by Linda Taimre
Dr. Kitt thumped down into her swivel chair, breathing out slowly and stretching her arms above her head. Four hours of tests later, she had confirmed that the brain sample of Dish 20 – now significant enough to warrant capital letters, naturally , she thought – housed a large quantity of BX59. Indeed, it housed approximately 20 times the usual sample concentration. Apparently, Dish 20 has been a little thief and stolen from the other samples . Leena shivered suddenly. This means that the dishes are not secure if the samples were able to… escape. She looked at the still-blue Dish 20 inside the testing space. “You’re never coming out of there, buddy. That’s where you live now.” Dish 20 said nothing in return. Leena nodded, content with its silence.
Okay, so what now? Something bizarre has happened with the BX strain, that’s for sure. Is it connected to The Fading? Why did it happen here, now? The doctor leaned back in her chair and heard the clicking of the wheels as she travelled slowly across the lab, staring up at the ceiling. Her trainers pushed lightly on the ground as she tapped out a short, nonsense rhythm, deep in thought. Her black hair touched the desk on the other side of the lab, so she swivelled carefully and started her return to the testing space, tapping out the same rhythm. As Leena neared Dish 20, she sat up straight again and shunted forward more quickly, honing in on the blue of the sample. A blue, she only just noticed, that was prickled with a pattern of indents. “Oh no, what’s happened? Did I do something to you?” Leena turned swiftly to her computer and flicked through the photos she had taken of the sample during her testing. No pattern was evident. So it’s literally just happened. Okay . She started tapping out a few notes on the screen and turned back to Dish 20. A new pattern had emerged, showing differently-sized indentations spread across the brain tissue.
“Oh wow. You are weirdly fascinating,” said Leena. Dish 20 responded with a subtle change. “Holy crap.” Leena stood up and pushed her chair back fast, leaning over the testing space. Her chair hit the other side of the lab with a loud thunk and a tiny shiver ran through the brain tissue, revealing yet another pattern. Breathing fast, Dr. Kitt thwacked her fist against the desk. A new pattern. She thwacked again. A new pattern. She rapped two fingers abruptly, and a new, smaller ripple showed. She drummed her fingers fast and it became smaller still.
“Okie dokie!” Leena clapped her hands excitedly, and a wrinkle created a new pattern. “Ha! Clapping too! Amazing. So, rhythm, vibrations. Voices, yes, I think? Ba-ba-ba-da-daaa-daaa-daaa.” Leena intoned the sounds with clipped consonants. A slight ripple showed in response, then both the doctor and the dish fell still. Suddenly, a spectacular change flooded across the brain tissue, and a series of patterns began to present themselves, on repeat. Grabbing her comms unit, Leena flicked the camera and filmed the repeating sequence just as it began to fade. A tiny, shallow design continued to ripple through, almost expectantly, accompanied by a soft whisper of nothing, or of something, in the back of Leena’s mind. She shook her head and grinned. “Alright, Dish 20. Let’s play.”
SCREAMS
Brisbane light shone bright at 6am. Harriet opened the car door and paused to admire the yellow glow that suffused the suburb. Conscious of the noxious fumes that were working their way into her bloodstream, she stood only for a few moments, then climbed into the black beast of a car and shut the door with a dead thunk. The control panel flickered on in recognition of her weight and scent, and the vehicle thrummed to life with the touch of her thumb.
“Harriet – work.”
The SUV responded and started backing its way out of the carpark, doing a complicated six-point turn. It’s saying good morning to all the other beasts of cars , thought Harriet. Katherine stayed home. She would no longer leave. When asked, Katherine’s work reported her to be on a trip to Santiago – which the system always confirmed. Katherine had a light touch with the GrowForth database.
Once on the wide road, slotted in between another black SUV and, unusually, a pale grey one, Harriet switched to manual controls. She liked the feeling of the wheel, the momentary control over a tiny aspect of her life. It wasn’t much, it wasn’t usual, but it was something that she wanted to do this morning. When the Brisbane River oozed onto her horizon, Harriet had the same sense of satisfaction she had experienced when she had first learned to drive. The control was heady. The river slung low between the banks, sluggish and thick. The morning sunhaze swirled oily patterns along the watery mud.
As her SUV rounded the bend on Coronation Drive, following the turn of the river, Harriet caught sight of the only protectorate in Brisbane. Brisbane had grown in ways that had surprised itself, forging forward despite regular taunts of its status as a big country town. That said, the population still only numbered 27 million, and for all its suburban sprawl, it warranted only one protectorate. One enormous, majestic concrete block stuck right in the centre of town. Its dull, grey walls projected the benevolence of a greater being, a creature that would encompass all in its vast innards. Except that it couldn’t – only those wealthy enough to afford a spot inside could take advantage of the gardens and pools and international tech companies and, crucially, clean air. Most of the population had air filters in their homes and cars, and there were talks of Brisbane copying Toronto and St Petersburg, with their hermetically sealed tunnels funnelling citizens from place to place, avoiding the outside atmosphere altogether. For now, however, only in the protectorates could people walk freely without fearing the air, without being constrained to a labyrinth of tunnels or the 4×2 metre space of their SUV. It was the best experience one could hope for on a murdered planet.
The protectorates were enormous constructions, stretching across four square kilometres and reaching over a kilometre into the air. First tested in smaller cities, they had now been built all over the world – one protectorate per 20 million people. Each protectorate was designed to shield those inside from the elements, with units running up the vast inner walls like metallic streams on a microchip, millions of homes suspended in the air. The surface of each unit projected the image of real weather, though without the taint of pollution. There was no such projection on the external side. The outside remained stately, dappled grey, without dint or flaw.
And it was this that Harriet saw every morning she rounded the corner and glimpsed the protectorate. It was the separation, the division between humans. Humanity had been cracked like an eggshell. Steadily passing buildings outside the protectorate – offices, shops, dance studios, pools – that had been commandeered as quarantine centres, Harriet’s skin prickled with angry sweat. She gripped the wheel of the car with misplaced rage, unable to truly direct herself beyond her current path but willing, willing – Katherine cannot die.
“You don’t believe me! Of course you don’t, you think I’m crazy,” Leena spat at Lord Belliscoe. “Lock me up! Go on, you oaf, lock up the crazy lady!”
“Dr. Kitt, there’s no need to be anything less than civil.”
“I am being fricking civil.” Her brown eyes welled up out of sheer frustration. This walnut of a public servant was patently not listening and – not to be melodramatic about it , she thought – threatening the future of humanity in doing so.
“Now, Doctor, I’d appreciate it if you’d bear in mind my office when addressing me.”
Leena clenched her fists. “Yes, Lord Belliscoe, oh enlightened one of great breeding and immense unknowable knowledge. Wilt thou not take thy seat once more and listen to the most important presentation you will ever hear, so you can quickly – fricking quickly, mind – take it back to whichever greying office you crawled from and save the entire bloody human race?”
Lord Belliscoe’s bulbous chin twitched at this barrage. He was accustomed to this kind of talk, having spent the better part of his 37-year career in the throes of the Brisbane Spire’s Parliament, battered from all sides as he stood firmly in the mediating line of liberalism-meets-realism. What took him aback was the sheer conviction with which Dr. Leena Kitt was uttering phrases like ‘save the entire bloo
dy human race’. Dr. Kitt was known to be passionate, to be sure, but never without cause.
“Dr. Kitt. Leena. I reviewed your summary which your office so judiciously footnoted ‘delete upon reading’ – in unnecessarily alarmist all-caps, I might add…”
Leena breathed sharply and opened her mouth as if to start another monologue. Belliscoe rumbled on.
“…and thus, I am here, having judged it as pertinent to the Spire. So, as I am here, I would be delighted to hear your interpretation of the data that you sent over, rather than that of the Spire’s scientists. In person. A live show. Proceed.”
Leena pushed back her hair and leaned up against the projector, enlivened and nervous. She had never thought it would get this far. Leena knew the Spire would have to take note of her work, but she never thought she’d be sent someone with decision-making power over an actual budget. “Excellent,” she announced. “Finally, some good sense has come from the mighty throne.”
Belliscoe didn’t speak up against this further impertinence, he merely observed the petite Indian scientist. Dr. Kitt was allowed her eccentricities – scientific minds needed some outlet of nonsense to keep them sane when facing tricksy data.
“As you know, The Fading is now a declared a global crisis”, the doctor began, sliding her hand across the projector station and selecting the appropriate slides by touch. A primitive system, but one that she hoped to get the money to upgrade by the end of this presentation. Imagine that , Leena thought to herself, I yell at a Lord and get a touch-free monitor for my troubles.
“All of the departments within the Gates of Science have been working towards solving this before it worsens. Recently I was assigned the task of analysing the BX, T1 and L50S streams of Australia’s biological arsenal used during the Fifth War. Since The Fading appeared six months ago, my team ( team? …well that’s an overstatement if there ever was one ) and I have been studying its possible origins with a specific focus on BX59, otherwise known as Paralytic Joe.” A slide flicked up, picturing Paralytic Joe, sludge-like and coffee-coloured, being fed into a military-grade crop sprayer for distribution. Distribution being a euphemism for ‘sprinkled over masses of people’. Unfortunately for those caught in the spray, the ‘paralytic’ part of Paralytic Joe was not as euphemistic.
SCREAMS
Belliscoe sat, listening silently. Leena continued.
“I received samples from patients that had been affected back in the Fifth War. The Joes from whom I received the earliest round of tissue samples had been paralysed with little to no change in their mental state, apart from the predicted depression.” Dr. Kitt’s voice was flat. “I then began to receive samples from Joes exhibiting a diminishment of their mental capacity. It began in minor ways, with patients who were intelligent, and not previously colour-blind, now seemingly unable to distinguish between colours, unable to name shapes.”
SCREAMS
“At first, we considered these deficits to be temporary effects of BX59, perhaps cutting off the pathways to the hippocampus, and changing their ability to recall key facts and data. This, however, was not supported.”
Belliscoe adjusted his weight in the stiff laboratory chair. He sat calmly, hands folded with one finger slowly turning his large, platinum ring that signalled his inclusion in the Lords of Parliament.
“Each successive case was worse than the last. It seemed that BX59, that Paralytic Joe, started not only robbing people of their bodies but also of their minds.”
SCREAMS SCREAMS SCREAMS SCREAMS
“Now this is where your interpretation differs from that of our Spire scientists,” said Lord Belliscoe. “Surely this is nothing more than the mental deterioration that often accompanies the demise of the body.”
“No, no! This is more.” Dr. Kitt bounced, stomping out her doubts with her trainers. “There is something I did not include in the report – something I never alluded to, never mentioned, for fear of interception.” Leena paused mid-pace, tensing on her toes. Who was this man, really? Lord Belliscoe. Tall, Caucasian, overweight, generally well-respected. She had read about him, anything she could find before choosing to send him the report. His track record of liberalist decisions in university now struck her as merely the obvious thing to do given the politics at the time. His own research into the dynamics of cell/virus interaction had been an indication of at least a basic understanding of the direction Leena would be coming from. What had tipped the scales was Leena’s sense that he was somehow always running against his will, somehow presenting himself at the votes on matters of biological warfare with a reluctance betrayed only by the slightest twitch of his fingers.
Oh crud . Leena’s heart hammered. She was about to reveal the most significant scientific discovery of – perhaps – humankind to a man who she thought she could trust… just because. Frick frick frick. Nice one Kitt. Picking your partner in making history based on him having twitchy fingers. Idiot . Leena still teetered on her toes.
Belliscoe watched Dr. Kitt, waiting for her to continue. He then sighed and stood up. The scraping of the chair on the lab tiles pulled Leena’s attention away from her inner panic, and she flicked her eyes towards Belliscoe’s chin.
“Dr. Kitt. I understand you are hesitant to reveal your secret to me.”
“Lord Belliscoe, I…”
“I understand. Please think Leena, that at this moment, I am not a Lord or an official or any kind of public servant designed to annoy the most well-meaning of citizens.” Leena gave him a dry raise of her thick eyebrow. “I am Radley, who desperately wants to hear what you have discovered.”
Radley? Leena faced Lord Belliscoe. He maintained her gaze for a moment, before shifting his sight to the projector behind her, looking vaguely into the middle distance.
Desperately. He said desperately . Leena looked at the watery film of Belliscoe’s aging eyes and tried to ascertain the truth of his words. She saw a calm face, though his fingers scratched and his breathing had gotten almost imperceptibly louder. Don’t focus on his bloody fingers again! She took a step back and looked him over. He was looking at the data, she could see him trying to figure it out. Her gut was telling her he was safe. Oh bugger it. There’s no one else I can take this to anyway. I need the funding and I need it now.
Leena broke her stance and swiftly went to a small fridge. She brought out a closed, transparent dish about the size of her palm and transferred it with care onto a salver that Belliscoe recognised as a freezeplate. His breath shortened. He took a step forward to meet Leena at the pressure-level desk.
She put the freezeplate down, resting her hands either side of it. She took a deep breath and spoke, still looking at the transparent dish. Her voice was low and clear.
“Radley. This. This is the proof. This is the proof that the Joes were losing parts of their mental capacity. This is proof that BX59 was taking their consciousness, not just generally deteriorating their brains.”
“What is it?”
“BX59 particles.”
Belliscoe involuntarily stumbled back.
“There should be no fear of contagion.”
“Should be?”
“This is BX59, Paralytic Joe. The particles here are conscious. New life has come to earth. BX59 stole human minds and is now amalgamating them here. Paralytic Joe is alive.”
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Mamapapamamapapamamapapamamamammamapapapapapmama
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Hungrymamamamammahungry
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Harriet approached the protectorate with the determination of a bulldog, raring, hackles raised for battle. She took the usual entrance, through the underpass at the entrance to Fortitude Valley. As she descended into the tunnel, her eyes adjusted to the ghostly Valley Tunnel – one straight stretch at the end of which checkpoint barriers stood, steadfast and immovable.
A thick-jawed guard spoke to her at the checkpoint, backed up by a colleague and millions of dollars of security outfit
ting. He was gentle and mild-mannered, even cracking a joke or two as he inspected her security tag with the swift eye of someone who had done this thousands of times. After a nod and a smile, he gestured through the first scanner, a large archway of gunmetal and blinking LEDs. Her car slid forward automatically as Harriet stretched her hands, yawning – manual controls were not allowed in the tunnels. Harriet’s vehicle joined the back-up of cars seven or eight deep, six wide. In all of those, there were only two that weren’t black SUVs, the result of government mandates aimed at restricting pollution.
She moved swiftly up the queue, all the while looking at the next barrier. It was strong and dead, no hint of sympathy in the sheet of reinforced concrete that filled the cross-section. The doors of the barrier could open and close almost instantly. No guard spoke to her this time, but she knew they were watching. She held her shiny credentials against a computerised unit – pause – and then a green light flashed followed by a click and swift grind of the doors opening. Harriet looked up at the now-hidden barrier as her car moved over the threshold. The tunnel exit required another scan and another automated check, then without a hint of what was to come on the other side, the doors ground apart and let her through.
A golden burst of light hit her windscreen, sparkling as she emerged out into the space of the protectorate. Harriet’s heart lifted with the overwhelming beauty as she drove along the river. Opposite was South Bank, a collection of antique concrete buildings shoved next to tall, glittering glass structures. Rows of tall native trees with fleshy blooms and delicate leaves stood protecting the edge of the river from the oncoming town. Beyond the trees Harriet could see the edge of the protectorate, the housing units creeping up the wall like circuitry, reflecting the celestial hologram off their backs with only the slightest distortion. The effect was hypnotic, with millions of permutations of the weather rippling through the hologram, hitting a unit strand and prompting a tiny compensation of the reflection system, the smallest possible hiccup, a jump, too small to be called a glitch – an absence of absolute fluidity that you could put down to you, yourself, blinking, except it happened when not blinking.