Island Welcome
We have to visit several Skycities before we get to Cold Island 12. The Skyforts of New York, New Belfast, and New Bangor One and Two all rely on us for water and food, as does their Sector Control City, New Cardiff. These are all smaller, newer Skycities, heavily armed, and made to be especially maneuverable, but they are only partially self-sufficient. They can all make plentiful weaponry and munitions, of course, but such manufacturing takes up space, and there is little room left on them for farming stations and water filter vats. All except New Cardiff were built during the war, specifically to protect this northwesterly approach to Cold Island 12, since, while most of the north Atlantic had been in the attack range of the Rogue City base in Tasiilaq Bay, essentially the only thing worth fighting for around here was access to a Cold Island. Thus was formed the NASS Contingent. The North Atlantic Skycity Squadron, and its mission was to protect Cold Island 12, at all costs. Skycity 15 had been a proud member since the very beginning of the war, and because several thousand people live on them, these five Fort-class Cities are still under our wartime rations agreement.
A quiet Export Technician shows me to my small stateroom. My Quarantine order means I qualify for a private berth. By the looks of things, there are only three such rooms on this particular ship, tucked away into the bit of wasted space between the superstructure base and the communications tower. They've given me the only stateroom with an exterior view. The whole area is only a few levels up from the round belly of the cargo holds, though, and the porthole is tiny, so I cannot see much of the sea on this bright, glaring morning, but that is all right. I see this particular stretch of ocean nearly every month anyhow - New Oxford's flight route is fairly standardized.
I decide to relax while the cargo ship makes its rounds.
I throw my bag onto the long bench that lines one side of the room, and flop luxuriously onto the soft cot across from it. There is a large info-screen on the short wall across from the foot of the bed, and a door in the opposite short wall that I assume leads to a private toilet. The info-screen is already activated, showing a live-update map of our current position, and the position of anything else of interest near us. At the moment, Skycity 15 is the only thing on the screen.
I sigh, and let myself drift.
I must sleep, for the next thing I know, a PA system is pinging insistently at me.
*ding ding* "This is the Captain speaking. We are approaching Cold Island Airspace. Please turn off all comm-radios and personal info-screens as we prepare to pass the Safnet Screen Line." *ding ding* "Will all passengers please find your landing seats and engage your restraint systems. Thank you." *ding ding* "Approaching Cold Island Airspace. Please find your landing seats." *ding ding*
I sit up, groggily, and look around again. One end of the long bench is equipped with a padded, cord-and-net restraint system. I half-stumble over to it and strap myself in almost by instinct. I'm far from comfortable, but if I twist my neck a little, a can see out of the porthole fairly easily from here. I can't see the Safnet screen yet, but we're probably still too far away. And I'll probably be at the wrong angle to see it when we get there anyway. . .
All Cold Islands are protected by a Land-Grade Safnet system. Unlike the small protective nets we have around the edges of Skycities, these project huge domes of nearly impenetrable force-screens. They're partially-osmotic, meaning air and some water can get through, but very little else can. The nets are strong enough to repel large icebergs, and they extend all the way to the seafloor. Only special signals allow for openings in very specific areas.
A yellow warning light flashes underneath the info-screen, meaning that live-updates have been temporarily turned off so the ship can broadcast the necessary radio signal unimpeded. The ship rocks, and shudders uncomfortably as it banks into its proper approach.
As the ship turns and my side lowers, I can see the edge of the Safnet, and for the first time in my life, I see a wide expanse of clean, uncontaminated ocean.
My jaw drops.
The ship evens out, but rocks some more as it pushes through the relaxed force-screen. I do not notice. From horizon to horizon, there is only the deepest, clearest blue surrounding us, like an enormous, living sapphire, rolling and lapping away far down below. Swathes of a colder ultramarine run like veins though the body of the water, rich and impossible, like Stygian Blue.
For the first time, I understand the phrase from Homer, "The wine-dark sea."
But the colour isn't what shocks me, not entirely, though I wasn't expecting it. No, what's surprising is where we are. According to the info-screen on the wall, we just passed Hot Island 529 - what used to be the Faroe Islands - two hundred or so kilometers to the East of us. We're still three or four hundred kilometers away from the Docking Station at Upper Inverness, still smack dab in the middle of the open ocean.
This is at least double, and probably closer to quadruple, the reported amount of reclaimed sea surrounding Cold Island 12.
I'm not shocked that this isn't common knowledge. I'm shocked that they've managed to do it at all.
Safnet shields only block radiation - they cannot filter it. Antinuclear Reactive gel is the only substance known that can effectively filter radioactive particulates from fluids.
I know this. And yet, for a moment, I wonder. . .
To have reclaimed so much open ocean, to the point that the colour changes so drastically, would take. . . would take. . .
I don't even know what that would take. More AR gel per year than is currently produced annually worldwide, certainly. More labour than the approximately 3 million people who live on Cold Island 12 could provide, for sure. More power consumed by the Safnet screens than the land-based generators can produce, I think. And technology I had no idea even exists and can't possibly imagine, absolutely.
My heart rate increases, and for a moment I lose my breath.
If they can do this here, does that mean there is some hope for the rest of our planet?
I've never dreamed - never even let myself imagine. . .
I turn my face away from the porthole. It's too much to take in.
But I can't keep my eyes away for long - the blue of the clean sea draws my gaze like nothing ever has before. I never knew a colour could draw out your soul with longing, and call to you across space.
I stare at it with a hunger I didn't know existed, and I cannot get enough.
The rest of the trip into Inverness Docking Station is uneventful.
If by uneventful you mean spectacularly, devastatingly beautiful, of course.
Eventually, the blue of the sea fades away behind us, and the greens, browns and greys of habitable land rise up instead. It too is veined and dotted with blue. Lakes. Rivers. Clean, good water flowing over and soaking into dark, sweet land. Slowly, we descend from the sky, and the air becomes warmer, and thicker, and rich with action and light.
I think I even see a bird.
I know what birds look like from pictures, of course, but as the ocean has showed, the real thing is incredibly different from pictures. . .
Our speed falls to almost nothing, and we come to a surprisingly delicate stop. A deep clang reverberates through the whole ship. Airlock engaged.
Slowly, I untangle myself from the restraint nets, and sling my bag over my shoulder. Suddenly it seems an alarmingly meagre set of resources with which to face an entire unknown world. I might be used to having nearly nothing, but being in a place where I know nearly nothing is an entirely new sensation.
I don't think I like it, but I don't know how I do feel about it, either.
It is a long lift ride down from the Docking Station. Then the doors open up into Inverness Port, and I'm out in the wide, active world again.
The air smells like nothing I've ever imagined or dreamed of. Even now, I can't describe it, it was so full.
As I stand there, struck dumb by the lungfuls of life-laden air I'm greedily drawing into myself, a vehicle very like a skycar, only with wheels instead of airfoils, rolls up, and from the front seat, a smiling man in plain brown livery speaks to me.
"Ye'll be the lass from New Oxford, then?"
His voice is cheerful, and his accent is charming. I nod, more curtly than I mean to.
He doesn't seem to notice, but jumps out of the car, and throws open one of the back doors for me.
"Weel then, git in, lass. Yer Uncle sent me for ye. Hop in and we'll be there in time for tea."
Tea, at least, I understand.
As I turn to get in, some nearby children begin swinging a rope, long-ways, side to side. First one, then two of them, start to jump over it as it swings.
The two doing the swinging begin to chant -
"Hey Nonny Nonny,
The Rowan-tree is bonny,
The Mountains are under the Spoon,
The Devil's Eye flashed,
To see such s'port,
And the Witches dance under the Moon."
I've heard children singing such nonsense poems before, of course, but this one, I always thought, was about a cat and a cow, and ended with something about a dish and a spoon. . .
What are they singing about?
I don't have time to find out.
The nice man in livery closes the door behind me, then swings the car around, and we're off, up into the hills.
The rest of the ride is a blur of one beauty after another, trees and houses, plants and stones and people and roads, colour and sound and air.
I have never been a poet, and never wished to be, but during that drive, my soul sings the songs of ancient bards, melodies unwrit and unlearned, yet real nonetheless, timeless and free.
Eventually, we stop at a large house that is a ways beyond the end of a long row of shops and cottages. There are trees and bushes in the yard, and the whole place is so lovely I'm almost afraid to sully it with my presence. But the driver leaps out of the car, and throws my door open again, with such a hearty "Heer we are then, Lassie!", that I can't help but smile back, clutch my bag over my shoulder, and follow him into the house.
I've never seen a house like this, either. There's wood everywhere - paneling, floors, railings, furniture. The richest among us on the Skycities might have a wooden ornament or two, but nothing near to this.
The house might as well be made from solid gold.
The driver leaves me in the hall, and a smiling woman with grey hair greets me there.
"Come with me, dear, he's waiting for you in the library," she says gently, and leads me off down a long hallway.
I have been so impressed with the sight and smells of this new place, I've forgotten to be nervous about meeting Uncle Lamb. All of the anxiety slams into me now.
He's mad. Insane. He was sent here because of it.
What on Earth am I going to do?
The grey-haired woman escorts me into a room where the walls are covered with what I later learn are books. Apparently, they used to be made of wood pulp.
But now, they are so much uninteresting background, because in this room, I will have to face my uncle. . .
A tall and elegantly dressed gentleman rises from the desk near the window, and advances to me, a delighted and eminently sane expression on his face.
"Ah, here you are, my dear. Got here safely, I see." He pats my shoulder and gives me a dry peck on the cheek. "I'll tell Mrs. Graham to take your bag up to your rooms."
I consciously unclench my fingers from around my bag's shoulder strap, my paradigms shifting so much and so rapidly that I'm liable to be swallowed by the avalanche of them.
"Th-thank you, Uncle Lamb," I manage, somewhat faintly.
He grips me gently by both shoulders, and looks down at me happily.
"I'm very glad you're here, Claire," he says, sincerely, softly patting my cheek. Then he walks to the door and calls the woman back.
Mrs. Graham takes my bag from me, and in a daze I follow her up to the rooms allotted for me. A minute later, I am sitting on the edge of a giant four-poster bed, looking bewilderedly at the pale blonde paneling that lines the room.
Nothing, nothing, is like I thought it was. Not Uncle Lamb, not Cold Island 12, not me, not the world itself.
I wonder what it means to be mad, in a world gone sane.