View from Ararat

by Caswell, Brian

  ‘They’re refugees, for God’s sake. Not from a war or religious persecution, maybe, but they’re refugees just the same. They’re fleeing a world which has no place for them. Just as some of you did. Just as most of our ancestors did. If Deucalion stands for anything, surely it’s the hope of a second chance.’

  He was making ground. I could feel the atmosphere in the room shifting slightly. I watched Tolbert seething quietly and Eldritch staring at this geek in a wheelchair who had just upstaged them both.

  And I looked at the rest of the committee. They were ready for a compromise.

  I stood up and began speaking. We had our window. Now we had to make the most of the opportunity.

  ‘What we need, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a plan . . .’

  The compromise solution was nothing more or less than an old-fashioned concentration camp. I know it must sound barbaric, but realistically there wasn’t anything else we could have got through.

  We had so little hard evidence that in the end the best we could get the Council to go for – even with all Galen’s lobbying and theatrics – was a detailed questionnaire, blood testing for the high-risk groups, and a forty-day quarantine for all the incoming passengers. It wasn’t anywhere near what we’d considered necessary, but it was a whole lot better than the alternatives.

  And though history has been particularly hard on the members of that committee, historians always have the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight. You couldn’t really blame a bunch of bureaucrats for considering the cost of the exercise.

  After all, even the one piece of hard evidence we did have ended by claiming that the outbreak was ‘officially controlled’.

  Galen, of course, wasn’t convinced. And he certainly wasn’t satisfied with the precautions. The road to Hell, he said, was paved with good intentions – and bureaucratic compromises.

  He was always one for reading between the lines. He has the kind of imagination that plays through all the possibilities – the most obvious and the most unlikely – and treats each one as highly probable, then begins formulating solutions and counter- measures. It’s what makes him such a good chess player, and such a good medical researcher.

  And such a lousy politician.

  No simplistic solutions . . .

  Of course, the Council was made up of politicians.

  Anyway, even before the Council received the committee’s recommendations and reached its decision, Galen was already constructing scenarios. What defences were possible if something like what was contained in the CRIOS memorandum ever found its way down to the surface of Deucalion?

  And he didn’t like what he came up with.

  5

  Precautions

  Colony Ship Pandora

  in geo-static orbit above New Geneva, Deucalion

  14/15/202 Standard

  CINDY’S STORY

  I’d travelled to Jupiter’s moons and back on the Ganymede Horizon, so I knew what to expect, coming out of cryo. The cramps, and the mind-numbing pain tearing at every nerve-ending.

  You’d think after three hundred years of putting people in stasis they’d have perfected a painless technique, but I guess you can’t overcome the basic design flaws in the human body.

  Of course, coming out of freeze-sleep after the best part of half a century, they said you had to expect it to be a lot worse than the short three-month hop between planets in the solar system. And they were right.

  It was everything they’d promised. And more.

  But I survived. I even managed to smile at the cryo- technician when she went through the medi-check and grilled me with a long questionnaire about my past history, and where I had and hadn’t been during my last two months on Earth.

  Of course, at the time I didn’t have any idea how important the questions were.

  I didn’t know, for example, that if I’d mentioned being anywhere in the South or Central Americas – downside of the old US border – I would have missed my shuttle down to the surface of Deucalion while they ran a full body scan and blood analysis.

  Just in case.

  In case of what? Even if I’d known to ask, they wouldn’t have answered me. At that stage of the emergency they weren’t even sure there was an emergency, but they weren’t taking any chances. Still, they didn’t want to cause a panic among the new-arrivals, either. So any awkward questions from the newcomers were greeted with a stone wall.

  What no one knows can’t hurt anyone. Or something like that.

  Not that it would have crossed my mind to ask, anyway.

  A lot had happened in the time since I’d drifted off in the C-ship cryo-chamber – back on Earth, and here on Deucalion. You’d sort of expect that.

  Of course, just exactly what had happened wasn’t something you’d ever be expected to guess.

  But at least I wasn’t totally alone at the start of my new life.

  I suppose it wasn’t all that surprising that Mac and Cox ended up on the same C-ship as me. Mind you, it wasn’t planned to happen that way.

  When we delivered the ore from the lo Trader, we each went our own way. We didn’t exchange forwarding addresses or communicator codes. At least, I didn’t. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the guys or appreciate the help they’d given me on my first – and only – trip to the moons of Jupiter. I did. It was just . . . Well, I didn’t expect to ever see them again, and I’ve never been one for sentimental attachments.

  Even when they canned me from Research, I never once got in touch with the people I used to work with there. And I’d known some of them since I was eleven years old.

  What would have been the use? Suddenly we were on different sides of the fence, and no amount of ‘remember-whens’ was going to change the fact.

  And that’s how it was when we got back with the ore from the lo Trader and they paid us out.

  Personally, I was half expecting us to have overlooked something – either in the log or in the cargo itself – which would alert the company to the scam we’d run. For a week I slept in my clothes, ready for a quick getaway if they came for me. But they didn’t.

  I guess the quality of the ore blinded them to everything else. The metallurgist on the Lunar station where we delivered it said they hadn’t seen that kind of quality from Ganymede in over fifteen years, and tried pumping Mac for the exact location of the mine site. It was just lucky that the rules didn’t require us to divulge that kind of information.

  So as far as anyone in the company was concerned we’d just hit the mother lode. They were happy. We were happy.

  End of story.

  Almost.

  With the payout for the ore, split between the ten members of the crew, we each had as much credit as any miner could reasonably expect to see in a decade – maybe even a lifetime – and if there was ever a perfect chance to break free once and for all, this was it.

  There were rumours circulating among the Research community that on Deucalion a black-listing from the Grants Council wasn’t exactly the kiss of death that it was on Earth.

  Just the thought of working again with my mind, instead of my aching body, was worth more than all the credits in my account.

  There was nothing tying me to the planet of my birth. No family, no loyalty. No future . . .

  And I guess that was the way it was for Mac, too. Thirteen years as a ‘rock-biter’ was more than most people could survive. What was the point in tempting fate even once more when you had sixty thousand credits against your name, and there was a C-ship leaving within a couple of months?

  For Cox I suppose the decision was a bit tougher. He wasn’t deciding just for himself. He had four kids – the oldest my age and the youngest just twelve. But in the end that was just about the best possible argument in favour of making the break.

  When I met them at the medical the day before boarding, he was a totally differen
t person from the tough ore-jockey I’d spent a good portion of the past year sparring with. He was . . . I don’t know . . . gentler somehow.

  And his kids really loved him. Even I could see it.

  I felt a stab of jealousy.

  There was an older woman sitting with them. His mother, I guessed – correctly. But she wasn’t making the trip.

  ‘Too old,’ she said, when I asked the obvious question. ‘I have my friends and my house, and . . .’ She shrugged, as if I should understand the rest.

  I didn’t, but I said nothing.

  One of the problems with being Funded before you even reach puberty is that you never really get to mix with ordinary people. In Research you’re isolated. A kind of hothouse bloom that never has to deal with the uncontrolled natural environment.

  It’s fun while it lasts, I guess, but there are things that you miss out on. Things you need to know, in case they ever toss you out of the hothouse.

  Luckily, I’ve always been a quick learner . . .

  Medical Research Facility

  Edison (Southwest)

  16/15/202 Standard

  GALEN

  He studies the screen, watching the test results as they come through from the operatives on the Pandora. The central data frame is ether-linked to the punchboards in the examination centre hurriedly set up on board the C-ship, and the results feed directly into the Research computer.

  Charlie places the teacup on the console in front of him and slides into a chair on his right-hand side.

  ‘Anything?’ she asks – as if he might have forgotten to mention it if there was.

  He looks at her ironically for a few moments, and she shrugs an apology. Then he relents.

  ‘Not a thing,’ he replies. ‘I didn’t really expect there would be.’

  The figures are in the ’frame if he cares to pull them up, but he knows every aspect of the data without visual confirmation.

  Less than two hundred people on the whole ship had actually come from the South and Central Americas in the critical period. Less than two hundred who stood even the remotest chance of accidentally encountering anyone who might have had contact with the CRIOS contaminent.

  Realistically, the chances of anyone aboard any of the C-ships having come within a thousand clicks of the mystery bug were millions to one against.

  But he still can’t shake the feeling of foreboding.

  Galen Sibraa. The crippled psychic . . .

  He rubs his hands over his face in a small concession to the exhaustion he is feeling, and continues to watch the data scrolling down the screen.

  Finally, the computer chimes for attention, and the message flashes:

  – TRANSMISSION COMPLETE.

  – ALL RECORDS DOWNLOADED TO RESEARCH AND LOGGED.

  – CENTRAL DATA FRAME UPDATED.

  – FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS . . .?

  ‘Hard copy now, and download all files to my personal punchboard.’ He pronounces each word precisely, leaning slightly forward towards the v-a pick-up.

  ‘Well . . .’ Beside him, Charlie almost whispers the word. There is an unmistakable relief in her voice and in the sigh she allows to escape. ‘So far, so good.’

  For the first time in hours he smiles and removes his gaze from the screen. In just about any area of med research, Charlie is about the most innovative and imaginative person he has ever worked with. But she can slip into terrible clichés sometimes.

  ‘So far,’ he replies, and something in his tone of voice alerts her to the joke, because she looks at him with that hurt expression she can put on.

  ‘I did it again, didn’t I?’

  He nods, and she returns the smile. Then she leans across and runs the backs of her fingers down his cheek.

  Charlie always pretends not to notice, but she’s perceptive. She knows.

  He happens to be in love with her. Very unprofessional, but purely platonic, of course.

  ‘Two more ships to come, then we can start to relax,’ she says, as the machine chimes again and the last page of hard-copy slides out of the slot into the basket. She scoops them up and drops them into the binder.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he replies. But he isn’t finished worrying about this one yet. ‘It’s not enough, you know.’

  She waits. There is more and she knows it.

  And she knows him too well to waste words prompting.

  ‘The blood tests.’ He thumbs the control, and the servos hum quietly, turning his chair towards the window.

  The sky is clear blue. Outside, it is summer. Forty-four degrees Celsius in the shade, and they are in Edison, on the coast. Inland, it must be well over fifty in places.

  Without turning back, he continues. ‘If there’s any danger, we’re not likely to pick it up by checking blood samples.’

  ‘It’s a pretty good indicator, though. No infection means no contact. Which means no worries. At least it does according to everything on disease control that I’ve ever read.’

  She takes the bound report out of the machine and tosses it onto his lap.

  He doesn’t look at it. He has seen all he needs to on the screen. For now, at least. Time to review it later, before it is sent to Storage.

  He turns around as far as he can in his chair and stares up at her. ‘What’s it really an indication of? Of the fact that they’re not actually infected? Think about it, Charlie. We pretty well know they’re not infected, already. You saw the report. From the onset of symptoms to the time they zip up the body bag, we’re talking a day and a half. Two and half days max. It takes four or five times as long as that to process the passengers for departure. They have to be at the departure station at least a week before the ship leaves. Judging by the figures in the report, if any of them were showing symptoms when they arrived, they’d have turned to stone before they even got on board the ship.

  ‘And if the contagion-rate is correct, we’d have thousands of positive tests up there right now. Even if the stasis put a brake on the progress of the thing – and there’s no reason to believe it would.’

  ‘Then why did you insist—?’

  He has been the one pushing for the strictest quarantine possible. And he was the one who refused to back down on the questionnaires and the testing. She knows with absolute certainty that if the Council had voted those down, Galen would have quit and left them to it.

  He can be stubborn sometimes, and Charlie is resident expert on the subject.

  ‘Why did I insist on the tests?’ he cuts in. ‘Because we still don’t know the incubation period for certain. Personally, I don’t think it’s anywhere over a couple of days, but that’s only educated guesswork. I couldn’t take any chances. What if it’s a whole lot longer? What if all the victims in Puerto Limon contracted it weeks or months before the symptoms actually manifested. If it’s like most company set-ups, it’s pretty much a closed community. They could have all been exposed at about the same time. Which means they would have all shown symptoms at about the same time. We had to be sure there were no carriers.’

  ‘Okay, I’m game. Why do you think the incubation period’s only a couple of days?’

  He turns to look at her. Somehow she always knows the right question to ask. It is the reason they work so well together.

  ‘Because it takes less than three days from the onset of symptoms to the victim’s death. Whatever it is, it’s far too virulent to just sit around in a victim’s system for weeks or months. At least, that’s my theory. And as well as that, there were no reports of outbreaks anywhere else but Puerto Limon. The longer the incubation period, the more chance of people travelling and carrying the bug with them. But I couldn’t be sure, you see. What we’re dealing with is totally alien, so we can’t be sure of the rules. And it’s dangerous not to cover all the possibilities.’

  ‘Hence the blood tests.’

&
nbsp; ‘Hence the blood tests.’

  He pauses.

  Charlie has the knack of digging up whatever’s bubbling around in Galen’s subconscious and forcing him to think about it.

  The niggling feeling that has been troubling him for days suddenly slides squarely into focus.

  He turns the chair back to face her. ‘There’s something we’re missing here.’

  Charlie sits forward. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Look where the outbreak occurred.’ He punches the original memo up on the screen. ‘The JMMC ore-processing facility, Puerto Limon, Costa Rica. Tell you anything?’ It is a question that requires no answer. ‘JMMC owns the Global Health Organisation. Their own scientists ordered a code red containment procedure. “Confirmed presence of pathogen of extraterrestrial origin”. Don’t you see?’

  He knows Charlie will probably ‘see’ in a few seconds’ time, but he isn’t that patient.

  ‘It was an ore-processing plant. Charlie, I don’t think this bug needs a host. At least, not a human one. Probably not even a live one. Stay with me on this.’

  She looks at him and her expression forces him to recognise the insult.

  He smiles an apology and continues. ‘The ore was taken to Earth on an automated shuttle – either directly from the ore-carrier that brought it from Jupiter or on transfer from the Lunar station.’

  He is ad-libbing, but he knows he is right. She nods for him to go on.

  ‘Whichever way, from the time it left Jupiter’s orbit to the time it was delivered to the ore-processing facility, it was never even close to coming into direct contact with anyone. But still it managed to infect the whole place. Which means we’re not dealing with something that can be spread only from person to person or animal to person by breathing or some form of bodily contact.’

  ‘You mean fomite transmission?’