Fog: The Climate Fiction Saga

by Wendeberg, A.

  The word payload makes me think of the toxic pearl on my tongue.

  ‘If it wasn’t shot down before it hit the ground,’ Runner mumbles.

  We all breathe easier when only the ocean slips past the plane. Ben gibbers away, Yi-Ting is silent.

  An hour later, everyone is in the tent, screening the oddly circular images the camera sent to Ben’s machine before it detonated.

  Runner slides his fingers across the screen, zooming in and out of sections of the BSA camp. He stops at a large gun. ‘That’s the HMG they used, and looks as if there’s another one under this tarp here, and this one could be the outline of a mortar.’

  ‘What’s an HMG?’ I ask.

  ‘Short for heavy machine gun. They tried to take down the plane with it.’

  ‘Lots of heavy stuff.’ Ben points at rectangles covered by green tarps. ‘Armoured vehicles and… Shit! A helicopter?’

  We all bend our necks as if that would allow us a better view. Dry palm leaves are piled on a large, tarp-covered thing. It’s taller and broader than any of the huts.

  ‘Hard to tell,’ Runner says. ‘But it would help explain how a few handfuls of men can wipe Taiwan clean in weeks. They could have gassed everyone from above and been done in three or four days, maybe even less. On the other hand, this camp might represent only a small part of their forces here. You two need to keep searching.’

  ‘That’s what we are here for,’ Ben says. ‘But… Where the hell did they get all this heavy stuff from? And the fuel? How did they transport it up there and why the effort?’

  I still flinch when people say words like “hell” or “God” because where I come from, religion and any reference to it is illegal. One could be publicly whipped just for saying “hell” aloud. I have to get rid of this stupid reflex.

  Now, Kat flicks through image after image while Runner sits silently with his eyes half closed, his hands folded to his chin.

  ‘Stop!’ he barks and we freeze. The screen shows a man with orange hair. He stands in full view and calmly looks up at the camera. ‘He shows us his face. I can’t believe it! Kat, it’s time. Do whatever it takes to get Cacho online within the next sixty minutes. Use satellite communication and pretend you are searching for that man’s face first. Ting — is it possible to piggyback text communication on Kat’s searches? Something the BSA would be unaware of?’

  Yi-Ting stares at her fingers, interweaves them, and nods. ‘It’ll take a while, but I think it’s possible.’

  ‘Excellent. Kat, this is Cacho’s last known location.’ Runner stands and flicks his fingers over the screen, wiping away the man to show a map. ‘You should have it in your files.’

  I see a hasty glimpse of my mountains. Standing on tiptoe, I wonder if I miss my home. But no, I don’t. I miss my reservoir, the woods, the turbines. But not home.

  ‘Did I hear correctly?’ Kat asks. ‘Use satellite communication?’

  ‘He has shown us his face and he knows we’ll find out his identity, and learn that he’s the reason the BSA’s activities are suddenly invisible to us. He doesn’t know that we are already aware of this and have set our own plans in motion. If we don’t use satellites now, we are making ourselves suspicious. This also gives us a chance to talk to Cacho. I’ve been wracking my brain on how to do this. Erik just helped us.’

  Yi-Ting is already hunched over her computer, fingers flying over keys. Kat gives Runner a single nod and gets to work.

  ‘While Kat finds Cacho, we will keep scanning the data.’ His voice gives me the chills. He flicks back to Erik. The man with orange hair is frozen in time. His thick arms are crossed over a broad chest, the black shirt stretched where muscles press against fabric; his legs are covered by a pair of black pants with a pistol at the left side of his hip, a knife the length of my lower arm at the other side and a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

  More images flicker across the screen showing trees twitching in the wind and men moving on the ground at a snail’s pace. ‘Look for anyone familiar and anything out of the ordinary, anything that seems off.’

  ‘To me, a lot seems off.’ I point at a far corner of the next image. ‘Children, with assault rifles. How old are they? Eight? Nine?’

  His hand drops from the screen. ‘What do you see, Micka?’ His eyes are sharp. But there’s no interest in his face, just cold efficiency. He’s not asking a question; he wants to teach me.

  ‘Children, as I said.’

  ‘Wrong. You see killers. If they stand before you and you hesitate only a second, you are dead. The BSA makes sure these kids function the way they want them to. They will kill you. You cannot save them.’

  I huff, unable to believe what he’s saying.

  He brings his face close to mine and says in a dangerously soft voice, ‘If I can’t trust you with my life out there, if I can’t trust that you will kill whoever attempts to kill us — no matter the age or apparent cuteness — this apprenticeship is over. End of story.’

  I have no clue what the heck is wrong with him. Ben takes a step forward and Runner cuts him off before he can say a peep. ‘Dare tell her otherwise. Dare make her soft and a liability and I will kill you.’

  Ben lifts his hands and retreats. This is his second attempt to protect me. I turn back to Runner and gaze into his mulberry black eyes, wondering what makes him switch between warm and cold so quickly. I look at the screen and the group of children. They seem harmless — small and bony boys with mussed hair, dirty skin, and black clothes. Boys who only play war, one could think if it weren’t for the short submachine guns on their backs and the belts of bullets weighing down their chests and shoulders.

  Runner doesn’t move.

  ‘How many children have you killed? And at what point, precisely, did you throw away empathy?’ I ask.

  Kat’s spine stiffens and she turns her head in our direction. Her search for Cacho seems forgotten for a moment.

  Runner’s gaze is steady and cold when he says, ‘You believe this is the worst?’

  Icy goose bumps run up my neck when he points to the screen. ‘These children receive military training. They know how to kill with knives, pistols, rifles, and explosives. It’s more than likely they’ll be using the latter. The BSA employs them as shields and living bombs. It’s easy to make the kids believe they’ll see paradise after they had to go through…’ he flicks through a few more images, searching for something in the perimeter, then stops and whispers a lone word, ‘…this.’

  From the corner of my vision I see Kat turning back to her SatPad, muttering commands at someone far away.

  Runner bends forward and zooms into a group of girls. They sit on the ground at the edge of camp, mighty trees shading them. I’m guessing their ages to be between eleven and fourteen. ‘Kitchen helps?’ I ask, knowing — no, fearing — that this is not the whole truth.

  He shakes his head no, invites me to step closer, then sits down with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins.

  Wisps of black hair are frozen in the breeze. Large, black eyes, skin the colour of cinnamon. One of the girls is smiling at the baby feeding at her breast; another is looking up at the sky, directly at me. I can see the reflection of fear there — she’s just discovered the package dropping from the airplane when the picture is taken. The other girls are connecting wires to light grey packages with nimble hands. Another girl has a bulge on her back. I tap at the screen and enlarge the section. A small fist and two tiny feet stick out of the wrapping.

  ‘This is the worst you’ll ever lay your eyes on.’ There is a trace of unsteadiness in Runner’s voice.

  I don’t dare look at him. ‘Why?’ I whisper.

  ‘What you see is the worst kind of slavery. The girls go through the same military training as the boys. They also serve as prizes for good conduct, most of them forced to satisfy several men at once. Only a few are married off to BSA commanders, so no one else can touch them. These girls also believe in paradise, for themselves a
nd their babies. And isn’t that the most conceivable when you are in hell already?’

  I can’t tear my eyes off the small group. My shoulders quiver. I want to scream, but I can’t make myself produce a sound. Ben, Yi-Ting, and Runner are silent, too, and we all watch the cruel series of images. Reality is so terrible and heavy, I don’t think I can lift my feet to run away. My mind wants to lose itself, get drunk on whatever is available to help me forget.

  ‘And you just dropped a bomb on them,’ I whisper.

  ‘The blast radius is five metres; they were out of reach,’ Yi-Ting says. Her voice is brittle.

  ‘But you knew they’d likely be there, somewhere. You didn’t know their precise location, and still you dropped a bomb.’

  Her dark eyes grow even darker and there’s a dangerous glint to them just before she turns on her heels and walks from the comm tent.

  ‘Runner, I cannot kill them. Find another apprentice,’ I hear myself say. My legs surprise me — I’m able to shuffle my feet. But before I walk away, a hand comes down on my wrist.

  ‘Micka, do you trust me?’

  ‘I… I’m not sure anymore.’

  He exhales a deep sigh, but doesn’t let me go. ‘One would expect an excellent strategist to find a solution — one that would free these kids and give them a life. I’ve been thinking very hard, believe me. And every time I see them, I ache to help, to get them out of there. But I reach the same conclusion over and over again. When a girl with her baby in one arm and a bomb in the other comes running to blow me up, I will open fire. Without a doubt.’

  My wrist slips from his grip and I begin to walk. Each step feels like one very loud CLICK. Exit sanity. CLICK. Enter madness. CLICK.

  I sit down at the tent’s mouth and lay my head on my knees. My breath is heavy, my eyes itch.

  Soft footfalls behind me. Runner clears his throat. ‘Do not lose sight of what’s crucial, Micka,’ he says. ‘Because if you do, the BSA wins. They use and destroy these kids for their own sick goals. Child soldiers have been deployed in almost all wars that humans have waged; they’re used to demoralise the enemy. They’re taken from their parents and put on a battlefield to weaken anyone with a trace of emotion.’

  Quivering, I stand. ‘What if Ezra were one of them?’

  ‘That is not fair and you know it. If they had taken my daughter, I would lose my own good judgement, run straight into their camp armed to the teeth, and I’d try everything to get her out. And that would be a quick end to Ezra and me.’

  He uncrosses his arms and his gaze softens a bit. ‘I know how it feels: the fury, the helplessness, the disgust with what humans are capable of. The rage. These feelings aid no one. They take away your ability to think and to find the best way to stop the BSA. Stopping the BSA ultimately stops this war and this horrible abuse. You must learn to control these feelings.’

  I tip my head, feigning understanding or agreement, and walk to my tent. My knife is on the side of my ruck; I slip it into my waistband and under my shirt.

  ‘Need a break. Back soon,’ I say when I walk past Runner.

  My legs carry me swiftly down the sloping meadow. I need to feel the brushing of wind on my skin, so I set off in a run. Twigs slap their foliage at my face. My lungs begin to burn. I can smell the sea just before I break through the underbrush and stagger to a halt at the cliffs. The mighty ocean thunders against the small island of Itbayat. What a beautiful name; it tastes of…of… Dammit! All I can taste is the rawness of tears in my eyes and my throat. My mouth and tongue feel constricted with fury, disgust, and helplessness. Just as Runner said.

  I sit down on a rock, pull my knife from the sheath, and roll up my right sleeve. There’s still space on my upper arm. I run the blade across my skin and barely recognise the pain as the calmness washes over me. The last time I cut myself was months ago. I had thought I’d never do it again. But this… The man with orange hair, the kids, the baby wrapped against the child-mother’s back. The child bomb builder. The child soldiers. And the baby. How can anyone…

  The blood drips from the first cuts and I repeat the movement of blade through skin. One more. And another. And another.

  Click. Click. Click. Sanity. Madness. The dripping of blood mingles softly with the wash of sea against land. It’s eating away at the island and I’m eating away at myself. Slowly, too slowly, I grow calmer. But the hand holding the knife doesn’t seem to feel the calmness. It trembles more and more until it’s almost impossible for me to hold the weapon. I switch it to my right hand and begin cutting my other arm. Blood rolls down my skin, thickens and congeals, making me impatient. I need it to flow. I need more. I want to see it run down my skin and make my body weep.

  A hand the colour of barley coffee with cream closes around the knife’s handle. ‘Enough,’ he says softly. His voice sounds wobbly. He places the MedKit at my side, kneels down, and wipes my wounds clean. He bandages them with care. I turn my head away while he works.

  ‘I’m good now,’ I manage, still not looking up. I don’t want him to offer me comfort, not now, or ever. ‘You can take the knife with you. I’m done. Thank you.’

  Staring ahead at the dark blue sea, I wish Runner far away from me. He shouldn’t have come. I can cope. I always do. I have so many scars and not once did I need help mending.

  He rises and begins to walk away. I know he plans to watch from afar.

  ‘Runner?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ll not harm myself. Not jump in the ocean or…whatever. I just need to be alone. Please go back to the camp.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He doesn’t seem to move.

  ‘I’ll be sixteen in a few days. I’m an adult. Other women my age are married and have had their first child. I’m old enough to know what I need and what I don’t need. At the moment, I don’t need you hovering. Go away.’

  ‘You turned sixteen a week or two ago, I believe. If you need anything, I’m analysing the visuals and waiting for Kat to return with intelligence on Cacho. See you later.’

  He walks away and the space to breathe grows infinitely larger.

  I lie down and let the wind and the grass tickle my face. The clouds drift across a blue sky as if all is normal. Maybe it is and only I think something must change. I imagine myself entering the BSA camp and mowing down all men with one of their own automatic guns, magically keeping the kids and their babies alive, marching them away from terror and into a new and happy life. But I’m not stupid enough to believe it would work that way.

  The wind moves the clouds the same way it moved me here to this remote spot on Earth. But it wasn’t really the wind. It was a large aircraft that brought me close to what’s left of Hong Kong, then a much smaller, silent machine delivered us to a strip of the flat, dry, and sun-hardened reddish clay of Itbayat. When I stepped out, the humid air carried such a multitude of scents my mind couldn’t comprehend them all.

  In truth, it was Cacho who brought me here. Cacho, the old Sequencer who visited my village two or three times each year, and who used to call me “sweetie.” A friendly old man, I’d believed. Why did he want me to be Runner’s apprentice? Why did he want me to be a sniper at the front lines of a global war?

  There’s only one answer. He must have known that towards the man who fathered me is where Runner would be heading. And so, I would go there, too. A Micka package. Here is your daughter, Erik.

  I sit up straight; my armpits are itching with shock. Old Zula told me when I was seven or eight years old that I am not my father’s daughter. But why does the man who fathered me now show up in a BSA camp in Taiwan? This doesn’t make sense to me at all.

  I stand and run back to our camp. Blood loss sings in my ears. My tongue is parched when I arrive, so I dash into the kitchen tent, squeeze past Yi-Ting, scoop up a bowl with water, and drain it. She eyes my sleeves — bulging where the bandages stopped the bleeding.

  ‘What happened?’ she ask.

  ‘Um…just…a scratch.’

&
nbsp; I make to leave, but she catches my wrist before I can move. ‘You hurt me,’ she says.

  That’s why I love this girl. She’s honest, she doesn’t drag her hurt around, doesn’t hide it away to cook it up until it blows over.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ My heart is aching and I can’t help pulling her hand up to my face and pressing my lips against her wrist. ‘You are trembling,’ I say.

  ‘Parasympathetic backlash. My adrenaline is all spent. I’ll take a nap in a few.’ She inhales to add something, but I step forward and take her face in my hands. Her eyes widen in shock.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say and dash away, shame scorching my face. I have no clue where I left my balance.

  Runner is seated across from the screen in the comm tent, zooming in and out of images. There’s an unfinished sketch of the camp on his SatPad.

  ‘That man is the only reason Cacho wanted you to pick me as your apprentice. He wants me delivered to Erik.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe. That there’s a connection was obvious as soon as we saw your father’s face. If Cacho is involved, the expertise these two men bring to the BSA can and will turn the tide of war dramatically. We might lose it in a few months.’ He stops the flitting series of images and zooms into one, showing the side pocket of Erik’s pants as he dives behind the wall of sandbags. A SatPad peeks out from the black fabric.

  My scalp prickles. ‘Why would Cacho want me to meet…Erik?’ The words come out reluctantly, as if the air is too thin to carry them. The name tastes faintly of strawberry.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve told you my theories, but they sound crazy even to me. The BSA wants to end all human life. I’m not too sure your father cares or even knows about your existence. Cacho never received any military training as far as I know, so it’s conceivable that he believes you would do a better job of killing Erik than I would.’

  ‘Because I’m ashamed this man fathered me?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what Cacho believes. Maybe he thinks you’d hate this man so much, you’d make sure he dies. But this hypothesis is rather lame. We’ll ask Cacho soon. Kat?’ He turns around to address her. She shakes her head, tapping at her earphones. I’m on it.