‘Where are they?’ I say.
Iona doesn’t turn and ignores me when I repeat the question. A dark patch of sweat soaks the back of her T-shirt between her shoulder blades. Beti draws her machete and helps Iona slice at the undergrowth. As I reach out to take Iona’s shoulder and demand she tells me what she’s looking for, she stops. A low noise rumbles in her throat as she starts uncovering something. She rips off vines and creepers to reveal a silver box, about the size of one of those top-opening chest freezers, the surfaces dulled with green. It must be the equipment chest, but the fact it’s covered in undergrowth is further evidence that they aren’t here and my heart sinks further. Iona left this here some time ago, when she planted the fruit trees on the islands.
Iona opens a large flip-up catch and slides out a pole. The chest springs open a little and she lifts it the rest of the way and then turns, sweat running down her cheek.
‘They haven’t been here,’ she says. She pinches her top lip and blinks rapidly.
‘Where the hell is my sister?’ I say, voice rising. ‘Another beach?’
‘No. They would have found the equipment chest if they were on this island. No. I think they are still . . . safe,’ she says. I feel like she’s calculating something.
‘Safe?’ says Beti. ‘How can you know that?’
As Beti’s voice cracks, fear floods me. Beti’s confidence in Iona despite everything has kept me going.
‘There’s things you need to know,’ says Iona.
She leans over the silver chest and rakes around deep inside. I peer over her shoulder and see ropes, fabric, tools, and plastic boxes of different sizes. She brings out what looks like a black plastic backpack and a diving mask with thick rubber tubes snaking out of it. She hands the bundle to me and I almost drop it. It’s heavier than it looks. She passes Beti two pairs of black flippers.
‘Please, Iona. I do not get this. Shouldn’t we try the next island?’ says Beti.
Iona takes out a second bundle of dive equipment and closes the lid.
‘Back to the beach. I’ll explain,’ she says, and before we can argue she’s striding back along the path she cut. The trees open out and I spot the boat bobbing at the edge of the reef where we left it.
Iona drops the dive equipment on the sand and I do the same. Beti takes my hand and holds it tight. We both believed the others would be on this island, we made ourselves believe it.
‘Everything I told you about the reasons we came here is true,’ says Iona. She pauses, meets my eyes and licks her lips. ‘The others are safe. In the container. The one that you saw on the back of Deep Retreat.’
I feel my face crumple in disbelief. Of all the things I was expecting her to say, that wasn’t one of them.
‘What do you mean?’ I recall the huge, beige metal box looming on the back of the boat. My sister is in that container? It’s been ten days. Iona’s not making any sense; she’s finally lost it.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you about the specifics of the therapy at Wildhaven. I studied certain animals that show a resistance to cancer. My theory was that this was linked to their ability to hibernate. In short, we found a way to integrate their DNA with yours.’
I force my breaths through my nose to slow them down.
‘This will take a while to sink in. The genetic therapy deactivates the cancer gene when combined with hibernation. Your heartbeat was slowed to less than a couple of beats a minute, and your lungs filled with an oxygenated liquid so you didn’t need to breathe.’
I shake my head, not able to process this new insanity. This can’t be true. Then I remember Beti when Callum and I found her, how she had seemed dead, not breathing, her heartbeat so impossibly slow. I was certain she’d spent too long without oxygen.
Beti speaks in a slow quiet voice. ‘Was this why we wore the wristbands at night, in Wildhaven?’
‘Yes. I’d been monitoring your sleep patterns since the gene insertion and you all experienced periods of decelerated heart rate, breathing and body temperature during rest. All I had to do was induce a deep sleep.’
‘But when we signed up for the therapy you never said anything about hibernation,’ says Beti.
‘Beti, it is perfectly safe. You know I would never consider anything that wasn’t.’
An image of Callum, broken on the beach, flashes into my mind. Perfectly safe. These same words she said to us on the boat, the last time I was with Poppy.
‘Where’s this container now, where’s Poppy now?’ My hands shake and I ball them into fists.
Iona points out to sea. ‘Out there. Submerged about six metres down.’
I remember the blue gunge we coughed up when we washed up on the beach that first day. My eyelids taped closed. The tubes in our arms. I’m going to have to believe her, although my rational mind doesn’t want to.
‘Then why aren’t we with them?’ I say.
Iona’s hesitation activates my thumping heart.
‘The pods should have released at the same time but in the case of a malfunction, they were programmed to discharge early.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘It is more likely they are still in hibernation than on one of the further islands.’
Malfunction. The word reverberates in my head.
‘Why didn’t you just tell us this before? Why did you make us believe they were on this island?’ I say.
‘I thought it most likely that they were. And either way, we needed to concentrate on building the canoe.’
Iona says this firmly and it’s clear she’s not sorry. She’s always managed the information, told us only what she feels we need to know. I can’t understand how she has such an unshakeable belief that what she is doing is right.
She lifts one set of the diving gear she brought from the chest.
‘Aster, you dive with me to the container, as you’re the strongest swimmer. Beti will look after the canoe at the surface.’
‘Fine,’ says Beti, her voice stronger now. She grips my hand tight then releases it so I can lift the scuba mask and backpack thing. I feel a clank and guess an oxygen tank must be inside. This is all happening too quickly, I still feel like Poppy must be here on the island. I try to meet Beti’s eyes but she is staring intently at the side of Iona’s face. She has always believed in Iona through everything, and I can’t tell how much these new revelations have shaken her faith.
‘I’ll go over the basics with you now in the lagoon, Aster, and if the weather holds, we’ll dive to the container first thing in the morning,’ says Iona.
I shake my head, but follow her down to the lagoon.
I don’t enjoy my crash course in scuba diving; the gear is bulky and the mouthpiece – regulator – grinds against my gums. Iona explains that the tanks are called rebreathers, and are military spec. In other circumstances I’d be interested to learn how they recycle our exhaled breath. But I’m more focused on how the gas mixture makes me lightheaded, how when I breathe too quickly the equipment judders. I’m exhausted by the time Iona is satisfied that I’m capable.
Later we sit on the sand by the campfire, eating fish skewered on sharp sticks. I prod at the fire for something to do and it crackles and spews sparks. We’ve set up a low sleeping tent on the sand using tarpaulins from the equipment chest. I find myself thinking fondly of Halo South, where our camp had been homely in comparison, and we’d let ourselves settle into the belief that the others were just a boat hop away.
Iona stands and stretches.
I can’t believe she did this to us. I remember Beti’s slack face as I tried to breathe into her, her lungs blocked with gunge. That’s probably what Poppy looks like now and the grip of panic tightens around my throat at the thought. Iona thinks that injecting us with animal genes and putting us into hibernation is acceptable. She put us into a state of living death, in a box, underwater.
I remember Mum once told me her sister never got over their parents’ deaths.
And I thought I was struggling with the grief process.
‘So does Doctor Nygard know about this . . . hibernation?’ I say.
‘In the early stages of our research, we noticed changes in metabolism and sleep patterns in candidates after the therapy injection, but the cancer genes remained unchanged. I suggested that there were two parts to the process, that it was the hibernation itself that deactivated the cancer genes. He wouldn’t consider it and we never discussed it again. Looking back, I think this must have been when he began his own research, started collecting the extra blood samples. I sourced the components for the hibernation pods inside the container over the course of the last three years, without his knowledge.’
‘So now we are free of cancer, because we’ve been through this hibernation?’
Iona nods.
‘And you think Doctor Nygard is still looking for us?’ says Beti.
‘It’s like I told you. There was no point in collecting blood samples until after the hibernation period, as the results wouldn’t show up until then. He was doing something else with your blood.’
‘Could he have been using it to move on to the next stage you said about, to make a cure for people who already had cancer? People would pay any price, they wouldn’t care where it came from, from animals or blood or whatever,’ I say. ‘This Nygard would be rich.’
‘Are you saying we have a priceless cancer cure in our blood ?’ says Beti.
Iona sighs, gathers together her pile of fish bones and throws them in the fire.
‘I’m not saying that, Beti. I hope the research has implications for existing cancer sufferers in the future but that’s not something I’ve investigated yet.’
Iona’s face is serene and I can’t understand it. Tomorrow we’ll dive to this container where my eleven-year-old sister is barely alive. My anger rises and I don’t fight it this time.
‘How are you any different from him?’ I say, the words flowing hot and fast. ‘You might have got consent for an injection – from the others at least – but not for this hibernation thing. You took our choice and then literally took us – away.’
Iona stands, gathering the sheet we each packed around her shoulders. Her voice is calm, firm.
‘I have given you everything. You would have died of cancer, Aster. I don’t know what type of cancer it would have been; I don’t know when it would have taken you, whether you’d have been young, or old. But you had the genetic marker, and now you don’t. I saw orphaned teenagers that I could help, plus the chance of developing a future treatment that could change the face of medicine. Nygard was using you.’
My voice is quieter now. ‘You tricked us.’
‘Would you have agreed to it if I had told you everything?’
I glare at her but can’t answer. I don’t know, and the question isn’t fair. It also isn’t the point.
Iona sighs. ‘One day you will understand. And I want you to know, before I considered any of this, I did test it. On myself.’
Beti and I stare at her. That doesn’t make me feel any better.
Iona continues to stand, sucking in the side of her cheek. I don’t want to talk about this any more; I just want to get to Poppy. All I’ve wanted from the moment I woke up in this place is to get to Poppy.
‘So we’ll dive down to the container once the sun is up?’ I say.
‘Yes.’ Iona meets my eyes then Beti’s then looks inland to the jungle. ‘And I want you to know that in the bottom of the equipment chest there is a small black box. Inside I’ve left a memory stick. It holds all the research Nygard and I did together; my own notes, and the results of your monitoring. It’s all there.’
Beti operates the tiller and I take the sail. We progress as slowly as possible without the boat becoming unstable, scanning below for the darker water that signals the underwater cliff dropping away into the central pit of the atoll. Iona explains that the container is only around ten metres in from the cliff, about six metres deep. She describes how she used a specialized cargo winch on the boat to lower it into the water over a grove of tall, brown kelp that would help camouflage it.
‘So you joined us in the container once it was down there?’ says Beti.
Iona sits on the hull, surveying the water. She turns to meet Beti’s eyes and then mine. ‘I’d already had the hibernation treatment once so I considered waiting on the island, overseeing your release from the container when the time came. But if Jonathan found me, he’d know you were nearby. I decided my place was with you.’
She holds up her wrists. The tiny scars the tubes made mirror mine and Beti’s. I’d never noticed them before.
Suddenly the water turns from deep turquoise to navy blue. ‘Here,’ I call out. ‘That must be the cliff.’
Beti lets the sail flap free. ‘Shall I drop anchor?’ she says.
Iona is already putting on her snorkel gear. ‘No – keep the sail slack and use the oars to steady us. Might not be exactly the right place but we’re near. We’ll snorkel until we find it and then you’ll need to cast anchor so we can dive.’
I take a deep breath in and blow it back out, settling my shoulders. I zip up my silver suit, and put on my snorkel gear. The boat rocks as Iona steps into the water and I follow. We float across the surface as we survey the bottom.
The seabed here is lifeless compared to nearer the islands; like the surface of the moon, with only a few red starfish to break up the monotony. The cliff edge drops away to the centre of the atoll and the fathomless blue sends sparks of fear up my spine. We swim on, kicking our legs hard, keeping our arms by our sides so we have an uninterrupted view. Iona points out a forest of waving brown fronds in front of us and we both surface. She signals to Beti on the boat, water dripping from her short twists of hair, face set and determined. Before I can say anything she dives down into the kelp grove, parting the rubbery stalks with her hands. Her flippers disappear into the waving forest and I don’t follow, but bob at the surface, clear of the seaweed. I feel a prickle at my neck, a sensation of being watched. With a deep breath through the snorkel I dive and spin around. The darkness of the centre of the atoll is on my left, the lighter blue of the shallower water on my right. I stare into the darkness, sure I saw a shifting shape in the murk. Nothing. Is it Sea Boy?
Just as I’m beginning to worry that Iona has been gone too long, she sweeps upwards out of the kelp and breaks the surface. She catches her breath, and nods. The container is down there.
Iona hovers above the container, looking like a grey and black insect with the looping tubes and visor of the scuba suit. The beige metal box blends in with the sea floor, and the kelp fronds form a canopy above, making it invisible from the surface, and from the air. I join Iona, blowing through my nose and pinching it at the same time until my ears pop and the pressure in my head eases. I’m not enjoying my first open-water scuba dive. It is nothing like swimming freely; the mouthpiece makes me want to gag, and the backpack limits my movement as it cleanses the gas I breathe out so I can breathe the same air, over and over. I have barely any peripheral vision in the scuba mask. A shoal of shimmering fish dart out of the kelp grove, giving me a jolt. Anything could hide in these dense fronds. Iona grabs the specialized whiteboard and pen that’s clipped to the front of her backpack and writes.
Ready?
My mind leaps back to Mum in her hospital bed, writing on her pad and I push the memory aside and give Iona the OK sign with my hand, even though nothing about this is OK. I don’t know how to prepare for seeing Poppy, unconscious, hibernating.
We are deeper than I’ve ever been, and although we catch glimpses of the flickering surface above through the swaying kelp, things are different down here. The water is colder, the colours faded so Iona’s skin is a sickly grey. Deathly.
My pulse is in my throat, rushing in my ears. I breathe too quickly and the air supply judders.
Iona lays her hand flat against the container, resting it there, touching. She nods and beckons me, indicating I do the same. I place the palm of my hand on the metal, and it feel
s cold through my gloves. It vibrates very slightly and I think I understand. Whatever powers this thing and keeps Poppy and the others’ life support going, is turned on. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if the power had failed.
Iona scoops away puffs of silt from the ridged metal then lifts a recessed handle and pulls. The hatch opens easily with a bigger cloud of silt, but needs to be held open; it’s on some sort of spring that closes it automatically. My eyes cling to the slice of darkness inside the container, blacker than ink. Iona lights her torch and indicates for me to hold the handle. We planned this on the surface – she’ll go in first, I’ll slide through after. When the door closes we need to be prepared for the dark, that’s why we already have our torches lit.
Iona points at her board again, the same word.
Ready?
A shadow passes over the sun sparkling above. I stare from side to side, looking for the source, forcing my breath to slow down.
But there’s nothing to see now, it was just the rippling kelp. When I nod to Iona she slips inside feet first. The dark swallows her legs and torso, then her head, and before I can think too much I slide in after her. I’m not usually scared of the dark, but this is completely disorientating, and when Iona reaches for me I cling tightly to her arm, before catching hold of my torch and angling it around. My skin puckers in the cold and a hum passes through the water, a low almost imperceptible vibration.
At first it is hard to make sense of what I’m seeing, but then I make out what Iona called the hibernation pods. They are rectangular with rounded edges, a couple of metres long and less than a metre wide. Their dull metal catches the torchlight as I scan the underwater room. The pods line the walls, like ancient Egyptian mummy cases in a museum. I swim closer. Tubes snake from the top of the pods into the wall above them. My turbulence disturbs the water and the door of the nearest pod swings open a fraction. I breathe sharply and Iona is in front of me. She opens the door and shines in her torch. Empty. Wires and tubes nestle at the top end, curled over each other like a sleeping octopus. My mind spins back to the first day on the island, waking on the beach, the tubes plugged into our wrists, coiling up our arms and into the top of the life vests. I remember the empty sockets in the back of the canvas at the neck.
Secret Deep Page 14