Tamaruq (17 page)

I knew someone. He sold lemons on the promenades in Cataveiro. We said hello every morning.

I knew someone. A bicycle courier. For years I’d been trying to work up the courage to ask her out, but I never did.

I knew someone. A parrot girl. My parrot girl. I knew someone.

The night deepens and the stories ebb away, leaving only the soft fuzz of the radio hub set up by Mig, which is continually monitored despite the intermittent signal. Vikram sees the doctor watching him from across the circle. He knows that however many people come, he will always carry their stories, because even while they are shared with the camp the stories are invasive, spoken directly to and for him. The one who didn’t die. Why him? And how? Is it the coral tea he still sometimes craves? Is it something in his blood? Is it a fucking cosmic joke? And all at once he has a feeling of intense claustrophobia, and has to get up and leave the circle, not wanting to hear, or see, any more.

The expedition returns with news and provisions and a look of distraction, a look which says they have seen something strange and can’t stop thinking on it. This is how it went: they wound their way back to Tierra del Fuego, travelling at first through the dusk, using the half-light to mask their journey, and then openly, as a small fishing crew, trailing a net behind them as camouflage, pulling in coils of cephalopods and silver-backed fish, moving in and out of the drifts of island mist, eventually rounding the shoulder of del Fuego to bring their haul to the harbour, where two of them began to haggle with the locals, and the third took the holoma, and went to a bar called Arturo’s, where you will meet all kinds of people, and listened and learned some names, and obtained an address.

And meanwhile, the two at the harbour sold their squid at a price not good but not bad, you could say it was fair, and they heard a rumour, which everyone in Fuego is talking about, from the smallest child to the oldest fish-skinner. Some time ago – days, certainly, and maybe even weeks, the time varied according to who you spoke to, but the story is the same – a distress signal was detected. It came over the radio. There was a voice. The voice asked for help. And the word from the harbour front is that it came from the lost city. That’s right. From Osiris.

Vikram interrupts. ‘Osiris? You’re sure about that?’

Yes, they’re sure.

He listens with increasing alarm. The news raises a thousand questions to which there can be no hope of answers, not here, not cut off in necessary exile as he is. Where has the signal come from? Who set it off? Who received it? And yet – he dares to hope – could this also be cause for optimism?

Someone in Osiris has managed to get the signal out.

Someone else knows, or believes, there is life beyond the ocean.

While the expedition recount the rest of their tale, Vikram can see that something is wrong with Mig. The boy has nothing to contribute. He stands at a slight distance to the other three, glowering, with one hand in his pocket, clenched into a fist.

Vikram takes him aside.

‘What is it? What’s happened? Did something go wrong with the holoma?’

‘No. It’s gone. They left it at the house. The Tarkie will find it.’

‘Then what?’

A shudder runs through the boy. Vikram takes him by the shoulders and looks into the boy’s face. He can feel the tension locking Mig’s skinny frame.

‘Mig, what is it?’

When Mig looks up at him his eyes are blazing with hate.

‘It’s the Alaskan,’ he says. ‘She’s in Fuego.’

At that moment Vikram wants more than anything to tell Mig not to worry, that it will be all right, that Mig will never have to deal with the Alaskan again. But he can’t lie to the boy.

Vikram needs her.

‘
YOU CAN GO
in now.’

The defender holds the door for her, a courtesy Shri would prefer to throw back in his face, regardless of his complicity, or not. She hesitates before entering. Her gut tells her that to step over the threshold is to give ground in some way, to accept a change in state not yet perceived, but whose consequences are already preset. Nothing good can be inside.

The stomach of the man holding the door eases in and out as he waits. Shri sets her shoulders and walks inside, hearing the door closed discreetly behind her.

She would have thought a military room would be tidy, but this one is not. The work station and the comms desk are grubby, littered with holomas and stray pots lined with coffee grains which are adding, she suspects, to the tinge of mustiness on the air. A room that has the sense of having seen, lately, a lot of the person who now occupies it. The man sitting behind the desk is African-Antarctican. He wears a Republican security uniform with a high-level insignia at the collar. The uniform is sharply cut and suits the slim figure of the man, but the material is rumpled. He looks tired. Thinking of the distress in her children’s faces as she said her goodbyes, Shri cannot help but feel glad as she notes this.

I hope you’ve had as many sleepless nights as I have.

The man waves at a chair in front of the desk. A piece of amateur artwork has pride of place upon it, something Shri suspects is meant to be a penguin, clearly the work of a child.

‘Come in, take a seat.’

Shri does not move.

‘Sit down, please.’

She senses the man suppressing his irritation. Slowly, Shri comes forwards and settles in the chair, placing her feet neatly together, hands in her lap. These days (
these days?
She cannot comprehend that the path of her life should have led to this conclusion, how it could
be this way
) she has the sense that if she does not hold herself physically together, it will all be too late. Too late for what, she is not sure, but she doesn’t want to find out.

‘I’m Commander Karis Io,’ says the man behind the desk. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Is this about my partner? I’ve been trying to speak to someone in Civilian Security for weeks. No one will tell me what happened. They say he overdosed.’

‘I’m afraid that’s the case.’

‘They won’t tell me how, or why – no one will tell me anything—’

‘Citizen Nayar, if you’ll let me explain why you’re here…’

‘Yes?’

‘My remit is Special Unit Atrak, which monitors the ocean city known as Osiris.’

This is not what she was expecting. She stares at him, confused.

‘What does this have to do with Taeo?’

‘You have been sent a holoma,’ says the commander. ‘From a man who calls himself Vikram Bai. An Osirian.’

‘I haven’t received it.’

‘I’ll show you now.’

He retrieves a holoma from the collection on his desk and activates the device. Shri waits.

The hologram that appears is not her partner. It is a man she has never seen before. A slender man with Indian features and scarred cheeks who speaks in careful, oddly accented Spanish. This is a message for Shri. He says he is from the sea city, Osiris. Two months ago he landed on the coast of Patagonia. He was rescued by her partner. Taeo tried to help him. He says her partner told him about his family. Shri and Kadi and Sasha and Nisha. He says Taeo would have done anything to get back to them. Taeo had a plan. They intended to return to Antarctica, himself and Taeo, together. He says that Taeo was a good man. He says he is sorry.

‘Oh… oh shit…’

She can feel the tears pricking at her eyes and she does not want to cry. Not here. Not in this office, in front of this man.

‘Who is he?’

‘Someone we need to find.’

‘He’s – Osirian?’

The word sits uncomfortably in her mouth. With it come to mind other, disturbing associations, like that man in the news who says he detected a radio signal. Masay? Mesay? She can’t remember. She’s been distracted. Now she thinks about it, haven’t there been protests? The lost city, always unspoken, is suddenly thrust into the spotlight, and this man is saying her partner was caught up in it.
Why did you have to get caught up in it, Taeo? Why couldn’t you leave well alone?

‘So he claims. This holoma belonged to your partner. It contains messages sent by yourself. It’s been hacked, evidently, and has fallen back into the Antarctican network. Now you see why you are here?’

‘Yes – no. So he sent me a message. Why couldn’t you just forward it to me?’

‘This man, Vikram Bai. Like I said, he’s someone we need to find. I’ve watched the recording several times. I’d like to know what you make of it.’

Shri feels a spark of anger at the idea of her personal correspondence being analysed and discussed by others. She wonders how long this Special Unit Atrak had the holoma in their possession before she was even allowed to see the damn thing. She presses the heels of her hands tightly against her knees, striving for control.

‘What do you mean, what do I make of it?’

‘This man is a fugitive. But he made a great effort to ensure that this device reached Antarctica, and more specifically, you. What do you make of that?’

‘How the hell should I know? You’ve watched it more than I have. You saw what he said. What more is there to say about it? I don’t know what he wanted. I don’t know anything about him.’

Shri senses the commander’s gaze on her, an assessor’s gaze, judging the likelihood that Shri will fall to pieces, disintegrate on him like paper in water. He weighs up his next words.

‘It seems he felt the need to reach out to you. To make a connection. We think that’s interesting.’

Shri wishes Commander Karis Io would get to the point. The sooner this is over, the sooner she can go home.

Home.

Nisha is too young to understand catastrophe, except perhaps in the mood of the house. But the elder two – Kadi and Sasha – their reactions so different, Kadi hard and proud, refusing to speak about it, so very like Taeo – Sasha a storm of grief, tears soaking the sheets, tears Shri felt like pushing her own face into and howling.

‘We think it’s likely that Vikram Bai would talk to you,’ says the commander. Shri looks up, startled. Meet the Osirian? The prospect hangs before her, abrupt and unexpected.

‘He’s in Antarctica?’

‘No. He’s somewhere in Patagonia.’

Shri’s heart, raised a moment ago, now begins to sink.

‘I don’t understand,’ she stalls.

‘We need you to help us find him.’

Shri drives the balls of her feet harder into the floor, pressing down, feeling the muscles of her thighs tense in response. The commander’s words continue with cold inevitability.

‘It will involve a trip,’ he says. ‘We’ll need you to go to Patagonia. Once you’re there, you’ll be open about your reasons for travelling, letting anyone who asks know your intent. You want to find the Osirian. You’ll have back-up, naturally. I suspect we’ll find that he may come to you, rather than us having to find him. The aim is to get you in and out as quickly as possible, so don’t worry, you’ll soon be back home.’

That word again. Shri can feel a ringing in her ears. The air thickening around her. She has a flash of memory: her mother’s warning hand, a pressure on her shoulder, exerted many times, a voice:
Calm down, Shri.

‘Bait,’ she says.

‘I’m sorry?’ There is a surprised inflection in the commander’s voice that Shri is certain is a fake. He knows exactly what Shri is here for. An unpleasant thought occurs to her. If they hadn’t concocted this plan, would she ever have seen the Osirian’s holoma at all?

‘You want to use me as bait.’

‘You misunderstand me.’

The last of Shri’s nervousness trickles away. She can feel her rage blooming. The warm haze of it heats her face and neck, encompassing her, armouring her.

‘You want me to leave my children? This is what you’re saying, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sure you realize it would be far too dangerous for them to accompany you. We couldn’t guarantee their safety.’

‘They’ve just lost a parent!’

‘And I’m very sorry for your loss. But you must understand, you are now needed, elsewhere.’

‘No. I’m needed by my children. I’m needed by Kadi and Sasha and Nisha. My baby, she’s not even two years old, and you want to take me away from her?’

‘We’ll arrange the best care. I promise, you won’t have to worry about them.’

Shri feels giddy with anger. She knows she is going to shout and there is no way of preventing it.

‘Are you insane? Are you listening to what I’m saying? This Senate sent my partner away. You did this to him.
You
. And now he’s dead. Taeo’s dead in another country and I can’t even see his body. And you want to take me away from my children? You have no right – no right—’

‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear.’

The sudden coolness in the man’s voice sheets Shri like meltwater. The room quivers and settles. The commander sits in his crumpled uniform, behind his desk, appearing unperturbed by Shri’s outburst. He continues speaking in the same hard tone.

‘This is a matter of national security. You represent the strongest lead we have to this Osirian character, and it is vital that we find him as early as possible. This is your duty, Shri Nayar, as a citizen of the Republic. It’s your civic service.’

The words
civic service
fall with an inescapable weight.

‘Are you going to refuse?’ the commander asks.

‘What happens if I do? I could go public with this. I bet the media would be fascinated to hear my story, especially after that memo came out.’

But she knows the bluff is pointless. She has seen first-hand what happened to Taeo when he chose to speak out.

The commander holds her gaze.

‘That hasn’t been the best move for your family in the past.’

‘You mean you’ll take me there by force.’

A heavy silence descends. Commander Karis Io’s face is very still, and whereas Shri’s first impression of the man had been of someone tired and worn, even a little slovenly, now she senses the steeliness, an ability to box and compartmentalize, and she realizes even if this man did have any empathy for her, in the end it wouldn’t matter: he would do his job. That is who he is, someone who does his job.

At the same time it comes to her, clearer than ever before, that this has always been the source of tension between herself and Taeo. This dichotomy between civic duty and what he called ethics, a gap as long as time and just as twisted, and she begins to laugh.