Tamaruq (18 page)

‘You find this funny?’

Shri raises a hand in supplication. She can’t explain. It’s too much, the irony of finding herself here, being coerced to do the exact thing she had always exhorted to Taeo – protecting their fucking country – and finding that in doing so she relinquishes her fundamental reasons for believing it a necessity in the first place. She is to abandon her family. It is not funny, not really, not at all, but having started, Shri cannot stop. Her ribs ache. She feels tears sliding down her cheeks, liberated at last. The face of the commander, at first startled, then taut and pinched as he waits for Shri’s delirium to subside, only adds to the absurdity of the situation.

The commander stands and crosses the room, returning with a glass of water. Shri sips it slowly.

‘You’ll go, then,’ says Karis Io.

‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’

She senses his relief. It’s sour.

‘You have belongings with you,’ he states.

‘Not much.’

‘We’ll provide what you don’t have. Do you have any more questions for me?’

Shri shakes her head. ‘You’ve told me everything I need to know.’

‘You leave tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘You can speak with your children through a secure portal. Say your goodbyes. I can’t say for certain how long you’ll be away.’

The commander folds his arms, indicating that the meeting is over.

Dismissed, Shri rises. Before she leaves the room she points to the child’s artwork on his desk, incapable of restraining herself.

‘Think about how you’d feel if someone took you away from your child. You should be ashamed.’

When Shri Nayar has left, Karis Io looks at the penguin sculpture, courtesy of his niece Grace, and considers contacting someone. His parents – fuck no. Friends – no one he could trust with this. His sister, Bia?

Bia, he’d say. Do me a favour and imagine this. Imagine there’s an anthill in your back yard. An anthill, sitting there quietly, with the ants coming and going but no one really noticing because they go about their business, carrying scraps of leaves back and forth or whatever it is they do. One day, someone comes into your back yard and kicks over the anthill. And suddenly, out of nowhere, they’re everywhere. The ants. They’re swarming all over the place, getting in your shoes and socks, climbing up your legs, heading straight for your pants. You had no idea there were so many of them. And the only way to get rid of them is to apply poison, and you’ll need a lot of poison, to the anthill, to the yard, to all the hundreds of thousands of tiny ants. What do you do, Bia, in this situation?

The guilt is getting to him. He could resign, of course. His career in civilian security would be over – fuck, his career might be over completely. He wouldn’t be able to explain his reasons. He’d become the failed eldest child, looked at by older relatives with pursed lips, a cluck of disapproval accompanying his entrance into any family scene.

But he wouldn’t be a part of this.

He moves a holoma blocking the comms and puts in an encrypted request for a Tolstyi account. After a few moments, he is connected, and Bia’s face materializes in front of him, her mouth hanging slack, mid-word, a child’s yellow rucksack slung over one arm. Bia blinks once and redirects part of her focus, the smaller part, to Karis.

‘Karis, is that you?’

‘How are you, Bia?’

‘Yeah, you know, it’s the holidays, isn’t it? We’re all go here – what is it?’

‘It’s—’ He hesitates. ‘Have you got a minute?’

‘Not really, I’ve got to get the kid to practice. Is it important?’

‘No – no, it’s not important. I’ll catch you another time. Give my love to Grace.’

‘I will do.’

Bia’s face and the yellow rucksack blink away. Karis is left staring at the rectangular frame of the door through which Shri Nayar had walked, her shoulders hunched and locked with rage.

Karis hadn’t always lied, because he hadn’t always had this job, and secrecy had not been a part of his contract with the Republic. But he had found it easy, at first, at any rate. And soon enough the lies expanded into other areas of his life, not just where he worked but his home, his past, the things he had seen and done. He enjoyed it at first. It tasted sweet. And now, truth be told, he can’t remember a time before the making up of things, can’t get a feel for that other man.

Ants. Thousands of ants, scurrying about in confusion, unaware of their peril. A Bokolu is lurking nearby, but a Bokolu has excellent camouflage. By the time it strikes, it’s far too late.

THE ALASKAN IS
unperturbed by the blindfold. Darkness is contentment, roaming the intricate labyrinth of her own thoughts while other senses test for the mood of those around her. It is always the little giveaways, molecules of sweat, sour to the nostrils, or a primitive, hormonal waft of excitement, that tell her what she needs to know. She can hear the effort in the shortened breaths of the man pushing her chair, and reclines back further into it, having no inclination to give her driver an easy ride.

When they remove the blindfold she finds herself in a rustic cabin opposite the man she has come to see. The cabin is warm and she can smell coffee. The Osirian is brewing a pot on a camping stove. Dark and skinny, he is. A face that might have been considered good-looking before the redfleur had its way with him, and by the looks of it the virus has had quite the party. She has a sense about him straight away: a sense that he has done things, morally ambiguous things, a man familiar with violence. The Alaskan’s nose tickles uncontrollably. She snorts and pulls a crumpled handkerchief from her sleeve, blowing vigorously into it.

‘Went to visit a friend of mine in Fuego Hospital and I’ve picked up a dozen bugs. They love me. The bugs. They like to feast.’ She lets the word linger, savouring it, considering its implications. ‘But you don’t need to worry about that, do you?’

The Osirian laughs. A relaxed laugh, which surprises her. She realizes she expected him to be more like Taeo Ybanez, the Antarctican, whose desperation was never quite concealed despite his evident intelligence. Taeo Ybanez had never had to struggle. This one is different. This one screams trouble at fifty feet. The Alaskan likes that.

‘Don’t worry,’ says the Osirian. ‘I’ve caught plenty of colds. Plenty of – bugs, as you say.’

‘Survived them all, did you? Never stopped to wonder why? Never stopped to think you might be a genetic freak?’

Her directness does impress upon him this time, she thinks. The Alaskan laughs herself then, long and hard, rocking forwards and back in her chair, the phlegm coagulating in her throat as she fights for her breath. The pollen, she thinks. It’s the fucking pollen.

‘If you are, by the way, I can give you some advice,’ she adds, when the convulsions have stopped. Her eyes are streaming. She extracts the handkerchief once again and swipes it across what is left of her eyelashes. ‘I don’t doubt Mig’s told you some nice stories about nirvanas. How is my boy? Proud of yourself for stealing him off me, are you?’

‘He never belonged to you,’ says the Osirian evenly.

‘That’s where you’re wrong. He did belong to me. You look like someone who should know about debt, Señor Nameless. Don’t think I’ll forget this any time soon.’

‘He came of his own accord.’

She notices the slight stiffening of his body. Interesting. He cares about the boy.

‘He betrayed me,’ she says.

‘And you look like someone who should know about betrayal,’ he replies.

‘Touché.’

She laughs again. The laugh forces an ache to her ribs. She isn’t used to so much movement. Her muscles are in remission.

‘I don’t care what you are,’ says the Osirian. ‘Nirvana, or whatever it’s known as. It’s not important.’

‘Easy for you to say, of course you don’t. You’re from a place that shouldn’t exist. Common word has it you’re a cannibalistic fish. Why should you care if my ancestors survived the Blackout?’

‘Cannibalistic?’ He sounds curious.

The Alaskan nods solemnly. The absurdity of it, she thinks. The dreads of the uneducated never change, and yet they are right. Deep down, when it comes to the dark spaces, the distillation of the soul, what is left but the animalistic? Hunt, eat, fuck, shit. She taps the arm of her chair.

‘That’s a tidy little collection of lunatics you’ve assembled. What are you going to do with them all?’

‘I think you probably have some ideas.’

‘You are correct. I do. Antarctica, that’s one of them. And here’s another: back to where you came from. There’s no reason for you to go anywhere else. Which is it?’

He smiles. ‘Perhaps we should discuss why you’re here before I tell you that.’

‘I thought I was here at your invitation, Señor Nameless.’

‘And you accepted the invitation.’

‘I did. I admit, I was intrigued. This is an old country. Everything is old here. It’s an excursion back through time. Have you ever wanted to travel through time, señor? Ever been curious to see how we got ourselves into this kind of a world? What lies did they feed you, shut away in your lost city for all those years? What did they say to make you stop using your heads?’

The Osirian elects not to answer, either because she has insulted him, or because he is smart enough not to respond to provocation. She hopes for both their sakes it is the latter. You would have to be smart, she thinks, to get out of a city that has retained camouflage for half a century. Smart or lucky.

She watches as the Osirian removes the pot of coffee from the stove and pours two mugs. He pushes one towards her.

‘Do you want to work with us?’ he asks.

‘What are you offering?’

‘You left Cataveiro,’ says the man. ‘Mig tells me you haven’t left that city in decades. There must have been a reason. I think you want to go somewhere new.’

The Alaskan shrugs. ‘An easy assumption, but lazy. Cataveiro has nothing more to offer me. For now. Besides, you might have heard, it wasn’t the most hospitable place to be just lately.’

‘So come with us. Help us find a ship.’

‘I can’t find you a ship if I don’t know where it’s going.’

The man meets her eyes candidly and he says, ‘It’s going to Osiris.’

‘Ha! You want to take me to what’s about to become a war zone?’

‘You’d find it an interesting place.’

‘I might, if I weren’t dead.’

‘I suspect you’ll find a way to escape being dead. You seem to have managed well enough so far.’

The Alaskan wriggles in her chair, trying to find a position of equal discomfort between the competing aches in her ribs, her spine, and her pelvis.

‘You’re a fool if you don’t think the Antarcticans won’t bomb your city into the seabed. If they haven’t already, after that signal went out. They won’t wait for the Boreals to come and reclaim it.’

‘They’d cause an international incident if they did that.’

The Alaskan jabs a finger at the Osirian. ‘Not if you are dead,’ she says. ‘It seems to me that you’re wanted by a lot of people for a lot of different reasons. Perhaps I should have acted sooner instead of letting you slip through my fingers. This little hidey-hole won’t stay secret forever, you know. However loyal your disciples might be.’

The Osirian looks troubled. ‘I need to leave soon,’ he says. ‘It’s true, the longer we wait, the more difficult it will be. And I need a ship. I know you can help me.’

‘Everyone knows I can help them. Not everyone knows what they can do for me. Such is the regrettable inequality of life.’

‘I can’t do anything for you,’ he says. ‘Except for this. I can take you somewhere new. I can give you the chance to see something you haven’t seen before. And… you could help save lives.’

There’s sincerity in his voice, she can’t deny that. But sincerity is a low currency.

‘Is this an appeal to my better nature? Business is business, Mr Bai. Yes, I know your name. Of course I do. You think I’ve been sitting around twiddling my thumbs in Fuego? Now, I’ll tell you my offer. I want Antarctican citizenship. I want a ship to take me to the new world, and a nice house waiting for me when I get there. Do whatever it takes to get me that, and I’ll consider helping you.’

‘Why would I have leverage with the Antarcticans?’

The Alaskan tests the coffee. It’s tolerable. It could use a helping or three of sugar.

‘If you are what they say you are, you’ll have leverage with a lot of people. When you go to Osiris, what do you intend to do? Deals will be brokered. I will need to be a part of that.’

‘Regardless of whether I have leverage or not, I can’t do anything until this is over. The ship has to come first.’

‘We can call it an IOU,’ says the Alaskan.

The Osirian’s face closes down when she says that. She’s stumbled upon a sensitivity.

‘You have a problem with this?’ she says coyly.

He shifts his shoulders uneasily.

‘If it’s the only way, it’s the only way.’

‘Then we have a deal. And don’t think if you renege on it I won’t find a way to have you brutally terminated.’

‘I believe you.’

‘You should.’

The Alaskan allows that to sink in. Now that they’ve had a chance to chat, she is getting a sense for a deeper layer to the Osirian. Calm on top, oh yes, but there’s depths beneath. Troubled depths. He knows he is running out of time.

‘It’s a shame the pilot’s fled,’ she remarks. ‘Callejas could have flown you back to your precious city. Might have appreciated the commission now she’s got a wanted sticker on her back.’

‘Who wants her?’

‘A very nasty woman who likes to drop people into ravines.’ With a glint of pleasure, she recalls Xiomara’s wan, angry face as she applied the skin patch. ‘Oh, and the government. Her employer.’

‘And there’s no way we can contact her?’

‘She’s disappeared,’ says the Alaskan. ‘Last seen in Panama. She’s probably dead. Brutal types, in Panama. They don’t like being crossed.’ The Alaskan waits a beat and adds, ‘We have some things in common.’

‘I’ve been looking at the captains of the Patagonian fleet—’

‘No, no, no. No one legal. That’s no use. There’s only one ship good enough to take you where you want to go without being caught.’