by Jyotin Goel
‘The serpent!’ the vaanar yelled. ‘Do not keep him waiting, warrior!’
Saragha—unhinged, unpredictable.
Why had he followed them? Bheem had no idea; he was certain of just one thing, an attack was imminent. Instantly, his mind clicked through multiple battle factors:
The vaanar knows this terrain—I don’t.
Protecting Vineet-Sinha is vital—counterattack options limited.
Roped to the puny ones—mobility reduced drastically.
Bheem considered disengaging himself from the others but ruled this out immediately. Vineet-Sinha was prone to panic and it was necessary to keep him close. Instantly, Bheem’s decision was vindicated. Vineet scrambled back in terror and stumbled as the shortened rope snapped rigid.
‘Do not move!’ Bheem rasped.
‘Four!’ Saragha leapt closer to the edge, raving. ‘Four saviours! Four sisters were they!’
The rant meant nothing to Bheem. He reached for an outcrop and broke off a sharp sliver.
‘W . . . will he attack us?’ Aviva’s voice wasn’t entirely steady.
‘Yes.’ Bheem’s eyes did not waver from the raging vaanar. ‘The chasm, though, is more than eighty arm-lengths wide and there are no tail-holds to help him swing over. It would be interesting to know how he intends to cross it.’
Saragha had a simple answer to that—he leapt. The cliff opposite was slightly higher than the one on which Bheem and his companions stood and the trajectory of the leap, therefore, was downward. Still, it was a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot jump, to attempt it sheer insanity. Saragha made it. Almost. For a moment, Bheem watched in disbelief as the frenzied vaanar flew at him, soaring over the impossible chasm. Instinctively, the warrior’s hand snapped forward like a slingshot; the sliver of stone hissed through the air at the vaanar, cannoned into his jaw. Saragha faltered slightly, and failed to complete the astonishing leap by millimetres, howling and flailing as he dipped below the edge of the cliff. But then a long arm shot out, claws biting into soft ground, scrabbling to get a grip. From his vantage point, Bheem could see Saragha hanging on as the torrent seethed far below. The soil loosened, breaking away, and the paw slipped. This was the Antaragata, where the hold of natural laws was tenuous—the vaanar remained suspended in mid-air for a moment. Then abruptly, he twisted around and fell face first, as if rushing to meet his fate.
‘Back!’ Bheem roared.
Too late. Even as he fell, Saragha’s tail lashed upward and coiled around the rope that hitched Bheem to his companions, jerking them forward. Bheem braced his legs, but the loose soil at the cliff’s edge had already given way. Aviva and Vineet screamed as they plummeted into the abyss but Bheem’s mind continued to assess options. There was just one.
‘The healer!’ Bheem shouted, at the same moment that Vineet’s right hand hit the churning foam.
Two impulses flashed through the reporter’s brain simultaneously: an image of Nishi Agarwal’s uncompromisingly intelligent face, and blinding, freezing pain, as if his hand had been impaled on an icicle. And then his mind came apart as the hissing, coiling serpent reared up and swallowed them whole.
3
Z-6 Research Facility
Rohtang, Himachal Pradesh
A Day Earlier
‘I’m smiling,’ Nishi Agarwal said, not superfluously, since her expression was invisible to the woman seated before her.
The woman looked at the blank hood of the hazmat-suited doctor facing her. ‘Does that mean . . . ?’
Nishi nodded. ‘We’re almost certain.’
A very visible smile lit up the woman’s face. She bit her trembling lip as her eyes teared up. Nishi reached out and took the woman’s hand in her own gloved one, the simple act of empathy sharply bringing home to Nishi the paradox that was her situation. Just a month ago, in Kerala, the hazmat suit had protected her from the afflicted. Now she, the doctor, wore it to ensure that she did not infect the woman seated across from her. But within that paradox, wonderfully, lay the answer Nishi had sought so desperately, the crucial fact that the woman before her had already been exposed to the virus but was not infected!
How improbable all this had been a week before. The images were still fresh in Nishi’s mind: the raid on her lab by Enforcement officials, uncommunicative agents taking her into custody ostensibly to ensure that her ‘flawed conclusions’ about a supposedly unstoppable epidemic were kept out of the public domain. Within hours, she had been produced before a committee, her fate in the hands of a scientific éminence grise.
It had been awkward, to say the least. The celebrated Dr J.P. Cherian, winner of the Richard Doll Epidemiology Award, honorary head of multiple institutes, apologizing to her. Incredibly, she wasn’t under arrest. In fact, the reverse was true. Dr Cherian had revealed that officialdom had reluctantly come around to accepting Nishi’s contention, and that her internment was, in fact, part of a classified government initiative to find an antidote to the Z-6 virus. The effort was already underway, not in Delhi but near the Rohtang Pass in the mountains of Himachal Pradesh, a hundred feet underground in a decommissioned ballistic missile base that had been converted hurriedly into a biosecure research facility. And despite Nishi’s unconventional ‘induction’, her unique field experience guaranteed her a lead role in the investigation.
Elated, Nishi began her work. The breakthrough occurred almost immediately. Nishi was inspecting her meticulously collected blood samples, when she stumbled upon it. The five samples under examination had been obtained from the members of the Nambiar family in a sleepy village in Alleppey district, Kerala, 123 days ago, four days after they were infected. There was nothing unusual about four of the samples. But the fifth . . .
The progression of the disease was infallibly consistent—utterly dormant for hundred and twenty-first days after infection, full-blown on the hundred and twenty-first day with death ensuing within seventy-two hours. There were no exceptions. None—except this once. Four blood samples expressed the virus in all its virulence. The fifth was virus-free. Antibodies that had been overwhelmed by the disease in the other samples had proliferated enormously in the fifth, wiping out all traces of the virus.
Nishi caught her breath. There must be some mistake, some discrepancy in the intake of material, some error in handling during transportation. She demanded immediate checks—chain of custody reports, transport sequences, original hard copies. No errors, no discrepancies. The sample indeed appeared to be genuine, drawn 123 days previously from a female member of the Nambiar family—Valsamma Nambiar.
Was she alive? Her pulse racing, Nishi searched the project’s databanks. There were detours in place, firewalls, cyber-blocks to protect the secrecy of the operation. It took much longer than it should have to access the information, but finally Nishi was through. With remarkable lack of drama, the record scrolled on to her screen:
Nambiar, Saritha Deceased 18-10-2017
Nambiar, Vishnu Deceased 17-10-2017
Nambiar, Valsamma Alive
Nambiar, Krishna Deceased 18-10-2017
Nambiar, Mohanlal Deceased 18-10-2017
The Nambiars had been exposed to the virus exactly 127 days earlier. So far, the disease had been relentless; no one had survived beyond 124 days. But according to the bland, black-and-white text on the screen, three days earlier the impossible had happened—Valsamma Nambiar had stayed alive. Nishi was livid. Three days! When every minute spread the contagion, multiplied the number of those infected. Three days had been lost to an official obsession with secrecy!
In an instant, a message superseding everything else flashed on the director’s screen. ‘Dr Cherian, you need to look at this data. At once!’
The discovery punched through bureaucratic walls. Lookout orders were issued, but despite the urgency, Valsamma would have been untraceable were it not for the fickle workings of chance. In the affected districts, traditional funerary rituals were in abeyance. Bodies of the dead were being incinerated collectively, and returning th
e ashes of individual victims to family members was proving to be ridiculously difficult. The grieving Valsamma waited futilely for five days and then set out for Sabarimala to immerse the photographs of her nine-year-old son, her husband and her parents-in-law in the holy river Pamba, in lieu of their ashes. She was intercepted just as she boarded the bus, the fortuitous five-day delay having allowed the creaky official machinery to catch up with her.
The result of the battery of tests to which Valsamma was subjected was conclusive: she was immune to the Z-6 virus. Valsamma gripped Nishi’s hand and sobbed, with relief for her deliverance, in grief for the loved ones lost. Nishi waited, grimly sympathetic, arm around the woman’s shaking shoulders, letting the storm of emotions subside.
Valsamma controlled herself, brushed a hand against her damp eyes. ‘I’ve been spared,’ she said in Malayalam. ‘Why?’
Nishi’s Malayalam was functional at best, picked up in Kerala through daily usage. Would she be able to explain to this shattered woman why she had been granted life when her son, husband and so many others had shrivelled and died like crop in a blighted field? How could she talk about viruses, antibodies, natural immunity to this dignified, tragic woman of little medical knowledge? What could she say about those fundamental strands of life, DNA, and about a single gene that could have saved her—a mutated gene that she probably carried, alone among the dozens dead, the thousands potentially afflicted? She looked at Valsamma Nambiar, embodiment of hope for the human race, whose blood was the weapon for which they had been so fervently searching. She would have to be told . . . Nishi steeled herself and began talking.
~
Z-6 Research Facility
The Following Evening
The trees were known by many names—peepul, ashvattha—but the locals called them ‘lakshataran’—trees that nourish a hundred thousand insects. The peepul grove was unusual in the cedar-covered highlands of Rohtang, and lay just five hundred metres from the boxy, single-storey building that camouflaged the multilevel Z-6 research facility underground. None of the Central Reserve Police Force guards who cordoned off the road had ever given a second glance to the nondescript grove, and so had never remarked on the strangely attractive reddish hue of the trees. The locals, unsurprisingly, knew all about the reason for the unusual colour—the trees were coated with the resinous secretion of millions of Coccus lacca, insects that had made their home in the trees’ branches and aerial roots. The lac they secreted was nature’s gift, useful as medicine, in dyeing cloth, as a decorative varnish for pottery and handicrafts and, most importantly, as a sacred fuel. Not ordinary fuel, of course—as everyone was aware, the stuff was highly flammable.
The evening was unusually warm, discomfiting the CRPF guards who were still clad in the previous winter’s woollen uniforms. So the cool northern breeze that sprang up suddenly was very welcome. The guards perked up, laughed at risqu? jokes, slipped their sweat-soaked berets back on and didn’t bother about the trees stirring in the breeze half a kilometre down the road. The lac insects did. Any passer-by inured to their monotonous drone would have been surprised by the rising restless hum. The wind stiffened, the scarlet branches whipped and slashed and abruptly exhaled a huge swirling cloud of insects that climbed into the swiftly darkening sky.
For the CRPF units stationed around the building, a pulsating, angry buzz was the first indication of something out of the ordinary. Shielding their faces from the wind, straining their eyes in the failing light, they vaguely discerned a cloud billowing towards them. A sudden storm? Unexpected weather events weren’t unknown here in the mountains. And then it was upon them—a whirling, whirring maelstrom of insects—hundreds, thousands, millions of them! Within moments, the outhouses, the building, the guards themselves were covered by a living, throbbing carpet. Flailing their arms, the guards tried to beat off the surprisingly resilient bugs. The creatures were almost glued on, their bright-red secretion strongly adhesive. Pell-mell, the guards retreated indoors, compromising the anti-contamination seals of the building’s entrances.
In the hushed, sterile underground levels of the facility, things had been moving forward at an unprecedented speed; teams of scientists worked ceaselessly, assessing the ramifications of Nishi’s breakthrough, drawing up plans for the development and dissemination of a Z-6 vaccine on a war footing. Immersed in their work, they were completely unaware of the infestation that had now breached the unguarded entrances and broken into the building above. Images of CRPF personnel frantically jabbing at their ears, eyes, nostrils, tearing off uniforms alive with insects played on security screens, but no one was watching. And so, no one saw two forms, translucent, streaked with red lac, break away from the mass of insects and move steadily towards the bank of elevators that led to the secure lower levels.
~
She was boiling. And then she wasn’t. As simple as that. Consciousness returned to Aviva in a heartbeat. The scalding heat she had felt—had that been the reassembling of the countless atoms that constituted her, the heat of nuclear fusion? Or had it been that unknown, indefinable spark of life itself? She could only guess. But the fact was that she had survived Sesha Nag. And so had the others. Vineet was on his knees a few feet away, cradling a strangely lifeless right arm. Bheem stood motionless in the shadows, eyes glittering, almost invisible despite his size. Oddly, the rope that had linked them had vanished. Aviva wondered why. Something to do with the vaanar coiling his tail around it? And where was that beast . . . swallowed by Sesha Nag, drowned in its roiling tides?
Suddenly, she became aware of her surroundings. A large room, furnished with shelves, microscopes, computers and what looked like a long table. A laboratory bench, perhaps? A woman was propped on a stool, eyes shut, head resting on the bench. White coat. The doctor . . . Nishi Agarwal? Aviva swivelled towards Vineet, who nodded.
So they had completed the journey.
The serpent had spat them out precisely at their destination. What had the warrior said? ‘Within Sesha Nag, the connection remains . . . Physical distance means nothing.’ Awed, Aviva gazed at the sleeping woman.
Someone was shaking her. Nishi’s eyes opened. When had she fallen asleep? Her head jerked up off the bench, knocking against a screen that flickered awake with the same abruptness that Nishi had.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What time is . . .’
The hand on her shoulder, the one that had shaken her—it was unprotected! In breach of every protocol. This was unforgivable. Nishi turned angrily . . . and froze. Her eyes registered what she was seeing, but her mind couldn’t make sense of it. Disparate images that refused to coalesce in any comprehensible manner: A man—strangely familiar—smeared with some sort of white dust—his right hand awkwardly held against his chest. And behind him—a dark-haired woman—foreign-looking—also dust-streaked . . .
‘Dr Agarwal.’ Vineet looked down at the scientist. ‘Vineet Sinha. I interviewed you recently . . .’
Of course! The reporter. But who was the woman?
Aviva stepped forward. ‘Dr Agarwal, we need your help. Urgently.’
She must be a reporter too. What are they after—a scoop? A sensational story? The man knows I’m infected. Are they mad, breaking in here?
Nishi stood up. ‘I don’t know how you got in here, but you’ve exposed yourselves to the virus. You have to be quarantined. Immediately.’
She reached for the intercom, gripped the handset. Instantly, a hand clamped down on hers—a giant hand. Nishi gasped as the man behind her moved into view. He was huge! Where had he come from? How had she failed to see him?
Bheem looked at the scientist, sudden excitement flashing across his face.
‘She is immune!’ he exclaimed. ‘The second saviour—Valsamma-Nambiar!’
‘What? How do you know about—?’
‘What is it?’ Aviva stared at the warrior. She had never seen him so exhilarated. ‘What have you found out?’
Bheem ignored her, concentrating on the terrified scientist. His g
rip on her arm had thrown open the door to her mind—but that door led to another that had slammed shut fifty-two hours ago. Bheem had no access to Nishi’s memories of anything she had experienced after he had emerged from Samay’s vortex.
‘You found her in the far south more than two thousand kilometres from here,’ he said urgently. ‘Where is Valsamma-Nambiar now? Tell me. Quickly!’
Nishi stared at the giant, her mind swamped with terror. ‘H—here,’ she stuttered. ‘She—she is here . . . level three . . . six floors above . . .’
Bheem’s gaze sharpened, his grip tightening reflexively. Nishi gasped in pain and sagged.
‘You’re hurting her!’ cried Aviva.
Bheem let go and the scientist’s legs gave way. Vineet lunged, attempting to support her but his right hand failed to grip. Elbow down, the arm was blackened, dead, a petrified log of congealed blood, frozen nerves, icy skin. Nishi sank to the ground, crying out as her ankle twisted sharply. The scientist’s collapse, though, was irrelevant to Bheem. He had already turned away, his enormous hands dextrously manipulating Nishi’s computer keyboard, using knowledge gleaned from her to run security codes, pulling up images of corridors and rooms across the facility. Millions of insects infesting the building above, swarming through air ducts and stairwells into the lower levels; frantic guards; wailing alarms—to the warrior every image conveyed a single message:
‘Ashvatthama.’ Bheem grinned ferociously.
‘Ashvatth—’ Aviva stared at the giant. ‘Is he . . . ?’
Bheem turned to Aviva and Vineet. ‘Take the healer and leave this place—now!’
Aviva looked squarely at the warrior. Instinctively, the Israeli resisted unexplained orders, a propensity that had landed her in trouble more than once during her term with the Israel Defence Forces.