Abe's father worked on site--maybe he could explain the delay to her. Kala almost messaged Abe, but it would be harder for Mr. Petridis to evade her questions in person. It was high time to take a shower and leave her stale apartment anyway.
The broad avenue narrowed to a knife-edge, and at its tip was a checkpoint. Kala detoured through a vacant galleria, to a parallel side street, then through two tunnel alleys back to the Warrens. Fine-blown sand crunched under her boots. She halted near a window, toeing the pile of dust that must have poured from opening shutters. Inside, a figure in a contamination suit sprayed down the room with a fog of disinfectant. Unconsciously, Kala reached for her camera, ever present in her satchel. Plastered crookedly next to the open window was a public health advisory for Valles Fever. Click.
She moved on, camera raised and ready. Footfalls pounded toward her, and Kala dodged a teen in a hoodie. In the alley behind them, neon green paint dripped from quarantine graffiti. Kala swallowed. A spray can spun on the ground, came to rest. Click.
On the next street corner, a crowd had gathered, a sea of hands raised to the sky. A young woman, eyes heavy with makeup above a paper face mask, hefted a statue of Santa Muerte and hurried to join them. Click.
A health services worker, face hidden by a mask, the same model that Kala wore, bore a child away from a home. The child squirmed, stretching fingers toward the door jamb. Somewhere, someone sobbed. Click.
Kala was a landscape photographer, not some tourist come to ogle their tragedy, but all around her the familiar streets looked darkly sinister, like she had been dropped into an apocalypse. And if she didn't record it, she knew no one outside the Warrens would believe her. She wasn't even sure she believed it herself. Dazed, she shoved her camera in her satchel and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Wished she could rinse the taste of bile away. She knocked on Abe's door.
The security camera gimbaled and the door clicked unlocked. Kala waited, expecting Halmoni to swing open the door. Eventually, she pushed it open herself.
Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, and the pantry shelves were bare. If Abe's father hadn't been hunched at the kitchen table, fingers furrowing his thick hair, she might have turned and left, assuming she had walked into a stranger's home by mistake.
"Mr. Petridis?" Kala edged inside. Her voice was muffled through the mask. "Is it Abe? Where's Halmoni?"
Mr. Petridis lifted his head from his hands, and his eyes cleared as he focused on her. "Kala. I thought you were one of the health workers," he said. "I convinced my mother-in-law to visit with her friends. Abe is doing better. He'll be happy to see you. You can go on back."
"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the construction project." Kala gripped the back of an empty chair like a lifeline. "I heard the job site hasn't been operational since the storm, and I thought that was weird. What's going on?"
The haggard lines of his face deepened further. "Nearly the entire Fossae team has Valles Fever, from the foreman down to the crane operator. I'm one of the only people still well, and I can't do everything by myself."
Kala did the math in her head. The odds that the construction workers had fallen ill at such a higher incidence than the rest of the neighborhood had to be tiny. She thanked Mr. Petridis and retreated to Abe's childhood bedroom.
"Your father is really beating himself up over the construction project." Kala sank to the rug by his bed. Abe's freckles stood out more than usual against skin made pallid by sickness, and his hair, the same light brown as his father's, was greasy and pillow-flattened. He looked like a washed out version of himself. She started to pull off her face mask but he shook his head.
"Leave it on. Just in case," Abe said. "Yeah, there's a lot of pressure for it to be done already so people and businesses can move in."
"What if Valles Fever is caused by dust storms stirring up bacteria or viruses at the construction site? The Warrens is just downwind." Kala bounced her fist on the thin mattress and added, "You should have moved out like I told you."
"Or fungal spores," Abe said, ignoring her last comment. They both knew he couldn't afford rent elsewhere. "I've sequenced fungi populations in my soil samples."
Kala perked up. "Do you have any samples from the construction site?"
"They would have run environmental tests before breaking ground, but I don't have access to that data."
"Maybe we can collect our own samples--or ask your dad to get some dirt for us."
Abe frowned at her. "Kala, it's private property. They'll send me to prison."
"Last resort then."
He nestled deeper in his pillows. "Why can't you leave this to the epidemiologists to sort out? It's their job."
"I would love to leave it to the epidemiologists. But no one is talking about it outside the Warrens." Kala couldn't look him in the eye. "The governor probably just wants to pave over the problem, but how many people will get sick before that happens? And what are they doing to make sure the people who move in won't be exposed? Nothing."
"You think you can change their minds?" Abe said.
"I don't know. I'm going to talk to someone at town hall."
"I won't break into the construction site," he said slowly, "but I could get sputum samples from people who have the infection. Give me a few days to test cultures in the lab. The DCC doctors will already know it's fungal, but if we're talking to a bureaucrat, we need data to back up our story."
"We?" She grinned as she said it, cheered that Abe felt well enough to leave the apartment.
"Not letting you steal all the glory," he joked. "But you're in charge of getting us a meeting."
The edifice of town hall looked worse for the wear, and they had to circumnavigate a hydraulic platform to get to the main entrance. A chunk of stucco crashed and exploded near Kala's feet, and she glared up at the workers on the platform. "You should rope this area off," she yelled up at them. "It's a hazard."
"What are you, stupid?" one yelled back. "Don't you know better than to walk under a lift?"
Abe dragged her away. "Save it for the deputy director.”
In the lobby, Kala tried to brush the grit from her pants but the hems were a lost, dust-stained cause. She sighed and imagined what her mother would say. Her mother would agree with the workers that it was her fault. Naturally.
"You ready?" Kala asked Abe.
He was still too gaunt and pale. Part of her wanted to order him back to bed, but he had far more right to be her than she did, and she would be useless explaining the analysis he had performed. His expression was resolute. "Let's do this," he said.
Kala presented herself at the front desk, and the receptionist led them to an office. The nameplate on the door read Deputy Director of Colony Planning.
The deputy director was like every other bureaucrat on Mars, a middle-aged woman in an indeterminate suit. After introductions, Kala said, "Thank you for taking the time to see us."
"I'm afraid your mother wasn't very specific about the purpose of this meeting. Why don't you fill me in?"
Not for the first time, Kala wished she could take all the false graciousness of Mars and toss it down a slot canyon. After what she had seen in the Warrens, she wasn't going to beat around the bush. "My colleague--" she gestured at Abe--"and I have identified the source of the Valles Fever epidemic. Since no measures have been taken to contain its spread, I can only assume the colony government is operating with incomplete information. We're here to share our findings with you."
The deputy director relaxed and smiled at them. "I assure you there's no cause for alarm. The infection is contained."
"Contained to the Warrens, you mean." Abe's lip cracked as he spoke, a line of red against his mouth. The deputy director suddenly seemed farther from her desk though Kala hadn't noticed her retreat.
"I simply meant it's not an epidemic," the deputy director said.
"But it is." Kala had checked the numbers this morning. "There have already been 893 deaths. More are falling s
ick, and you won't even acknowledge the problem?"
"You're talking about less than 1% of the colony," the deputy director said. "It's tragic for the families, but it's hardly a catastrophe."
Kala flinched and then narrowed her eyes. Trust the bureaucrat to reduce people to a percentage, and the smallest possible one at that, as if Kala didn't know the difference between a mortality rate and a case-fatality rate. "With more than 5600 confirmed cases, that means 16% of those infected die."
The deputy director was as responsive as a yardang. 1%, Kala imagined her thinking, is nothing.
The deputy directory interlaced her fingers. "This is the planning department. You want to talk to people in the DCC. I would be delighted give you contact information for someone in that department ..." If you stop bothering me, the rest went unsaid.
"Valles Fever is a planning problem," Kala insisted. She shot a desperate glance at Abe.
He scooted forward in his seat, data at the ready. "The Fossae development project has unearthed fungal spores, which become airborne during dust storms. Ever since groundbreaking at the construction site, each storm has been followed by a spike in the number of infections." He set his binder on the desk, open to a table of data. "I've analyzed hundreds of sputum cultures and identified the infection as fungal--the same fungi that's present in local soil samples."
Kala held her breath.
"The Fossae project has been in the works for years, and it's one the largest in the history of the colony," the deputy director said. "People have invested a lot of time and money into its success."
"In the Warrens," Kala said, "a quarter of the population is sick." She thought of the child being forcibly removed from their home by a health services worker. "Are you calling that an acceptable loss?"
"No, I am not." The deputy director's nostrils flared, a satisfying crack in her composure. "But I have colony ships scheduled to arrive daily for the next six months."
"So you're saying the people in the Warrens are expendable?"
"I'm saying that we need Fossae to house the new colonists. Unless you can prove to me the fungi come specifically from the construction site, there's nothing I can do. I need hard evidence, not speculation. Have the DCC run tests." She stood and extended a business card to Kala.
Robotically, Kala palmed the card; the name was for a DCC epidemiologist. Without another word, she walked out of the office. Behind her, she heard Abe thanking the deputy directory. Smoothing things over. Kala fumed her way past the reception desk and back outside the town hall. She looked up at the darkening sky so she didn't have to see Abe's expression when he joined her. Phobos hurtled east on its first pass of the night while Deimos tracked ponderously in the opposite direction.
"What's wrong with you?" Abe said.
Kala clenched her fists. "We got the run-around. She knows we can't get those samples. She's only interested in covering her ass."
"You're wrong," Abe said. "I thought she'd kick us out immediately when she learned why we were there, but she heard us out. She seemed reasonable to me."
"Of course she heard us out. But that was for my mother's sake, not ours. She didn't promise to order environmental tests. She could do that, you know, with or without the DCC's approval."
"Fine. Then let's go to the DCC," Abe said. "Convince someone there to put pressure on colony planning."
"And get the same shit from them? No thank you." Kala dropped the business card on the street.
"So what, you just want to give up?" Abe vibrated like a live wire. Like a fever patient. She shouldn't have dragged him out of bed. "You could make them listen. The people who matter are the ones getting sick."
"That's not what I meant." Kala folded her arms over her chest. "My mother already pulled strings. It didn't get us anywhere."
"Not your mother. You." Abe nodded at her satchel where he knew she kept her camera.
She notched her chin up. "What?"
"Do an exhibition. Make people feel something. Shame them into action if you have to."
Kala's heart raced like she was sprinting, and that's exactly what she wanted to do. Run away. "I'm a landscape photographer."
"You have a camera. Use it."
She forced herself to stillness. "What's with the judgment all of a sudden? I'm here because I'm trying to help, and it didn't work so can you just back off?"
"No," he said. "I can't."
"Nasreen would never give me a second chance."
"She definitely won't if you don't ask her. If you don't even try." His expression was disgusted.
Kala remembered how, weeks after what was supposed to be her first exhibition, she kept finding desiccated rose petals under the furniture. Each one smelled like failure. Even when the stars had been perfectly aligned, when there had been an entire team of people going out of their way to ensure her success, Kala had managed to let them all down. Abe thought he was disappointed in her now? Just wait till she couldn't put together whatever stunt he was expecting of her.
Kala shook her head. Fuck this. "I can't," she said. She turned away from him, away from the Warrens. After a couple of blocks, she came to her senses that Abe wasn't well enough to walk home alone. But by the time she retraced her steps, he was gone.
Kala thumped her satchel inside the door and crawled into bed. The ceiling stared back at her.
What was she going to do? Abe, rightfully so, was pissed at her. The deputy director had blown them off. The DCC had their hands full and would no doubt just send her back to be Colony Planning's problem. Meanwhile, the construction site was still half-excavated and how long would it be till the next windstorm stirred up the spores again?
Her hands itched to do something. Anything. Kala exhaled and climbed out of bed. She cleared a space on the table for her camera, then unfurled her screen into its largest configuration. She connected her camera to the screen.
It had been weeks since she had processed any photographs. The first transferred showed the Martian landscape she loved so much. The spartan desert colors. The slice made by the spine of a yardang against the dawn sky. The air was clear. If you didn't know better--if you didn't know a city existed just out of sight, in the crevices between the rock fins--you might mistake it for wilderness. Each colony on Mars was its own frontier. The next couple of shots showed a sequence as the radio antenna was raised. Then, time-stamped a couple weeks later, the Warrens.
The first shot was of the public health advisory by the open window. Kala hadn't noticed at the time that the sign was defaced. Protect yourself from Valles Fever! Drink plenty of fluids; wash your hands; cover your face when you cough; if you start to feel ill, stay home. Nothing specific to a fungal infection. The window framed the worker inside, obscured by clouds of disinfectant. White jumpsuit, green face mask. A nearly empty jug of disinfectant on their back. Kala's gaze drifted back to that small word handwritten at the bottom of the list. PRAY.
Next, a street-crowd shot, tight focus on the middle distance. Elsewhere, blurry faces, hands lifted towards a man standing atop a crate. Skin tones as varied as the desert: sand, dust, clay, basalt. Kala felt a chill. Valles Fever wasn't contagious, but that wasn't widely known. Did they think themselves immune, or that infection was inevitable? Reason--and public safety advisories--cautioned against close crowds, and yet for some, the compulsion to gather amidst tragedy ran deep.
The next shot hit her like someone else's work. Kala remembered the girl carrying the skeleton icon. She didn't remember how the girl's hair clumped sweatily to her forehead. How her eye makeup had smeared, skeletal eye sockets to match those of the Lady. Santa Muerte clutched a scythe, and a silk flower was tied around her other hand. The girl faced the camera head-on, accusing her onlookers. Kala didn't know documentary photography, but she recognized when a shot made her feel. She had chased that elusive feeling ever since picking up a camera in her arts elective at Lyceum, and here it was. Too powerful to keep to herself.
Kala chewed on her thumbnail. She allowe
d herself to consider Abe's idea of an exposé of Valles Fever. Assuming she could even edit and assemble a proper narrative, was there anyone left of Mars who would give her the chance to show the work? Nasreen hated her guts. Even the girl in the photograph looked like she hated her. Her eyes bored into Kala, and how could Kala not at least try, in her own way, to get the truth out.
She would need more than photos of sick people. With shaky fingers, Kala messaged Abe, If we're going to do this, I need fungi images.
Her stomach churned as she waited for his answer.
Photomicrographs?
???
Magnified images of spores.
Yes. Those.
No problem. I can borrow the equipment at the lab.
Kala's armpits were drenched in sweat. The fight song she had played to pump herself up for this meeting faded to static. Before her, the teardrop facade of Nasreen's gallery was high on the left and low on the right, a yardang in profile.
What was the worst that could happen? Nasreen could mock her, humiliate her, guilt her. Kala had already ruined her own reputation so she wasn't worried about Nasreen spreading rumors that Kala was difficult to work with. That cat was long out of the bag. The meeting was bound to be uncomfortable, but compared to dying of Valles Fever, it was nothing. Kala squared her shoulders and turned her back on the gallery. She entered the cafe across the street where Nasreen had agreed to meet and nabbed a table.
As Kala waited, she messaged Abe a thumbnail of the Santa Muerte girl. Can you find her? Ask her to sign a model release form.
Is that necessary?
Not legally, but if I can convince Nasreen to give me another shot, this girl's face will be plastered on a wall. The right thing to do is ask.
I know her. Ana Cecilia Mendoza. Cecilia was a couple years behind us at Lyceum, studying engineering.
I'll talk to her. Any other people you need me to track down?
The rest of the photos she had selected were either crowd shots or the subject was featureless and unidentifiable in a contamination suit. Nope. Kala glanced up as Nasreen entered the cafe. Thanks, gotta go, she typed, then folded her hands over her screen and sweated some more as Nasreen wound her way past crowded tables.
The Singing Wind and The Golden Hour Page 2
