Tamaruq

by E. J. Swift

  ‘You! Open this door!’

  ‘He can’t,’ says the scientist. Her body is slack, the full weight of it leaning against Ramona’s chest. She is losing blood from the leg wound fast. Bright red footprints track the carpet behind them. ‘He doesn’t have those privileges.’

  The others begin to press forwards, scenting an advantage. Frantic, Ramona slaps the pass again. It has to work. It has to—

  The door moves aside suddenly.

  Her mother is standing on the other side, holding the handgun which Ramona entrusted to her. Ramona drags the scientist through and Inés swipes the door shut again at once.

  ‘How did you—?’

  ‘Get to the plane,’ says her mother sharply. They back out of the final set of doors into the courtyard. A blast of desert light and heat hits her. Two security guards are lying prone on the ground. One has had his throat sawn open. Another is sprawled with his legs at odd angles to his body. There is blood, a lot of it, in pools all over the courtyard. The bodies of the pilots have been pushed from the aircraft. One of them has had his stomach ripped open and the intestines glisten wetly under the blazing light. The handler lies beside them. A few metres away is the woman Ramona first shot with the dartgun, now face down with a knife in her back.

  Ramona releases the scientist, who falls groaning to the ground.

  ‘Quick, Ma, the plane—’

  Her mother raises the handgun. She considers the scientist for a moment.

  ‘Ma!’

  Inés pulls the trigger. She turns and walks calmly ahead of her daughter. Ramona stares at her in shock.

  ‘Move,’ says Inés sharply.

  They run to the plane, Inés now gasping for breath, Ramona helping her along. Ramona pushes her up the steps and pulls the door shut with a bang. She is aware of the prisoners, sat together, trauma monopolizing their faces, the blood all over their hands, their clothes, one of them – the youngest girl, the teenager – still clutching a knife. She climbs into the cockpit, pushing aside the welling horror which now threatens to swamp her. She has to stay calm. Look at the controls. It’s an aeroplane. Here’s the console. Here, look. Different but familiar, just like Colibrí. Let your muscles remember. Don’t use your brain.

  Whatever you do, don’t think.

  The plane hums into life. Her hands grip the controls and settle. She steers the aircraft around. The wheels bump over something – someone. Ramona points the aircraft the way they came and rolls forwards, building up speed.

  She has done this a hundred times before.

  The aircraft lifts into the sky and the compound falls away behind them. Ramona focuses on the yoke, the blinking console. The horizon.

  The device given to her by the scientist fits into the palm of her hand. When she curls her fingers about it there are shallow dimples where her fingertips rest. She presses at random until she feels a slight warmth in the device. Abruptly, the scientist’s voice begins speaking, filling the cockpit with its guttural, foreign syllables.

  ‘I can’t understand you anyway,’ says Ramona aloud. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  The recording pauses, and then a robotic voice says: ‘Language detected: Español.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ramona uncertainly.

  There is a pause. She senses the machine thinking, and wants to hurl it from her, hurl the scientist out of her head, along with everything else she has seen today. The voice that continues speaking is not the scientist’s own, but it is now using a language that Ramona understands. The translated speech is dehumanized, without cadence or differentiation in tone, and there are times when the structure of the sentences sounds unnatural. But she understands it. She listens for a few sentences.

  I’ll switch it off in a minute.

  Any minute now. After this.

  THE SCIENTIST

  March 2392

  I start this diary at a crossroads, a point of uncertainty in my life – on the brink of a journey, you might say. Oh, for fuck’s sake, that sounds pretentious already. The fact is, I don’t know where the next few months – or longer – may take me. And this is unusual, because I always know what I’m doing and where I’m going.

  These musings are something of an experiment, then. The last time I recorded my thoughts I was in the knowledge schools. It’s safe to say education and I had our differences. Here in Veerdeland we are supposed to revere it, knowledge that is, but that’s done nothing to eradicate a culture of bullying as old as time. Sadly I was too smart to be ignored. That was the story then and I suppose it is the same story now, although I’m not yet sure what, at the age of forty-seven, lies ahead of me now. Back then I just wanted to get the hell away. I wanted to be somewhere where a thirst for knowledge was appreciated.

  I stumbled across those self-indulgent old journals on a vacation between advanced semesters and I deleted them, all of them. Looking back, do I wish I’d saved them? Is there any point in retaining bad memories? Does it really build character, as people like to say? I’m not so sure. I can’t say I miss that naive, zealous young girl. I like to think I wear the last few decades well.

  I haven’t even said my name – not that anyone will ever hear this but me. I’m not used to keeping a personal account. The records I keep are notations, observations, scientific discourse, theories, and occasionally breakthroughs. So here we go: my name is Davida Akycha Kvest, and I’m a senior microbiologist and virologist for the Jeysson Group. Well, don’t be modest about it, Davida, tell the truth – that’s what you’re here to do. I run the department of microbiology and virology. We have the best team in Veerdeland. I’d go so far as to say the best in the Boreal States. And me – I’m at the top of my game. Which, I suppose, is why I’m in the position I’m in now.

  I was approached at a convention in Nuuk and until that moment I hadn’t thought about going anywhere. I’m happy at Jeysson. I love my work, it’s challenging and rewarding – a rare enough combination. Why would I move? But within this one conversation, the prospect of going somewhere moved from an undreamt-of notion to a genuine possibility, and I realized I still had – I still have – an itching. In my sphere there’s always more to interrogate, not to mention all we have to recover from before the Blackout. A virus is the smartest thing in the universe, smarter than us by far, even when it is engineered by homo sapiens. A digression: I can’t pretend that I – like so many others – haven’t spent idle hours wondering who exactly was responsible for releasing the Blackout virus. Was it a nation, a splinter group, a religious zealot, an Earth child? Who would have had the resources to engineer death on such a colossal scale? Who wanted us back in the dark ages? And was that always the intended outcome, or did it go wrong? More importantly, perhaps, who would have had the balls?

  We can ask these questions – and I have, and the theories are multiple and fascinating. But in the end it’s history.

  Anyway, I’m digressing. The point about a virus is, you learn to respect its prowess. You even come to admire it for its resilience. And you always remember that when placed against it, you are insignificant.

  The man who approached me in Nuuk was small and one of the palest people I’ve ever seen, and he looked nervous.

  He said, ‘We have a proposition for you.’

  Classic, really. There was nothing to identify who ‘we’ was. Not then, and not in the interviews that followed. All I know is I’m going west, to Alaska, to work on a government-level project which goes by the name of Tamaruq. Classified, of course. It’s not military – I have my ethics and I made it clear I wouldn’t be involved in any kind of weaponry development, although I hope – I do believe – the Boreal States wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to risk a second Blackout. Not with the world in the shape it’s in – I mean, even virtual’s a problematic word these days. We all know about the illegal implant ops out there – this is the problem with criminalization: sooner or later whatever it is falls into the hands of an elite, and rarely for a good purpose.

  We have more worthy wo
rk to do than that.

  The posting will be quite an upheaval from my life here in Qaanaaq, but I’ve been to the Alaskan territories a number of times before – a few conventions and summits, and once on vacation. My English is good enough. I don’t suppose they’ll speak any Scandi, although the mystery man hinted that Tamaruq are an international bunch.

  I’ll find out soon enough. Tomorrow, we transfer from the capital out west. Travelling by zeppelin, very fancy. There’s a calm-wind window coming up.

  I’ve a good idea what this is about. In all honesty, there’s only one thing that would compel me to leave Jeysson, but – I don’t want to count newts before they hatch.

  Last week I had leaving drinks with the team. They said kind things. Claimed they’d struggle without me – not true. I’d had my qualms about leaving, especially halfway through a study, but at that moment I thought, they’ll be just fine, and maybe without me clipping their wings they’ll fly. I knew then I’d made the right decision.

  Anyway, I told them, it’s only six months. Officially, I’m on sabbatical.

  March 2392

  The last few hours of the flight they restricted us – me and my minder, the same ghostly man – to a windowless cabin. But I could tell we were going much further than had been implied in the brief. I wasn’t anxious, but it did reinforce my suspicions – what kind of project would take such pains to conceal its whereabouts and more importantly its purpose? When the zeppelin set down there was no escaping the fact that we were in the middle of a desert. Nothing but sand as far as I could see, not even a buckled old Neon highway to give a clue to our geographical location. I said to my minder, this is old American territory, isn’t it? He wouldn’t confirm it but he didn’t say no either.

  So, somewhere south of the Alaskan circle, mid-continent, I assume. We’re deep into the uninhabitable zone. It’s a high-security compound, on a topographical rise in the landscape but extensively climate-reinforced. Walls and solar panels and a geodesic greenhouse – diamond, at a guess. African tech. The outbuildings and the zeppelin all use camo. Blink and you’d miss the place entirely. The majority of the facility, though, is an underground warren where they’ve burrowed into the hill.

  I was shown my room and a private bathroom, and they brought dinner to me there. The food was cooked fresh, so the greenhouse and a good supply chain must meet their needs, despite being in the back of beyond. My induction’s tomorrow. I haven’t met any of my colleagues yet.

  March 2392

  I was right. It’s redfleur.

  It had to be, really. What else would need such extensive secrecy and isolation controls? If you think about it rationally – as a casual observer, I mean, not as a scientist – the idea of cultivating these viruses borders on the insane. There’s no disease more dangerous in the world. But of course the precautions are suitably intensive.

  They have excellent facilities. This part is a joy. The best laboratories I’ve ever seen, all funded by the knowledge banks. There’s a bit of everything – recovered Neon tech alongside state-of-the-art innovations from the past twenty years. The team of scientists is small but they are the best in the world – people whose findings I’ve read and admired and actually been sick with jealousy over. Biruk Oliyad is here, for god’s sake! I thought he was in Dakar. Even the lowest-level technicians are ridiculously qualified. The staff are thoroughly international – a few Alaskans, some from the Sino-Siberian Federation, Biruk representing the Solar Corp. I wanted to speak to him but he was standoffish with me, really quite arrogant. I hope my impressions are wrong: I want to get on with him. I want to work with him! I’m the only Veerdelander, but they all seem to make at least a token effort with languages and there’s the translation filters when we need them.

  I’ve seen the labs and the computing facilities but there’s levels deeper down and they haven’t shown me those yet. I assume the testing labs are down there.

  So far they’ve talked around the testing – my induction process has been very regimented and the staff have obviously been briefed not to mention the details – but the chimp gen-tech centre is established knowledge in our community, and it stands to reason that a good percentage of the crop is directed here.

  April 2392

  I’m settling in. I found the underground life difficult at first. It’s not advisable to go outside – the sandstorms can whip up out of nowhere, and despite our elevation the compound’s been buried in the past. But they do a lot to alleviate the mental strain of such a strange habitat – there’s a gym, a good immersive library, even a kind of garden where the technicians like to play at botany. Orchids are the latest project.

  And I really think Biruk Oliyad is starting to like me. We have regular arguments, but they’re jovial, more like banter. I’m curious about Biruk. The Solar Corporation has always remained mysterious. A plutocracy built out of shattered countries. They’re cash rich and wading in energy but there’s barely any habitable territory. We have the Knowledge Banks but our land is poor, hard to cultivate. The Antarcticans have it all, and hoard it, greedy to the heart. None of them here, of course. They’ve never had to suffer the spectre of redfleur.

  May 2392

  Today I saw my first subject. The name tag read Luisa.

  I wish they didn’t give them names because a name makes this area of my work that much more difficult to approach. The worst thing about handling a live subject is the eyes. Regardless of species. A snake has no voice, and no eyelids, but it feels pain like any other animal. However long you’ve been working on clinical trials, that part doesn’t change.

  Luisa was sedated and her eyes, for the most part, were glazed. There was a moment when they weren’t – when they were quite conscious, blinking and moist with liquid. For the first time I’m grateful for the cumbersome hazard suit which offers some form of barrier between us and them. Otherwise—

  But it’s pointless to complain. I knew this area of the work was coming and I knew what it would entail, or I thought I knew, and when I think about it, about the way everything has been handled – am I surprised by the specifics?

  I’ll try and be clinical about it. That’s my job: that’s why I’m here.

  The subject is a female adolescent without history of prior infection or exposure to the redfleur virus. State of health has been bolstered since time in the facility (they give them good care and nutrition before bringing them down to the lab) and the subject is currently in robust shape. We’ll be injecting the original strain of redfleur first, a Type 1 which we do have a cure for, and monitoring the period between infection and first symptoms. The team have been working on a new treatment which they hope will reverse the virus before it first presents.

  May 2392

  I tried to be rational in my last entry but the truth is, I almost lost my shit that day, when they presented me with Luisa – even while some compartment of my mind refused to be surprised. If I’m being honest I should say that. I mean – the Nuuk Treaty. I almost walked out of here and demanded to be sent back home.

  Biruk talked me round. I was in the gym, pounding the treadmill. I’d called up an immersive and I was running over the surface of an asteroid, a bleak scene, the ground black-pitted, the stars going out one by one, but that wasn’t cataclysmic enough, so I switched to a landscape of molten lava, volcanic matter bubbling and exploding all around me, and then Biruk appeared, standing at the head of the treadmill. I thought he was going to tear a strip off me. But actually he just stood there, while I ran, the sweat flying off me, and after a while he asked how I was. I told him to fuck off. How did he think I was? He said he knew exactly how I felt.

  He’s been here for two years. He laid out the arguments and although I had an answer for every one, in the end I acquiesced. I said I’d ride out the six months, and then I’d see.

  May 2392

  Today I was out in the courtyard for an illicit smoke and as I went back inside I noticed again the sign over the interior entrance. It hadn’t occu
rred to me before to think about where the name came from but seeing it there I found myself wondering.

  I asked Biruk about it. Why Tamaruq? (I’ve learned since that the place is more commonly referred to as ‘The Sorting House’, or simply, ‘The House’. Unsurprisingly, the people who work here have that particularly dark breed of humour most commonly shared with doctors and pathologists.) Biruk wasn’t sure. I asked him if he knew anything about the history of my country and he said no. Then I told him that the name of the compound is close to another word which means wolf, in a language which was once spoken in my country.

  Biruk liked this idea. He began expounding upon species characteristics (Biruk, of course, is a geneticist by trade, and in the way I have a casual interest in etymology, he has a casual interest in extinct wildlife). Wolves were exceptionally resilient creatures, he said. Beasts of extreme stamina, and capable of withstanding great pain. I said I thought they were vicious predators and Biruk corrected me, quite emphatically: wolves were sociable animals with a strong familial hierarchy, he said. They’ve been misunderstood, demonized. So of course we then had to have a full-on debate about wolves and the ownership of biological records and historical narrative in general. Biruk said we have a duty to the extinct, to tell their story as they no longer can. I said we have a duty to empirical science. Really, Biruk is too much of a romantic to be a geneticist. I’ve heard mathematicians wax lyrical over the beautiful solution, but he regards code as poetry.

  But anyway, he said, no one really refers to this place by that name. I said I was aware of this. I didn’t mention the Sorting House. To do so feels… it’s an acknowledgement, I suppose. Which I’m not quite ready to make. I will, but not yet.

  Still intrigued, I had a look into the records and after some digging I found the information I was after, which turned out to be more banal than I might have hoped. The major founding donor of this site was one Yulia Tamaruq, a Veerdeland philanthropist with substantial holdings in the knowledge banks and a passing interest in science. In particular: medicine.