And All the Stars Read online

  And All the

  Stars

  by Andrea K Höst

  And All the Stars

  © 2012 Andrea K Höst. All rights reserved.

  www.andreakhost.com

  Cover design using stock art: Andrea K Hösth

  Promotional Edition

  Published by Andrea K Hösth

  All characters in this publication

  are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  Description

  Come for the apocalypse.

  Stay for cupcakes.

  Die for love.

  Madeleine Cost is working to become the youngest person ever to win the Archibald Prize for portraiture. Her elusive cousin Tyler is the perfect subject: androgynous, beautiful, and famous. All she needs to do is pin him down for the sittings.

  None of her plans factored in the Spires: featureless, impossible, spearing into the hearts of cities across the world – and spraying clouds of sparkling dust into the wind.

  Is it an alien invasion? Germ warfare? They are questions everyone on Earth would like answered, but Madeleine has a more immediate problem. At Ground Zero of the Sydney Spire, beneath the collapsed ruin of St James Station, she must make it to the surface before she can hope to find out if the world is ending.

  Acknowledgements

  I BLAME THIS BOOK ON

  FLANNERY AND WENDY DARLING

  and thank them for it.

  Additional thanks to Dr Jennifer Elliman, Dr Chris Fellows,

  Julie Dillon, Lexie Cenni, and Estara Swanberg.

  Author's Note

  Spelling is Australian English.

  Chapter One

  Madeleine Cost's world was a tight, close space, a triangular tube tilted so her head lay lower than her feet. Light reflected off metal, not enough to give any detail, and there was barely room to squeeze one hand past the slick surface, to explore face and skull and find powdery dust and a throbbing lump. Dull pain also marked upper shoulder, hip, thigh. She felt dusty all over, grimed with it, except her lower half, which was wet. Free-flowing liquid drained past her head.

  She could smell blood.

  Ticket barrier. Those were the rectangles of metal above and beside her. Madeleine could remember reaching for her returned ticket as the red gates snapped back and then – then a blank space between there and here. Thursday lunchtime and she'd been at St James Station, planning to walk down to Woolloomooloo to wait for Tyler, just off the plane and sure to be strained and tired and all the more interesting for it.

  The noise the water made suggested a long fall before it hit somewhere past her feet, close enough to spatter her ankles before draining past her. The ticket barriers were a generous double flight of stairs above the platforms, or had been. How far above them was she now? Had it been a bomb? Gas explosion? She could smell smoke, but it wasn't overwhelming. The blood was stronger. Smoke and blood and falling water, and how far was it falling? How big was the drop, and how–

  "Hello?" Madeleine called, just a croak of a voice, anything to shut off that line of thought. The effort made her cough.

  There wasn't room enough to shift to hands and knees. She could barely squirm onto her stomach, the small pack she wore catching on the withdrawn gates. Stretching one arm forward, she followed the path of the water down, and found an edge. But she had no way to measure the size of any gap beyond. Reaching back with one sandalled foot, she explored damp channels in powder, and grainy concrete. No edge. Not willing to just lie there, she tucked her elbows in close and wriggled back an inch.

  The ground shifted.

  Freezing, Madeleine waited for the plunge, but nothing followed except a faint rocking motion. She – the slab of concrete with its burden of ticket barriers and girl – was balanced on a downward slope. Another shift of position and she could send the whole thing plunging, and would fall and fall, and then the blood would be hers.

  Eyes squeezed shut, Madeleine tried to calm herself down. She'd always thought herself a composed sort of person, but black panic clawed, demanding an urgent response – screaming, running, leaping – however impossible that might be. It was only the itching in her throat, setting her coughing again, which pulled her back.

  Could she drink the thin flow of water running past her? It didn't smell – not stronger than the blood and smoke, at any rate. The tumbling splash was so loud, a solid belt as it hit the concrete near her feet. St James Station was underneath Hyde Park, the ticket barrier level just a few metres below grass and trees. The strength of the water's impact suggested a drop to the platform level.

  Up. Down. Stay. Three choices which felt like none in the blood-scented dark.

  Her phone, tucked in the outer pocket of her backpack, let out the opening notes of her favourite song. Prone, elbows tucked in, hands beneath her chin, she couldn't just reach back. By the time she'd scrunched herself into the tiny extra space on the tilted border of her world, and worked her opposite arm back, the smoky voice had eased into silence. She still scrabbled for the pack's zip, ignoring the burning protest of her bruised shoulder and side, and caught the heavy rectangle between two reaching fingers.

  As Madeleine brought her arm painfully forward, the clear white light from the phone conjured hazy reflections of girl in the silver-metal sides of the two ticket barriers. These faded as she turned the makeshift torch forward to reveal whiteness and a crosshatching of dark lines. Bars.

  Madeleine stared, confused, until she recognised the green-painted railing which edged the upper level and the stairs to the platform. They were warped and twisted, but still looked thoroughly solid, forming another wall to the cage capping the slab of concrete. There was no way forward.

  It was difficult to see beyond the railing, but the white resolved itself into dust, pale mounds of it, through which she could glimpse a third silver rectangle, this one twisted and torn, the tickets it had swallowed spewing from its innards across dust and chunks of concrete.

  Her raft lay on one of the flights of stairs, which did not make sense. St James Station had only two lines. The tracks sat parallel, perhaps fifty metres apart, their platforms joined by a broad expanse of concrete full of pillars which held up the ticket barrier area. The ticket barriers sat over this central area, while the stairs were to either side of it, close to the tracks. To be on the stairs she and her metal cocoon would have had to fall sideways.

  Whatever the case, at least she was near the bottom, even if she would still need to risk moving backward to get out.

  But before that… Turning her phone around, Madeleine found a missed call from her mother. Her parents thought she was at school, and had no idea she was skipping to start work on the portrait of Tyler. There'd been no point embarking on Round Five Thousand of the Grades v Art argument when Tyler's mild willingness to oblige a cousin didn't extend to altering his schedule in any way, and the cut-off date for the 2016 Archibald was in less than a week.

  The phone's clock told her it was nearly one pm – maybe fifteen minutes since she'd arrived at St James – and the signal was strong, but she couldn't get through to her parents. It wasn't till she called triple zero that she had any kind of response, and that was a canned message which boiled down to "Everyone is calling emergency".

  Trying to reach her voicemail messages didn't work, so she gave up and texted: "Can't get through – will talk later".

  Without knowing more about what happened, she couldn't be sure whether it was more sensible to wait for rescue, or try to make her own way. Shifting about could trigger a slide or collapse.

  Out in the dark someone else's phone rang – one of those joke ring tones, growing louder until the phone was shrieking.
No-one picked up. How many people were in the station, lying in the dusty dark? Calling out brought no response, but the ringing told her there must be someone.

  Tucking her phone into her bra, Madeleine explored behind her again, cautious toes still finding only dust turning to mud, and wet concrete. An inch back, and nothing. Another inch, and the ground shifted as it had before, but this time Madeleine didn't freeze against the see-saw's tilt, and almost immediately it settled. The settling didn't surprise her – resting on rubble on a stairway, her raft was hardly going to tip upright – but the sensation of it was strange, not as firmly solid as she would expect from concrete stairs.

  Feeling a sudden urgency, she wriggled several inches, her feet pelted by liquid as she moved closer to the falling water. And then her questing toes found the far border of her raft, another rough edge. She slowed down, backing inch by inch, until she was half out of her metal tube, part-lying and part-kneeling, then reached with her foot hoping to find the straight edge of a step, or at least firmly packed rubble.

  Tickling softness.

  She jerked her foot away, gasping and then coughing. Brief and strange as that contact was, she'd recognised instantly what her foot had touched. Hair.

  It was a person, and all around her was the scent of their blood, and whoever it was had not moved, or spoken, or reacted at all to Madeleine's foot in their face. She and her raft were on top of someone's body.

  The chance that this was not so, that she was crushing someone too badly injured to react, made it impossible for Madeleine to stay, to quiver or quibble or spend one moment longer where she was. She stretched out her other leg, trying to reach as far as possible, and this time met cloth, and a warm and yielding wetness, and though this left Madeleine in no doubt that the person beneath her was not alive, it gave her even less reason to slow down, as her foot found something solid beyond and she thrust herself up and back, with a temporary agility worthy of a gymnast, onto something which was step and only step, with a railing she could clutch while she sobbed and gulped to keep down the scalding liquid which rose in her throat.

  Her foot, the whole lower part of her leg, was sticky-wet, and when she could move at all the first thing she did was hold it out, back towards her raft, and the water which fell so steadily. She wanted to stand in the narrow stream, to be certain nothing remained, and to be free of her thick coating of dust. But she couldn't bring herself to cross over the crushed, mangled thing lying invisible in the dark, any more than she could turn her phone on it and capture a sight to burn her mind.

  Still clutching her railing, Madeleine looked about for the source of light which made the darkness not quite complete. There were no sturdy exit signs or miraculously enduring fluorescents: instead a field, a wall, of luminous motes, shining and glittering.

  It made her dizzy, for it was the sky, the sky at night with muted stars and yet it was here and to her right, not above, despite the direction gravity proclaimed to be down.

  These wrong-way stars did not produce nearly enough illumination to truly see through the thin mist of settling dust, but she could make out shapes, black against coal grey. The ticket barriers. The railing. The stair which had been severed above the wide mid-flight step where she stood.

  The glimmer was not enough to reveal any details of the platform below, so Madeleine had to resort to her phone, to gauge the eight-foot drop and then decide to work her way along the outside of the railing, keeping her head turned away from what lay upon the stair. She looked for the reflective strip which lined the edge of the platform instead, but couldn't make it out through the powdery white mounded everywhere.

  The climb down was relatively easy, the severed railing firm despite the absence of the upper half of the stair, and then she was on the flat expanse of the platform, a treacherous landscape of concrete and projecting rods of metal beneath concealing dust. Ridiculous amounts of it, some piles higher than she stood, and even the gullies between those mountains were knee-deep.

  Madeleine guessed the entire ticket level had fallen down, but that did not explain what looked like an explosion in a chalk factory. Nor the stars. They drew her, a moth to the moon, her free hand held over her mouth and nose to keep out the fine haze of floating particles. Up close, unobscured, the stars blazed in a wall of black: galaxies and nebulae and fiery novae, stretching up and to either side of her in a faintly curving wall which bisected the broad lower expanse of the station and disappeared through the cracked and buckled cement at her feet.

  Tucking her phone away again, Madeleine lifted both hands and brushed cautious fingertips against the surface. She expected it to be cool, slick and damp, like limestone in caves, but what she touched was velvet. Astonished, she pressed her hands against warm, smooth stone, sensuous against her skin. It felt as solid as marble, but somehow alive, as if waiting would bring a pulse, the beat of a buried heart.

  And then light flashed, and she was picked up and thrown backward into the dark.

  Chapter Two

  Madeleine lay suffocating in dust and near misses. Broken leg. Steel bar through her back. Broken neck. So many things she could have done to herself. Worse was measuring what damage she had actually done. She'd landed flat on her back, fortunately square on one of the deeper piles of dust, which had erupted like a geyser around her. Her already-painful skull was screaming protest at new abuse. But it was a reluctance in her arms and legs, a disconnect between want and ability to move, which spun her into terror. Paralysed. Was she paralysed?

  Pins and needles. They arrived in force, swept through her, the whole of her body jolting with a hornet swarm's stinging assault, but her spasmodic curl in reaction showed her that she could move, even though the most she could manage at first was to curl further, to clutch knees, elbows, and try to breathe through lungs which buzzed and burned, while somehow not inhaling powder. It smelled like an approaching rainstorm.

  Madeleine did not quite lose consciousness, but when the stinging receded she lay numb while a new layer of dust sifted down. She'd nearly killed herself. Thrown away the unspeakable good fortune which had given her a protective cocoon of metal when however many others at the station had nothing to shield them. She had too much to do, too many images in her head which deserved release, and she had almost denied herself that. Sabotaged her own future just because of something strange and beautiful, velvet beneath her touch.

  Her phone, still tucked behind the padding of her bra, lit up. The singer's crooning murmur was far from a spur to action, but Madeleine did manage to pluck the device from her chest and tell it hello.

  Her mother's crisp voice, crackling with static. "Finally! Maddie, I'm on my way to the school. Stay inside. They say the cloud's heading our way, but we should have time to get you home and seal the doors. Don't hang up – I'll let you know when I'm there."

  "Cloud?" Madeleine blinked. "What are you talking about?"

  A familiar, exasperated sigh. "Always in your own world. Look, they think it's some kind of bio-weapon. A cloud of dust, coming from a black tower in Hyde Park. It's happening all over the world – black towers and dust. They're saying it's aliens or – oh, what does it matter? Just stay where you are until I get there. Are you closer to the Strickland or Walpole Street entrance?"

  The glow of Madeleine's phone lit up glittering swirls in the powder still settling after her fall. Her throat itched, and she wanted nothing more than to be saved. And her mother was out trying to do exactly that, driving to school instead of home keeping herself safe. Riding to the rescue.

  "I'm at the Gallery, Mum."

  The background noise of the call changed abruptly, and then her mother's voice came clearer, no longer on the hands-free set. "You're where?"

  "The Art Gallery of New South Wales," Madeleine said, making the lie resigned, apologetic, with no hint of dark and bruises, of broken things and dust. "I was waiting here till Tyler's plane got in."

  "You..." The word trailed away on a small shaking note, as unlike Victoria
Cost as it was possible to be.

  "I'm probably safer than you," Madeleine said, to fill the silence, to hear something other than that strangled word. Her eyes stung and she had to swallow, to work to make her voice sound casual, a little guilty, a touch disbelieving, as if she couldn't credit the idea of black towers or bio-weapon attacks. "I'm in the Asian art section – it doesn't even have windows. Are the animals okay?"

  "That damn painting," Madeleine's mother said. "You – Madeleine, why do you always..."

  "Is Dad home?"

  "He's on his way." Her mother's voice was regaining its usual brisk pace. "You stay where you are. Don't go to have a look outside. Find the door to that section and shut it. Don't worry about what the Gallery staff say. Stay as far away from outside doors and windows as possible, for as long as you can. Even when the air seems clear, use something to cover your mouth and nose. The roads are going insane, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to get in to where you are, but I'll call you back when there's news and you can head to Tyler's. You've still got that pass-key?"

  "Yes, Mum." The familiar reeling off of instructions helped Madeleine conjure a shadow of a smile, made it possible to respond with the right note of weary patience.

  "Good. I'll call you when it sounds like it's safer for you to head to Tyler's. Or if it looks like you should try to spend the night there. Don't let anyone try to make you leave before it's clear."

  "I won't. Mum..."

  But her mother had hung up. Madeleine laughed, then coughed, and gingerly levered herself into a sitting position. Her back and head did not love her, but her mother did, even if they'd had a lot of trouble talking to each other the last few years. Now all she had to do was overcome a little matter of collapsed exits, and get herself down to Tyler's.

  And then? She could pretend to her mother all she liked, but whatever the dust did, Madeleine was surely going to find out. She must have exceeded any minimum dose a thousand times over. Breathed it, swallowed it, had it in her eyes, ground it into her skin.