The Paradise Game

by Brian Stableford

  ‘The Aegis people,’ he said. ‘Some of them...I think they had diarrhoea too.’

  ‘But they’ve been locked up down there!’ I protested.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Johnny. ‘The only people they could have caught it from today are me and Just. But yesterday...they were anywhere and everywhere.’

  ‘Stay here!’ ordered Titus. He strode out of the control room and clattered down to the lower decks.

  ‘At this rate,’ said Nick, ‘we could all have it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Line up on the left to drop dead. Do you want to run a sweepstakes on who’s still alive at daybreak?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Eve.

  The conversation died.

  Charlot returned a couple of minutes later. ‘We’re in bad trouble,’ he said.

  ‘We know,’ I said.

  ‘How many?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘Four,’ said Charlot. ‘Just sickening. Nothing serious, they thought. They feel bad, but not very. Four of them. And Just.’

  Eve buried her head in her hands. During all the time that Varly’s gun had been pointed at her back she hadn’t looked one tenth as scared as she did now.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I said. Somebody had to say it. It was a pretty hollow thing to say, while we were all sitting there contemplating disaster and doom, but damn it, it didn’t make sense—not at all. There was no logic to it. Four Aegis people, plus Just, plus Johnny, plus God only knew how many at Merani’s encampment all felt ill. Not seriously ill—just ill. The sort of thing you could pick up on almost any world, and almost invariably did. Changes of air, changes of water. Hell, you could pick up a fragile gut by travelling ninety miles across country. I’d had symptoms such as Johnny was describing on a hundred occasions.

  But no one had suffered on Pharos before now. The Caradoc people had been here months; the Aegis people weeks, our own group only days. All of a sudden, this bug had found us out. And something—could it really be the same bug?—had killed Varly. Justice, maybe, but enough to throw a flat panic into every single man (and woman) on the planet.

  What had happened today? Only one thing. The battleship had dropped a thousand men. Enough to introduce fifty million minor bugs to the planet’s surface. But the disease had broken out in exactly those places where the Caradoc black-shirts hadn’t gone—the alien camp, the Hooded Swan. And Varly. The invaders had certainly never got near him.

  What had happened yesterday? What did Varly, the Aegis people, Johnny, Just and the scientists at the waterfall have in common on that day? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  It didn’t make sense, and I said so.

  ‘Captain,’ said Charlot, choosing to ignore me, at least for the time being. ‘I want a section of the lower deck sterilised, and then prepared as an isolation section, with a lock that can be decontaminated every time someone goes through it. I want everyone with any symptoms at all in that section, but keep the suits on for the time being, just in case they don’t all have the same thing. Just takes charge inside the section, you take charge outside. We’ll get a doctor from Ullman—or transfer our cases to their isolation sector if they haven’t a doctor to spare just for us. Miss Lapthorn will help you. Grainger, you come with me. We’re going out to find what Caradoc is doing about that body.’

  ‘What about the call circuit?’ I asked.

  ‘Check with the rest now. Then one of the Aegis people who isn’t ill can take over and maintain a permanent contact.’

  ‘Aegis people! In the control room?’

  ‘It’s only a temporary measure,’ said Charlot. ‘I’ll be back here shortly even if you have other things to do.’

  That reminded me.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I asked him.

  ‘Bad,’ he said. ‘Probably worse than the ones who are properly sick. But I haven’t got what they’ve got.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ I said. ‘You’re the only case of illness on this world we know about prior to today.’

  ‘I assure you I haven’t been spreading any plagues,’ said Charlot, in a voice that was as dry as charred paper. ‘I have not been ill—merely somewhat decrepit. Yes, I know what you’re thinking—there’s no need to annoy me further by suggesting it. Of course I could be wrong. Of course I could be dead within the hour. But you’d better hope fervently that I’m right, because if I’m not, who is going to get us all out of this mess? Kerman? A military doctor from the battleship who never saw Pharos until today? You’d better pray that I stay healthy, Grainger. Now check that circuit and let’s move.’

  Wordlessly, I turned to activate a bleep at all points on the circuit.

  ‘Merani here,’ came one instant acknowledgement.

  ‘This is Powell. I’m in town,’ said the second:

  ‘Harrier 32,’ said someone else, presumably giving the name of a craft rather than a person. ‘Just a second. Ullman wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Never mind the second,’ I said. ‘This is the Hooded Swan. We have six cases of reported illness here. None apparently serious.’

  ‘We have nearly thirty cases here,’ said Merani. ‘Some are only slight. At least ten are serious—two may be critical. No deaths yet.’

  ‘Ask him how long since the outbreak started,’ said Charlot.

  I relayed the question.

  ‘Nobody reports feeling ill prior to this morning,’ said Merani. ‘The first cases—cases which are now critical—were in the biology section. They reported sick in the early evening, before you left the camp. It was some hours before the seriousness of the situation was realised.’

  Fools, I muttered under my breath. ‘Who’s in charge there?’ I asked, letting the sting loose into my voice.

  ‘Kerman,’ he replied.

  ‘Kerman’s not ill?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Perfectly fit. Is this really...?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Powell, you got a report?’

  ‘No figures,’ he said. ‘The military has taken over here in town. Ullman has gone back to the field....’

  ‘This is Ullman,’ said a new voice, cutting across Powell. ‘I’m taking charge of the whole operation, Mr Grainger. This whole planet is now under martial law. You people are instructed to stay inside your ship. I have a full medical team working on the problem, with the co-operation of the medical team from the town. We’ll have the problem licked in no time.’

  ‘You can go to hell,’ I said. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Martial law!’

  ‘Stay in your ship,’ repeated Ullman.

  Charlot put his hand on my shoulder and leaned forward.

  ‘I warn you, Ullman,’ he said. ‘If you interfere in any way with me, people on this world are going to die. A great many people. This isn’t a medical problem—this is a problem in ecosystemic analysis.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Ullman. ‘No one in my crew or in the town has reported anything more serious than they could have given themselves with a dose of laxative. Hell, I’ve been on a hundred worlds, and I usually feel like this first day down. I’m not incapacitated in any way. If this is a plague, then I’ll be among the first to die, and you can take over then. In the meantime, I’ll run things. Got that?’

  ‘Ullman,’ said Charlot steadily. ‘If you have contracted this disease you are in deadly danger. You are in no position to throw your weight about. You are quite correct in saying that you might well be among the first to die. Varly is already dead.’

  ‘He didn’t die of gut ache,’ said Ullman.

  ‘Do you know what he did die of?’

  ‘I’ve got surgeons and bacteriologists taking him apart right now,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be there in two minutes.’

  ‘If you try I’ll have you forcibly restrained.’

  ‘You might just as well cut your own throat. Don’t try to make a hero out of yourself, Captain Ullman. The smallest measure of common sense should tell you that you can’t possibly win your little game now. You’re beaten on this world.
I haven’t beaten you—the world has. I’m on your side, now, Captain. Somebody has to save your life. All your lives. You can’t do it. I don’t know how much real faith you place in your medical teams, but believe me, they can’t handle it. Ask them, Captain. You’re in trouble.’

  ‘You’re trying to make a fool out of me,’ said Ullman. ‘I don’t know what killed that man, but I know with absolute certainty that it isn’t what I’ve got. I’ve had this before, I tell you. You know as well as I do this is normal. You’re taking advantage of a sensitive stomach to try to throw the fear of death into all of us. It won’t work, Charlot.’

  ‘Captain Ullman, answer me one question. How many men in the town are exhibiting exactly the same symptoms as your crew? They’ve been here months. You know that.’

  ‘And you know full well that the moment anyone broadcasts a plague warning every lazy sod with a pimple starts believing he has typhoid fever. You started this plague, Charlot. You and your crazy plague warning. There’s not one of my men who has anything in the way of real illness to report. I know what they’ve got because I’ve got it too, and it’s nothing, and you’re not going to scare us with it. We’ll all be all right by morning, and until then my medical teams will keep everything under control and you’ll stay in your bloody ship.’

  ‘What about the men at the camp, Ullman? And tell me this—how many of your men, and Capella’s men, have this imaginary sickness?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ said Ullman.

  ‘Like hell it is,’ intervened a third voice, loudly and apparently on the verge of hysteria. Merani.

  ‘How many?’ demanded Charlot.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ said Powell. ‘There’s a doctor here with me now. We have two hundred and fifty men here, Ullman has nearly a thousand. That makes more than twelve hundred men. Seven hundred have reported sick. Seven hundred.’

  ‘All with bellyaches!’ howled Ullman.

  ‘I’m coming out,’ said Charlot. ‘I’m bringing Grainger with me. We’re going to talk to your doctors, and we’re going to find out what that post-mortem’s turned up. Don’t try to stop us, Captain Ullman.’

  He didn’t switch off the circuit. He just stood back from the console and turned away toward the door. I followed him. We left the strains of angry conversation drifting out into the now-empty control room. Ullman wasn’t popular—not popular at all. For what it was worth, Caradoc seemed definitely to have lost this round of the Paradise Game. Merani and Powell—whoever he was—were all ready to throw in the towel. So were seven hundred others. Ullman hadn’t a chance. But we had a new game to play now. The Paradise Game had turned into Beat the Devil.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We found the copter to which they’d taken Varly’s body without too much difficulty. No one gave us any directions, but nobody tried to stop us either.

  Ullman wasn’t there. I concluded that either he thought discretion was all-of-a-sudden the better part of valour, or his attack of the runs had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Personally, I didn’t care much either way.

  Varly was nothing but a gory mess by now. I couldn’t stand to look at him. They’d taken him apart with ruthless efficiency and great effect. I was glad that I was sucking an oxy-bottle inside a plastic bag—I had an idea that T might not be able to stand the smell.

  Everyone else was in plastic bags as well. There were about a dozen of them, and they were all going like the clappers. Not that anyone was doing anything particularly hurried, but they all had a look of intensity about them, and an ice-cold efficiency about their motions, that suggested they were stretching themselves to their utmost.

  The copter was full of equipment like surgical waldoes and microanalytical equipment, and most of it was, or had been, in use. I had to admire the way that Caradoc had kitted the thing out, even bearing in mind that its primary purpose was probably to put soldiers back together after they had been blown apart, so that they could go and be blown apart again.

  The only man who had enough attention to spare to even notice that we’d come in was the co-ordinator. He recognised Charlot instantly, though he’d never seen him before in his life. He shook hands warmly and told us how much he appreciated our help. I thought he laid it on too thick, but he was a refreshing change from Ullman. Either he had a different approach to life or he’d learned enough from the corpse to know that his bread was well and truly buttered on the black side. He introduced himself as Markoff.

  ‘What killed him?’ demanded Charlot, cutting off the flow of irrelevancy with a gesture.

  Markoff suddenly became very serious indeed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m overreacting. I think. But this is enough to...I’m afraid the question isn’t “What killed him?” at all. It’s more like “What didn’t?”.’

  I could tell that Charlot had no patience whatsoever with the doctor’s wordiness. I knew the type—big, bluff, bearded, life and soul of any party, the kind of man who loved to help and be appreciated. I could tell from the way he rabbited on now that this was as bad as it could be. But Charlot, if he understood, didn’t give a damn about the big doctor’s personality problems.

  ‘What killed him?’ he repeated, his voice like a whiplash.

  ‘So far,’ Markoff said unhappily, ‘we’ve found three different viruses. And three different bacteria that carry them.’

  ‘The viruses are of Terrestrial origin?’

  ‘I’d say definitely, but for one thing. All three are DNA viruses—fairly large, as viruses go, with complex protein coats. But we can’t identify any of them. Not one of them is known.’

  ‘But they are DNA viruses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So they couldn’t possibly have originated here, on Pharos?’

  Markoff made as if to shrug his shoulders, but thought better of it. ‘You know more about the life-system here than I do,’ he said. ‘This viruses definitely contain DNA, which so far as I am aware is absolutely characteristic of the Earth biosystem. But I’ve seen nothing like these bugs before.’

  ‘Nothing like them?’ queried Charlot.

  ‘Well,’ said Markoff, ‘insofar as one virus is pretty much like another, they’re not dissimilar to known types. But they aren’t those known types.’

  ‘What about the bacteria?’

  ‘The same story,’ he said. ‘Two cocci, each about two microns in diameter. One bacillus, six microns long. Chemically, almost certainly of Terrestrial origin. All unknown.’

  ‘But similar to known types.’

  ‘Very. But none of the known types that they’re closest to is pathogenic. And none is known to act as a carrier for a virus. Hell, these viruses aren’t phages—they’re just hitching a ride in the bacterial cells. These are human-infective viruses, Charlot—unknown human-infective viruses carried by unknown bacteria. Now does that make sense to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlot.

  ‘Well, I wish you’d explain it to me.’

  ‘They’re mutant.’

  ‘That’s impossible. Are you seriously expecting me to believe that in a matter of days, six new species not only co-adapted but adapted to a whole new mode of life, have arisen by pure chance mutation?’

  ‘Chance,’ said Charlot, ‘had very little to do with it.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

  ‘This world has a unique life-system. It doesn’t evolve by natural selection. It evolves by mutational filtration. Terrestrial microorganisms—perfectly harmless, freeliving Terrestrial microorganisms—imported into this world by the Caradoc vanguard have been adopted by the indigenous life-system and converted into lethal pathogens. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but that’s what’s happened The important thing is—what can we do about it?’

  ‘We can prepare specifics to knock out these bacteria. That’s easy enough.’

  ‘The bacteria aren’t the problem. What can we do about the viruses?’

  ‘We can immunise. But it’s a bit late for tha
t. We’d need a specific immuno-serum for each virus, which will take time to prepare, and when it’s prepared it will only protect men who aren’t infected against infection by that particular bug. If this life-system is mass-producing these bugs, we haven’t a hope of preventing all infection. And even if we had, we could only protect a tiny minority of the personnel on surface. More than half of them are already infected, if the information circulating via the grapevine is correct. Once the virus is in situ there’s nothing we can do about it. We can only prevent virus infections—we can’t cure them. We can treat the symptoms as they appear, but heaven only knows whether that’ll do any good. These bugs took that man apart in the space of two virus generations. Half a dozen cells were initially infected, they produced several million viruses each and lysed—the secondary infection was almost total. His blood turned to garbage just like that.’

  Markoff snapped his fingers loudly. It was a horrible sound. It wasn’t a very nice thought.

  ‘There’s one small thing,’ I said. ‘If these things are so incredibly potent, why did nobody catch them till today, and why do most of the victims appear to have nothing worse than an upset gut?’

  ‘The first’s easy,’ said Markoff. ‘If these bugs have been deliberately turned out to definite specifications, they weren’t just turned out in a spare moment. I don’t know how any kind of a mutational filter is made to work, but one thing I am certain of—to turn a harmless bacterium into a deadly killer to order takes thousands of generations, whether it’s the struggle for existence that evolves them or some weird intracellular gimmick. As for the second, though...’

  ‘These bacteria,’ said Charlot. ‘Two cocci, one bacillus. They’re not all mutations of a single original, then?’

  ‘It’s only an opinion,’ said the bearded man, ‘but I’d say no. The viruses as well. They don’t have a common ancestor. They’re modifications of different models, I’d say.’

  I saw what Charlot was getting at.

  ‘The timing,’ I said. ‘All the men with bellyache have got the mark one. Varly picked up the marks two, three and four.’

  Charlot shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s too much method in this for a sloppy explanation like that. Far too much. This was a simultaneous release of several different types of organisms. Organisms carefully tailored to just one purpose...No! More than one purpose. They’re big viruses, you said. Complex. Carrying more genetic information than would be required for a simple, single-minded killer. We mustn’t assume the hand of chance in this at all. This life-system has an absolute stranglehold on chance. There’s absolutely nothing haphazard about the way Pharos went about putting this thing together. Varly’s not the only one infected with the killers. Every man who’s sick is carrying the same little bundles of instant death, but they’re lying dormant. Not only that—every man who isn’t sick is carrying them too, but not even dormant. There are three stages of virus infection—the particle itself, the virion; the genetic element in attachment to the chromosomal material; and the full-scale subversion of cellular activity.