The SONG of SHIVA

by Michael Caulfield

  The blatant invasion of privacy was the price one paid for traveling the streets on foot. No modern city had escaped the onslaught of the new technology, particularly commercial precincts. This market was one of Bangkok’s worst offenders. Considering the elements, the most direct route home still made sense.

  The offensive hawking would not last much longer. He could endure the abuse for a few more minutes. By the time he reached the Narcotics Suppression Office near the Anutsawari Chaisamoraphum Victory Monument, the voices would fade. Beyond that point the market would morph into the more organic urban stretch of Soi Atthawimon and a long string of bars and brothels with its own brand of marketing agents. It wouldn’t be long. He was moving at full stride through the downpour now, eyes fixed on the steam vents, the lightning and the shooting stars of driving rain.

  A bolt of lightning pierced the leaking blackness overhead. Before the thunder had filled the void following the flash, he ducked under a low-hanging scarlet awning. Beneath the canopy, a gaudy expanse of gilded Buddhas sparkled, smiling into a sea of carved carnelian nagas, nameless delicate white porcelain female deities and rosy cheeked votaries, all for sale to devotees in three convenient sizes: pocket, desk, and altar.

  The light reflecting off the polished surfaces was so dazzling that sinking back into the darkness of the downpour came as something of a comfort. There was also comfort in the sound and feel of his shoes sloshing through the rainwater runoff streaming across the sidewalk and into the gutter. Grunting, he leaned harder into the wind.

  Almost like a film fade and flicker, in less than a block the streetscape transitioned from one of commercial technology to a seamier backdrop of open sex trade barrooms, the thick and oddly enticing aroma of alcohol and tobacco suspended in cloistered air escaping into the rainy night through open doorways. The sounds of amplified music and lively conversation dopplered in pitch as he approached then passed each bar-front entrance.

  At least his thoughts were his own again. Only the occasional jabbering barker, wondering how he could possibly prefer tonight’s dreary inclemency to the inviting interior of his or her luxurious establishment. Thankfully, the rain kept most of the more organic human pheromones inside. Be grateful for the little things. His fortitude was being tested as it was. With hands shoved into soaking pants pockets, he leaned more determinedly into the driving rain and forced the details of his current plight into focus.

  He was angry at himself for losing his temper. Losing his temper again. Angry at Whitehall for abandoning him. Really angry at the Innovac crew for belittling him. Hell, he was even mad at the weather for making this trek back to the apartment so downright miserable. He knew he was ruminating uncontrollably ― and really didn’t give a shit. Let the damned Tanner ― his oft-submerged, devilish alter personality ― have its head. Out here alone his personal thoughts were in no danger of escaping into regrettable discourse like in that earlier scene. No one here to be offended or take umbrage.

  How could I let things get so out of hand like that ― spiral so out of control? Storming out on my bread and butter. That’s sure to come back to haunt me.

  So busy burning bridges... Innovac’s probably ready to pull the plug. Mr. Loose Cannon ― why keep him around? It’s been dueling egos with Gordon and Narayan almost from the start ― though I’m still not ready to concede that’s all my doing.

  Julie Prentice is a different story. Not nearly as dangerous. Certainly not as threatening. And God, really drop-dead gorgeous.

  And finally, Pandavas. There’s trouble ― for sure. One of the most powerful corporate chieftains on the planet, but he sure seems to have a weird compulsion to play to an audience. Any personality like that ― one that demands constant ego-stroking... The bigger they get the more they need it, I guess...

  This slog home may be miserable, but blowing off steam, cooling down in the rain, is better than exchanging angry threats with the new bosses. Should’ve left sooner ― though it might’ve been smarter to catch a taxi. I’d already be home, dry and online. Scheduling the transport adjustments Innovac is demanding.

  God, what a fiasco. Slightest provocation, Lyköan, and you immediately turn into your own worst enemy. Ever do anything smart while flying off the handle? Where’d it get you tonight? Completely soaked. Freezing in the rain. Fuck it...

  Dwell upon the details of the job at hand, not your personal shortcomings. The human brain’s designed to figure things out. So put yours in gear...

  Once he had turned onto Soi Wattana Yothin the cityscape abruptly abandoned its red light district trappings. The rain continued its unremitting beat, driving into the side of his face. Some of the droplets hung suspended from his eyebrows, but most washed down his face, pouring faucet-like off nose and chin. Attempting to cover his head or protect his clothing was nothing more than wasted energy. The downpour could have added another humbling dimension to the introspection, but it provided just the opposite. After running the gauntlet of the blabber-screens and passing unscathed through Hooker Central, this present bludgeoning by the elements felt almost ennobling.

  His thoughts strayed back to business. As soon as he got home he’d link to International I/E. He could review the options available. Shipping God-only-knew how many oversized containers via air transport. Not a large universe of vendors or time slots. No advance notice. It was going to be expensive. Real expensive: Moving tons of last-minute materials by air in the finite flight space available. Or hire charters. Even more expensive. How much any of this might cost had been one concern the Innovac people never seemed to raise. Was cost really inconsequential or would it only become an issue after he presented Gordon with the bill?

  Financial hurdles don’t even raise a blip on Innovac’s radar. How much money does even a single blockbuster drug generate? Enough to make millions of pounds or trillions of baht in shipping expenses insignificant considerations, I guess. All they care about is bringing the project in on schedule. Budget? Obviously secondary. Still, I really hate operating blind like this. Never seen such a goddamned need-to-know operation...

  * * *

  When he finally trudged up the Panthanrumpath Apartments’ naga-flanked main stairway, the thunderstorm had, if anything, become more violent. What had started off as an unremarkable typhoon had become absolutely diluvian during the trek home. Lyköan was chilled to the marrow.

  Once inside the courtyard, he headed straight for the beacon above the familiar stairway through a barely translucent wall of water. For the briefest instant, in a lightning bolt reflection, his third floor apartment window was lit up like a shadow-show, illuminating the interior in eerie strobe-like display. Reflection and shadow. Objects moving in a macabre, unsettling dance that suddenly made this homecoming much less inviting.

  Just the glint of lightning behind me, he assured himself. Rain-slicked panes in a vast panel along the apartment building wall. Not important. Just an urgency to get in out of the rain. Only after these fleeting embers of observation had sputtered and died did he notice the ragged heap lying under the eve, almost to the centimeter where he had left her that morning. Goosoo Maansa Ban. His ‘Broken Blossom’. A huddled mass every bit as wet as the sodden blanket on which she lay.

  Like Jesus perceiving the crowd in Matt’s Gospel, he was suddenly and completely overwhelmed with pity, realizing in that instant that this poor creature possessed no backup plan. He was it. How could he have escaped indictment for so long? What unremitting callousness. He felt merciless. The depths were rising up inside him now. He viewed the reflection as if in a mirror. With irresistible force an unbidden long-submerged angst burst forth.

  Karen, oh my God, Karen. Where are you now?

  From whence do such things spring? He bent down and the dog started.

  My God, she was asleep! She’s been sleeping through this hurricane?

  “C’mon, you’re comin’ inside with me,” he offered, knowing she did not understand a word of it. Here was intuition of another order and he was g
oing to obey its direction.

  She rose and followed after him as he stepped into the stairway entry, unlocked the wrought iron gate and held it open. Once inside, she shook the storm from her coat. They climbed the stairs together, side by side.

  Six flights up and down to the end of the third floor hallway. Lyköan stood at his door, inserted the key in the lock, Broken Blossom obediently standing in his shadow. The key turned. The internal bolt drew back. And so did Blossom. Was it the sound of the creaking door? He tried to tug her into the half-opened doorway by the scruff of her neck. No luck. He pulled harder. Her resistance stiffened.

  “Come-on, you stupid mutt!” he pleaded. “I’m offering you a goddamned warm place to sleep. What the hell is your problem?”

  Bending over the animal, he grabbed her around the front haunches with one arm while his other hand held the doorknob unsteadily, positioned on both knees now, almost face to face with the uncooperative bitch. He let go of the doorknob, held Blossom with both arms, and awkwardly kicked back at the half-open door.

  In rapid succession, three bullets tore through the door and frame centimeters above his head, spraying splinters and dust into the air, onto his hair and down the back of his neck. Diving instinctively for the floor, he rolled to the side of the doorway. Another four rounds exploded through the plaster in a line across the wall. One of the slugs sliced two belt loops from his pants and, traveling through the hallway carpet, embedded itself with a dull thud into the hardwood floor, kicking up a puff of dust. Two of the four slugs had whizzed past his head, he had felt one zip past his right cheek. But he hadn’t heard the fourth round or seen any evidence of where it had struck. Why not? There was a sharp ache in his belly. He looked down, noticed the crimson stain growing on his shirt, soaking into his pants, spreading out into a widening pool on the intricately patterned hallway carpet.

  An excited staccato of shouting in some unfamiliar language poured through the bullet holes in the wall. The door must have swung open and bounced shut again when he had kicked it. This detail seemed damned important for some reason. As he was thinking this, a dull crash echoed. The door shuddered. A second impact and the door burst open, splintering pieces of frame and sending snapped hinges flying from their mountings. Falling lengthwise, the door crashed to the floor, pieces of the frame arcing through the air, landing in a haphazard semicircle of rising dust as two short, dark, nondescript figures sprang through the now gaping doorway. Two steps into the hall they stopped, towering over Lyköan, one pointing a handgun at his head.

  Out of the corner of his eye Lyköan watched Blossom gallop in his direction, leaping over his body as he instinctively rolled towards the wall. In mid-leap she hit the gun-wielder full force, sinking her teeth into the threatening hand holding the revolver. Sinew sang with a glorious crunch. Violently twisting her head, growling ferociously, she jerked the man’s forearm repeatedly towards the floor until the weapon fell free. The man then fled down the hall. The second intruder picked something off the floor and, carrying the familiar object in one hand, ran after his comrade, bounding through the exit doors and disappearing into the stairwell.

  The adrenaline-fueled überperceptual slow-motion clarity vanished. Reality was now operating only in indistinct snippets, stuttering visuals all blending together. The spectrum began fading incrementally from polychromatic to grainy grays with flecks of black circling the periphery. Then darkness. All that remained was the echo of that comforting vicious snarl and, closing in on the receding distance, a high-pitched whimper. His own.

  Slipping loose the bonds of consciousness, the sounds irrationally merged into a slick but sticky warmth, the blood seeping between his desperate fingers. Only that and the slow atonal symphony of his heart pounding erratically in his head. No fear. No pain. An entire universe contained in the escaping warmth of that precious life-sustaining claret.

  — BOOK TWO —

  CAIRNCREST

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Deus ex Machina

  The devil, when he dresses himself in angel’s clothes, can only be detected by experts of exceptional skill, and so often does he adopt this disguise, that it is hardly safe to be seen talking to an angel at all.

  Samuel Butler : The Way of All Flesh

  Dawn arrived muted, bleeding slowly through the western darkness in muddy tints, initially revealing little more than indistinct rolling pastureland. Then slowly, from the mist-enshrouded expanse of hill and hollow, an occasional stand of darker oak or evergreen would appear, starkly silhouetted against paler sky and heather, revealing a crisscrossing web of broken-toothed hedgerows and ancient moss-mottled fieldstone walls following crest and crevasse over the intersecting hills, dividing the landscape into dozens of irregularly shaped polygons.

  As the twilight strengthened, individual colors burst into full character, erasing the night’s illusion of photographic stillness, the most noticeable aspect being a rippling breeze moving through foliage and across the waving surface of grain and grass like wind on water. High overhead, a jumble of dark-bottomed clouds stretched lazily across the sky, jutting into the volcanic pink plume of the eastern horizon, feathering shadow and undulating across the countryside. Halfway to the hilly horizon, a small herd of fallow deer emerged tentatively from a grove of tree-covered barrows. Sensing safety, they were soon mingling nonchalantly with a larger flock of black-faced ewes already grazing in the low-lying meadow.

  Nora was sitting alone at one of half a dozen glass-topped tables scattered in perfect feng shui randomness across the roughhewn blueschist patio beyond the columned veranda. In front of her, an ornately sculpted alabaster banister ran between two caryatid-supported felsic granite finials, framing a breathtaking complex of hedged maze and riotously colored English garden. Summer’s spectrum of scarlet, sapphire, violet and gold in beds of green geometric designs swept back majestically from the patio, broken only by a few meandering cobbled stone paths that began their errant journeys at the foot of a wide flight of cyclopean steps.

  Squinting at a scattering of tiny, lozenge-shaped holes seemingly punched through an artist’s canvas, she finally recognized them as another more distant flock of sheep. She leaned back against the wrought iron chair, luxuriating in the unsullied silence.

  Behind her, an imposing structure rose grandly, owing its exquisite palazzo lines to the architectural genius of the legendary Inigo Jones. Rendered in crisp cream limestone, hand hewn in the sixteenth century, the Palladio-influenced classic temple façade with its innumerable pillars, porticos, and pilasters had weathered the elements and English history for more than four hundred years. Darker sandstone and granite accents artistically highlighted cornices, lintels and plinths even here in the rear of the gargantuan edifice. Pandavas had mentioned in passing that the spot upon which the manor house stood embraced a history that stretched back to Paleolithic times. Sitting upon the veranda’s patio at this moment, Nora sensed that the sweep of those eons was much closer and accessible than anyone might reasonably assume.

  This conviction, that time, like distance, might be transmutable, proved fleeting, its spell broken by a dark-skinned house servant approaching in snow-white livery, gliding towards her at a measured pace, carrying a polished silver tray, steam rising from a shallow bowl of bean and pea curry sitting next to a large tumbler of mixed juices. She had requested both, minutes before, when the servant had seen her sitting alone on the patio and inquired if she wanted breakfast.

  He placed the bowl and glass on the table, producing two crisp, separate reports, which severed her spellbound communion with the dawn. It hadn’t been his fault. Time passes. What was I thinking? Or hoping...

  She looked up into his dark, pleasant face. “Thank you, Prahn,” she said with a smile. After eighteen days at Cairncrest, she was on a first name basis with most of the servants, all of them native subcontinental Indians.

  “Will there be anything else, Doctor?”

  “No, this’ll be fine, thanks.”

&n
bsp; He left the table without another word and disappeared into the mansion. Nora tried to return to the enveloping comfort of that earlier transcendence without success. The landscape seemed to have lost its accommodating aura. Those earlier soft shadows had grown shorter and harder. Her thoughts had shifted; she was already projecting into the day ahead. No willful force could carry her back.

  It was about half past five. She had risen before dawn and come outside alone. The morning’s isolation had been a stolen pleasure and she was grateful for the respite, the solitude of a few tranquil minutes after weeks of hard labor at the center of the vast Innovac juggernaut; the frenetic dream fugue only now dissolving, laid bare by the morning’s stillness.

  It’s all paid off, almost miraculously, she thought. Thanks to everyone’s hard work and Innovac’s phenomenal resources. Who knows how many lives we saved?

  The story would have been remarkable if only for its flawless execution. Yin Yat Chen’s identification of the TAI virus’s telomerase-severing RNA segment had been the start. Designing a sterile E. coli bacillus to act as the vector for the protein trigger had been child’s play for the Innovac scientists. Under Nora’s direction, billions of the aggressive single-purpose microbes had then been replicated and grown in a nutrient medium, from which the most active aliquot had been extracted. Within days of her arrival, a safe but effective therapeutic dose had been determined using weight ratio models. After a supersonic flight stateside, the untested but otherwise innocuous serum was delivered to the CDC quarantine.

  We were out of the woods the minute our jury-rigged antiviral entered the first bloodstream, Nora thought, with no small sense of pride. Who could’ve guessed we’d be able to crack this nut so quickly? If only we could have reached Jarbeau and Gilbert in time.