“I wanted to tell you about Baki Abboud,” Toria said.
Olivia drew a blank. “Who?”
“The checkpoint commander, the one you put me on to.”
“Oh, God,” Olivia said. “I must be more out of it than I thought. What about him?”
“He checked out. Just like you said. Abboud was communicating with a terror group. He was going to help them obtain a biological weapon.”
“What weapon?” Olivia already knew the answer.
“Smallpox. Weaponized variola. And get this. The canisters are serialized and traceable back to Russia. It’s stuff that went missing after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Some of it wound up in Syria. This is so big, Olivia. I got my bosses to agree to hire you temporarily. We can write this together. You’re freelance, correct?”
“Yes.”
After a long pause, Toria said, “You don’t sound very excited.”
“I’m just really tired.”
“Of course, I understand. That’s one for the good guys, hey? Could have turned into a nasty business.”
“We’ll just have to keep on top of things,” Olivia said. “Send me what you have. Encrypted. I’m waiting for my flight right now. When I get home we’ll talk, all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Olivia, are you well?”
“I am.”
“Right, then.”
Olivia hung up and put her phone away. When I get home. And when would that be? Olivia was afraid, but not of the Disaster, not of variola or barrel bombs or torture states. She was afraid of what might come through the door that Brian had left propped open on his way out. She was afraid she would never get that door closed again, and how was she supposed to live when it was so easy for someone to just walk in?
Across from Olivia, a middle-aged woman in a hijab and long skirt sat next to a girl about twelve years old, who looked like she might be her daughter. The girl wore skinny jeans and a white T-shirt with big pink letters on the front that spelled DREAM, and she looked scared. To fly? To leave home? To arrive somewhere strange? The girl leaned against her mother, who stroked her hair and spoke comforting words Olivia couldn’t quite hear. She watched the mother and daughter until the public address called Olivia’s flight, then she picked up her bag and got in line.
Epilogue
Five months later.
Three flights, eleven hours in the air, plus another six in a disorienting series of international airports. Her traveling companion was a ghost; she should have been making this trip with Brian. By the time the self-driving cab pulled away from the curb at the Jaipur airport, Olivia was seventy percent zombie and thirty percent neurotic mess. The screen on the back of the front passenger seat displayed a wobbly 3D montage of tourist attractions. Looking at it made Olivia feel a little wobbly herself. Embracing her inner zombie, she closed her eyes and tried to go dead for the duration of the ride. Mostly, she failed.
The cab jostled her, bumping over deteriorated transportation infrastructure. The world was neither the paradise Dee had desperately wanted nor the black pit of ruin they had all, to some degree or another, feared. For most of her life, Olivia had moved through the Disaster as if it were the only part of life that was real. Maybe the alternative probabilities weren’t as likely as the Disaster, but they were real, too. At least, Olivia hoped they were. And it was possible to choose them, even if it caused her pain.
After an hour, the cab said, “We have arrived at your destination.”
Olivia opened her eyes.
A modern duplex, well maintained, on a street of similar dwellings. A small khejri tree cast dappled shade over the entry. She opened the car door but sat a moment longer, not quite ready. Would she ever be? A long time ago Rohana had comforted her. Little Oh, you are not alone. But I am, Olivia thought, I am. She felt the breeze on her face. January in Jaipur, midfifties Fahrenheit—not unlike Seattle. Not unlike home. Behind a window, a fluffy white cat with orange markings sat curled on the back of a sofa. The cat yawned and began grooming itself.
Olivia got out of the cab, shouldered her duffel bag, and followed the sound of voices. She came through a gate into a winter garden. Terra-cotta pots stood off the ground on ceramic feet. Thorny vines coiled over the fence like barbed wire. Sunbursts of marigolds proliferated. Two women stood talking by the fence—arguing, actually, but without heat. They wore sturdy-looking trousers and quilted jackets printed in floral patterns. One of the women was Rohana, the other Olivia’s aunt Amala, whose garden this was.
“Olivia?” Her stepmother looked surprised, delighted, and cranky all at once. “You promised to call from the airport.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You look so tired.”
“It’s a long flight.”
The older woman tugged off canvas gardening gloves. “So. Come inside and eat.”
“That’s okay. I had something on the plane.”
“I can imagine. Something inedible. Amala’s soup is on the stove. Rasam. Fresh lentils.” Rohana looked closely at Olivia. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just really tired.”
The moment stretched out. “Well,” Rohana said, “if you don’t want to tell me.”
As her stepmother started to turn away, something caught in Olivia’s throat. “I . . .” Rohana looked at her, waited. “A friend of mine died,” Olivia said. “Last summer, in Aleppo. He was a really good friend. His name was Brian.”
“Oh.” Rohana’s eyes softened and she stepped closer, as did Aunt Amala, the older women touching her, comforting her. And because she really had no choice, Olivia welcomed them inside.
“There,” Rohana said, “there.”
Acknowledgments
No one writes a novel alone. I absolutely never used to believe this. But as another well-worn adage points out: Experience is a great teacher. So I would like to thank a few people. First and foremost, my brilliant wife, Nancy Kress. She read various drafts of this book and always had useful advice and ideas for improvements. The novel, and my life, are immeasurably improved by her presence. Good friends and good writers Daryl Gregory and Ted Kosmatka read drafts of the novel and provided useful insights as well. Thanks, guys.
Additionally, I’d like to say thank you to Patrick Swenson—writer, publisher, friend, and master of the Rainforest Writers Retreat, where I worked on the first draft of this book. And Kate Konigisor, who has an eagle eye. Also a tip of the hat to Elizabeth Bourne, who was always up for a cup of coffee at “The Foam,” or a glass of gin at West 5. It’s nice to have a friend in the neighborhood.
And I want to offer my appreciation to Dr. Maura Glynn-Thami for helping me get my medical details straight and for assisting me with some of the Middle Eastern cultural references and language issues.
I would also like to express my heartfelt gratitude to my editor, John Joseph Adams. John’s excellent editorial advice and encouragement made The Chaos Function a better book and made the road to publication a stress-free experience. Thanks, man.
Finally, special acknowledgment goes to the resident canine, Cosette. If not for her constant poodling, this novel would have taken half as long to write.
Visit www.hmhbooks.com to find more science fiction and fantasy titles from John Joseph Adams Books.
About the Author
Jack Skillingstead’s Harbinger was nominated for a Locus Award for best first novel. His second, Life on the Preservation, was a finalist for the Philip K. Dick Award. He has published more than forty short stories to critical acclaim and has been short-listed for the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. His writing has been translated internationally. He lives in Seattle.
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Follow us for book news, reviews, author updates, exclusive content, giveaways, and more.
ng books on Archive.
The Chaos Function Page 32
