Loosed Upon the World

by John Joseph Adams

  “Get dry NOW,” Frigg said in Mahmoud’s voice, or maybe it was Mahmoud. She half crawled into the cabin, peeled everything off, and huddled under a warm shower until the shivering slowed. A searing pain in both legs told her that blood was circulating again. There was a frayed tear in the dry suit—had it caught on a nail as she was pulling it out of the cupboard? So much for damning protocol, something she never did if a colleague or student was involved. Her left calf still ached, and the tears wouldn’t stop. At last, she toweled off and got into warm clothes, with warm gelpacks under her armpits and on her stomach. The medbot checked her vital signs while hot cocoa bubbled.

  “Frigg, tell Tom and Mahmoud not to come; my vitals are fine,” she said, but her voice shook. “Tell them to call off the rescue.” Her chest still ached, but as she sipped the cocoa, she started to feel more normal. After a while, she could stand without feeling she was going to fall over.

  She stepped gingerly out on the deck. The sun, already low in the sky, was falling slowly into the ocean like a ripe peach. The first stars sequined the coming arctic night. The belugas swam around the boat. She finished her cocoa in a few gulps and felt a shadow of strength return to her. A whale popped its head out of the water next to her boat and looked at her with friendly curiosity.

  She put her arms between the railing bars and touched the whale’s head. It was smooth as a hard-boiled egg. “Qilalugaq,” she whispered, and tears ran down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook. “Thank you, thank you for saving my life. Did Ittuq send you?” She realized she was speaking Inuktitut, the familiar syllables coming back as though she had never left home. “Ittuq,” she whispered. She had been too young when her grandfather died, too shocked to let herself mourn fully. Now, thirty-nine years later, the tears flowed.

  At last she stood, leaning against the rail, spent, and waved to the pod as it departed.

  Later that night, when she had eaten her fill of hot chicken soup, she talked to Tom on video. He was touchingly grateful that she was all right and excited about the whale rescue. Irene said, “Don’t go around broadcasting it, will you?” She had no desire to see her foolishness go viral on the internet. Fortunately, Tom had something exciting of his own to share.

  “Look!” he said. “This is from this afternoon.” A photo appeared on the side of the screen. There lay the enormous bulk of the artificial iceberg to which his boat was docked. An irregular heap lay atop it.

  “Polar bear,” he said, grinning. “Must have been swimming for a while, looking for a rest stop. Poor guy’s sleeping off a late lunch. I tossed him my latest catch of fish.”

  “Stay away from him!” Irene said sharply. “Wild animals aren’t cute house pets—remember your briefing!”

  “You’re a fine one to talk, Irene.” He grinned again, and then, anticipating her protests, said, “Yes, yes, I know; don’t worry. If I go aboard the berg with the bear on it, some kid somewhere is going to notice and send me a message. This morning, I stepped out without my snow goggles and a twelve-year-old from Uzbekistan messaged my genie. Thanks to Million Eyes you can hardly take a shit in peace. . . . Er, sorry . . .”

  “It’s not that bad.” She couldn’t help smiling. Good for the kid in Uzbekistan. Tom could be absentminded. The screen image of the fake berg was impossibly white. It was coated with a high-albedo nanostructured radiative paint that sent infrared right back into the atmosphere while leaving the surface cool to the touch.

  “Another interesting thing happened today,” he said, with the kind of casualness that betrayed suppressed excitement. “You know we have eight brollies on Big Lump?” Big Lump was the largest iceberg in a flotilla about fifty kilometers north of Tom’s station. “They’ve been screening meltwater pools on the berg from the sun, refreezing them before they have a chance to melt deeply enough to make cracks. Well, three nomad brollies arrived from Lomonosov Station—just left their posts of their own accord and came over and joined them. Mahmoud just reported.”

  “Very interesting,” she said.

  It was not surprising that brollies were making their own decisions. It meant that as learning intelligences, intimately connected to their environment and to one another, they had gone on to the next stage of sophistication. Her own brolly continuously monitored the biogeochemical environment, knowing when to feed the methanotroph consortia their extra nutrients, and when to stop. Her original conception of linked artificial intelligences with information-feedback loops was based on biomimicry, inspired by natural systems like ecosystems and endocrine systems. Her brolly was used to working as a community of minds, so she imagined that facility could be scaled up. Each brolly could communicate with its own kind and was connected to the climate databases around the world, giving as well as receiving information, and capable of learning from it. She had a sudden vision of a multilevel, complexly interconnected grid, a sentience spanning continents and species, a kind of Gaiaweb come alive.

  “How much time before they become smarter than us?” she said, half jokingly. “This is great news, Tom.”

  Afterward, she watched the great curtains of the aurora paint the sky. She sat in her cabin, raising her eyes from the data scrolling down her screen. Temperature was dropping in the ocean seabed—the methane fizzler had perceptibly slowed since the project began. It was a minute accomplishment compared to the scale of the problem, but with two million pairs of eyes watching methane maps of the Arctic, maybe they could get funding to learn how to take care of the worst areas that were still manageable. Partly, the methane outgassing was a natural part of a thousands-years process, but it was being exacerbated by warming seas. Didn’t science ultimately teach what the world’s indigenous peoples had known so well—that everything is connected? A man gets home from work in New York City and flips a switch, and a little more coal is burned, releasing more warming carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. Or an agribusiness burns a tract of Amazon rain forest, and a huge carbon sink is gone, just like that. Or a manufacturer in the United States buys palm oil to put in cookies, and rain forests vanish in Southeast Asia to make way for more plantations. People and their lives were so tightly connected across the world that it would take a million efforts around the globe to make a difference.

  She touched the orange wristlet and the screen came on. “Frigg, call Maggie.”

  “Irene, Irene?” Maggie had more gray in her hair, but her voice was as loud as before. Demanding. “Where have you been? They told me at your campus you were in the Arctic, and I thought, dammit, she’s come home at last, but I hear you’re somewhere in Siberia?”

  “Don’t you keep up?” Irene said, growling, trying not to grin in delight and failing. She blinked tears from her eyes. “Siberia is where it’s at. I’m in a boat, running an experiment on the seabed. Trying to stop methane outgassing, you know, save the world, all in a day’s work.”

  “Great, great, but I hate coming all the way here and finding you gone. I have to tell you, I saw Lucie. Yes, you heard me right. She’s going into documentary filmmaking—expedition to Nepal—”

  Nepal!

  “Well, I am glad she’s talking to you,” Irene said after a moment. “Is she . . . is she all right?”

  “She’s fine! Irene, she just needs to find her own way—you two have been by yourselves for so long. . . .”

  “By ourselves! In the middle of the empty streets of the Bay Area!”

  “You know what I mean. Big cities can be terribly lonely. Why do you think I came back after college? Listen, Irene, nuclear families suck, and single-parent nuclear families suck even more. People need other people than just their parents. My kids have issues with being here in Iqaluit, but at least they are surrounded by uncles and aunts and cousins and grandparents—”

  “How are your parents? How is everyone?”

  “Waiting for you to come home. Come and visit, Irene. It’s been too long. We all thought you were the one who was going to stay because of everything you learned about the old ways from Grandfath
er.”

  “The last time I came, when my father died . . . your mother threw a fish at me and told me to gut it.”

  Maggie laughed.

  “Which I think you did pretty well. Surprised me. Now you have to come on up, Irene! Or down, I should say. Come talk to my boy. Peter’s part of a collaboration between Inuit high schoolers and scientists. Hunters, too. Going out with GPS units, recording information about ice melting and wildlife sightings.”

  Irene wanted to say, Maggie, I almost died today, but Qilalugaq gave me the gift of life, and that means I have to change how I live. I need your help. The words wouldn’t come out. She said, instead, “Maggie, I got to go. Let’s talk tomorrow. . . . We have to talk.”

  “Irene, are you all right? Irene?”

  “Yes . . . no, I can’t talk about it now. Tomorrow? If . . . if you see Lucie again, tell her—give her my love.”

  “I’m seeing her Friday for lunch before she leaves. I will, don’t worry. Tomorrow, for sure, then. Hang in there, girl!”

  She waved good-bye and the screen went blank. The lights of the aurora reflected off the walls and desk in the darkened room. The boat swayed gently—out there, the pale top of the brolly floated. Something splashed out at sea, a smooth back. She remembered the small house in Iqaluit where she’d grown up with her parents and grandfather and two aunts and cousins. The great sky over the ice, sky reflecting ice reflecting sky in an endless loop. Her grandfather had been an immensely practical man, but he had also taught her to pay attention to intangible things, things you couldn’t quantify, like the love you could feel for a person, or the land, or the whale. She had been rescued by a whale, a whale from home. What more of a sign did she need? She had stayed away first because it was inconvenient to go all the way, and then because she had been so busy, doing important work—and later, because she was confused and ashamed. How to face them all, knowing that despite her successes she had lost her way, wandered off from her own self  ? How to return home without Lucie, knowing herself a failure in so many ways? Now she saw that the journey home was part of her redemption, and as the belugas migrated, traveling in great closed loops in the still-frigid waters of the Arctic, visiting and revisiting old ground, so must she. Enuusiq, she whispered, practicing. She thought of her daughter’s eager, tender face in childhood as she listened to a story, and the bittersweet delight when Lucie went off to college, so young and beautiful, intelligence and awareness in her eyes, at the threshold of adulthood. She thought of herself as a small child, watching her mother weaving a pattern on the community loom: the sound, the rhythm, the colors, her mother’s hands. The world she loved was woven into being every moment through complex, dynamic webs of interaction: the whales in their pods, the methanotrophs and their consortia, the brollies and their family units, the Million Eyes of eager young people trying to save the world.

  “Ittuq,” she said aloud, “I’m coming home.”

  . . . In the Amazon . . .

  . . . There is a city in the middle of the rain forest: Manaus. This year, there is a drought. The rains are scant. When they fall, they fall kilometers downwind of the city. . . .

  In the heat, outside the glitzy hotels and bars, there is the smell of rotting fruit, fish, garbage, flowers, exhaust. Rich and poor walk the streets with their cell phones or briefcases or Gucci handbags or baskets of jenipapo or camu camu, and among them prowls the artist. He’s looking for a blank wall, the side of a building. Any smooth, empty surface is a canvas to him.

  His favorite time is the early morning. In that pale light when the bugio monkeys and the birds begin to call, he is there with black oil chalk and a ladder, drawing furiously in huge arm strokes, then filling in the fine-detail work. He never knows what animal will emerge from the wall—the first stroke tells him nothing, nor the next, or the next, but each stroke limits the possibilities until it is clear what spirit has possessed him, and then it emerges. When it is a jaguar, he, the artist, feels the bark of the tree limb; he flickers through the jungle on silent, padded feet. When a manatee emerges from the blank wall, the artist knows the watery depths of the river, the mysterious underwater geography. When it is a bird, he knows the secret pathways of the high jungle canopy.

  Then he is done. He looks around, and there is nobody, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He slips away through the sleeping streets to another self, another life.

  Fernanda stared out from the airplane window at the city that was her home. It was a bright splash of whiteness in the green of the Amazon rain forest. Urban heat island, indeed, she thought. The city had grown enormously in the last decade, with the boom in natural gas and high-tech manufacturing—returning to it was always a surprise—a populous, economically vigorous human habitation in the middle of the largest forest in the world. Despite the urban forests that made green pools in the white sea of concrete, it lay before her like scar tissue in the body of the jungle. The Rio Negro was languid as an exhausted lover—the water was lower than she could remember since the last drought. She hadn’t forgotten what it had been like, as a child, to stand on the dry bed of the river during the big drought, feeling like the world was about to end. Bright rooftops came up toward her as the plane dipped, and she tried to see if there were any green roofs—hard to tell from this height. Never mind; she would know soon enough, when she joined the new project.

  “Been on holiday?” the man next to her said pleasantly.

  Fernanda was caught off guard. She had spent three months in the coastal jungle studying the drought, counting dead trees, making measurements of humidity, temperature, and rainfall, and, on one occasion, fighting a forest fire started by an agricultural company to clear the forest. Her left forearm still hurt from a burn. The team had camped in the hot, barren expanse, and after two months, she and Claudio had broken up, which was why she was coming back alone. They’d established beyond doubt that barren wasteland was hotter than healthy forest, and that less rain fell here, and that it was similar to an urban heat island. Far from being able to regrow the forest, they had to fight greedy marauders to prevent more of it from being destroyed. Claudio remained behind with the restoration team, and the rest of them had trekked through the deep coolness of the remaining healthy forest until they had got to civilization. She had grown silent as the forest muttered, called, clucked, and roared around her, had felt its rhythms in some buried ancestral part of her, and her pain had quieted to a kind of soft background noise. Now she looked at the man in his business suit and his clean-shaven, earnest face, the shy smile, the hint of a beer belly, and thought how alien her own species seemed whenever she returned from the forest.

  “Business,” she said coldly, hoping he wouldn’t inquire any further. The plane began its descent.

  The city was the same and not the same. She found out within the next few days that the cheerful family gatherings at Tia Ana’s, which she’d always enjoyed, were a lot more difficult without Claudio, mostly because of the questions and commiserations. Tia Ana had that look in her eye that meant she was already making matchmaking plans. Her mother had tickets for two for a performance of Aida at the Teatro Amazonas, no less, which was something to look forward to. Inevitably, she thought about that last fight with Claudio, when he accused her of being more sexual with her saxophone than with him. Not that she’d brought her sax into the rain forest—but she hadn’t been able to take it out of its case as yet.

  What was different was that there wasn’t enough rain. When the clouds did gather, there might be a scant shower over the city, but most of the rain would fall about fifty kilometers downwind. Meanwhile the humans sweltered in their concrete and wooden coops—those who had air conditioning cranked it up—the poor on the city’s east side made do without, some falling victim to heat exhaustion. But for the most part, the lives of the middle and upper classes went on much the same, apart from the occasional grumbling. It seemed peculiar to Fernanda that even in this self-consciously eco-touristy city, people whom she knew and loved co
uld live such oblivious lives, at such a remove from the great, dire warnings the biosphere was giving them.

  The other thing that was different was the artist.

  An anonymous graffiti artist had hit the streets of Manaus. Sides of buildings, or walls, were transformed by art so startling that it slowed traffic, stopped conversations. She heard about all this with half an ear and didn’t pay attention until she went running the day before her new project began. White shorts and tank top, her black hair flying loose, along the harborway, through the crowded marketplaces with their bright awnings and clustering tourists, she ran through the world of her species, trying to know it again. She paused at a fruit stand, good-naturedly fending off the flirtations of two handsome youths while she drank deeply of buriti juice. There were ferries as usual on the Rio Negro, and the water was as she remembered it, dark and endless, on its way to its lover’s tryst with the Solimões to form the Amazon, the Amazon she had known and loved all her life.

  She turned onto a side street and there was a jaguar about to leap at her from the windowless side of a building. She stopped and stared. It was abstract, rendered in fluid, economical brushstrokes, but the artist knew which details were essential; whoever it was had captured the spirit of the beast, the fire in its eyes, what Neruda had called its phosphorescent absence. For a moment, she stood before it, enthralled, the jungle around her again.

  After that, she looked for more of the work, asking at street corners and market stalls. The drawings were everywhere—a flight of macaws, a sloth on a tree branch, or an anaconda about to slide off a wall onto the street. Wherever they were, there was a crowd. The three-dimensionality of the drawings was astounding. The ripple of muscle, the fine lines of feathers, the spirit come alive in the eye. She was contemplating a particularly stunning rendering of a sauim-de-coleira that a real monkey would be forgiven for mistaking for its relative, when a car full of university freshmen went by, loudly playing what passed for music among the young (she was getting old and jaded at twenty-seven!). The car stopped with a screech of brakes and the youngsters piled out, silenced, and Fernanda thought in triumph: This is the answer to the oblivious life. Art so incredible that it brings the jungle back into the city, forces people to remember the nations of animals around us.