Breaking into a new place was never easy. The overpowering stench of decomposing bodies, bloated to horrible distention in the high humidity, slack corpses that had long since lost their post mortem rigor. Five of them this time ― including three little kids. Grotesque, unwieldy creatures, skin sloughing off muscle and bone wherever they were grasped. The three survivors had been forced to throw the windows wide open, then drag the damned, unwieldy things out and stuff them in a nearby apartment. Afterwards, they had spent another wretched stomach-turning hour cleaning up the remnants of disease the bodies had left: the hemorrhagic slop, the dried vomit, the ubiquitous death rattle defecations. Even now, hours later, a lingering background stench still hung in the air. But the windows couldn’t be left open. That would only invite trouble ― the suspicious sounds, unexplained candlelight, and moving shadows would draw attention. No. The windows had to be closed and the blinds drawn tightly shut. In the relative safety that followed, however, they had been able to heat up and were now tossing down another quick, furtive meal.
“Calm down, Felix,” Nora pleaded in the most soothing voice she could muster. “Less fuming and more breathing, okay? Just try it. We’re all in the same boat ― on the same side here ― remember?”
Rather than reply, Fremont took a long pull from a warm bottle of Bai Chang and stared at the ceiling.
“How about some pla muek?” she offered, extending a forkful tentatively. “Energy food, you know?”
“I got plenty of my own,” Felix barked, pointing to the half-eaten can of boiled pork sitting in front of him. “Can’t stand that damned calamari shit anyway.”
Lyköan knew that revealing the source of their inexplicable energy would be counterproductive, so h and Nora had decided instead to suffer Fremont’s mounting suspicion in silence ― deflecting it as best they could. Such suspicion was only to be expected, wasn’t it? Hadn’t Lyköan reacted similarly when first encountering Gordon and Narayan? Nora’s response had been different, a starry-eyed fascination bordering on reverence. When first encountering it, she had wished only to bathe in its soothing, euphoric glow, and seen Pandavas only as its delivering angel. Later, of course, once the enhanced organism’s true nature was fully exposed, that initial reverence had turned into something far more sinister.
Perceiving the same elusively subtle clues, only their reactions had differed. They had both immediately sensed something amiss, subliminally understood that the observable sum did not add up. The subconscious mind recognized the ambrosia ― the invisible life preserver ― whatever the hell it was, but the conscious mind could not. And even while baffled, they had both reacted. Fremont was reacting now. Everyone reacted. It was unavoidable, the universal human response to the inexplicable. When meeting an angel for the first time there are only two possible reactions: fear or adoration.
As if reading her thoughts, Fremont shook his head. “No, it ain’t your diet, sweetheart. It’s something else.” He had already implied a chemical stimulant ― something pilfered before the WHO labs had been abandoned. Let him think that if he liked. It was preferable to revealing the truth.
“You’re right, Felix,” she agreed. “There is something else...”
Fremont gave her a genuinely astonished look.
“It’s called paranoia. Do you know how crazy you sound?”
In the silence that followed, she returned to that final week in the lab and her bright idea to reverse-bioengineer the nano-scriptors ― use the HM sequencers to compare tissue lines from Lyköan and now, herself.
“Paranoia? Maybe with good reason,” Fremont grudgingly admitted, throwing his head back and emptying the long-necked bottle. “Anything’s possible,” Placing the now dead soldier next to the growing squad of empties already on the table, he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, “but you and golden boy here,” he took a quick breath, “you’re just too damned perky. Something really odd about it.”
What had struck her immediately was how closely the rescriptors resembled retro viruses, or even more ― pluripotent embryonic human stem cells. Once introduced, after days tracing the vagaries of each new host’s unique DNA codec, they began unerringly firing the countless self-actualizing protein triggers that would best serve that particular organism. What resulted was the dizzying production of billions upon billions of uniquely tailored, minutely differentiated devices, each discrete organism performing a single biologic task ― creation, augmentation or reconstruction. An amazing, almost mystical process. She had followed the stream back to its source, but could deconstruct it no further. Perhaps if there had been more time...
Anyway, the process was a one-way street, limited in application. Multiple data runs and subsequent animal tests had confirmed that once the transformation was complete, the now mature rescriptors were useful for no other host. In fact, if they were then introduced into another organism not already possessing protective constructs of its own ― one of two decidedly unpleasant outcomes invariably resulted.
“Remember, Felix,” Lyköan happily agreed now that Fremont seemed willing to question the basis for his suspicion, “we had plenty of practice ― across half of England before you even entered the picture.”
In the majority of subjects, exposure to these now uniquely-matured rescriptors was lethally toxic, causing a very briefly delayed but systemic anaphylactic reaction as the ultramicroscopic devices, decomposing upon contact with the alien genomic environment, disintegrated into semi-operational protein springs, erratic sprockets whirring catastrophically through the unrecognized organism’s physiology even as they continued to replicate. In her animal tests, incapacitation occurred suddenly, never more than a few hours after ingestion, injection, or inhalation. Death invariably followed within minutes of the onset of symptoms. And the disintegration continued even after death ― until all that remained was an innocuous soup of untraceable common organic proteins.
“With all that experience under your belt―” Fremont said, displaying an unreadable grin, “―all that pumping adrenaline… then you won’t mind taking first watch tonight ― while I get some shuteye? You obviously think I need it, right? Maybe I do. Wake me up at midnight. I’ll take it from there. I’ve had enough for today.”
The enigmatic grin aside, Fremont seemed to have spun full circle, become almost docile. Maybe it was the beer. Lyköan didn’t argue. “Whatever you say, chief. Still some daylight left though, so remember to keep the blinds drawn.”
The outcome for the other subjects, those for whom the rescriptors remained intact, while not as immediate, was equally devastating. Retaining their full functionality, these rescriptors went merrily about their business. But already configured for another specific genomic blueprint, they invariably stimulated uncontrolled cellular division, producing multiple explosively invasive malignancies that presented within hours of exposure. Death through this progression took a little longer, but was no less certain. Not a single animal had survived more than a few days. Unfortunately, she was never able to identify what triggered either outcome.
Nora now knew that she had been incredibly lucky the night they had escaped from the Node. Egan’s embryonic rescriptors had obviously not fully matured. Another day, two at the most, and she would never have survived long enough to understand exactly how dangerous loving Egan Lyköan would soon become. And now? It was impossible to pass along host-specific rescriptors ― to anyone ― ever. Even incidental exposure, perhaps as little as a single unit of transfused blood would, without exception, prove fatal. What would be the point of explaining any of this to Fremont?
* * *
“Really puts everything into perspective,” Lyköan whispered in a mirthless, low register. “Everything we used to lose sleep over. Remember? Islamic terrorism. Global warming. The energy crisis.”
Nora had joined him at the window. In the background, Fremont’s snoring was already rumbling from behind a closed door. Far to the south the Bangkok skyline stood in the ebbing daylight li
ke an uneven line of majestic flame-dipped crystals.
“So clear and quiet,” she said. “Except for the stink who’d suspect...” Leaving the question unfinished she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“I would,” Lyköan admitted, pushing a handful of open fingers nervously through his hair. “The old Bangkok was never this quiet. Not even at three in the morning.”
Even now, he could still imagine that lost metropolis. Which was more disturbing? The noxious odor of death as Nora claimed ― or this eerie sea of silence? A city of ghosts. The few fires set shortly after the power first failed had burned out long ago, replaced by a silence as thick as the pall of pollution it had replaced. Every trace of commerce and conversation, the incessant deafening noise and bustling activity of more than fifteen million thriving souls, had utterly vanished like a faded dream, dissolving so quickly that there had not been time enough to react, let alone prepare.
Infectious disease had stalked mankind from the beginning. Over eons its course had become almost formulaic. Death arrives first. Fear follows. Human beings are such shortsighted creatures. Who but an idiot would believe in the absolute permanence of the present, put any faith in the protection of magic or science ― or think that Nature preferred any one creation above another? Believing such things, humans have always been wrong. Dead wrong. Plague crosses the threshold and with it, doubt. One day a point arrives and there are no longer survivors healthy or brave enough to staff the essential bastions of civilization ― and no matter how unshakably stable and permanent, dynamic or elegant it might have formerly appeared ― the whole construct collapses.
Lyköan laughed under his breath. What had it really been? A beautifully flawed and fragile illusion. Now absent the empirical visionaries, the dreamers and designers, not even a hint of permanence remained ― nothing beyond this vast expanse of silent emptiness.
“You as worried about Fremont as I am?” he asked without taking his eyes from the empty soi. “He’s really starting to unravel.”
“No argument here,” Nora admitted. Outside the window, evening shadows were sliding eastward, devouring the city. “What are you thinking ― that we’d be better off without him?”
In the shadow of the apocalypse, social order teeters. Then one day it is gone. Only a single imperative remains. Personal survival.
“What kind of question is that? Of course not. He saved our lives. We can’t toss him to the wolves now. Besides, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head with an ironic chuckle, “in case you haven’t noticed, we ain’t doing so good ourselves.”
In Thailand’s final days, Fremont had urged the NSA to hit the second node. For whatever reason, the Thai government had balked. When the order finally arrived from Washington to move unilaterally it had bee too late. Too many people integral to the plan’s execution had already fallen ill. Within days the airwaves had gone silent. Phone service abruptly followed. One by one the power plants failed. Glimmering campfires had burned feebly in the belly of the city for a few nights afterwards, but left unattended, they had long since gone dark.
“I just wanted to hear you admit it,” Nora said.
“Hey, three heads are better than two. It’s like you said, we’re in this together. Fremont may be an odd wheel, but he’s our odd wheel. I only meant that we’ll probably outlast him.”
In a civilization that seamlessly spanned the entire globe, every traveler, every businessman, every school child, mailman, grocer, pharmacist, laborer, street vendor, family member and friend, every familiar robin and crow, even the starving dog or cat that might in desperation, feed upon a corpse, had all become viral-toting coconspirators. Burials ended long before the dead outnumbered the living. And most of the few survivors, far from being the lucky ones, had fallen victim to even older scourges like cholera and typhoid.
“He’s hardly at death’s door,” Nora replied. “Frustrated, worn out maybe, but he hasn’t become a liability.” Outside, the first few stars had pierced the darkening sky.
“I didn’t mean that either.”
“What happens if we outlive him anyway? Is there a prize for being the last people left on Earth?”
“But we won’t be the last. There’ll still be Pandavas ― and the Pra Yee Suu.”
“Right. The Manifestation. The Man.”
Under cover of chaos and broadcast static, a well-equipped band had stolen into Bangkok. Days had passed before the city’s few survivors knew of their arrival. But Lyköan had known. He had witnessed their approach from afar, but had been unable to do anything about it.
The new spiritual essence had already arrived when Lyköan’s astral projection had first stumbled upon the caravan that night on the empty road. A new occupant in the great wheel of creation, an unobservable inky shadow, effectively cloaked from Lyköan’s gaze. But there was no doubt ― the One they awaited had finally arrived.
Installed on the Amarin Winitchai Throne in the royal palace, the Presence had wasted no time. Within days of its arrival armed squads had occupied the city’s main power and water treatment plants, television and radio stations, food and fuel distribution centers, even the WHO laboratories. Nora was headed for an offsite inoculation and barely avoided the first wave of armored vehicles. Allowing Fremont to tag along, she and Lyköan had fled the city on foot, broken into the Bangkok auxiliary armory a few days later and liberated the weapons and ammunition. Since then it had been hand-to-mouth thievery that had kept them alive. Under the circumstances no one would miss the stuff.
At another place and time the new ruler might have been hailed as The Anointed One or The Mahdi, perhaps even The Parusian Presence. What’s in a title? Führer, president, premier, boss. For when offered a clear cut choice, most men will choose life. No matter how queerly rigged, they will board even a boat of questionable salvation, rather than suffer mortal consequences ― rather than have their heads shoved into the black sack. After escaping the plague’s horrors, the promises of this godlike Manifestation and its grand dewan, Pandavas, were downright appealing. Initially by ones and twos, eventually in droves, the remaining survivors had rushed gratefully into the welcoming arms of the new administration.
“It’s getting brighter every night,” Lyköan acknowledged, as the faraway glow of electric light brilliance replaced the sinking solar orb.
“And closer,” Nora added.
In just the past few days, Manifestation crews had restored power to much of downtown. Even so, it remained a ghostly place, sparsely inhabited and still hiding who knew how many unburied bodies? During the day, caravans of corpse-filled trucks snaked their way through town, depositing their grisly cargo in landfill trenches outside the city. But the evil phi ― the malicious spirits of the dead ― were not so easily assuaged. Old beliefs die hard. In their minds, many survivors wondered whether there was enough spirit-house magic in all of Thailand to propitiate the evil that had been unleashed in this one city alone.
“Sometimes I think Sun Shi was lucky,” Lyköan admitted. “He was spared all of this.”
“Ning and Marty too.”
“Your old boss?”
Nora nodded, then looked into Lyköan’s face. In each dilated pupil an identical reflection of the distant illumination burned ghostly.
“What the fuck are they up to down there?” he asked offhandedly.
“Maybe it’s better we don’t know,” Nora replied.
Pockets of civilization might still survive somewhere, but right here, right now, evil held the upper hand. Watching from this remote hideaway in the enveloping darkness, she felt beaten. She had not heard Dana or Emily’s voice in what felt like an eternity ― couldn’t stop thinking about them. Her only consolation was that Newhouse had made good on his promise. The girls and Diana’s family had all been vaccinated. How they were faring at this moment, how well they had weathered the pandemic’s horrid sweep through America ― and its aftermath ― she had no way of knowing. Isolation was total and Shiva’s reign certainly off to a sm
ashing start.
“I know you never put much stock in the smoke and mirrors,” Lyköan managed after a long silence. “The Hermetic Transformation ― the infinite layers of the universe ― the rest of the hocus pocus... Especially our other lives...”
Nora didn’t hear him. Her thoughts were thousands of miles away.
“Too bad you didn’t know Sun Shi better,” he wished aloud. He might have convinced you. Was she even listening?
Raising a hand to her forehead, she brushed a few errant hairs out of her eyes. Egan might believe wholeheartedly in such things, but she saw no value in holding that same belief. Even if the supposedly unseen undercurrent existed, had it helped them avert the end of the world? No. She had witnessed everything that had happened, had lived every detail of the sad, sorry adventure step for step alongside him, and yet, had there been one instance of anything more otherworldly than some madman’s horribly misapplied science?
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, E. Not that I won’t accept the possibility. It’s just beyond my personal experience. In all the craziness I can’t point to a single thing that doesn’t fit nice and tidy within the familiar universe I’ve always known. But I believe in you, E. Isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t know.” He decided not to tell her the rest. About the whispering that had come with the Manifestation’s arrival. The high-pitched, unintelligible ringing in his ears. Was it really a voice or simply his imagination?
Instead he told her, “Fremont’s not the only one capable of unraveling. Even enhanced beings have limits. We certainly have ours. If we do, then Pandavas ― even the Man ― must have theirs. I just wish we knew what they were up to under those lights.”
There were other troubling changes that had arrived with the whispers. For one, his Hermetic immersive ability was waning. The signpost-like ley lines were fading. Travel beyond the five senses had become more difficult. The harder he pushed the more the universe seemed to resist. Applying more concentration only increased the drag. If it continued, before long he would once again be confined within the parameters of his physical body. The thought of losing that otherworldly freedom now was terrifying.
The SONG of SHIVA Page 44
