Filaria

by Brent Hayward

  Was it a skin lesion, magnified by a million? The only visible result of a parasite, buried subcutaneously?

  It bristled with numerous whiskers — some thin as threads, others fatter, hollow, emitting something that looked like smoke or steam or other gas — jutting up at various angles. Around the base, apertures slowly vomited forth slag or maybe pus that rolled glutinously and appeared to gradually harden. The configurations altered, adjusted, settled.

  If this thing was a machine, it had a form of autonomy and had mutated in ways surely unfathomable to its inventor. Expanding in different, unpredicted directions of its own accord, the randomness of components betrayed no logic of singular design.

  And if alive? Then its tortured shape had been created by a lunatic, in a lunatic’s lab, and should be put to death immediately.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Movements glimmered like dull sparks. Detail was occluded. She squinted. Were there fans turning in there? Yes, those were fans. Hundreds of them.

  “This is where you lived,” the voice said. “The structure you lived in. This was taken over the past few weeks.”

  Indignant, Deidre said, “That is not my home. I never lived there.”

  “Allow me to clarify, Deidre. Where you lived is being looked at here from, well, from high above. You’ve never seen your home from this perspective. Of course, we can’t see the inside from this angle. But wait . . .”

  As if suddenly diving, the vantage of the gram moved, swooping closer to the cancerous buboes and then rapidly among their folds, coming in to corkscrew dizzyingly between the stacks, past tense guy wires and massive sails that turned slowly in unfelt winds, past those fans she had spotted earlier and then through them too, between the blades, past other devices that looked like buildings and others that looked like creatures watching her, past growths that might have been heaped feces and past numerous other protrusions whose functions she could not imagine nor ever wished to, all whipping up at her so swiftly she had to grip the bench with both hands to fight the vertigo —

  The rushing sensation slowed; the gram steadied; she could breathe again. Her grip relaxed.

  “There,” the voice said.

  “What am I looking at?” These words leaked out of her, like a breath. She wanted to vomit. The unpleasant belief that truths were being presented to her, and that larger, even more profound truths were coming, had settled in.

  “See the dark spot?” the voice asked, whispering in her ear from nowhere. “See it? Right beneath you, as it were?”

  She did see it. There it was: dark spot against a field of static grey. Malignant. An ugly hole. She tried to peer beyond the darkness but vapour puffed out from the aperture, a quick burst that made her recoil, as if she might possibly catch a whiff of the gas or feel the exhalation on her skin. “I see it.”

  “That’s where you came from. That’s the hole we impelled the creatures to make. We brought you up, out of there.”

  Like a black fleck on a portion of exposed skull, she thought. And through it? Inside that monstrosity? What? Her home? Her parents? Everything she had known and loved?

  “Are you all right, Deidre? Your vitals show stress.”

  “No kidding.” She leaned forward now, hoping again to change the perspective, to see the beauty in there that had once been her life. “You’re telling me this is my world? This thing is my world?”

  “You’re looking at the uppermost part of where you lived. The part that lies aboveground. Where you live — or where you lived, rather — is under the surface.”

  “Under?”

  “Yes. Precisely. You lived inside an ancient artifact, under the crust of this planet. We learned of its existence recently. You see, we thought the entire planet was dead.”

  “This is the surface? Here? What’s up here?”

  “Not much. Mostly desert. And those flying creatures, of course. There are a few tribes of people trying to get by, but their genes are ruined, useless for our purposes. I don’t even think you’d recognize them as your own species if you saw them. I dare say they could not tie their shoes, if they ever wore any, let alone make the staggering connections you’ve made since you’ve been here.”

  “Others? Like me?”

  “Trust me, Deidre, they are nothing like you. You are perfect.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” She looked up at that bleary red orb, flickering through the leaves. The air seemed to make a slight humming sound. “Do you call that a sun?”

  “It’s a star. But yes, it is our sun.”

  “And my ancestors, the people who built my world, they came from up here? They all lived up here, once, on the surface?”

  “Yes, Deidre . . . For the record, I’m not patronizing you. I truly am astounded by your observations . . . I have to admit that I was expecting a much more difficult time explaining things to you. I was ill prepared for your intelligence . . . And, frankly, Deidre, for your physical perfection.”

  Deidre chose to ignore the disturbing implications of this. “I still don’t understand. Where did they all go?”

  “Who?”

  “Everybody. My ancestors. Obviously, they must’ve been able to tie their shoes at one point.”

  After a moment, the voice replied: “Most of the people passed away. Fewer and fewer viable children. Ruination of the habitat. That sort of thing. Same old story. A few escaped. But the point is Deidre, humanity left behind a refuge. Buried under the surface, in a forgotten resort, of all places, they left behind a genetic gold mine.”

  “Why did you get angels to make the hole? Why didn’t you do it yourself?”

  “Angels?”

  “The things that came in for me.”

  “Angels? That’s an interesting name for them . . . Regardless, the question is another excellent one. And the answer is, in fact, quite simple. I have no hands, Deidre. At least, not here. Not now. You see, after discovering the underground trove, as it were, we seeded the planet from afar with these terminals, hundreds of programs, just like me, and we released, on a probe, the buds that eventually attached themselves to the, uh, angels, for training purposes. But, physically, my hands exist elsewhere. Elsewhen. All we could do is wait for their signal, and get ready to activate the seed terminal that they brought you to.

  “Angels are common here. They’re able, with the proper amount of coaxing, to perform menial tasks. So they became our hands . . . Though I must say, I don’t know what took them so long once they had broken through. We were frantic with concern. We thought we’d miss the window of opportunity.”

  “They built a nest.”

  “What? A nest?”

  She looked away, into the trees, wondering if they were real or if she only imagined them to look like trees. “What are you planning to do to me?”

  “Liberate you, Deidre! Destiny has deemed that we shall soon meet. In a mere two days, we shall be here — for a moment, against all odds, together, in time and in physical space. We’ll meet, my dear. We’ll meet. We’re coming to collect you.”

  Impossible to ignore the undertone this time. Even the strange sun above her had suddenly chilled. “You let me out of here,” she said. “You let me go home.”

  “I can’t do that, Deidre.”

  The gram depicting her world crackled and vanished, only to reappear, for a second, clear and defined before fading again to a blur.

  “I can’t release you. Discovering you has assured our future, Deidre. The future of our species. We need you. You’ll never know what you mean to us. To our future. As humans. You are the savior of our race.”

  Tears stung Deidre’s eyes. She turned her head. “You can’t be human. Please. Let me out of here. Let me see my family again. I’ll do anything . . .”

  “I’m so sorry to make you sad, Deidre.”

  After a long while, she asked, “Why me?”

  “Luck,” said the voice. “And I’m also sorry if the beasts have hurt you; they shall be reprimanded for those sca
rs on your shoulder. They shall fly these barren skies no longer. Is that solace to you?”

  “No.” Weeping now, she understood that what was behind the voice was more frightening than the angels. By far. She wiped her tears away angrily. “It’s not fair! I want to go back home! I want you to put me back inside! I demand it!”

  “Please stop crying. Please. If I could hug you, I would. Perhaps you would like to get back onto the bed for a while? A small round of, uh, of larvae, of moth larvae, to lessen your pain? You did rise from the sickbed rather quickly — ”

  “No.” Deidre looked around again; in the atmosphere of menace, the trees appeared suddenly sterile and so unmoving compared to those of Elegia. She thought for a second about poor Sam, and about the dead boy, and she wondered what it would be like to die twice, or to exist without really having ever lived. Sam had wanted life. The boy, too, had wanted life. She wanted it also.

  But as she lifted her eyes skyward, towards that sun and bleached sky, everything reeked of death. “You can’t keep me here. You can’t.” Sobbing, she wiped her nose on her forearm. “I hate you.”

  “If you ask me to go away, I will. We can talk later.”

  “Go away!”

  She stood, bolting, crashing through the brush that grew behind the bench until she banged up against the translucent wall of the cage with her knee and forehead. She did not fall. Outside: endless, hostile sand, russet, undulating with heat.

  Looking out, panting, her wounds hurting, her head throbbing where she’d hit it. When it became clear the voice had indeed gone away, she said, “Voice?”

  The reply was immediate: “Yes?”

  “You never answered my question. What’s going to happen to me?”

  “You’re going to carry the torch, Deidre.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Try not to think of yourself. Think of your species. Deidre, I’m one of the ones that got away. We are your real ancestors. We lived here once, but we left. And we hit a brick wall, genetically speaking. Until a short time ago, we were facing slow doom. Then we discovered you. Stuck under the ground. There were rumours of the project, old news files of the habitat . . . So now we’re coming. We’re coming to get you!”

  Tears streamed her face. Snot dripped from her nose. Nearly hysterical, she leaned against the barrier, pounding at it with her fists.

  “Please,” the voice whispered, “please, don’t panic.”

  “Go away!” she screamed. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

  “I know this is a difficult time — ”

  “Stop talking!”

  And for a time, at least, the voice did.

  MEREZIAH, L1

  Quick, clean pain woke him. He lay on his back. There was a stench in the air — wet coals, and something worse, something burning that had recently been alive. Had he smelled burnt flesh previously? That did not seem likely, but how else could he have identified it?

  Damp mist nearly soothed him, but there was a disturbing, fluctuating susurrus of muffled moans and wails that grew louder now, nullifying the sensation. Mereziah opened his eyes —

  Smoke, and sharp light. He moaned, wanting to rub at the irritation, but could not move his hands.

  He coughed a moment later, and pain flared through him again.

  Some warm and damp membrane covered his mouth.

  “Relax,” a voice said, gently, from nearby. A large, blurred face peered down over him. “I’ve given you a shot. And you’re in a mask. Try to relax.” The face sported a red beard and had the soot-smeared features of a man who did not dwell in perpetual gloom. “Don’t talk. You’ll get your strength back soon.”

  Mereziah was about to disobey, and try to speak, when he realized it had begun to rain. A rare occurrence, but not entirely unheard of: he had experienced rain twice before in his life, falling down the length of the shaft.

  What had happened to the world? And where was this place? He closed his eyes again. The pain was constant now, radiating out from his chest. Whatever was over his mouth was not easy to dislodge; he touched the substance with his tongue and found it to be resistant, like a layer of skin grown there. When he rolled onto his side to retch, the strange, pliable cover vanished to let out the hot bile but reformed quickly.

  “Please, try not to move, sir, try not to move.” The firm hand on his back rubbed. “You’ve had a coronary.”

  “My heart . . .? I’m . . . Who are you?” The covering over his mouth had not hindered his speech, and his throat felt raw, as if the fire he smelled in the air had burned inside him as well. But, as the voice had promised, he felt the pain lessening, in pulses, felt himself growing stronger. Soon his breathing came a little easier, and when he opened his eyes he could keep them open, though he blinked, squinted, and tears streamed his cheeks.

  “My name is Steven,” said the bleary face. “Please, lie still.”

  “Are we at the bottom?” Mereziah tried again to move his hands, wanting desperately to reach up and clear his mouth; whatever the thing was, it moved with his lips, conforming as he spoke. The sensation was horrible.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand your question.”

  “At the bottom. Bottom of the world.” Mereziah tried not to gag. His eyes were watering profusely. “With the dead.”

  “I brought you upwards, sir. Below us, there have been events. Of cataclysmic proportions.”

  “How far up are we?”

  “Cataclysmic,” Steven whispered, as if he had not heard Mereziah. Staring off into middle space, where a billow of grey rolled in as the thin rain attempted to slice through it, the bearded man said, “Most of the fires are out.”

  From within the haze just then came a swell of groans and cries: people were injured in there. Gravely injured. Wounded were all around Mereziah but he could not see them. Other sounds were urgent voices, people giving instruction, calling for assistance, trying to help in a helpless situation.

  Steven said, “But there are fires burning below, on several levels.” He looked at Mereziah again. “The air here is being cleaned. We’ve activated a small squall. It’ll take a while but thank God the air conditioning is working.”

  “What . . . events?” Mereziah struggled to understand. “Did you say where we were? How high up we came?”

  Now that Mereziah’s senses were clearing, he saw that Steven looked exhausted, deflated, yet in an odd way seemed healthier than all the people he had ever known. Newer, skin uniform in tone, his body’s lines less harsh.

  Beyond the man’s head was more smoke, more mist.

  “A collapse, for starters,” Steven said. “On level twenty-four, above the stasis tanks. We might still be there, if it wasn’t for that fire.

  “And apparently there’s been a breach of some kind, in the outer structure. No one has been able to see the roof clearly yet and we have no data from outside. The suns are struggling to stay lit. I don’t know how much time has gone by . . .” Letting his words fade, Steven looked up once more, as if for guidance, peering into the grey bank hanging over them both.

  Finally Mereziah managed to move a hand, a foot. He tried to sit up. “I have to know where we are. I insist.”

  “There’s fighting. And a thousand nasty viruses in the air. It’s a wonder anyone is alive.”

  Despite the small size of Steven’s eyes, they held a powerful urgency, blazing with a power long-vanished from the old man — if it had ever resided in him.

  A sudden wave of warm rain moved over, splattering loudly in the mud as the squall intensified. Dense veils of downpour consumed the landscape, then, just as suddenly, diminished.

  “What is happening?” Mereziah whispered.

  “I wanted to ask you that.” Steven touched Mereziah’s shoulder. “You have on an old uniform. I’ve never seen it before. I don’t recognize it.”

  “I’m a lift attendant.”

  “The elevators?”

  Mereziah was not sure how to respond.

  “Li
sten, can you speak for the network? Were you in touch recently? Up until . . . until this?”

  “I don’t know.” Water dripped from the red beard to Mereziah’s face, mingling with the rain and the tears. “I don’t recall a thing.” Watching the falling droplets, Mereziah realized that Steven also wore a mask of some sort: a thin membrane covered the man’s mouth, probably similar, or identical, to the one over his own.

  “You have no insights at all?” Steven’s voice verged on desperation. “We were paid good money. But my God, how much time has passed?” His eyes implored. “You’re the only person I’ve found wearing a uniform, the only staff member besides myself, so I thought . . .”

  All Mereziah could say was, “You should have let me die,” for now his memories had come back, triggered by the smell of charred meat in the air: yes, a woman had been burned, consumed by fire. He had watched her die. He had filled his lungs with her stench. But worse than the knowledge of how a human smells and looks when they are immolated, worse even than the fact that this knowledge was now integrated into him, never to leave, was the memory of the kiss he’d planted on the beautiful toothless mouth of Crystal Max. He recalled her indignity, her anger, her hatred of him. He recalled her subsequent demise.

  Sheets of rain washed over.

  He was responsible. For Crystal’s death. For all of the deaths.

  Right now, Crystal was probably telling his parents the truth.

  Mereziah groaned, retching, wishing the mask or whatever it was over his mouth would suffocate him.

  Steven’s hand still rubbed at his back. As those fingers pressed firmly against his spine, Mereziah finally understood what the man had implied in their brief, confused conversation: cognition filtered down through the miasma of self-pity and pain exactly like a distant light overhead was now doing, filtering down through the haze of smoke and rain and grey vapour. Suns, Steven had said. So now Mereziah understood. He said, “We are at the top of the world.”