Cataveiro

by E. J. Swift

  A soldier in camouflage comes out of one of the houses and lights a cigarette. Slender build, could be male or female. The figure paces up and down, smoking. They drop the cigarette, grind it into the ground, and go back inside.

  What is going on? Enquiry? Interrogation? Taeo listens anxiously, but hears nothing.

  Moving as quietly as he can, he makes his way painstakingly around the edge of the village, maintaining his cover in the trees. From the other side, he can see the door to the house from which the soldier emerged, but they do not reappear. He turns away from the village. Dropping to his belly, he wriggles forwards to where the trees end and the hillside falls away so he can overlook the beach below.

  A thin column of smoke rises from the wreck of the Osirian boat. There is little left; the boat is a forlorn skeleton, the white exterior charred to black. The beach has been cordoned off from the land and is teeming with busy figures. Military motorboats have driven up past the tideline, churning up the sand, while larger vessels hover out to sea. Armed Patagonian soldiers patrol in their camouflage uniforms. He can see a number of prisoners, tied together. There are casualties, with medics attending them. There are the shapes of bodies covered by sheets or tarpaulins.

  Something happened after he left. A clash. Pirates, he guesses. Pirates, drawn like sharks by ripe information, and the army, in pursuit. There is one ship out to sea which has no identifying markings and is effectively hemmed in by three others. No one is up on deck. Another, smaller boat is capsized in the water.

  He scours the beach for people he might recognize. There is no sign of the leader from yesterday, or any of the villagers. No sign of Ivra. He notices a figure in plain clothes stepping among the dead and the injured. The woman’s movements are precise and bird-like. She bends and lifts the sheet from one of the dead, examines the face, lets the sheet fall. She does the same with the next body, and the next.

  When the woman on the beach reaches the last covered bodies, she pulls the sheets away completely. Three blackened skeletons are revealed beneath. The dead Osirians. The villagers must have burned them, but not for long enough. The woman crouches by the skeletons for a long time. She touches the bones, and examines the ash on her fingers.

  Taeo sees the distinctive flash of sun on glass from the other side of the village. Someone else is surveying the scene. He is not the only one skulking in the forest.

  It is time to leave.

  Vikram has gone. Frantic, Taeo goes to the back of the cave, touches the walls, the sides of the cave. There is no way out but the way he came in. The Osirian is not here. Vikram has gone.

  Panic overwhelms him. He runs outside, opens his mouth to shout for Vikram, then thinks better of it. Has he been taken? Has he run off? Are there people here in the woods, looking for Taeo, lying in wait? Did they wait for Taeo to leave the cave and grab Vikram? He thinks of the tales of the Patagonian pirates: ruthless, lawless sailors, kidnappers and torturers – they take their payment in blood. The Republic executes pirates if they are caught in Antarctican waters. Pirates will have no love for Taeo.

  He surveys the surrounding forestry, straining for every sound. He hears the wind, the leaves rustling. Tiny snaps and cracks that make him start.

  Who is out there? Who is after him and Vikram?

  He sees no one. He hears no one. But fear locks his limbs. The man on the beach – he is certain now that he has been pursued.

  He has to find the Osirian. Vikram is his ticket home, his ticket back to Shri.

  It is Shri’s face that finally makes him move, back into the murmuring forest. He moves through the grey barks of the trees that bend and sway, leafy branches tapping his shoulder, causing him to start, convinced he is being ambushed. The Patagonians tell stories about trees, in the same manner they tell stories about everything. The continent has many trees, and the spirits of those that are gone have come to sit upon the shoulders of those that survive. The trees whisper and say malevolent things.

  This country is getting to him worse than he thought. It’s absurd, it’s dangerous; he cannot let himself fall into its traps. The real danger is the people.

  Think. Use your logic. If Vikram walked out alone, it is unlikely that he went the way that Taeo just came back, otherwise he would have seen him. And he cannot believe Vikram had the strength to get very far.

  He searches the perimeter of the cave, going first east, then west, treading a figure of eight. When that yields nothing he widens the field, working methodically in a grid pattern. Once or twice he tries calling out, but his voice sounds thin and plaintive and frightens him more than it feels of use.

  He searches for over an hour, coming back and checking the cave to see if the Osirian has returned. His certainty is growing. Someone has taken Vikram.

  He climbs higher up, where the ground is rockier and the trees skinnier. Low plants and perennials carpet the mountainside, the bright tapestry of the flowers seeming to mock him with its carefree colour. He can see its brown peak rising against a blue sky with fast, scudding clouds. He climbs over a clear, tumbling stream and stops to wash his face and clear his eyes.

  It is only then that he sees the Osirian.

  Vikram is standing, exposed and utterly still, with his back to Taeo. At first Taeo thinks he must be threatened, at gunpoint, but then he spots the animal. Half-concealed among the spindly bushes is a single guanaco, the focus of Vikram’s spellbound gaze. The creature is poised, frozen. Only its small ears twitch. It must sense that Vikram is there, but it has not fled.

  Relief floods him.

  ‘Vikram.’

  The man whips around; the guanaco startles and bounds away, vanished in a trice. Taeo sees tears in Vikram’s eyes before the Osirian blinks them hastily away.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ says Vikram gruffly. ‘I had dreams. I always thought – but if it was true, I thought everything would be dead, poisoned. Not like this. Not living. Not people … or … or that.’

  A scene flashes into Taeo’s head: Kadi and Sasha, a trip to the penguin colony. The wonder in their eyes is replicated in Vikram’s face. The Osirian has only ever known the ocean; for all Taeo knows, he has never seen a creature with fur.

  ‘It’s a guanaco,’ he says. ‘You don’t see them so often. They’re protected by the Restoration Law, but that doesn’t stop hunters. Live meat is big money on the black market.’

  The Osirian is staring at him, uncomprehending. Taeo’s words mean nothing to him. Restoration Law. Live meat. What does he know about this world? In the unfamiliar realm of land, Vikram is effectively a child.

  ‘Come on,’ says Taeo. ‘The beach is full of soldiers. They’ll be looking for us. For you, mainly. We have to move on.’

  He feels the presence of the gun, stashed at the top of his backpack. An Osirian weapon, and if it could be charged, Vikram would know how to use it. But he cannot trust Vikram with something so volatile. Not yet.

  ‘Where do we go?’ Vikram asks.

  ‘To Fuego. To the harbour. There are other Antarcticans there. I imagine it’s where you must have been headed in the first place.’

  The Osirian says again, ‘We had no maps.’

  This is something to discuss later, Taeo thinks. For now, they are in danger. The forest is not empty. He shares food and water with Vikram, replenishing the bottle from the stream, and gives Vikram a spare set of clothes. The garments are loose on the younger man’s thinner frame, but less conspicuous than the ones he was wearing. They eat quickly. Everything is in Taeo’s pack; there is nothing to collect from the cave. Once again he recalls the pilot’s offhand advice, and thanks her silently. It is as if she had a sixth sense.

  ‘I had a ride,’ Taeo says. ‘But the boatman left me in the lurch. We will have to make the journey on foot. How is your leg holding up? Are you all right to make a start?’

  ‘I don’t think there is a choice,’ says the young man.

  He follows Taeo quite willingly.

  The journey that took a mere four h
ours by boat is agonizingly slow on foot. Taeo is worried about Vikram’s leg, but whatever the herbalist did, it seems to have sealed the wound from infection. If Vikram is in pain, he refuses to acknowledge it, pressing on until he is physically unable to go any further. Taeo teaches him some basic Spanish vocabulary, enough to get by if they become separated. At night, he dreams of losing himself in columns of sweet rising smoke.

  They find the bodies by accident, seeking shelter from an afternoon storm under the trees off the old valley road. It is the rain that gives them away, dripping from weighed-down leaves to spatter on the tarps they have been crudely wrapped in, tarps that are now unravelling. There are three dead, two women and a man. Clouds of flies invade the bloated limbs. The skin that is visible is covered in a raw, weeping rash.

  Vikram takes a nervous step back.

  ‘What happened to them? A plague?’

  Taeo takes a stick and gently lifts the cloth covering the woman’s face. A layer of skin peels away with it, exposing the wet, putrefying flesh beneath. The staring eyes are yellow and inflamed, their rims swarming with ants.

  ‘I’m not sure. It looks like redfleur, but …’

  ‘Redfleur?’

  ‘It’s a virus, a super-strain. It can kill within hours. There’s no cure.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what happened to these people?’

  Taeo considers the face before him. The first time he saw a redfleur victim, his reaction was horror and repulsion. But now he is able to regard the corpse with a scientific scrutiny. He is not a doctor, or a virologist, but Ivra’s terse explanations of the disease, which the Republic’s tight immigration laws have kept mercifully at bay, have given him an idea of how it progresses.

  ‘If it is, it’s very far south for a redfleur outbreak. Worryingly so. And the bodies – they should have been burned to eradicate any trace.’

  ‘They could be contagious?’ Vikram backs further away. The alarm is evident in his face.

  ‘Not now they’re dead.’ The stream of ants from the woman’s eyes runs down her cheek and neck and swerves around Taeo’s boots. ‘Some people think the most contagious period is before the symptoms show. That’s why it’s so hard to track. But if the relatives of these people believed they died of redfleur, they might have been too frightened to say anything. That would explain why they’re out here in the open.’

  ‘Why? Wouldn’t they want to warn people?’

  ‘They might not want to spend months in quarantine.’

  When Taeo turns back he sees Vikram is watching, or has forced himself to watch. The difference is subtle and it is impossible to know.

  ‘So it’s true,’ he says. ‘There are plagues on land.’

  ‘Some you can vaccinate against. Others you can’t. The Boreal States control the medical records that survived the Blackout. If you ask me, that’s their biggest crime.’

  He is talking too much again, and forgetting who he is talking to. A sign of how long it has been since he has had anyone to talk to at all.

  ‘The important thing is, if you see someone with rashes all over their skin, like petals – that’s where the name comes from, redfleur, the Boreals call it, or la flor roja, they say here – just stay away. When the rash starts weeping, it’s probably redfleur. Bleeding from the mouth, that’s another sign. Don’t go near them and absolutely don’t touch them. There’s nothing you can do to help. Like I said, there’s no cure.’

  He lets the cloth fall back over the woman’s face and gets to his feet.

  Vikram is staring at him, full of suspicion.

  ‘Who are you? You’re not a soldier. I know soldiers. You’re not one of them. I don’t think you’re a spy either. So what are you doing in Patagonia, and what the hell do you want with me? And don’t give me that shit about just wanting to help. No one helps someone for nothing. Not in this world.’

  Taeo is only surprised it has taken so long. He has, at least, had ample time to prepare, but still he feels his body tingling in anticipation. He must get this right.

  He gives a deep sigh, and allows a few seconds to pass.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says, and offers Vikram a wry smile. ‘In one way, at least. I’m not a spy.’

  Vikram is watching him closely. He wants answers, but he is cautious too. Taeo is reminded of the small lizards here that conceal themselves among fallen leaves and bark.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m a scientist,’ says Taeo. ‘And I’m in exile, because my colleague of fifteen years betrayed me.’ He meets Vikram’s gaze frankly. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’ve got time,’ says Vikram.

  Taeo laughs softly. ‘Yes, we have that. I might as well tell you. You deserve to know. But let’s walk away from these poor souls, at least.’

  They make camp, the forest canopy shielding them from the worst of the rain, and share out the food. There isn’t much left. It is a couple of hours since they found running water, and after the mysterious bodies, Taeo is wary of refilling their bottles from stagnant pools. He tries to guess how much further it is to Fuego Town – they have been walking for three days now. Another day’s hike? Two? He consoles himself with the thought of an Antarctican ship: proper food, rice, sake and flavoured soy, even fish. There will be lighting and actual technology. At the end of it all, a pardon.

  He must not think too far ahead. First, Vikram needs answers, and the answers must be delivered with care.

  ‘Do you know about the Nuuk Treaty?’

  Vikram shakes his head.

  ‘It was signed over two hundred years ago, after the Blackout.’ Vikram looks blank, so Taeo explains. ‘The Blackout was a virus that attacked scapular implants. Almost everyone had them back then. No one knew who engineered it – there are hundreds of theories – but it was the final move in the Migration Wars. A record loss of life, and most Neon technology taken out – within days.’ He watches Vikram processing this information.

  ‘What does this have to do with anything?’

  ‘Your city, Osiris, was built because of the Blackout. To reunite the hemispheres.’

  ‘I’ve read that,’ says Vikram, but in a tone that suggests he doesn’t believe it, or is not sure now what to believe. For this, Taeo cannot blame him.

  ‘The Nuuk peace treaty was signed by all countries, and it agreed a ban on weapons, biological, nuclear, robotic. It still stands today.’

  Taeo gathers his thoughts, because this part of his narrative requires that he pays attention.

  ‘Antarctica has a civilian shipbuilding programme. I was working on a particular branch of the project. And after a while, I realized this project had military intent. They claimed it was defensive, of course. I confided in my colleague. I told her I had reservations about the project, that I felt uncomfortable continuing with my work when we had been lied to by our employers.’

  He glances at Vikram, trying to ascertain how the story is going down. The Osirian’s face gives little away. Taeo has no choice but to continue and hope his act is convincing enough.

  ‘She said she felt the same way. She said she was glad we were finally able to speak openly. That evening we sat at her house for hours, talking about the situation. What we should do. Who we could trust.’ Taeo lets his gaze drop. ‘The next day, I was arrested. She had reported me. She twisted everything I said, claimed I was going to sabotage the project. I was dismissed, of course. They sent me here.’

  He stares silently at his hands. The rain patters on the forest canopy above them.

  ‘My family are still in Antarctica. My partner, Shri. My children. I barely have contact with them. Because I spoke out against something I believed was wrong.’

  At least the final line is true.

  ‘That’s my story,’ he says quietly. ‘That’s who I am.’

  Vikram’s face tightens, and Taeo feels his heart beat faster in a surge of adrenaline. Did he buy it? Was it too much?

  ‘I was betrayed too,’ says Vikram. ‘I was betrayed
and rescued by the same man.’

  In that instant Taeo knows he has convinced him and feels a deep, terrible pity for this unfortunate stranger. He has experienced what it feels like to be unwelcome in your own home.

  ‘Who betrayed you?’

  ‘His name was Linus,’ says Vikram. There is a quiet anger in his voice that makes Taeo think Linus is lucky to be elsewhere. Taeo sits back, giving Vikram the physical space to tell his story. He cracks open another tin, canned fruit, and offers it to Vikram.

  ‘Didn’t you say we were almost out of food?’

  ‘We’re not far from Fuego.’ He hopes this is true. Vikram scoops out a handful of the fruit. He eats quickly, draining every drop from the tin and sucking the juice from his fingers before continuing to speak.

  ‘This man – Linus – he came from a powerful family. I don’t know what you know of my city …’

  ‘I know nothing but stories. Think of it as a fairytale to me.’

  ‘It’s ruled by old families. This man was from one of those families. He had power, and he liked to play games.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Vikram shakes his head.

  ‘Not when I left. But all of those people, they’re in my past now.’

  Taeo nods. He wraps his arms around his knees, listening intently.

  ‘He asked me to help him, knowing that I had no choice. I was put in a cell for something I hadn’t done.’ His eyes flick up to Taeo. ‘Like you. I couldn’t refuse his terms. It was that, or a lifetime underwater.’

  There is something chilling in the way Vikram says underwater. Taeo wants to ask more, but he does not want to interrupt.

  ‘I accepted the bargain,’ says Vikram. ‘It put people I knew in danger. I knew that it would, but I thought I could save them too. I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save any of them.’ His tone is bleak now. ‘But it was a strange thing. The man who put me in that situation, he was the one who saved me. I thought I was dead. My friends were dead. I’d accepted it – there was nothing more I could do. But his people came back for me. They got me out before it collapsed.’

  Now Taeo does speak. ‘Collapsed?’