Storm (15 page)

Basically, I wish I'd never asked.

This is
The Ruby Morris Guide to the Rockety Thing (Phage)
, and, trust me, if you want to skip it, you can. Knowing all this, which is what I was told at the time, plus what I had taken in during my library studies, plus a
tiny
bit of stuff I learned later, won't make a single bit of difference. It won't change the situation, and it certainly wouldn't have changed what happened next.

But still, for the
keen
types, here we go…

About my person, there was some other hideous kind of bacterium. Not the one that came in the rain, but another one. Specifically, Prof Beardy suspected it had been lurking up my nose.

That in itself is fairly disgusting, but before you go “Euuuw!” and stop reading, let me tell you that you and
your
nose, like everything else on this planet, are also SWARMING with bacteria—every single bit of you, inside and out: SWARMING. And astonishingly, no one, not even Prof Beardy, has the slightest clue about what most of them do, or whether they're even friends and help each other out, or whether they hate each other and fight.

It's a little like people, really—only there's a whole lot more of them. If your body were a planet—which I guess it is, to the bacteria that live on you (Ha! Planet Ruby!)—people would be saying that it was seriously overcrowded. But somehow, most of the time, all the bacteria just muddle along. Some get along, some don't; some do good things, some don't, but it's so complicated and so mysterious, how they work—let alone how they all work together—that it is quite possible for a “bad” bacterium to end up doing good (because it'll make other bacteria pull themselves together and do the right thing). That's how complicated and mysterious the whole thing is.

The bacterium I had…it wasn't bad. It wasn't good. It wasn't particularly anything. How it even came to be on me is a complete, total, and utter mystery. It was just there, sitting around (up my nose), minding its own business. Until I stepped out into the rain.

(Or possibly before. All those things I thought of? All those risks I took? Maybe no one is that lucky.)

The point is,
my
bacterium…it
knew
the bacterium in the rain.

Or rather, it
remembered
it.

It has a very long memory.

This planet has been thumped and bashed and smashed into by stuff—meteorites—from outer space since way before people were here to worry about it. There is no telling when
my
bacterium got here. It just smacked into the Earth on a meteorite and then sat around somewhere dark and damp (most recently, a nose), waiting.

The
keen
types, headed by Prof Beardy, will no doubt be quick to point out that bacteria don't “know” anything, don't “remember,” and most certainly don't “wait,” but this is how I think of it—and it may as well be true.
My
bacterium had met the rain bacterium before. And it knew how to take it out. Destroy it. Annihilate it.

It had a phage. A phage is a virus inside a bacterium.

Forget your regular antibiotics, made in a factory. This is a target-specific killing machine. Secret weapon job.

It looks like this:

I promise you, this really is what it looks like.

My
bacterium used to casually fire off a few of these rockety things, but they had nothing to do. Just fizzled away, like crummy fireworks.

When I stepped out into the rain,
my
bacterium went crazy. It went to battle stations. Think microbiological
Star
Wars
.

Small, slow things might look like they stand no chance, but let me tell you, they do… It's the tortoise and the hare, isn't it? The tortoise,
my
bacterium, and the hare, the one that came in the rain, raced.

My bacterium, dear tortoise, had waited patiently, peacefully, but now it released stacks and stacks and stacks and stacks and stacks and stacks of phage. I am covered in a coat of furious bacteria and protected by an invisible force field of microbiological phage rage.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!

WAY TO GO! TORTOISE! KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!

The phage is tinier than tiny. Smaller than a nothing. But it is a nuclear missile.

This tinier than tiny rockety thing, this phage—it is “night-night, baby” for the wiggly-legged space-
in the rain.

There, that's pretty much all you need to know…according to Professor Ruby. I think I'll give myself another A+—but wait! A conclusion, we need a conclusion!

Conclusion

People don't tend to look at the small things. They also do not like slow things. People tend to look at the big, fast stuff.

In my opinion, this may not always be the smartest thing to do.

“What would really help us,” Dr. TVSOYMMSTTVCOMB says, “what would really help
everyone
, is if you could just think hard about how you might have
acquired
the phage.”

I would quite like to know the answer to that myself.

“I would quite like to know that myself,” I tell her.

“Great!” She smiles and shoves a pen and a pad of paper at me.

“So now you need to think, Ruby, don't you?”

Right at that second, I notice a thing: she uses my name A LOT. (Like during the spacesuit phase, I suppose it was OK, because it reminded me I had a name and that she was remembering there was a person at the end of whatever needle was poking into me, but right now I feel like I don't need reminding, thank you very much. I know who I am.) (I am a
FREAK
.)

“We just want you to think hard—very hard—about that. About a time you…came into contact with
something
the rest of your family wouldn't have come into contact with. A place you went where they didn't go, for example. Anything you did that was
unusual
in any way.”

That's mad that is. I shrug. I look bewildered. I know I do. I
feel
bewildered.

She smiles, picks up the pen, hands it to me. “Just try, Ruby.”

(See? See what I mean about the name thing?)

She smiles at me. She has good teeth. My teeth are train tracked. One has deserted me. And I stink, and my hair's in a state, and…and…I feel like I am being
patronized
. The Rage-O-Meter tips into red. I put down the pen.

“But
why
do you want to know that stuff?” I ask.

Uh. I have just done the worst thing any teen anywhere can do. I have just
questioned an adult in a position of authority
. Now is not a good time for that, I can tell—instantly—by the look on her face. But I cannot pretend I have not just said what I just said; I'm going to have to stand by it. I am going to have to stand by
myself
.

“Just asking,” I say—oh so lightly.

“It might turn out to be important,” she says.

Uh—it's worse than I thought: I am going to have to
think
. (That sounds stupid of me, doesn't it? I think about a lot of stuff… What I mean is, I am going to have to think what on Earth it is
they
are thinking—about which, I have no clue. It must be BIG, FAST stuff, I suppose—stuff that is way bigger and faster than me.)

“But if you've got the phage thing, why would you even be bothered? Doesn't that mean there's a cure now?”

It seems like a reasonable question, it seems like—

THWACK!

Dr. TVSOYMMSTTVCOMB slaps me across the face.

It is, in fact, the first time in my life that another human being has hit me.

I gasp in shock—and pain. Clutch my face.

“You need to think, Ruby,” she says. “You need to think.”

“I don't know! How would I know?! I can't remember!”

“You're going to have to try harder.”

I swear…I see every second of every minute of every hour of every day since the rain first fell flash before my eyes. “You want…
me
…to try
harder
?”

“Yes.”

It upsets me so much that I feel tears roll from my eyes. They creep between my fingers to soothe my stinging cheek.

“I just want to go home,” I whisper.

They come in the night.

I am awake when it happens. I am awake because there is some kind of argument going on. It didn't start out as a fight, it started out sounding like a party—the dull kind that mature types have, with not enough music and too much chat and hoo-hoo, har-har (oh-gosh-darling-you're-such-a-hoot!). That kind of thing. This would not have kept me awake (I would hardly feel like I was missing out on anything, would I?), but when it started getting nasty…I hate that SO much, the sound of a fight. And I hate it even more when it's muffled. (Not that I want to hear it clearly, just that it reminds me of parents fighting.
My
parents fighting.)

So, yeah, I am awake, doodling on that stupid pad and trying not to listen to the distant sounds of an argument I couldn't even hear properly if I tried. I have drawn all sorts of things—raindrops and skulls and rockety things—but I have yet to scribble anything that looks like a word. I got a slap just for asking why they wanted to know this stuff; I feel sick inside thinking what will happen if I don't do what I am told… But still…my hand has refused to write a single letter. My brain has tried to reason with it, but it is being very stubborn.

YAP! GRRR! YAP! NO! GRRR! snarls the argument as the door opens.

KZZZZ! The overhead lights are dazzling as a nurse snaps them on.

That's what the argument might as well sound like. In reality I hear: “
OUTRAGEOUS!
” (that sounds like Beardy)—followed by the grrr of a low, cold voice (Dr. TVSOYMMSTTVCOMB?) speaking words I still cannot make out—followed by “…
DISGUSTING!
” (that's someone else) and “
NO!
” (someone else again)…and then the low, cold grrr again before the door closes.

“I was just gonna do it,” I gibber at the nurse, waving the pad at him, squinting and blinking in the dazzling light. “It's not my fault! It's them!”—I jerk my head at the argument noise—“I can't concentrate!”

“Ya gotta go, Ruby,” he tells me, chucking a biosuit down on the bed next to me.

“What?! Why?! Where?!”

“Shh! Sweetie! It's OK! No one's going to hurt you.”

But someone already did. I shake my head at him, terrified. “That woman slapped me.”

“Who slapped you?”

“That woman—the doctor that asks all the questions.”

He frowns. “She's not a doctor,” he says.

I feel an exhausted tear crawl down my cheek.

“I just want to go home,” I tell him. In fact, anywhere but here would do. I hate this place. I hate these people. I trust no one…and I have the eeriest feeling everyone is LYING TO ME AND TREATING ME LIKE AN IDIOT.

“We all do.” He sighs. “Come on, let's put this on,” he says, and he helps me put the biosuit on over my gown. “Sorry about this,” he says, “but we're all out of jeans.”

I am being dressed for the first time since I was little. And I feel little. I feel little…and scared.

“We're all out of sneakers too,” he says, holding up a pair of ghastly white bio–rain boots.

“Sit down, sweetie.”

I sit on the bed. Trollish shudders of misery pass through my body.

He crouches to put the bio–rain boots on my feet. He does it very, very slowly, and as he does it, he speaks to me very, very quietly.

“Ruby…there's a treatment. There is a
cure
now, thanks to you. There is a cure.”

That's fairly stunning news, isn't it? That can only be good, right? I'm going to be some kind of national hero or something. No!
International!
Probably there'll have to be a new public holiday—maybe on my birthday. That'd be nice…

You will notice that this story is not over.

“Really?!”

“Truly. Beardsall's cracked it,” he says. “He's stewed up a whole tankful of
your
phage. You've done it, sweetie! You've saved the planet!”

“I have?”

“Sure! I mean, Beardsall's trying to grab all the glory, but everyone knows you're the real star.”

“They do?”

“Absolutely.”

He pats my successfully rain-booted foot, lets it go, then takes hold of the other foot.

“So…
how come I can't go
home
?”

I jerk my foot away.

“
Why can't I just
go
?
”

He hesitates.

“Hey! I'm not a kid, you know. I'm not some stupid kid.”

And then it comes to me… I've seen what they've been doing to kids, haven't I?

“Oh my
… It's because I know too much, isn't it?”

“Um. No. To be honest with you, Ruby, I think there are plenty of people who know quite a bit more than you.”

“Just tell me the truth. Please, just tell me the truth. Am I sick? Am I going to die? Am I infectious? I'm infectious, aren't I? That's why I've got to wear this thing, isn't it? Please just tell me. I swear—I promise—I swear I won't tell anyone.
Please
…”

He reaches to take hold of my foot, and I let him.

“Oh my
. I'm going to die, aren't I? Or… Oh my
! Are…are they going to kill me?”

He shoves the other boot on and then stares up at me.

“No one is going to hurt you,” he says. “You are way too precious for that.”

Precious. I have never felt less precious in my life.

“They're just trying to scare you. Even this,” he says, plucking at the biosuit, “there is no need for it. It is a ‘precaution'; that's what they said. It is not necessary.”

My mouth thinks about opening. My brain tells it to shut up.

“Listen to me, sweetie,” he says. “The people who are currently in charge of this country want to keep this whole thing a secret.”

My mouth opens. Words fail to come out. My brain freezes.

“I know. It's appalling. That's what the fight is about. Beardsall told…too many people. They want to keep the cure a secret…and that means you too.”

That's the thing about precious things, isn't it? People don't want to let them go…

“You're being moved to the high-security lab,” he says. “There's no need to panic.”

Yeah, right. I am totally freaking out.

“It's just a temporary move to a more secure place.”

I stare at him, open jawed; ice from the brain freeze creeping into every cell of my body.

“Sweetie?”

Though my vision is fear blurred, I see the name on his badge. I do a thing my stepdad used to do when he wanted to win people over.

“Right. Thank you, Ibrahim,” I tell him.

“Don't mention it,” he says, getting to his feet. He puts his hands on my shoulders…and squeezes. I think he's going to start shaking me, but, “Really,” he says, eyeballing me, “
do not mention
it
.”

I swallow—no spit to swallow because my mouth is so dry—and I nod.

“That's what they're worried about. Do you understand? They do not want this to get out.”

I nod harder.

His pager goes off; he reads it. “
!” he swears—and he laughs, but in a shocked, dead kind of way.

“Honestly, you really are best off out of this one,” he says. “Beardsall's on a bender,” he whispers. “
Drunk!
This is going to get ugly.”

He picks up the helmety-thing and holds it in front of me.

“I won't tell anyone,” I say.

“Good girl,” he says, and shoves the helmet on. “Everything is going to be OK,” he tells me again through the plastic, shoving gloves onto my hands. Then he offers me his hand. “C'mon, sweetie.”

My gloved hand takes his gloved hand and, in that too-big plasticky-rubbery suit, I squeak and sblob out into the corridor.

Even though the helmet muffles sound a little, I detect instantly that the fight has heated up…but I really don't care to listen to the YAP! GRRR! YAP! NO! GRRR! of it. Behind the desk, a nurse is on the phone. It is not the nurse who tried to help me get out of here. I have never seen her again. It is some other nurse who is all composed until she puts down the phone; then she looks a little freaked out.

“They need you back at the
party
,” she tells Ibrahim. “Beardsall's gone coco-loco.”

“I know!” he says, and laughs that shocked, dead—frightened?!—laugh, glancing at me.

“Yeah, well,” she tells him, “I think you might have missed the fun part.”

“Typical! Sweetie, I'm going to come with you in the ambulance, so just you wait there,” he says and goes running off.

I plunk my plasticky-rubbery behind down onto the seats where I sat the night I brought Saskia in. I want to go. I just want to go. I don't like this place. I don't like these people.

I try to look around me. Doing anything in the suit is hard.

“All right?” the desk nurse says.

I nod. Lying is super-easy inside this suit.

“You must be feeling pretty pleased with yourself,” she says—not in a nasty way, in a nice way.

“I guess.”

Her phone rings again. She listens, with a superb eyeball roll of exasperation for my benefit, to the shouty voice on the end of the line.

“He
is
in surgery,” she says.

She holds the phone away from her head as the shouty voice shouts louder. I swear, that's
Dr.
Ms. TVSOYMMSTTVCOMB losing it, and the thought of that makes me shudder and smile all at the same time. Maybe someone will need to slap her.

“OK. I'll get him. I—WILL—GET—HIM,” says the nurse, slamming down the phone. “
, since when did Thurley become the voice of reason?” she says—to me, I suppose, being as how I'm the only other person there. “I mean, whose side is he on anyway?”