatriate Miss Örvarsdottir. So, we are here.”
A bat tumbles through the dark and bright bands of the garden.
My first thought is, Thank Christ, she’s saved.
My second thought is, I can’t lose my granddaughter.
My third thought is, Thank Christ, she’s saved.
The hens peck, cluck, and goggle around their coop, and the brittle, muddy garden swishes in the evening wind. “Magno,” declares Rafiq. “Lol, that massive ship sailed here from Iceland just for you!”
“But what about my family?” I hear Lorelei saying.
“Permission to immigrate is for Miss Örvarsdottir,” Aronsson addresses me, “only. That is not negotiable. Quotas are strict.”
“How can I leave my family behind?” Lorelei’s saying.
“It is difficult,” Lieutenant Eriksdottir tells her. “But please consider it, Lorelei. The Lease Lands have been safe, but those days are over, as you learned today. There is a broken nuclear reactor not far enough away, if the wind blows wrongly. Iceland is safe. This is why the immigration quota is so strict. We have geothermal electricity and your uncle Halgrid’s family will care for you.”
I remember Örvar’s older brother from my summer in Reykjavik. “Halgrid’s still alive?”
“Of course. Our isolation saves us from the worst”—Commander Aronsson searches for the word—“hardships of the Endarkenment.”
“There must be a lot of Icelandic nationals around the globe,” says Mo, “praying for a deus ex machina to sail up to the bottom of the garden. Why Lorelei? And why such a timely arrival?”
“Ten days ago we learned that the Pearl Occident Company was planning to withdraw from Ireland,” says the commander. “At that point, one of the president’s advisers,” Aronsson looks sideways at Harry Veracruz with something like a scowl, “persuaded our president that your granddaughter’s repatriation is a matter of national importance.”
So we look at Harry Veracruz, who must be more influential than he appears. He’s leaning on the gate like a neighbor who’s dropped by for a chat, making a what-can-I-say face. He tells me in his young voice: “Normally I’d try to prepare the ground better, Holly, but this time I lacked the opportunity. To cut a long story short, I’m Marinus.”
I’m sort of floating up, as if lifted by waves; my hands grasp the nearest things, which are the door frame and Lorelei’s elbow. I hear a sound, like the pages of a very thick book being flicked, but it’s only the wind in the shrubberies. The doctor in Gravesend; the psychiatrist in Manhattan; the voice in my head in the labyrinth that couldn’t exist, but did; and this young man watching me, from ten paces away.
Wait. How do I know? Sure Harry Veracruz looks honest, but so do all successful liars. Then I hear his voice in my head: Jacko’s labyrinth, the domed chamber, the bird shadows, the golden apple. His gaze is level and knowing. I look at the others. Nobody else heard. It’s me, Holly. Truly. Sorry for this extra shock. I know you’re having a hell of day here.
“Gran?” Lorelei sounds panicky. “You want to sit down?”
A mistlethrush is singing on my spade in the kale patch.
With effort, I shake my head. “No, I …” Then I ask him, in a croak, “Where have you been? I thought you were dead.”
Marinus — I remember the verb—“subspeaks.” Long story. The golden apple was a one-soul escape pod, so I had to find another route and another host. It proved to be circuitous. Eight years passed here before I was resurrected in an eight-year-old in an orphanage in Cuba, neatly coinciding with the 2031 quarantine. It was 2035 before I could get off the island, when this self was ten. When finally I reached Manhattan the place was half feralized, 119A was deserted, and it took three more years to connect with the remnants of Horology. Then the Net crashes happened and tracing you became nigh-on impossible.