Fog: The Climate Fiction Saga

by Wendeberg, A.

  ‘But if Cacho and Erik can tap our satellite communications, then they know we’re searching for them. Why is she—’ I dip my chin at Kat’s direction. Oh! ‘You want him to underestimate us.’

  Runner’s expression lights up in a smile. ‘Precisely.’

  Kat’s hand shoots up to silence us, then she says, ‘Contact established.’

  An old man’s face appears on the screen. ‘Cacho,’ Runner says with little warmth in his voice.

  ‘Hi, Runner. What a pleasant surprise! Hi, Micka, how are your my dear?’

  ‘Good. Thanks,’ I answer.

  ‘We found someone you might know.’ Runner doesn’t do small talk. He throws info at people without warning. ‘Here in Taiwan, leading a BSA unit.’

  ‘Oh?’ Cacho’s gaze is a little fluttery, his focus drifting this way and that. His hair has thinned since last time I saw him.

  ‘I’d appreciate details,’ Runner says.

  Cacho’s eyebrows draw together. He sticks his index finger between his teeth and chews on the nail. ‘What was the question again, my boy?’

  Runner’s shoulders stiffen. ‘Why and when did Erik Vandemeer switch sides?’

  ‘What sides?’ Cacho sounds as if he thinks Runner is discussing on which side of a slice of bread the butter should go.

  ‘Our side and their side. Us and them. Sequencers and BSA,’ Runner says as if talking to a baby.

  ‘So that’s where he went? They must have turned him, then.’

  I’m struck by how much Cacho has changed. Or rather, he’s slid a little. His mind has waved goodbye just a tad more than it already had months ago. His expression had always been mildly…floating, for the lack of a better explanation. And who in his right mind would call me “sweetie?”

  ‘They don’t turn men. They execute them. Erik appears as if he owns the Taiwanese BSA camp. The man switched sides. Cacho,’ Runner bends forward, his voice a fierce growl. ‘I need you to tell me why and when.’

  Cacho’s eyes darken. He blinks and seems to recall my presence. His eyebrows jump up, a smile pulls at his cheeks, and deepens the crinkles around his eyes. ‘Sweetie! I don’t believe I ever told you about your father. Or did I?’

  Runner exhales audibly and takes a step back, out of Cacho’s view. He stares at me, and gives me a nod. Go ahead.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I say.

  ‘How careless of me.’ His hands gesture wildly, brushing past his light-grey hair and fluffing it up even more.

  ‘My grandfather was an engineer who maintained Portugal’s satellite control. He taught a handful of the first Sequencers everything he knew. He also taught his children. And then, my father mentored me. I was pretty good at it, you know.’ Cacho winks at me as if he’s a young boy flirting with a pretty girl.

  Trying to not drop my chin, I look at Runner. His sharp gaze flicks between Cacho and me; his thoughts are hidden behind a cool mask.

  ‘I was offered an apprenticeship and became a Sequencer,’ Cacho continues cheerfully. ‘I maintained several control systems, adjusted courses of satellites, programmed monitoring systems, and used them to track movements of the BSA.’

  ‘What does this have to do with my…father?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Your father. Someone found a very talented boy in a city in Greenland. He built and maintained complex machines at the young age of twelve. This boy could draw diagrams that…’

  Cacho sees my stare and clears his throat. ‘I’m prattling. My apologies, my dear. I took him as an apprentice when he turned fifteen. I know him as a driven, introverted, and friendly man. A thinker and a tinkerer, that’s Erik. He’s no BSA man. Not a chance.’

  ‘If you are specialised in high tech stuff, why did you come to our village? And why did you analyse our drinking water?’ I trail off when I see him smile mildly. The man’s brain needs a timeout. Reality seems too much for him.

  ‘The Swiss Alps have as many holes as certain kinds of cheese the people are making there. Satellite control systems are buried in the mountains. One of the ESA’s main control centres is not far from your home. I enjoyed the walks. And so did Erik.’

  ‘So the man fucked my mother because he was in the area?’ My voice teeters to the shrill side of the spectrum. Cacho’s cheeks redden as if I’d slapped him left and right.

  ‘They were in love, sweetie. But Erik was young and on probation. Your mother…’ He sighs and drops his gaze. ‘She wanted him to grow up, take responsibility for her son — your brother — and their unborn child. For you, I mean. And he couldn’t. He didn’t want to give up his bright future for a life in a village, tending to goats, kids, and brussels sprouts.’ His soft chuckle heats my anger to white hot fury.

  ‘Did I tell you that I’ll be a father in two months?’ Cacho says with an expectant smile.

  ‘Congrats,’ I manage to say. Above our heads, thick droplets hit the tent. Thunder growls from afar.

  ‘So—’ he bends his neck trying to catch a glimpse of Runner. ‘Why did you send this Sequencer with a SatPad to me? Anything the matter?’

  Runner steps forward and shakes his head. ‘No, Cacho. Just wanted to see how you are doing. I’m happy for you.’ He swipes at the screen and it goes blank. His hand rests there, his head is bent. ‘Shit.’

  I’m stunned. My father seems to be a BSA commander and Cacho is a senile imbecile. Shit is the understatement of the year.

  ‘Kat, contact the Sequencer who’s with Cacho. I need to know if he’s acting.’

  Kat nods and gets to work.

  ‘I need to think.’ He presses his knuckles to the tabletop and strolls off into the rain.

  ‘Yeah. Me, too,’ I say. When he’s gone, I slump down and hug my knees. Kat sits silently on her chair, stares at the place where Runner disappeared, then back at her screen.

  Cacho and his apprentice — the man who got my mother pregnant — were never far from me and my family. Never far from what my father did to us, from the death of my brother, from all this fuckuppery. Not once did they offer help. I would be bullshitting myself if I believed Erik would warm up to me and leave the BSA. These two have been planning to recruit me and pull me into deep shit.

  I remember Cacho showing up at Zula’s once. I’d visited his practice to get a few stitches. I can’t even remember where it was or when, or if I cut myself or just fell from a tree onto a sharp rock. Cacho was there, he’s seen what was carved into the skin of my back. He saw it and looked away. Not his problem. Did he think me so ugly and worthless that he wanted me to be a sniper’s apprentice and die an early death? Shove her to the front lines and see how many she can take down when she gets killed or tortured or raped? I can’t even ask him now; his brain is all pickled.

  I feel my pulse tickling my fingertips. Every noise and odour stabs at my brain. I press my eyes shut, cover my ears, and breathe through my mouth.

  A soft bleep bleep sounds from the computer and three dots appear on the screen, inconspicuously small and black. Kat and I jump forward, and freeze.

  Did you believe the old man show? sprawls black across the light-grey backdrop.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Kat asks. No response. ‘Identify yourself!’

  We wait, but nothing happens.

  ‘Runner? Runner, get your ass in here!’ she shouts.

  Hasty footfalls approach and he enters the tent. She points at the message. ‘Text only,’ she says and types, Who is this? and presses send.

  Cacho.

  We look at each other, probably thinking the exact same thought: No video, no audio — this can be anyone. My guess is Erik. Runner mouths the name. Kat and I nod.

  What do you want? Runner types.

  Talk without being overheard. I believe Erik taps all our sat comms.

  That gives me a pause. But I’m the only one who’s stunned. Kat smirks, Runner types. Two requests: ID yourself and the comm you use.

  Ask me something only I can know, shows on the screen.

  The last thing you said to me, Runn
er types.

  If “me” is Runner, then the last thing I said is, “The Capra boy will be a key to finish off the BSA.” Might have said goodbye or good luck after that. I forget.

  My heart hammers in my throat when I see letters slowly forming words, forming a sentence and a meaning. The last bit even sounds like Cacho. But Erik has spent years with him; he should be able to copy his mentor.

  ‘Can anyone else know what Cacho said to you?’ I ask Runner. He frowns and considers, then shakes his head no. But I can see he’s not absolutely certain.

  ‘Let me.’ I step forward, shielding the screen from Kat’s view. Micka here. What’s on my back? I type. This, Erik cannot know.

  The screen doesn’t change for a while. Then, three capital letters crawl in.

  DIE

  Nausea hits. I swallow.

  I’m sorry, so sorry, my dear.

  Fuck, I don’t want his apology. It means nothing to me; even less so reading it, and not hearing him say it aloud. Better that way. I don’t have to produce a response.

  Before I can delete the lines, I realise that Kat has stepped closer to read our exchange.

  ‘It’s him. Cacho, I mean.’ My gaze drops to my bare feet.

  Runner stares at the screen, then at me. I know he’ll demand an explanation soon.

  Your comm? he types.

  Microwaves used for monitoring global soil moisture. The satellite is in a graveyard orbit and hasn’t been used for decades. I reprogrammed it to run a primitive communication signal. No one but me is aware of this connection. Another thing: You probably plan to send back Joanna to double-check if it’s really me sending you this text. I strongly advise you against it. I knew this day would come; I prepared for it. I’m gone now and you don’t want anyone to know that old Cacho disappeared. And no, I’ll not have kids anytime soon. You’ll not find me, and most importantly, the BSA won’t either. If you can get someone to personally talk to Joanna, she’ll tell you there were no signs of a wife when she was in my home. She can also tell you what tea I offered her: spearmint — and that I had fresh oatmeal cookies in the oven when she arrived.

  Runner’s hand is hovering over the screen. He shakes his head as if to shake off a fly. You knew what Erik planned.

  I guessed it. I’m deeply sorry he took this path. And I’m sorry I had to pull you in, Micka.

  ‘Why did you do it, then?’ I ask and Runner throws me a sidelong glance, but doesn’t write my question to…whoever is on the other side.

  One of our strengths is also one of our weaknesses, shows on the screen. By recruiting suicidal young men and women, we make sure they fight without much regard for their own lives. But they are vulnerable to the BSA’s influence. They’ve all learned long ago that humans can be cruel. So why not kill them all? Erik was a broken soul. I took him in because he showed great talent and I wanted him to live. I loved that boy, and I respected the man he grew into. He kept an eye on you, Micka, for a few years, but your mother and father talked him into leaving. It wasn’t “becoming,” they kept telling him. He interfered with the family growing back together, they said. I had to go abroad and he was to come with me. Good timing; the problem was solved for a few years. We returned when you were five. Only two weeks later, Erik disappeared. I have never figured out why. Much later, I had a theory. I believe you were twelve years old; it was in the winter you fixed that turbine and almost froze off your fingers. Zula had to attend to you. Can you remember that I was there, too?

  So that’s what it was. No cut, only frostbite. I nod. Runner types, yes.

  Zula showed me your back and asked me to take you away from your parents. He said he’d asked the same of Erik a few years back. Strange coincidence, don’t you think? Erik returns, learns about your injury and disappears. That he went after your father and was killed in the process was one of my theories.

  Runner’s head slowly turns. I don’t look at him. My head echoes with “your father.” Who the heck is that supposed to be? The shitstick who raised me, or the assbucket who donated sperm?

  I did not know what to do, but I—

  I push Runner aside and type, Cut to the point, old man. My index finger hits send with a loud clonk. I don’t want to know what he has to tell me. I don’t want to hear why he didn’t move a muscle. I don’t give a shit about his reasons. He doesn’t get to empty his bucket of guilt. Keep it full, old man. Keep it full to the brim.

  Breathing hard, I step away from the computer and turn away from the screen.

  Runner reads Cacho’s next message for me. ‘In the ensuing years, I tried to find out what had happened. But there was no trace of him until you contacted me today. That was quite a shock.’

  Runner clears his throat. ‘Are you sure Erik can tap our conversations?’

  ‘Not this one, but the one we had before. I played senile to lead him—’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that now. How can you be sure he doesn’t access the satellite you are using now?’ Runner asks.

  ‘He doesn’t know it exists.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘This old satellite was supposed to crash into the Pacific more than twenty years ago. We never cared much about it. Soil moisture, who needs that now? But the thing never came down, just wobbled along its orbit. When I tried to find out what happened to my apprentice, I investigated all of his last projects, checked every single piece of software and hardware he used. I had an inkling, a second theory. He’d talked about our espionage unit and that he wants to work for them. How he even knew about this unit is a mystery to me. So, I held on to the hope that he did indeed work for them, but I made sure the few outdated satellites — the ones he never touched while he worked with me — would be in the best possible shape and remain in orbit. I know it sounds odd, but I wanted to make sure I had a few communication routes he couldn’t use to spy on me.’

  ‘What precisely did he do before he left?’ Runner asks, sparing me from turning around to read for myself. Does he know I don’t want to show my face to anyone now?

  ‘Hard to say. I have a few suspicions. But our time is running short. This satellite allows only a narrow communication window. It opens every one hundred and twenty minutes and closes after twelve minutes. Make sure you are available next time the window opens. I need to know what Erik is doing now. What role does he play in the BSA? Why is he at the front line, when his expertise is in satellites? I guess I don’t need to point out that this is a very serious matter.’

  When Runner is silent for too long, I turn around. His finger hovers over the screen. A short moment later, he swipes the machine off without acknowledging Cacho’s request.

  His fierce gaze holds mine. ‘Explain.’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘It’s very much my business. I will not trust blindly. This man’s identity is not proven beyond doubt.’

  ‘It is. I know it. He used to have oatmeal cookies and a thermos with peppermint tea on him whenever I met him.’

  ‘So everyone who knows Cacho, knows this, too.’ Runner is growing impatient.

  I sigh. He’s correct, of course. It sounds so nice. I had cookies and tea for the Sequencer you sent to me. Shit. I want to throw my stupid heart away. The thing hurts in the least practical moments.

  Runner turns to Kat and asks, ‘What’s the name of the Sequencer you sent to contact Cacho?’

  ‘Joanna Miller.’

  ‘Did you mention her name at any time during the satellite conversation?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ she says.

  He nods, and turns his attention back to me.

  ‘Micka, we have two options. One: you tell me what is so convincing. Two: I block this person from contacting us.’

  ‘Why do we need him?’ I ask.

  Runner huffs a sigh and sits down. His hand rests on the keypad, fingers tapping lightly against its frame. ‘Erik has access to our satellites and every single move we make is visible to the BSA. The consequences are…catastrophic. If this…’
he waves at the screen, ‘…is not fake and he is Cacho and all he’s told us is true, then we need his help to regain control.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s relevant. Erik will know it, too, so—’

  ‘Dammit, Micka! If you can’t make up your mind about the importance of a bit of information that seems relevant to me, it’s time you let me form my own opinion about how important it really is.’

  I bite down on my cheeks. Just an old scar, I tell myself. I have tons of those and he gets to see one. Who gives a shit?

  ‘You are pale,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not.’ I rub the itch from my eyes. ‘I’ll tell you, but not her.’ I point at Kat.

  She crosses her arms over her chest. ‘No way. Did you notice how sure he seems of himself? Did you notice that he gave us very little useful information? If at all! He spent a lot of time on personal crap concerning your apprentice and his cookies, probably to make us all shed a few tears and naively believe he’s one of the good guys.’

  ‘Kat, do me a favour,’ Runner says.

  We all wait for someone to cave in. In the end, she leaves, her stride stiff. I’m sure she’ll eavesdrop. But there’ll be nothing to hear.

  I turn my back to Runner and pull off my shirt.

  The ensuing silence is too loud to bear.

  He takes a step forward. And another one. Then, a soft touch of warm fingertips between my shoulder blades. They are frozen to the spot that marks the top of the “I.” Slowly, they wander down, pretending calmness. Pretending the breath doesn’t stall and the heart doesn’t hurt.

  I picture his face. Pale, eyes round, mouth thin-lipped. I know his first thought is, did she do this to herself? A blink of an eye later, the brain registers the difference to the scars on my arms, the depth here and the jagged edges. Another blink, and the realisation sinks in that no one can possibly reach her own back and hack this between her shoulder blades.