“Well, it’s better than calling her nothing, and nothing is exactly what she says. I can think of a lot worse names than Dottie Rose for a little girl.”
“Alright, alright, old man, I’m not going to argue with you. We’ll play it your way. ‘Dot’ it shall be—for now. I suppose if she doesn’t like it, maybe she’ll say something about it.” Marta turned to open the screen door, she paused as if to add something, but just shrugged, smiled and said, “I think I’ll take Dot with me to pick some blackberries, can you survive by yourself for the afternoon?”
“Get on with you, woman.” Ol’ Pa waved his splicing fid in her direction as she closed the screen door.
3 Kim Chen
Huang Biotechnologies Inc. May 31. 2033
22°17'37.5"N 114°10'34.5"E
“Kim, are you going to pull another all-nighter? …Hello?” Jiang stood next to her workstation and waited for a response from her colleague. Receiving none, she shrugged and slipped out of her lab coat, leaving it draped over the cubicle’s divider.
Kim scribbled furiously, his pen-marks meandered across the notepad, his forehead leveraged firmly atop his microscope. Jiang watched him for several seconds longer, then sighed and collected her briefcase. She reached over the stacks of papers and test-tube racks to switch off her desklamp. As she walked toward the exit, she called over her shoulder, “Don’t fall asleep on the eyepiece again, it leaves a funny mark on your face.”
“Yes, exactly,” Kim murmured.
Jiang swiped her plastic ID card through the detector and the metal door slid open, then closed with a metallic swish, leaving Kim alone in the dimly lit room. The erratic scritching from his pen and buzzing from the digital scanner echoed off the lab’s sterile walls.
The 72nd story of the Huang Biotechnologies Inc. building offered a breathtaking view of Hong Kong’s nocturnal skyline. The top floor was reserved exclusively for genome-editing research. Only an elite group of the Huang scientists had access to its elevator. From the lab’s glass-encased panorama, the city’s light display was a spectacle worth witnessing. Tonight however, Kim Chen was in no mood for a show.
Kim adjusted the scope’s magnification and fussed with its illumination controls. He set his down his pen and pressed his eyes harder into the lenses, muttering, “I just don’t understand this. Something’s wrong here… It’s been modified in some way. Jiang, you really need to see this.” He raised his head and stared around the vacant room, blinking as his eyes adjusted to long-range vision. Somewhat astonished that his colleagues had all departed, he glanced at his watch and then turned his attention back to the microscope.
After some time, Kim pushed his chair away from the desk, clutching at his hair. “Arrgh—what is this?” He rose and kicked the chair down the aisle, watching it careen into his lab partner’s swivel-chair. Several folders slid off the desk and scattered across the floor. Kim sighed, replaced his eyeglasses and, rubbing the back of his neck, went to tidy up the mess he’d created.
With annoyance, Kim leafed through the loose files that fanned across the floor. What’s the point in keeping so much paperwork around a lab? He paused to examine one of the documents more closely. It was a copy of an email cc’d to his research partner, Zhao Xu. Taking the paper back to his desk, he grabbed his chair on the way. Non-electronic documents were a rarity these days, especially in the secretive environment of biotech. He entered his encrypted password and the laptop’s screen flickered on. As he typed the commands, his frustration grew with each response. “Access Denied” or “File Not Found” appeared after each request. “What are you involved in, Zhao?” he muttered.
For several minutes, Kim stared at his computer, tapping his finger on the screen. He glanced over his shoulder at his partner’s computer and frowned. Is it possible? He wheeled over to Xu’s cubicle, dislodged the chair and regarded Zhao’s area. It lacked the sparsity and order of his own desk; postcards, ramen cups and bobble-heads competed for space with piles of unkempt paperwork and a microscope. Kim studied the items briefly and then leaned over Xu’s keyboard. He hastily tapped out sixteen characters, pressed enter and grinned as the screen came to life. “You are such a simpleton,” he whispered. The screen’s bluish glow reflected off his lenses as he scrolled through countless documents. Kim clicked on a file labeled “HSA Revelations” and froze as the contents opened, his hand involuntarily covering his mouth. “Tā mā de!” Kim pushed himself further away from the monitor. It dawned on him where he was and he looked around apprehensively. Still alone. He yanked off his glasses and paced back and forth, brushing his hair away from his face. No, no, no! How can they do this? He stopped, stared at his slides and then over at Zhao’s computer. This will not happen to my research—not if I can do anything about it. Kim grabbed a chip from his drawer and inserted it into Zhao’s computer. One by one, he downloaded all of the documents. Pulling the drive out of Xu’s port, he clicked delete. “Take that, partner,” he muttered, slumping back in his chair. With one foot, he pushed off from Zhao Xu’s desk toward his own. As Kim leaned back in his chair, he caught sight of the ceiling-mounted camera and froze in panic.
Security at Huang Biotech was ingrained in all its employees—so much so, that all new-hires spent their first two days in the company’s security indoctrination course. The competitive nature of biotech research, along with Huang’s secretive government clientele made corporate espionage precautions a necessity. The scientists in Kim’s classified lab had grown accustomed to the dogmatic protocols. Surveillance was a way of life; their every move was monitored and every conversation was recorded.
Kim grasped the edge of his desk in a cold panic. Now what you fool? There was nothing he could do—no going back. He looked toward the exit, half-expecting to see guards rushing toward the door with weapons drawn. The digital clock on the lab’s wall read 3:44 AM. There isn’t much time to act. Kim removed the slide from his microscope and briefly held it to the light. Seven years of his work were sandwiched between these rectangular slivers of glass; research that had consumed most of his adult life. He studied the vault in the corner of the lab. All samples were to be stored in the vault when not at workstations—Huang regulations required the vault to be locked at the end of each day. However, thanks to his latest all-nighter, the vault was still open. Kim placed the slide into a small case and walked to the vault. Pulling a long metal box from the top shelf, he withdrew a dozen more samples, sliding each one carefully into the case before snapping it shut. He located a garbage bag and dropped the briefcase, slides and laptop inside of it. Hurry man—the night guard will be making his final rounds soon. He carried Xu’s computer and its components over to the vault. Perspiration trickled down Kim’s spine as he lugged the stack of documents and folders into the safe, stacking them beside the electronics. He scanned the lab, searching for anything else that might contain portions of his work. This is it, I am as good as dead now. He grabbed several bottles of ethanolamine and a container of acetic anhydride from the supply shelf, and poured them into his wastebasket. With as much caution as time permitted, he dragged the receptacle into the vault, trickling a stream of the combustible liquid into the adjacent server room. He then crumpled a few of the pages from the stack and tossed them in the basket. Grabbing a striker from the counter, he squeezed it until the spark ignited the papers then slammed the door closed seconds before the chemicals exploded. Snatching the plastic bag and his badge from the desk, he made for the exit door. As he passed by Jiang’s cubicle, Kim hesitated. He lifted her lab coat to his cheek and inhaled, then let the jacket fall to the floor. With a swipe of his ID, he ducked through the doorway and ran. Fire alarms echoed through the halls of Huang Biotechnologies as black smoke engulfed the lab.
4 The Greenwood
The Greenwood. July. 03. 2033
[Coordinates unknown]
Moss carpeted the forest floor and scaled the trunks of its ancient evergreens. Twisted pathways wound into a labyrinth of promised
destinations. Along the broken trails, prehistoric ferns erupted from the deadfall. Any ambient sounds were absorbed straightaway, leaving only the voices of the trees to whisper their ageless secrets.
A red fox sat poised next to a stump, his face barely visible behind the rushes of grass. He stared intently at an unsuspecting rabbit that grazed several yards away. The fox slowly lowered his head to the ground and hunched his shoulder blades, tensing his haunches. Suddenly, a branch snapped. Birds flapped from the treetops and the rabbit bounded into the brush. The fox’s ears shifted forward and he raised his head far enough to locate the source of the disruption: Humans. Upon this realization, the fox abandoned his pursuit and slipped into the shadows.
The two humans were oblivious of their transgressions against the fox. They sat with their backs against a giant cedar, chatting in quiet voices. A sliver of sunlight broke through the forest’s canopy and shone in a lattice-work pattern near their feet. They made for an odd-looking couple as they sat together in the deep woods. The older one was a muscular man with ebony skin; the other, a boy of 18, had pale skin and hair the color of dried wheat. If their appearances seemed mismatched, their dialogue proved even stranger. The dark man’s Swahili accent rose and fell like water over stones, but the youth’s Slavic intonation sounded guttural and choppy. Nevertheless, they conversed with ease and familiarity.
The boy’s name was Pasha; he’d arrived in the Greenwood five years before, after immigrating from Magadan. Pasha’s family still lived in the tiny frozen village of Northeast Russia. As a teen, Pasha followed a girl across the Bering Sea and, after losing interest in the girl, kept traveling; eventually drifting down the Inside Passage, working on fish boats. Undocumented and without a chip, Pasha sought refuge within the hidden boundaries of the Greenwood. Soon enough, he became one of their fetchers. Pasha had a knack for locating drop-offs and was adept at handling the tricky longboats and kayaks in the rough conditions of Hecate Strait.
Despite their difference in age, Pasha was fond of working with Adili. He admired the tribesman’s strength and poise. Adili was a formidable fetcher; possessing the stamina to control the biggest boats across 60 kilometers of ocean. Adili loved the Greenwood and its diverse inhabitants, whom he considered his adopted family. When Adili had arrived nine years before, he was alone and bereft. His wife and son had been lost at sea during their voyage. The Greenwood council welcomed him and gave him numerous responsibilities. The chief appointed him one of the code speakers and in doing so, provided Adili with a reason to live.
They waited for their comrades who’d been patrolling off Porcher Island and were now overdue. Pasha and Adili, along with another team, had been sent to look for the missing paddlers at the entrance of the Oona River.
“Do you think the code speakers heard news?” Pasha asked.
“About what?”
“Skaukw seemed, uh, what is this word… tension? She seemed tension.”
“Tense. ‘She seemed tense’,” Adili replied. “I think she is just cautious. This is a good thing to be when you are chief.”
“Da, good. But still, she seemed as if worried.”
“There are many things happening out there. Things with the governments again.” Adili gestured out to sea as if incorporating the world in general. “I think many of these changes may not be so good for the small men of this world—those like you and me, Pasha.”
Pasha shook his head and peeled a tuft of moss from a twig that lay on the ground next to him. “Then all I say is, thanks be to god for places like Greenwood.”
“Yes,” Adili nodded, “Namshukuru mungu.”
A rustling noise in the bushes startled them. Adili jumped to his feet and grabbed a stick while Pasha darted behind the tree and circled the brush. Adili remained motionless, his stick poised should Pasha flush out an intruder. Just then, the branches shook and a wiry-framed young woman stepped out of the shadows. She wore a plaid shirt with torn-off sleeves and faded jeans. “Heya’ boys, what’s up?”
“Ooligan! When did you get back?” Pasha exclaimed as he came from behind.
“We just got here—Asa’s back at the landing, camouflaging our tlúu. That boat’s a real dog in the currents, y’know?” She tossed her oar and pack on the ground. “We should leave them at Kitkatla and make some faster ones for paddling through the inlets.”
“Did you find any drop-offs?” Adili asked.
“Not a one. I’m starting to think those snakeheads messed up their dates.”
“This is not so good. Too much risk for us if coyote boats make mistake,” Pasha grumbled.
Asa appeared from the bushes and threw his gear down next to Ooligan’s. “What’s this—a welcoming committee? That’s awfully swell of you guys. I didn’t realize we were that special.”
“Ha—you’re special alright! Every single time I had to switch sides because you can’t steer a straight course, I’d end up sayin’ to myself, ‘That Asa’s so gosh durned special’.”
Asa grinned, shaking his head. “Oolie, I can’t wait to get back to the Greenwood. Four days in a tlúu with you is more than a man can handle. You need your regular partner back again.”
“For once we agree.” Ooligan bent down to pick up her gear and asked, “Are you two the only search party out lookin’ for us?”
Adili replied, “No, Kai and Ernesto are on the other side of Cosine Island.”
Ooligan pulled a square of fabric from her pack. “Pasha—head down to the bank and leave this on the boulder where we put in. That way they’ll know you’ve found us.” Pasha took the flag and raced toward the launch site.
“I’m starving and it’s a helluva trek back to the Greenwood,” Asa announced. “Let’s head for home.”
The Greenwood wasn’t so much an encampment as a small village. Hidden among the winding inlets and narrow passages of British Columbia’s coastal islands, their realm was well protected. The nearest settlement was over two-hundred miles away with countless mountains and lakes between them. The dense rainforests offered abundant food, building materials and most of all, secrecy. Not even the HSA’s prying Mossies could penetrate the heavy fog and undergrowth of their region.
Since the millennium, the Greenwood had been home to a few dozen or so families and wandering adventurers. Most of the people who lived in the village were from local Salish tribes: Tsimshian, Haida, Gitsan, Tlingit and Kitkatla. Although by the early ‘20s, as HighTower’s interference with nomadic and indigenous people had increased, more people sought the hidden woods. Currently their population was near 400 and included immigrants from Kenya, Syria, Somalia, Russia and Guatemala. Members from other international tribes such as Maoris, Inuit’s—even a Scotsman had joined Greenwood’s community. A hierarchy evolved over the decades: The Greenwood’s chief saw to the safety and preservation of the settlement and made big decisions by consulting the council of elders—the k'iigáay. All the citizens had a say in matters that affected their community, but in the end, the chief had the final word.
To keep the unconventional society from detection, the inhabitants of the Greenwood built their houses in and under the giant trees. An old mining camp—abandoned almost a century before—provided a variety of salvageable materials. Some residents even burrowed into the ground, using the forest’s bountiful mosses for roofing material and insulation. As the years passed, the forest’s growth encompassed the structures, hiding them effectively. The residents had no electricity, nor indoor plumbing and their main source of food was what they caught on water or land. The sustenance lifestyle suited them well and kept interfering eyes away from their borders.
As the earth’s temperatures continued to rise, millions of people were uprooted. Societies collapsed as wars ravaged portions of the world. “Climately hospitable” regions became a Mecca for displaced immigrants—and the Tyee quake victims from 2022 only added to the growing crisis. As the world’s population began its largest scale migration in over sixty-thousand ye
ars, Canada and the United States locked their doors, and HighTower was their ruthless gatekeeper. But as always, when dire situations occur, desperate people look for ways to cope. Migrants attempted to permeate the porous island borders with the help of coyotes. The Chinese called them snakeheads, but their jobs were all the same: mercenaries. The smugglers cared only for profit, with little concern for ideology or welfare. Thousands of refugees died each year attempting to reach a life that they could only dream of. The Greenwood had begun to provide a home for these refugees.
Reba Marti had been Greenwood’s chief for seven years. Her people called her Skaukw—the mythical Raven from Salish lore. Reba and Greenwood’s elders believed that as original peoples of North America, they had the right and obligation to offer sanctuary to others in need. “For after all,” the elders had decreed, “aren’t these governments immigrants to all of us?”
To avoid detection, smugglers often left their human cargo scattered along the island shores and remote mainland coast. Ill-equipped to deal with the rugged terrain and harsh weather of the North Pacific wilderness, many refugees suffered and perished. The Greenwood developed a system to rescue the abandoned people. Long canoes, carved from cedar logs were employed and the strongest paddlers were trained to search for castaways. Skilled kayakers used the lighter, faster boats as scouts. They worked in teams to retrieve the refugees and help them find shelter and food. Before long, their reputation among the islanders grew and they became known as “fetchers.”
The council eventually devised a method allowing them to send information without exposure: Elders from different tribes created a mixture of their vernacular. Most of the Coast Salish languages had become extinct—only a handful of elders now remained who could speak fluently. By combining the complex Native dialects, they created an unbreakable lexicon. Code speakers living on various islands and in townships along the BC interior freely relayed their messages to and fro. It didn’t take long before the snakeheads learned that their deliveries were being cared for by others, at no expense. They began to forge a “relationship of necessity” with the islanders. The boats sent information in short-burst transmissions to the code speakers and the Greenwood was notified of drop-offs. Some of the smugglers even left provisions such as fuel and kerosene at drop-off locations in exchange. The smuggling operations did not escape HighTower’s notice however. HSA trackers and Mossies patrolled the coastline to search for the coyote boats and sent spies to search for signs of a mysterious support network. But so far, their efforts had yielded nothing.
Sea of a Thousand Words Page 3
