“Are you sure? Please confirm your last transmission.”
“There is no sign of any body in the water. I will initiate a standard grid search pattern to check for signs of any rescue craft who might have got here before us, or life boats which might have been launched. There might be survivors trapped in the hull,” the pilot suggested. “But I doubt it,” he muttered under his breath. “I suggest you get some people across there to have a good look.”
The pilot reduced altitude and hovered over the hull to see if they had missed anything. It was an eerie sight, and unsettling for the helicopter crew. Was this a new tactic of the people traffickers?
The co-pilot pointed to the radar display. A target was heading back to the shore, moving rapidly away from them.
“Probably the crew. Shall we go after them?”
“No. I think we should get divers on the trawler,” the pilot suggested on the crew channel. “Sirio, I suggest you close on the vessel and put divers over the side to check. We’ll complete our search pattern and return to ship for re-fuelling.”
“Affirmative. Let’s have you back in sixty, I repeat, sixty minutes,” the Sirio’s commander responded.
The helicopter rose higher and turned away as the Sirio closed on the upturned hull of the trawler, holding station several hundred metres away.
Lieutenant Marco Zanzini decided there might be an air pocket somewhere inside the hull sheltering survivors, because the boat showed no signs of sinking. As they held station alongside a few more crates and various miscellaneous items rose to and bobbed about in the swell.
Zanzini weighed up the likelihood of finding any survivors, which he thought was now unlikely, with the danger any detailed search would place his people in. If the old tub didn’t sink, he would have to help it on its way: it presented a danger to shipping in its current position.
After weighing up his options, he decided he needed to check for survivors trapped inside the hull, however unlikely that might be.
“Send a party over,” he instructed his operations officer. “Take some cutting equipment and get inside the hull to see if there are any survivors. Take the divers with you and get them to undertake an underwater inspection. They are to use their own discretion how far they penetrate the superstructure. Err on the side of caution. I don’t suppose we will find anything, but we must check thoroughly. The last thing we need is to be accused of is negligence. But remember, the safety of our people is paramount and we all want to go home when we get back to port.”
Zanzini personally doubted they would find anything. Hopefully, they could gather enough information to unravel the riddle of what had happened to the passengers.
“Make a note in the log,” he said activating the digital recorder. “Unknown vessel painted by radar at 12.45 hrs and failed to respond to repeated identification requests. Helicopter airborne at 12.55 hours and intercepted vessel, found to be capsized..” - he checked the ship's clock - “..at approximately 13.01 hours. No sign of life or bodies in the water.” Zanzini paused to collect his thoughts. “Helicopter continuing search for survivors, and ship’s boat and divers dispatched for closer inspection.”
Two hours later, Zanzini called his people back. The heat sensing equipment they had employed was extremely sophisticated. It was similar equipment to the tools used for locating survivors buried beneath rubble after earthquakes, and it confirmed there was nobody in the upturned hull, dead or alive.
The helicopter had long since completed its patrol and returned. The only thing it had to report was the faint radar trace of a small boat speeding back to the mainland.
They now had a name for the boat. It was called the Dyiad. The intelligence guys back on the mainland would be able to quickly confirm the Dyiad’s history, who owned it, the last port it had sailed from, where it had unloaded its last catch, and more importantly whether it had passengers aboard when it embarked.
There had been paying passengers aboard, unless the Dyiad was a part of an elaborate ruse to throw them off the scent of another operation. He reported his findings and asked for instructions, as the trawler still stubbornly refused to sink.
“Treat it as a live firing exercise,” his commander confirmed. The hull would be a danger to shipping if left afloat.
“Sink it,” Marco ordered his Operations officer, a little envious of the gunners who would shoot up the hull.
The gun crews didn’t need a second invitation. Almost before Marco had finished speaking, they opened fire on the drifting hulk, peppering it with holes about the waterline. The crew kept firing until they heard the ripping sound of stressed metal parting, as the trawler’s internal bulkheads were torn apart, and it slowly settled further into the swell. Once the Dyiad had completely disappeared, the Sirio swung around and resumed its assigned patrol.
Zarif had the impression he was flying. The time it took to hit the water was interminable, then, crazily, the surface of the sea rapidly receded from view and he was rising above the overturned ship. As he rose higher into the sky, he saw another vessel steaming in their direction, its wake clearly visible. He thought he saw a helicopter taking off from the ship’s deck. Then his perspective altered completely.
He thought he must be in heaven, because he was being drawn toward a light which almost blinded him. Then he was gently lowered to the floor of a huge open space and half-expected to be in the presence of Allah Himself. It reminded him of the new bus terminal in his home town before it had been destroyed by a suicide bomber driving a truck full of explosives through the main doors. The explosion had slaughtered several hundred villagers and local farmers who were patiently waiting for buses inside.
Other passengers were standing beside him. Some were still being gently lowered to the floor, as if by an invisible hand. Zarif couldn't believe his eyes. Some of them had leapt into the water before he had and were dripping wet.
Zarif had never been the most devout of men and he had never been totally clear on what form heaven or paradise might take. However, he was certain the entrance to paradise wasn’t meant to look like a bus terminal. He quickly decided he wasn't in heaven. But if this wasn’t heaven, then where was it?
“Where are we?” one of his fellow passengers asked. Zarif had hardly spoken a word to any of them aboard the trawler, even those from his own community. Now he felt the need to reach out and make sure he hadn’t lost his mind.
“I don’t know. But I don’t think this is paradise, which is where I expected to find myself after I jumped off the ship. Do you think Westerners are employing new tools to process refugees? Is this an internment camp, do you think?”
“I don’t know. The last thing I clearly remember was jumping off the boat into the sea, to try and get far enough away before it rolled over and trapped me underneath. To be honest, I’m not even sure I hit the water now. I have no idea what this place is.”
The man was obviously in a state of shock and hadn’t registered he was dripping wet, even while he was furiously trying to dry an expensive-looking mobile phone.
“The last thing I remember,” Zarif began, “was jumping over the side of the boat. But I didn’t hit the water.”
He pulled out his own mobile and turned it on. He had switched it off to save battery life when he had boarded the ship, because he knew once he was away from the shore he would lose mobile service. Wherever they were, they had a connection to a mobile service provider. Bizarrely, the device was also charging, if the battery icon was to be believed.
“Look, I have the internet,” he told his companion. His Facebook timeline was still updating. Zarif tried dialling the number of the relative he was planning to contact when he got to France. While he had a strong mobile connection, there was no dial tone, and he couldn’t seem to contact any messaging service either.
While he was processing this information, other passengers were also trying to make sense of their surroundings. Like him, they could all access the internet and their social media accounts. They soo
n found they could call or message each other, and several of them did, to locate other family members who had been aboard the ship. However, no one could contact the outside world. Zarif realised the authorities must have thrown a firewall around them and only let inbound traffic through.
Eventually, they began to spread out and explore their new surroundings, searching for toilets, looking for food, water, and most of all, answers. They were tired, hungry, thirsty, and stressed.
While the situation was infinitely better than being dumped into the sea, the lack of information and authority was disturbing. Most people believed his must be some new tactic of the Europeans to soften them up, to encourage them to return to their homes once they were processed. Zarif wasn’t so sure. He didn’t think anyone would lock them up without some form of explanation. Someone would want to check their documentation, at least.
Maybe this was coming. There were a few mutterings of surprise when an app was pushed to all the devices. Without any input, it loaded itself on the main screen and started to display a menu with instructions related to the facilities on site.
Most of the passengers found it difficult to comprehend how they could be plucked from the sea and dumped into a processing centre without any human interaction. They wanted to believe they had ended up in a refugee processing centre, but there was nothing to prove they had. There was no administration area and no guards, for a start. Zarif had heard how many of the European agencies were struggling to cope with the flood of refugees, but this was ridiculous. He was almost offended there was nobody around to process them.
Zarif began to explore, using the app on his mobile to guide him. There were toilets and bathrooms, kitchens and recreation areas, and a vast dormitory. He hoped to find someone in authority, but he also desperately needed to take a leak, and like everyone else, he was thirsty and hungry.
To his horror he discovered the toilets were unisex. This was infinitely worse than the situation on the ship, where a few allowances could be made. But this couldn’t be allowed to happen here on dry land, in a purpose-built refugee camp. Didn’t these people, the European managers of the processing facility, have any common decency? Or were they simply showing their complete disdain for the religion and culture of the refugees?
Zarif knew his fellow passengers weren’t going to be happy about this. He was feeling rather more devout than he had in half a lifetime and had decided to hedge his bets in case this was heaven and not some strange refugee processing centre. He half expected Munkar and Nakir would be along shortly to test him. There was an ambiguity Zarif didn’t consider at first. If this was heaven - an ultra-modern version of heaven or Araf - how could the Prophet have conceived of it? Or was this a sign the Prophet did move with the times and supported a more contemporary interpretation of his word?
Once he’d taken a leak, Zarif decided to do a little more exploring and find somewhere peaceful to rest and consider his options. On the other side of the corridor to the toilet, a passage opened into the vast, mostly empty dormitory.
In alcoves off the hall were small kitchens, but there was no sign of any food or water. Every second space was a lounge furnished with couches and chairs and big screen televisions. Other spaces led to gyms, which Zarif didn’t think many of his fellow passengers would be interested in. He couldn't find a prayer room anywhere and knew this would soon become a problem.
He retraced his steps back to one of the kitchens. On closer inspection, he found a range of dispensers set on the bench. Three of them were marked with icons. One a rising sun, the next a full sun, and the third a moon. Zarif decided these might mean morning, noon, and evening meals. Two others were adorned with red and blue symbols he took to mean hot and cold water. He pressed the blue icon and sure enough, water flowed out of the tap. He pressed the rising sun icon and a substance looking remarkably like porridge flowed out of the dispenser into a bowl which popped out of a compartment underneath the bench.
Zarif wondered if the food was halal. Before trying any of the food, they should consult a holy man. Hopefully, there was one among the passengers who could provide a ruling on the food. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to take his chances and began to eat, because it had been a long time since his last meal.
With his belly full, he returned to the dormitory. People were busy claiming sleeping areas and starting to explore. Those with families, especially those with girls, were coalescing into small groups and staking out their territory, far enough away from anyone else to give them the privacy they required, but close enough to the rest of the passengers to provide a sense of security in this strange place.
A small cluster of single women was coming together on the other side of the dormitory, drifting towards the family groups. Zarif decided to join a similar group of younger single males, but then thought better of it. This group contained a few angry young men from his village who he didn’t want to associate with, so he moved as far away from everyone as decently possible. He had no need or desire to join them merely for a sense of security and there was plenty of room.
It was a long way to the other end of the dormitory. Once he got there, he found a bed in the corner, shrugged off his bag and dumped it on the floor. He lay down on the bed and checked his mobile. It still had signal, was still charging, and he was still getting messages and emails from people he couldn’t respond to or call.
Zarif settled himself comfortably and started to apply some science to the situation. While he was thankful to Allah for his salvation, he was now more than ever convinced he wasn’t in heaven.
So where was he? Initially he was convinced the Europeans must have found a way to stupefy people, teleport them off the refugee boats, and then ship them into this secure processing centre. The only thing he could remember was sinking gently to the floor which didn’t make any logical sense to him either. He knew there must be some rational explanation because the concept of being teleported somewhere was as unlikely as ending up in heaven.
He hadn’t completed his search of the building, but he had seen no obvious exit, or any glimpse of the outside world. He hoped he had made it to Europe and would eventually be allowed to stay.
His train of thought was broken by a commotion at the far end of the dormitory. He sat up on the bed at the sound of a woman squealing, in time to see a large group of people at the end of the dormitory break apart. Everyone was attempting to flee from the epicentre of whatever spooked them, like rapidly expanding ripples from a stone thrown into a pond.
The way people were reacting, Zarif’s first thought was that someone had come aboard with a bomb vest and was preparing to blow themselves, and anyone else nearby, to bits. But something else must have alarmed them: the initial panic subsided quickly, and the group began to coalesce again, congregating around an object on the floor. Most of them had jumped up onto the beds and were staring downwards at it, whatever it was. He couldn’t see what the centre of attraction was, so he swung his legs off the bed and made his way toward the scene.
“It is an abomination.”
“Evil has entered heaven,” muttered someone. Zarif thought it was Mahmoud, the bossy little man who had run the village café. Despite evidence to the contrary, he had clearly decided they had ended up in heaven, quoting the holy scriptures even though they described nothing like this form of paradise.
Zarif climbed up onto one of the bunks so he could peer over the heads of those in front of him and see what was going on.
He saw a battered-looking machine on the ground, a robot of some kind, one which had been dealt a few heavy blows and now lay on its side, giving off smoke and a smell of burning plastic. It squeaked and whimpered pathetically, while its little tracks rolled limply one way then the other as it attempted to right itself. Each time it gained some purchase, one of the older men bravely prodded it with his foot and pushed it back on its side.
They were all so engrossed with the machine and its pitiful death throes they missed a new, much larger unit c
oming to the rescue of its smaller counterpart. Zarif heard a gasp of astonishment and the crowd parted to allow the larger machine through. Without missing a beat, it extended an articulated limb and swept the damaged bot into a large compartment which opened in its trunk and then snapped shut.
The sound of metal being crushed could be heard inside the torso of the larger bot. A single lens popped up on a stalk from its upper body and panned around accusingly. The now empty limb waved and snapped in the air before it clipped itself into a bracket on the bot's superstructure. It then rolled away on its tracks in the direction it had come from, before anyone had time to react.
Ten
Lake sat slumped in his chair with his head in his hands, behind the vast empty desk in his office. This room, or one very like it, had been occupied by the Chief Mati of Skid since time immemorial. It was likely to have been modified, enlarged, and upgraded over the years as tastes changed, and technologies improved. It had also probably been relocated from time to time while the building had undergone renovations and been expanded over generations.
As a child, he had been shown around the complex by his father, who had been a hereditary senator in the old government, one of hundreds who had once squabbled with each other, secure in the knowledge they achieved great works, and governed the most advanced society in the known universe. Only a handful of them had survived the famine and the power struggles which had broken out in the wake of Lake's predecessor, Inel, leaving for The Farm. Inel hadn’t lasted long in the Skidian wilderness. He’d been trampled by a wild, rampaging beast while attempting to kickstart the 'back to basics' program he was championing.
Lake was now aware his ancestors had had little, if any, involvement in the development of Skid, really they had just been passengers. However, this didn’t excuse them for being at least partially culpable in the deaths of hundreds of millions of their fellow Skidians. They could have made decisions to support the work Bruce had done, which could conceivably have saved millions of his fellow Skidians
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