Flood by Stephen Baxter Page A

hyper-capitalism behind the private equity game, it was always a bubble and it’s going to burst as soon as the stresses set in. The housing market in London is already going to hell, for example, everybody buying up the high ground, Hampstead and the Chilterns, and that’s distorting the whole of the UK economy.
    “But I got out of housing long ago. Now I’m making a fortune from disaster recovery projects. You know the idea? When the computers in some bank’s basement go on the fritz because the floods come, I can switch over their operation straightaway to a dedicated backup suite in Aberdeen. The insurance industry, that’s another open goal right now, the traditional firms are crashing from a new rush of claims.”
    “And ‘AxysCorp durables,’” Lily said. “I saw the posters.”
    “Right,” he said energetically. “People sense we’re moving out of the old throwaway age. So now they want clothes that will last a decade, washing machines and cars that will run forever without maintenance, like that. And that new niche is precisely what I’m selling to.”
    “So while the world goes to hell you get even richer,” Gary said.
    “That’s the general idea. But I want to do more than make money. I feel it’s time for somebody to show some leadership, to show we can cope with this fucked-up world of ours.”
    “Somebody like you,” Gary said.
    Lammockson grinned. “You’re being ironic, my drunken friend, but you’re correct. That’s why I’m going public, it’s a conscious decision and a concerted strategy. Of course a high public profile needs big strokes. Stunts.”
    Gary said, “Our rescue was a stunt, was it?”
    “It got you out, didn’t it? I don’t see anything wrong in doing good for you while getting something out of it myself. See those guys in the corner?” He pointed to a group of middle-aged men happily feeding on vol-au-vents beneath the great chandelier; dark-skinned, short, they wore their lounge suits with a kind of indifference. “Elders from Tuvalu.”
    Lily asked, “Where?”
    “Island nation. Threatened by sea-level rise,” Gary said.
    “You’re out of date, my friend,” Lammockson said. “No longer threatened—swamped, drowned, vanished. It was abandoned long before the end, when the salt water ruined the crops and killed the coconuts. Oh, nobody died, though a nation did; all ten thousand people were evacuated to New Zealand and elsewhere. And the very last choppers to rescue the weeping elders from the rising waves—”
    “Were AxysCorp?” Gary guessed.
    “Damn right,” Lammockson said. “Doing good in a public way. Showing leadership in a troubled world. That’s my angle. That’s what I’m doing with my money. And it’s going to be essential in the future, believe me. I mean, as regards flooding, in this country you’ve got an Environment Agency that shows about as much leadership as a drowning kitten, and a government that keeps paring back investment in flood defenses. But if this fucking sea-level rise continues, we’re going to see some major events.”
    Lily began to feel alarmed. “Surely it won’t go that far.”
    Gary frowned. “I’m far out of the loop—I really need to find out about all this.”
    “You know, I’m serious about keeping in touch with you guys,” Lammockson said heavily. “You have a unique perspective, a fresh look after years away at a world going crazy. And I—”
    An alarm chimed, a subtle gong. The string quartet stopped playing.

    George Camden listened absently into the air. “It’s the storm, sir. It’s coming this way, heading for the estuary. We’re in no danger. But the guests should be informed.”
    “See to it,” Lammockson snapped. Camden nodded and hurried away. Lammockson turned to the hostages.“Look, I hate to break this up but I should be elsewhere—”
    “No.” Helen had said nothing during Lammockson’s monologue. Now she laid a hand on his arm. “Wait. I need to talk to you about