Pascale's Wager: Homelands of Heaven

by Anthony Bartlett

  They seemed not to understand but kept coming. He screamed at them, “I'm totally serious. Don't come any nearer. Are you infected?”

  They came to an ambling stop, about ten meters away. They were smiling and looking bemused.

  “What did you say?

  “I said, are you infected? Do you have the disease?”

  They looked at each other and shrugged. “We don't know what you're talking about?”

  He could see they were not sneezing, and they looked genuinely puzzled. The two men were dressed in fine woolen cloaks and the woman in a deep blue cloth swathed around her shoulders, waist and hips. The men were pleasant faced, both with long wavy hair, and one with a closely trimmed beard and mustache. He recognized the woman. Her name was Clare.

  “Where are you going? It's very early to be taking a walk.”

  “We could say the same of you. But if it helps we've been out all night. We were discussing who should live with whom. We thought we should dedicate a whole night to it and still we have not reached a conclusion!” It was Clare who was speaking.

  “Where is your colony?

  “You really are jumpy, aren't you? Rupert is from the Produce Farm.” She was looking at the clean-shaven man and she gestured in the direction from which Omar had come. “But he was staying with Mark and me in the Poetry Colony and we walked over here during the night. What on earth is wrong with you?”

  “There are people dying or dead at the farm. You cannot go back there. It's possible you may be one of the few remaining Immortals uninfected.”

  By this point they were only twenty feet from each other and the threesome could see the unmistakable fear and confusion on Omar's face. They asked him to explain from the beginning what he was talking about. When he had finished they were speechless. There could be no arguing with what Omar had said. It seemed totally genuine, and even if Omar were deranged, they could not take the chance.

  “Where are you going now? Where can we go to be safe?”

  “I have no idea. I'm just heading to my own colony to see if any of my friends have survived.”

  Omar walked on, taking a wide circle round the three others. They consulted together, thinking about returning to the Poetry Colony: there had been no sneezing by anyone at the time they left. Still, they were so terrorized by the picture Omar had painted, and impressed by the measures he took to survive they instinctively decided to stay with him. The terrified party continued heading south and east, like a tattered skein of geese, Omar running and keeping his distance, the others struggling to keep up. They were all very tired, especially Omar, and he was still aching from the beating. Yet it was unthinkable he should stop: they had to find some safety, their very immortality depended on it.

  It was about ten o'clock when they got to the highway, and as they turned due east they at once came upon five more people. This time it was the other party which stopped, shouting out questions, asking whether Omar's group was infected. Omar yelled back he was fairly sure he wasn't, and probably the people behind him weren't either. The two groups drew a little closer and Omar asked how they knew about infection. How had they found out?

  They shouted back, telling the story of how they belonged to a Carpentry and Construction Colony and had been out on a building job. Last night they finished late and when they returned there was one of their members at the gate. He was doubled over and at the same time waving his hands like a madman. When they approached he ran away and coughed and waved even more insanely. Eventually they understood that everyone at the colony was sick and they'd sent him out to warn the latecomers to stay away. After that they spent the night in a shed together and in the morning had taken a back way into the colony and carefully approached one of the windows. Peering in they'd seen people collapsed on the floor barely breathing and in a horribly shrunken condition. Terrified, they'd made their way to the highway, hoping to find any advice and help they could get from people passing by.

  Omar was encouraged to encounter people who'd had more or less the same experience as him and he moved still closer to them. Once again he told his tale of what had happened, of the source of the infection at the Font Eterno and its likely deliberate cause by a man named Palmiro. The Construction group was incensed. How could anyone possibly do that? And where was this man? Omar said he was hiding somewhere, but he couldn't hide forever. In the meantime, the important thing was to survive. They all agreed. The three behind had caught up, hanging back a little. Omar turned and asked how they were feeling. They answered they were feeling fine, apart from being exhausted. He began to relax, sensing that very likely none of them was infected either.

  He turned again to the Construction group and inquired, did they use a pickup when they went on jobs? They said they did and it wasn't far: their colony was back along the highway, just before the turn. He suggested they go back for it. It was important that non-infected people stick together and help each other if they were ever to get back to the way things were. Everyone agreed wholeheartedly. What else were they to do? He asked them also to bring food and water, but from the stores, not from kitchens where anyone infected had been. Two of them went off to collect the utility car and the supplies, while the rest continued walking with Omar and the others.

  The road ran along the edge of the plateau, at the point where the terrain began to change from the low pine woods and upland valleys, falling away to hot rolling hillsides covered with scrub oak and sage. After walking a mile or so, Clare called out, “There are two more people up there, on the side of the road!”

  Everyone strained to see, and, sure enough, there was a man and a woman sitting on a large boulder looking out over the southern landscape. As they drew closer, Omar was able to recognize them. They were from one of the Fruit Growing colonies. At about a dozen paces away he stopped and shouted.

  “Kurt, Sonya, what are you doing here?”

  The two showed no fear. In fact, they showed no reaction at all.

  “Are you infected? Do you know about the infection?”

  They looked at him with expressionless faces. He repeated his question, drawing a little closer. They replied in a small voice which he had to strain to hear. “You mean the sickness? Yes, we know.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Everyone became sick. They were coughing and fainting in front of us, crying for help. There was nothing we could do. It was horrible. We went to another colony, Sports Monitoring, and it was the same thing there. We came up here to get away.”

  Omar said, “Are you saying that you were near these sick people and you didn't get sick? How long ago? Did they sneeze near you?”

  “They were sneezing and coughing terribly. We left last night.”

  “You're not infected, after all that time! Does that mean you can't be infected, that you're, what? Immune?”

  “We don't know. We felt a little dizzy, but it didn’t make us unwell.”

  A flash of blinding insight struck Omar. He was rooted to the spot. After a moment he pivoted toward the others and the words came tumbling out of his mouth. “Those two came to Heaven not long after I did, about ten years ago. They were ice-skaters, and were selected for immortality. I remember clearly because I was still a newcomer myself. That has to be the reason why the disease does not affect them. It's why they've survived. Because in old world terms they're still actually young. They've still got ordinary cells. The infection only hits old Immortals, who need the enzyme. That would explain why Palmiro was willing to risk his life, because, in fact, it wasn't a risk. And it means that I'm immune too. Because I'm still young!”

  And he danced around triumphantly pumping his fist in the air.

  Clare said coolly, “It also means you lose immortality just like the rest of us.”

  A frown creased Omar's face. “Of course that's true. But at least I'll live long enough to get my revenge, and many times over if I can.”

  They heard the sound of a motor and turned to see the pickup arriving. It had b
een supplied with boxes of dried fruit, nuts and biscuits, and a big twenty-gallon water drum. Omar at once slaked his thirst, cocking his head under the dispenser. Then he climbed in the front. Others took a drink and it was agreed that Clare and her two friends could ride in the back. A small caravan was formed with the utility car moving at walking pace, leading a straggle of followers. It continued down the road while the sun moved upward to its zenith. It became uncomfortably hot, providing another unprecedented experience for Immortals who rarely ventured out in the midday. At the same time, a peculiar faint haze seemed to hang in what had always been a pure blue sky. Nobody remarked on it but it seemed to fit the catastrophic experience while creating its own ominous feeling, as if a battle had been fought just over the horizon. As they crested a rise, suddenly, again, there was another group: this time four persons. They drew a little nearer and pulled the pickup to a halt.

  Again the same questions were asked and a similar story emerged. They had returned late from a visit but this time someone had pinned a large note to the front gate. It advised them that the colony had been struck by an illness that spread visibly from one to another, that the situation was serious and they should not enter. The word “serious" was heavily underlined. They also had looked through windows and seen prostrate bodies. After that they had come to the highway, looking for help just like the others. They stood there looking lost and frightened but they were suffering no symptoms. Hearing and observing this a consensus began to emerge: the illness seemed to communicate very fast, so if people had been in proximity to people sneezing and were showing no signs themselves, it was almost certain they were not infected. So the four were also allowed to join the train. The party was now fifteen strong and there was a feeling of growing strength and confidence in this band of healthy individuals steadily gathering more recruits. Along with that went an increasingly defensive, protective attitude.

  They had reached one of the turns to the south which would lead in the direction of Omar's colony. Mark said it would be better to stay on the road as the highway seemed to draw people who were healthy, looking for others like themselves. They could all turn south later on. Others agreed and they started to move forward past the junction. Just as they did, there was the rattling sound of hoof beats and they stopped and turned to look in its direction. There below, on the long dusty track winding up from the hills to the south, came a band of horses and riders. The utility car stopped and waited, and the walkers instinctively grouped on the far side of the hood. If they'd had weapons they would have trained them. The horsemen urged their mounts up the end of the track and onto the level of the road. They turned toward the pickup and came to a stop. One of the riders kneed his horse forward. “Who are you? What's happening here?”

  Omar rolled down his window a crack. “First, I'm asking you. Are any of you infected?”

  The rider stared and stared, and flashing lights went off inside his head.

  “The infection, it's spread. Everywhere?”

  “You got it, genius.”

  “But you're healthy?”

  “Same as above. Now how about you? What do you know about the infection?”

  The man didn't answer but addressed the whole group around the utility car. “Is this true? Is there infection in your colonies?”

  He could see them all nodding. He wheeled his horse around and shouted to his companions. “The infection's out of control. These people say it's everywhere! But they don't have it.”

  The agents were aghast. Almost instinctively they moved their horses closer to the group, as if they too were seeking a common protection. As they did, a rider at the back, who was not seen clearly before, came into view. It was a woman in a ridiculously out-of-place white evening dress, her hair loose and dusty from the trail. Yet her appearance was striking, her face filled with tension and, at the same time, gentle and composed. The man turned his horse back to face Omar.

  “My name is Stavros. We're from Anthropology. We're looking for a suspect, the person responsible for the outbreak. And like I said, who are you?”

  Omar opened the utility car door. “We're a bunch of survivors. We found each other, on this road. We'd like to help you. Do you have any leads?”

  All the time he was talking he was looking directly at Pascale, and he couldn't help but add, “Is the woman with you a suspect, too?”

  Stavros was fully demoralized by the spread of the infection. His investigation was in fact too late, and he had a terrible sense he and his agents had been fooled. At this point he did not see any point in security secrets. “She's Pascale, a connection to the man named Palmiro, the suspect in question. We are taking her to our colony for questioning.”

  The news struck Omar like a sheet of flame. There was something about Pascale that filled him with dumb loathing. He'd felt it even before Stavros had said anything, but when he learned who she was and the connection to Palmiro, it blossomed into a life all its own. Like everyone else he'd heard the original story of her and Palmiro's arrival in Heaven, and thought very little of it. Now she had appeared in flesh and blood, and in the middle of this disaster, he felt immediately she was behind it all. To hurt her would be better than any revenge on Palmiro. It might very possibly inflict a deeper wound on that fanatic than whatever he could do directly. But much, much more than that, she was right here, right now, and he could think of nothing more urgent and satisfying than to cut her down physically. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an idea came to him. Without hesitation he rolled the dice.

  “You cannot go back to Anthropology. My name is Omar and I escaped from there last night, when they all got sick with the infection. Some of your fellow goons had taken me in for questioning, and they beat the crap out of me. Yes, it's true I met Palmiro and I sponsored him for the Font Eterno, but it was all just for fun and I had zero idea what he was going to do. What I want to do now is find the son-of-a-bitch so there can be some justice! And I believe I can offer some help for your interrogation!”

  Stavros and the other riders were listening to him intently. They knew that agents had gone to arrest this man before they had been sent to the canyons for Pascale. Clearly he had escaped and was now leading a party of survivors. It didn't seem like the action of a conspirator and they had no reason to disbelieve him. Moreover he was offering a way to find Palmiro and they were out of fresh ideas themselves.

  Stavros said, “Go on.”

  “Let me talk to your prisoner.”

  Stavros gestured ironically to him to continue. Omar walked down between the horses to face Pascale. He took in her slashed dress and exposed thigh, looking up at her mockingly.

  “Well, aren't you the wild one, riding your horse in a punked up gown! Tell me, how come you didn't make any of my parties? You would have been queen of the ball. What, no reply? Cat got your tongue?”

  There was a slightly embarrassed snigger from a couple of the men and one or two around the pickup who heard him. The atmosphere began to change from the more or less professional attitude of the agents to something looser, much more dangerous.

  “Well let me ask you one simple question then. Where is the terrorist Palmiro? He's your bosom buddy. Where is he?”

  Pascale continued in silence, looking ahead at the skyline with quiet, unblinking eyes.

  “OK, so you're not talking, but I think maybe you will. Let's see. It's midday now. It will take us about three hours to arrive downtown, at the Font Eterno. If you haven't told us by then you're going to take that famous journey of Sarobindo's yourself, you know the same one your friend took to start all this genocide. Except this time there'll be no last second escape. You'll be vaporized in an instant, including your punk robe. Think about that!”

  And he turned and walked back to the car. This time instead of sniggers there were gasps. Stavros jumped down from his horse, with Ryker following him. They came behind Omar, calling to him. “What the hell are you talking about? We can't do that, the place is quarantined. We'll all get the disease.”
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  Omar faced them. He was now in full flood. “Well, you go ahead and un-quarantine it. Who's the authority now but you? Listen, you can monkey around, following protocol, while Heaven rots! If you want results, if you want to find Palmiro and some kind of cure for Immortals that are left, we need action. And you'll see, this will get you your information!”

  “But how can we enter downtown if there are infected people there? And who's going to go inside the Font Eterno?”

  “If infected people come too close you shoot them, simple as that. You've got guns. As for the Font Eterno, if you're scared, I'll go in there, with Kurt and Sonya. We're immune because we're still young. We can't get sick.”

  This was another surprise for the agents and everyone around saw it. Momentum and power shifted visibly from the riders to Omar. They had no response and the fact that the infection was still a risk to them but not, apparently, to this man only confirmed his superiority. Suddenly they were mortal and he was the god. They clamped their jaws and nodded helplessly. What he was suggesting, that would be the plan.

  The procession got moving, heading down the Sacred Way toward the Avenue of Monuments and the Font Eterno. Omar had Pascale's horse brought up on a lead rope, directly beside the car window on the passenger side where he was now permanently ensconced. After that came the walkers holding onto the side of the vehicle, and behind them the cavalcade of riders. Omar spent the whole time gazing at Pascale with a fixed, gloating stare. It would be true to say he was in a state of acute pleasure, overseeing his victim. Every now and again he would say something like, “How are you feeling now, your highness, great queen of the canyons! Can't you feel that nuclear bomb going off all over your precious skin? I think I can feel it myself, I really can!”

  As they moved forward they encountered more and more individuals and groups who had been led to the road as if by instinct, fleeing the infection. Stavros and a couple of other riders would go ahead, guns drawn, and ask if they had any symptoms. They would warn them they would be shot at once if they joined the procession and started sneezing. They all declared themselves without symptoms and in every instance that proved to be the case. They were then allowed to join the convoy. The crowd grew to over a hundred strong, stretched out behind the truck, and despite the length of the walk they did not feel weary, carried along by a militant feeling of doing the one thing necessary. The mob was still gathering members and building in fervor as it drew close to downtown.