Regeneration (13 page)

Fayole looked profoundly shaken. “Of course—I can't believe—But you have to eliminate people from suspicion, right?”

“Right. Achebe, I would like you out there with a team within the hour—Fayole and I will be breaking the news to Environmental Management. Rhys, what's the status of the victims?”

“Most will be released from hospital today or tomorrow. We think they'll make a full recovery, although they may be shaky for a while yet. We've got five or six who are still very ill, including Tamin, the first patient—he's in pretty bad shape.”

“You'll remain as our medical liaison.” It was not a question.

“I will.”

Again, she felt a moment's reassurance. But it was fleeting, and as she gazed at the faces turned toward her—shocked, solemn, quietly furious—she recalled the prediction she'd made at the TideFair. Not for the first time, she wished with all her heart that she had been wrong.

The news broke like a tidal wave over the city.

Sharon, Achebe, and the rest of the Met had managed to keep it quiet long enough for the West London wetland to be secured and to complete the initial investigation of Fayole's colleagues. No one was arrested and, despite police requests for discretion, the interviewees were happy to add to the stream chatter springing up around the peculiarity of a police forensics unit descending on a soggy, uninhabited nature reserve. The waterway where a colony of the altered algae had been found was now blocked off from the river, but the danger was far from over.

“As long as we don't know what the catalyst is, we can't assume it isn't still in Sinkat,” Rhys told a briefing of the City Councillors. “And until the police catch whoever's behind this, we also can't assume there aren't tanks of both algae and catalyst ready to be dumped into the river somewhere else—maybe in Limedog, or some other city with a gillung population—Bristol or Glasgow or Gateshead. Who knows?”

At least the estuary was safe; like most freshwater microflora, the algae did not long survive an encounter with the sea. But London's
gillungs lived mostly in the city, in reclaimed and reconfigured neighborhoods along the Thames's wide eastern reaches. It occurred to Mikal, gazing down at the river from his council office, that the toxin attack was likely to galvanize plans for new development further out, where it was salty and empty and safe.

Thames Tidal Power had already committed to investing a portion of its profits in the building of an estuary town. Mikal had understood the commercial logic, as well as the appeal of living in a place where gillungs' ability to inhabit dual environments was not an aberration for which accommodation might or might not be made but the standard to which everything would be designed. Even so, he had been unable to muster much enthusiasm for the prospect of a separate, homogenous, inevitably more insular outpost. But neither could he in conscience urge an angry, embattled community to remain where they could so easily be targeted. He wondered if that had been a part of the attackers' plan: to strike a blow against integration, driving the water-breathers away into enclaves not only separate, but apart.

He wanted to believe that the reaction to the joint bulletin issued by the Council and the Met—the timeline of events, warnings that the threat had not been eliminated, and the label of terrorism now officially applied to the case—would be enough to reassure them. The public outpouring of concern was immediate, heartfelt, and growing by the minute. There was a shared anxiety, an awareness of vulnerability to the hatreds of others; but between all the outrage and demands for the perpetrators to be brought to justice, a whispering dread of whether, and in what form, retaliation might come.

Mikal found himself wearily contemplating just how right Jack Radbo was turning out to be. There had been sound logic behind the strategy the energy minister had laid out in the Thames Tidal building—was it really just five days earlier?—while the TideFair carried on outside and poison built up in the water. Events had only strengthened the case Radbo had made for an alliance, and he was past due for an answer. Pilan was at home, returning rapidly to health, and Mikal knew that a decision could be put off no longer.

The ping of an incoming call interrupted his thoughts. As if timed to add to his sense of siege,
Moira Charles, Standard BioSolutions
came up onscreen. It pulsed there while Mikal considered whether to let it go to message.

She could simply have sent one herself without attempting to speak to him; she had already done so twice since their meeting. He'd replied to the first, politely referring her to the Met's inquiry into whether the submersible involved in the turbine damage could have come from a Standard subsidiary. She'd responded with a barrage of documentation showing that the suspect vehicle had been disposed of sometime previously.

“We got that too,” Sharon had told him. “Might be genuine, or they might just have been clever enough to shift it off the books. Whoever was behind the sabotage has done one of the best jobs of covering their tracks I've ever seen.”

He'd decided that the most agreeable tactic was to ignore Moira Charles, and had done so with alacrity, but she was failing to take the hint. At the last moment, almost on a whim, he swiped to receive and dropped into his chair.

She came up against the backdrop of an office that looked as blandly corporate as did the woman herself. She was leaning forward, fingers outstretched to tap at the screen—clearly she had given up hope that Mikal would answer. As before, she covered her discomfiture smoothly.

“Councillor Varsi! So glad I got you in person.”

“So sorry for the delay,” he said, with what he hoped was a sufficient expression of insincerity. “It hasn't been the easiest of days. What can I do for you, Ms. Charles?”

“I'm calling to offer our assistance to
you
, Councillor. Standard BioSolutions is deeply concerned . . .”

“What did you have in mind?”

“You'll recall that we have an extensive horticultural products division. As I understand it, the need is for some form of aquatic herbicide. We have considerable resources in that area.”

“That's very kind of you,” Mikal said, and did not add
you bandwagon-jumping opportunist.
“I believe a similar offer has already been received. Of course, I'll pass yours on as well.”

Hard on the heels of the police bulletin, Bel'Natur's agricultural research division had volunteered to help engineer an organic inhibitor to deactivate the toxin-producing algae. The offer—prompted no doubt by Aryel—had been gratefully accepted by Environmental Management, but had not yet been made public. The industry grapevine must be working with its usual efficiency; and Standard must be after more than a share of public goodwill, to be making their offer through him. He waited for the rest of the pitch.

“Thank you,” she said. “We do hope to be of service.” She straightened up, shoulders square, resting her forearms determinedly on the desk behind which she sat. “Unfortunately, what we've learned today has reinforced our misgivings about the risks of working in an unsecured environment. We think an urgent safety review of marine workplaces is indicated—”

“Do you?”

“—before anything else happens to put people at risk.” She peered earnestly at Mikal. “You must be concerned for your constituents as well, Councillor. I trust we can count on your support?”

He looked back at the screen for a long moment, reluctantly appreciating the cleverness of the maneuver. If he rejected a call for safety checks, he could be portrayed as indifferent to the welfare of the people he represented. If he endorsed it, he would be admitting that Thames Tidal Power might not be up to the job. Pilan would never forgive him.

“The Health and Safety Directorate has been diligent about extending regulations to cover all possible workplace contingencies,” he said finally. “I fully support their efforts.”

Let her chew on that, though he disliked how easily the equivocation had rolled off his tongue. No gillung venture had yet fallen foul of HSD regs—unlike Standard itself, which, along with its monolithic terrestrial rivals, always appeared to be in breach of something or other. In contrast, Thames Tidal had won praise from the agency for its adherence to the rules—although cynics had been quick to point out that these were relatively few, since the directorate was at a disadvantage when it came to determining what was safe practice for a gillung worker.

“That's a very well-judged answer.” It sounded frighteningly like admiration. “Have you given any thought to the other matter we discussed?”

Mikal had not, assuming that whatever strategy the Trads were pursuing would have been abandoned after his speech at the TideFair and the inevitable rumors of the meeting with Radbo.

“To be frank, Ms. Charles, I've been a bit preoccupied.”

“I've been tasked with arranging an initial discussion. Very discreetly, of course.”

Once again, he was astonished almost to speechlessness.

“Have you really?”

“Really.”

“I'm not exactly an obvious choice for them.”

“I think that's the point, Councillor. I'm not sure you appreciate just how much of an asset you could be.”

Damn right I don't.

He made a decision.
If you want the answer, you have to be prepared to ask the question.
“Very well, Ms. Charles. I make no promises, but I will admit to being curious. Let's set something up.”

That conversation was still looming large in Mikal's mind an hour later as he crossed the great bridge and descended the steps, heading toward the riverwalk and Sinkat. There were many, not least those he was going to see, for whom even a conversation with the Trads would smack of betrayal, and he wondered if the whole point might be to leak the news and damage him that way. But the risk had to be taken, and he had his own strategies for mitigating it.

He paused at the screen on the piazza below the bridge, noting with approval that the rotation still included a Thames Tidal banner with live data, and got drawn into conversation with a group of upcountry visitors, sightseeing for the day. They were treating the confirmation of terrorism as a mere
frisson,
part of their big-city adventure. He found them inordinately pleased with their own broad-mindedness, though they still gaped at him, and insisted on recording their encounter with the famous gem politician of London.

“I'm not famous,” he demurred, crowded into their midst and speaking to the tops of heads as one of the party backed up, tablet angled to try and capture the full length of him.

“You are!” they laughed back. “
We
knew who you were. Now we can show everyone at home that we met you!” Mikal smiled as though pleased, shook hands all around and left the group to revel in the peculiarly touristic satisfaction of having bagged an extra and unexpected souvenir.

But his annoyance was superseded as he turned in from the river and was confronted by the unlikely sight of Sinkat with no swimmers. A shuttle-boat had just arrived; normally its passengers would have slipped over the side and made their way home underwater. Instead, they were lining up to step onto the dock. The narrow footbridges and broad quaysides were filled with people wearing bone-dry bodysuits and frightened faces, taking the long way around rather than risk the usual swift swim. He felt anger building, alongside his determination.

Pilan was at his workstation in the big project office, hunched in front of a screen crowded with symbols and numbers that meant nothing to Mikal. He was muttering engineering jargon into his throat mic, ignoring the steaming cup at his elbow, the almost tangible solicitousness of the rest of his team and Lapsa's despairing glances.

Gabriel looked up as Mikal entered, glared pointedly at the back of his boss's glowing green head and then back at his titular uncle with an expression so eloquent it made Mikal chuckle.

Pilan jumped as a large, three-fingered, double-thumbed hand landed on his shoulder. “Glad to see you're following doctor's orders
to the letter,
” Mikal said drily.

“I can't just lie around all day.” Pilan looked pleased to see him, though he made a show of scowling and shrugging the hand off. “Had enough of that in the hospital.” He failed to stifle a small cough.

“Which washed you out, dosed you up, sent you home—”

“Damn straight!”

“—and may be happy to do so all over again. Or maybe not.” Mikal dropped a kiss on Lapsa's cheek as she joined them. “Rhys
would probably come over and put him in a headlock for you,” he said to her conversationally. “Or I could do it.”

“An interesting proposition. I'll consider it.”

“I don't have time to be an invalid,” Pilan spluttered.

Mikal regarded him steadily. “I'm afraid, my friend, that we don't have time for a lot of things. We've got urgent matters to sort out, so if you're well enough to be here instead of in bed, let's get them sorted.”

It was not, in the end, as hard as he'd feared: for all his bluster, Pilan was still weak, and more shaken than he was willing to let on. Back in the meeting room on the upper floor, with Lapsa asking intelligent questions and her bulging belly a silent reminder of all that was at stake, he listened to Mikal's advice with fewer objections than expected.

“There are no perfect options,” Mikal told them finally. “There's no strategy that doesn't carry some risk. But we need to be building bridges, not pulling them down. I know it would mean having to live with things none of us wants, at least for a while longer. It's not as grand a gesture as you would like. It's not a bold statement. But it's safer.”

Lapsa said meditatively, “I'm not sure that's true.”

Mikal's heart sank, but she caught the look and smiled, shaking her head. “No, no—I'm saying it
is
bold. It's hard, what you're asking us to do; harder than what we had in mind.” She gave Pilan a long look, more loving than they usually were in front of others, and touched his hand where it lay on the table. “The grand gesture is sort of easy. You say to hell with it, nail your colors to the mast, let the chips fall where they may. That approach eliminates a lot. This is more subtle. It means accepting a range of possibilities. It'll keep us close to the center of things, and I think that's where we should be.”

“We'll be insiders,” Pilan said, “playing by their rules. I'm not sure that suits me, personally. But in the longer term—” He waved a webbed hand to indicate their surroundings and Mikal remembered him doing so before, when they had been here with Jackson Radbo and Robert Trench. Then, the gesture had been defiant; now it was weary, the illustration of a point Pilan felt obliged to make. “We don't need more enemies. There's too much to lose.”