“It’s some kind of dump,” said Dome, listening to the dispatcher. “The world’s largest—two thousand acres—occupied by squatters …”
It was difficult to make sense of the information. How come he’d never heard of it? How could such a vast area have gone unregulated and unreported to the extent that its coordinates weren’t available to dispatchers? What was the meaning of such obscurity?
Four minutes passed before the transport was hovering above a cloud of pollution that blanketed the area like a thick gray lid. The machinelike regularity of the city’s streets had ended abruptly at what looked like a wall or a moat, zigzagging at sharp angles. Beyond it was the fog.
“It’s been used as a dump since the mid–twentieth century,” said Dome. “Used to be on the northern-most boundary of the city … along some kind of ancient highway—G.T. Road, they used to call it, stands for Grand Trunk—and a bog or a lake called Bhalswa …”
While the modern Continuum had developed southwards, the northern dump had become a lawless, cancerous wasteland. Its residents were declared illegal squatters but were too numerous to be moved out by force. Rather than risk the disapproval of their international business partners, the government had chosen the alternative of maintaining the dump as a ZZ: a Zero Zone. They suppressed all information going in or coming out of the area while leaving the inhabitants severely isloated. In an operational sense, the sector did not exist.
“That’s the flare,” said Hem, pointing toward a flash of pink light that fountained up above the murk.
“Yes,” said Dome, “set me down there.”
He, like Hem, wore full-body protective armor. It was designed to protect the wearer against all foreseeable threats, mechanical or chemical. Hem positioned the transport above the locator flare as the mission commander descended from the transport on a steel cable attached to his suit.
The air had the consistency of thin gruel, stirred by the gale from the transport’s whirring rotor. Dome wondered, as the murk enfolded him, if his helmet’s air filter would be overwhelmed. It was equipped to process and neutralize gas attacks but not such dense concentrations of airborne particulate. He was trained to suppress all emotions and reactions, yet his nerves were twitching and a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. He hated to acknowledge these signs of weakness, minor though they were.
Then his feet touched down and he went into a defensive crouch, automatically scanning and processing information.
On the ground, a taser.
Beside it, a body.
The taser’s handgrip glowed cherry-red in the heat scanner Dome wore as a monocle clipped to his visor, over his left eye. The red glow meant that the weapon had been handled very recently. Yet its muzzle appeared blue and cold in the heat scanner: Whatever the cause of death, it hadn’t come from this small weapon.
Visibility was low. Air unbreathable. Operational area flat, open, a circular clearing forty feet in diameter and—Ah.
There was someone else present. A man.
Dome straightened up, his movements slow and deliberate. Civilians were known to be nervous in the presence of the tall crisis-response officers in their gleaming body suits.
From the man’s string-vest, loose khaki shorts, and bare feet, Dome guessed that he was a resident of the Acres. Dress codes elsewhere in the city were as strict and formal as the building regulations, with low tolerance for bare skin. The man was short, wide, and wiry, his black hair close-cropped and his eyes set deep beneath a jutting brow. He was clearly unarmed and did not appear to be offering any threat.
He stared expressionlessly at Dome for a few seconds before shifting his gaze downwards, toward the body.
The space the two men were standing in was bounded by compacted mesas of garbage that rose steeply, perhaps three stories high. Every visible surface was the same mottled silvery-gray freckled with cerulean blue: thirty years’ worth of plastic bags, fused and solidified. Blue was the only color that did not fade. From the open area, pathways radiated between the mounds in five directions. Languid streamers of lime-green vapor seeped continuously from the ground, gradually merging into the mauve haze overhead.
The body looked flat and curiously two-dimensional, like something out of a police training demo, a corpse-icon painted onto the floor. It lay at 2 o’clock to the north pathway, its right arm angled over its head, left leg bent outward. The whole body was a uniform cola-brown in color, glittering slightly.
The shifting vapors made it difficult for Dome to see details. For instance, there appeared to be no obvious variations to suggest clothing, skin, or hair. Dome frowned and turned off the heat scanner to look again, but could not make sense of what he saw. From his belt he now unclipped the slender telescoping lance known in police circles as a “whisker.” Its tip was sensitive enough to provide chemical analyses of anything it was poked into. He pointed it toward the inert body, not yet touching it.
Dome tightened the focusing ring on his monocle. With the heat scanner turned off, he now saw that the figure was covered in a layer of some substance from head to foot. Still not making sense of what lay before him, the police agent extended the tip of his whisker toward the corpse’s right calf and tapped it.
Immediately, the glittering mantle that covered the body parted and drew back, as if alive.
It was alive.
Dome’s arm jerked back reflexively, the whisker twanging upwards.
The other man’s lips stretched wide, exposing his crooked teeth in a sly grin.
“Roaches,” he smirked. Clearly, he was amused to witness the agent’s discomfort. “The insects found him before anyone else.” He spoke in a mixture of dialects built upon a base of Hindi and Punjabi, instead of the mandatory Hinglish of urban dwellers across the nation.
Dome clenched his teeth and swallowed hard as a wave of nausea caught him unawares. A glimpse of raw red flesh had winked on and off for the instant that the blanket of insect bodies had parted. Not only was vomiting into a face mask physically dangerous to its wearer, but to show weakness in the presence of a mere civilian could result in the loss of one month’s pay: Police agents had to maintain their dignity under all circumstances.
“And it’s been here how long?” he asked finally, when he had control over his voice again. “The body, I mean.”
“Early morning,” said the other man. “Or anyway, that’s when it was noticed.”
Dome nodded, just as his body armor registered a movement behind him—He had no time to react.
Two, maybe three bodies hurled themselves at him, pinning him down. There were a couple of sharp grunts from the attackers as the suit attempted to repel them with shocks. But they wouldn’t be shaken off. Then, as quickly as it had started, the assault was over and Dome was soaring up and away, suspended from his umbilical cable, returning to the transport overhead.
He struggled briefly against the blackout that inevitably attended the conflict of pressures his body was subjected to as it rose. Then the void overtook him and he knew no more.
Three hours had passed since Dome and Hem had returned to the station. A detailed debriefing had been ordered.
“It was planned,” Dome insisted. “It must have been. I didn’t see any of the others—never got a chance. And the witness gave no indication whatsoever.”
He had already described the corpse. Obviously, it had just been a pretext to get him in place. In retrospect, the presence of only one resident in that open space, the relative silence in that teeming, congested colony, the staged presentation of the body—all of these had been transparent indications that a trap had been set up.
But for what?
Dome claimed that his attackers had made no effort to cut the cable that connected him to his transport. They had merely pinned him down for a few moments and then withdrawn. “They weren’t really trying. I can’t be sure but my impression was that they let me go—they fell away as soon as the copter began pulling up.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make
sense.”
He’d returned to consciousness once Hem had reined him into the cockpit and secured him in his seat. Meanwhile, back at the station, a full alert had been sounded. Dome was rushed into quarantine and given a thorough physical examination during which he was anesthetized. Then he was coated in a thin layer of antibiotics and brought to a secure room for the debriefing, sealed into a clear plastic recovery bubble with its own air supply. He was told it was for his own protection.
Two bureau chiefs were present now, along with a dozen officers of Dome’s rank. Hem, however, was absent. There were two other men in the room, both civilians. They wore the pale linen suits of high-ranking government officials. The fact that they were not introduced made it clear that they belonged to one of the ultra-secret services. The kind that the media were not authorized to make direct reference to without fear of losing their licenses.
One of these men spoke now.
He was the taller of the two, sleek with the confidence that comes with absolute power. His skin was brownish-purple and cratered with old acne scars from youth. Anyone else would have had the unsightly texture surgically smoothed away, but this man had chosen to keep it, along with the iron-gray of his hair. He was a realist. A pragmatist who had no use for outward frills and no obligation to maintain an attractive exterior. He wore wrap-around shades, impenetrably black, over his eyes.
“Are you aware,” said this man, his head turned toward Dome, “that there have been precedents?” His voice was soft, without weight, and his lips barely moved. He may well have been a physical mouthpiece for someone else, someone speaking through him via a remote mic. “This is not the first episode of its kind.”
“Oh?” That was Police Chief Mana. A tall woman built like a tank on two legs, hair pulled back in a wispy ponytail. She spoke in a rasping bark. “We are aware of only two previous incidents—accidents is what we called them.”
“Officially, yes, they were accidents,” said the linen suit, turning his head toward the chief. Dome saw that his throat moved as he spoke. Apparently the voice was his own. “But I am authorized to tell you now that they were controlled experiments. And not the only ones. There were others. None were successful—if by success we mean that our operative survived with his skin intact. In another sense, they were wholly successful. They confirmed our suspicions that the sector known as Golden Acres has ceased to be a mere eyesore and embarrassment to the capital city of our glorious nation, the premier world power of our time, and has become, instead, a threat.”
There was a silence.
The meeting had been convened in a room with scenic windows.
Dome was seated a little apart from the others, in his recovery bubble, close to the window. From the corner of his eye he could see the picture-perfect vista of the city, its avenues stretching away to infinity, its rigidly linear buildings, its silently speeding vehicles. For security reasons, the Hub was taller than any structures in its vicinity.
He’d been working here ever since he earned his body armor at the age of twenty-two. He was lean and handsome, his black hair cut short, a neatly trimmed mustache over his top lip, his nose straight, his eyes clear. He was four years away from being eligible for marriage, but the Police Bureau had already cleared his application for a spouse and all the benefits that came with one: two-bedroom apartment, private transportation, paid holidays. The woman, a fellow officer suitable to his rank and physical dimensions, would be chosen for him by his seniors. As was normal with all salaried personnel in the country, it was the employer’s prerogative to choose mates for their dependents. Until then, young adults lived with their parents, under conditions of strict celibacy that included medication to suppress unseemly desires.
Premier world power. The words strolled luxuriously through Dome’s head, like an emperor touring his estates.
Dome felt the familiar rich thrill lapping through his consciousness. It was grand, it was heady, to belong to a nation of such consequence. World power! Yes, that’s what we are! he thought. A glory to behold, the envy of all other nations!
The reference to “controlled experiments” barely penetrated the light haze that enveloped his senses.
Instead, he allowed himself to be mesmerized by the view from the window. Blinding white clouds drifted lazily against the dizzy blue vault. He could see the darting profiles of police transports as they sped across the city’s skies. He wondered how soon it would be before he would be released to duty once more. He wondered if the faint flush of heat he felt at his temples was a reaction to the antibiotics coursing through his system. There was a faint nausea too and the first stirrings of a headache. He registered these impressions with surprise but no actual alarm.
The silence in the room deepened in some way.
With a guilty start, Dome returned his attention to the others around him. He had the oddest impression that his distraction had been noticed, even though no one was looking directly at him. In fact, they seemed to be avoiding his gaze in some subtle way, as if peering around him rather than at him. He told himself he was imagining things.
The man in the linen suit continued now, in his weightless voice, as if he had not paused to ensure that Dome was listening. “Clearly, it is a threat that we can no longer tolerate. Five years have passed since we cut their water and power supply. The area continues to be used as a dumping ground for every kind of waste—toxic, nontoxic, wet, dry, what have you. They have no sanitation facilities, no access to any medical supplies, no health-related technology. No supplies in the form of fresh food, no manufactured goods. Their air is unbreathable. They live ten to a cubicle, each cubicle the size of an aircraft toilet.” He paused for maximum effect. “Yet they thrive.” On the final word, his voice swung down like an axe, exposing the heart of his passion.
That repulsive vitality!
The man’s nostrils expanded, and he exposed his teeth in disgust. “The time is long overdue,” he whispered, “for that zone of filth and human degradation to be extinguished.
Snuffed out. Erased.” He turned his head slowly, taking in his audience one at a time, yet excluding Dome. If his voice had been soft before, now it was little more than a purr. “We all know the realities: We cannot use military force without attracting the attention of the world’s moral matrons. But the residents of the Acres have steadfastly refused to submit of their own accord. In such a situation, I think you will all agree, we have few choices …” He paused once more. “Yes? May I assume agreement?”
Dome’s forehead puckered in confusion. He glanced around the room and saw, to his surprise, that heads were nodding. Whatever the linen suit was talking about, the other members of the audience seemed to be in on the secret. Now the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. His heart began to thump within his chest. What were the others nodding over?
He could not remember hearing of any resolution. Had something been discussed in his absence? Had some crucial decision been made?
No one was meeting his eye.
The unnamed man’s head was swiveling around now, toward Dome. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, young man. You have every reason to look bewildered. That is because you do not realize that what began as a routine operation has ended very differently. Even as you sit there, believing that you are the same young officer who leapt into his transport to respond to a distress call this morning, the truth is, you have been damaged beyond repair by the encounter. What may have appeared to be a long and fruitful life ahead of you has today, in the space of a few brief minutes, been reduced to a week, maybe two.”
Dome stammered, “Sir—I—what …?”
“It is the latest strategy of the denizens of Golden Acres.
They use various pretexts to lure government agents to their environment, then jab them with microfine needles filled with infected blood and send them back. No doubt they have found ways of harvesting the hospital wastes that are dumped on their land. No doubt they find painkillers and hypodermic syringes along with all the rest. It
is swiftly done, perhaps using a mild anesthetic, so that the victim is not even aware of what has happened to him. But we have seen the results and, I assure you, what I say is true. While you were unconscious during your physical exam, I was able to reveal to your colleagues the site of the puncture wound, deep within the crease of your right armpit. The infection will be fatal and incurable, a cocktail of TB, hepatitis, and SARS, plus a speeding agent which causes the germs to go to work at twice their natural speed.”
He paused, like a college lecturer who knows when to give his students time to absorb a nodal point in their instruction.
“I have informed your colleagues that only one course of action is available to you, and of course we will offer you a couple of hours to adjust your mind to these new realities. It boils down to this: We will send you back in there, loaded with contagions that we have prepared for just this purpose. Whereas the technology of the squatter community has not progressed beyond the primitive skin-puncture delivery systems of the mosquito, ours spreads through a modified rhinovirus via skin contact and then to the mucus membranes. Death follows in forty-eight hours as the lungs clog up with fluids. When the contagion spreads amongst the residents, they’ll have no option but to come streaming out of there like rats from a burning warehouse. We’ll have specially prepared containment hangars ready for them. Their bodies will be disposed of safely, with no risk of further contamination. It should take about a fortnight. From the very start, we shall announce the outbreak of an epidemic of catastrophic proportions and declare to the world that for the sake of the entire human species we will have no option but to raze and sterilize the entire area …”
Delhi Noir Page 24
