by Nicholas Lim
Why did they call it morning sickness, when it happened in the morning, afternoon and evening? And how could you feel sick and hungry at the same time? She tried to remember if she had any digestive biscuits left in her desk. She was starving.
She completed the first cut and glanced at the clock. This shouldn't take long. If she was fast, she'd be done in twenty minutes.
Her knife slipped on cold tattooed skin.
Shit.
Slow down. No point being impatient. Leave that to George.
Right now he was running around like a headless chicken. Short-staffed over the summer break, he had two projects that had gone Alpha – Cuito, Guangdong. And Christine's malaria project was no help.
She pulled down the skin to expose abdominal organs. Tissues were grey.
First sections of lung showed sooty spots. The exposed top of the liver was darkened as if scorched, speckled black. She started to work more carefully.
Abdominal organs were all infected. And lungs and heart. After a little more cutting she was convinced, without blood slides. There was no doubt: Garrett had found another case.
She remembered her last words. With quick slashes of her knife she cut out the submandibular salivary gland. Her nausea and hunger were forgotten.
She carried the lobed gobbet of flesh over to a dissection counter. She cut neat tissue sections. The spongy mass showed the discolouration ran right through.
Imagination gives fear a shape. It is a cursed gift for the neurotic, crude entertainment for the schoolboy. Zahra’s imagination was healthy and unrefined but it enabled her to catch with dim enthusiasm at another’s. The last words she had heard through the broken signal of Garrett’s request from Wales came back to her now, clearer. Check. First victims.
Excitement gurgled through her empty gut. She took the sections back to the lab. She started the image analysis programme they had used when Garrett had spotted the first ookineete. She chose Paul Fletcher's case files. His biopsy archive listed the image folders. Had they looked at even half of them? Right. Analyze irrelevant glands? With all that spare time they’d had.
Ookineetes. Check. Salivary glands. Okay. The thoughts in her head were for some reason accented the way Garrett spoke, measured, experienced, encouraging. She refined the image analysis, selected the parotid, submandibular and sublingual sections, narrowed the cell forms. Analyze…
An hourglass filled over and over.
Her bladder began to ache above her crossed legs. Garrett’s words guttered and flared, throwing indistinct shadows in her again. Check. Check. Check. While she waited she logged in to Sherlock. She searched for the data sets of the previous Brighton cases.
She started the additional exception analyses she'd skipped before. Strings of alphabetic characters streamed across the screen in a digital rain.
Analysing…
The clock on the lab wall ticked. The image analysis window refreshed. It showed a slide from the parotid gland, stained pale pink. Darker purple erythrocyte cells floated in a sunset sea, their interiors speckled with parasites. Zahra leaned forward. She could see half a dozen dark spiky spheres, the unmistakable shape of ookineetes, floating like mines among surrounding blood cells.
Skinner called out as he entered the lab. “Finished already?”
Zahra did not look up. I’d like you to do detailed sections of the salivary glands. The half-heard words echoed through the static of memory and intermittent signal, the gain turned up by understanding.
“Shani?”
“Mmm. With you in a sec.”
She selected the other three case files. She searched for specific organ sections again. Skinner came to stand behind him. “Shani, I thought I told you to work on–”
“George!” Zahra tried to control her squeaky voice. “Hold on a moment.”
Ookineetes… parotid, submandibular and sublingual glands…Analyze. Tiled windows opened one after the other. Ookineetes showed in all of them.
“What’s this?”
“Salivary gland sections from all four of the Brighton falciparum cases.”
Her boss never showed surprise. It was not a pose, just that he had seen everything already. Zahra waited without turning.
“I’ll be damned.” Skinner’s voice was quiet.
The pent-up tiredness and frustration at all the extra hours evaporated. Zahra tasted a primitive, tracked-down joy. It was warm, salty. “It solves the transmission riddle.”
“Parasites in human saliva.” Skinner stared at the image.
“Yes,” Zahra said. “An orally transmissible malaria. And the answer was under our noses all the time! Well, in results we didn’t check. Garrett gave us what should have been a sufficient clue days ago, didn't she? I mean we are the lab scientists!”
Skinner shook his head. “We didn’t check because that isn’t natural.”
The Sherlock program beeped.
Analysis complete. Species: Falciparum. Match: Chiang-14. Exception analyses complete.
Zahra clicked through to additional information.
Twelve exceptions. Eight outstanding anomalies.
Exception 3 analysis: transgenic material: Species: Streptococcus.
Exception 5 analysis: transgenic material: Species: Streptococcus.
Exception 8 analysis: transgenic material: Species: Streptococcus.
Exception 9 analysis: transgenic material: Species: Streptococcus.
Zahra slumped back in her chair. Dammit! Why hadn't she run those exception analyses the first time? If she hadn't been so distracted...
“Sir, there’s something else.”
Skinner came to stand behind her.
“Look.” She pointed. “You’re right. It isn’t natural. Sherlock’s found transgenic material.” She put a hand on her stomach. “Streptococcus? An orally-infectious bacterial pathogen. Sir, something’s going on. Someone needs to know about this.”
Skinner looked slowly around the lab. He seemed to be studying it as if for the first or last time. His gaze returned to Zahra.
“Have you talked to anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you been in contact with Christine since she last called?”
“No.”
Chapter 28
Kirtananda took the turn off the coastal road one-handed; a front wheel narrowly missed the Asari Valley sign. With his free hand he popped a pill. He considered taking another and decided against it. He needed to pace himself. This past week had become an extended operation. Who knew how long it would be before it was over? One pill, just for the reflexes.
He rolled to a stop. There were no other vehicles in sight. Had he arrived first?
His fingers curled around the butt of his semi-automatic. A thumb released the safety. He pushed open the driver’s door then turned back to rummage in the glove box. He found his kartals. After he struck them, he sat still for a full minute.
He took the less-used path up to the headland. From the top there was a clear view of the valley and its approaches. Experience had taught him to take his time, while it was there for the taking. As he climbed the kartals rang on and on in his mind, a pure note that didn’t fade.
Arshu had blessed the cymbals. He had explained it all. His was the Warrior’s path, his duty to defend Mother Earth, in the Holy War where death was only a door. The note from his kartals would ring past the ending battle, carrying his spirit through into the next life where Arshu would be waiting for him. For five years now that pure note had guided him into every major action, a fixed rail against uncertainty, like a banister up a stair in the dark. It was the purest thing in his life.
From the headland he could see deep into the Valley and far along the beaches. Nothing moved, except sheep and birds.
He switched to field glasses. He noticed the incoming tide. A glitter of light caught his attention down by the south jetty. He adjusted the sights. The sun blinked with him as a gull passed overhead. A fingerpost came into focus and behind it the windscreen of a c
ar. The metal note in his mind shivered and steadied.
***
Kirkpatrick logged on to his terminal in the CDSC building. Stay calm. Don't panic. The terminal emitted a loud pop and he flinched.
Unread alerts: 123.
Kirkpatrick began reading. The first messages had come in days ago – that Thursday evening he had left early – from the Brighton hospitals, the Royal and the General. The next cluster was from a Welsh primary care trust, around Aberystwyth, New Quay and Fishguard. Dozens of infections, a few fatalities.
Kirkpatrick fiddled with a plastic golf tee in a trouser pocket. No one knew yet. He scrolled up the screen, forward in time. After the Welsh cluster, more messages from all along the south coast, Portsmouth, Hailsham, Horsham, Crawley…
He bent the golf tee across a knuckle. It was Clarice's fault. She should have been here. She’d have received the alerts. That damned system. Why hadn’t they fixed the notify bug?
He continued to page up. So many! He saw first reports from London. They had come in this morning.
What should I do?
He sat motionless, eyes locked on the screen. He took his hand out of his trouser pocket and pulled twice on his nose. It was a twitch he wouldn’t be able to rid himself of.
Stay calm.
The desk phone began ringing. The tee snapped between his fingers. Kirkpatrick snatched at the receiver.
That damn damn damn Clarice.
“Hello? Yes. Who?” Kirkpatrick tried to slow himself down. “It’s good you called, Captain Skinner.” Kirkpatrick stood up, then sat down again. “I need an update. I’ve a report to make to senior management. We’ve had some bad news I’m afraid. More infections. Many more. Yes, and deaths. I’m afraid so. What? I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Beside his keyboard, his work mobile began to vibrate and flash. Unknown number. Kirkpatrick swung around as though buffeted by contrary winds. “Hold on just a second! I've got a call coming in on another line! Don't go.”
Kirkpatrick pressed hold and picked up his mobile. “Hello?”
“May I speak to Simon Kirkpatrick please?”
“Speaking,” Kirkpatrick compressed his lips. “I’m on another call at the moment. Who is this?”
“I am Surgeon Commander Charles White, from MI5. I require information on some malaria cases I believe you are dealing with.”
Kirkpatrick stared at his keyboard.
“I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”
“Finish your other call then ring me back.” An edge sounded in the slow patrician voice on the other end of the line. “My number is eight triple three one thousand. That will take you through to reception, Biological Section, MI5, Whitehall. Ask for me by name. Surgeon Commander Charles White.”
“Er–” Kirkpatrick put a hand up to cover his eyes. He pulled on his nose.
“Eight triple three–”
“Eight triple three–”
“One thousand.”
“One... thousand.”
“Correct. Look it up. I look forward to your call within the next few minutes.”
Pop!
Kirkpatrick squinted over his keyboard.
New alert. Sender: Dr Da Costa, The Brighton General Hospital. Subject: new infections.
The desk phone flashed the red warning light for a call on hold. Kirkpatrick’s bottom lip began to tremble, unnoticed, for the first time since he was a little boy.
In his ear, the broken connection began beeping.
Chapter 29
A few yards into the trees Garrett put up her good hand. She brushed away a strand of spider’s web. Only a thread – but it suggested the path hadn’t been used for days. Maybe the commune used this route rarely, preferring the path from the clearing – she’d seen the rubbish dump. Garrett concentrated on the placing of her feet on the increasingly stony ground.
After some minutes she walked out through salt scrub onto a rocky shore. Smooth blues rose to a clear horizon. The sun was hot on her shoulders, a bright warmth banishing the cobwebbed gloom of the trees. She took a steadying breath, grateful for the sunlight’s lift.
Maybe she was wrong and her nightmares were just that. Maybe she'd find the commune bustling with life; Jason would be there, healthy, happy, shocked at connections to unusual deaths; and she would be mocked for wanting normal tea. A nervous burst of happiness filled her at the prospect of seeing him.
Above her, a headland jutted out redly towards the sea. Her eyes picked out a fine-grained layer of dark sandstone between lighter bands of Silurian rock, the signature of the Welsh geosyncline. She wondered if Jason had noticed it. On family holidays, they had loved their geology walks. His eyes had become keener than hers.
Large grey turbines stood on the cliff top like a clump of steel flowers, their faces turned towards the wind. Beyond the promontory she could see into a wide sandy bay. The faint sunken trail she was following crossed over dunes and a darkened line of dried seaweed, up through pines again into the cleft of a deep valley.
In the centre of the sandy bay a rocky outcrop rose out of the damp plain of tidal sand. What looked like an arm was raised. Garrett heard a shout.
She approached. A man was seated on top of the rock. His hair was long and bleached by the sun. He wore sandals and a white robe. A short, neatly-trimmed beard accented the hollows in his cheeks.
“Hello Christine.”
In the time it took her heart to adjust, Garrett learned how, despite her careful defences, he was part of all her days and always would be, a shadow following her actions, falling on her thoughts.
She vibrated from head to toe at the sound of his voice, plucked with relief. He was safe! She stepped towards the rock her arms ready, then stopped when he made no move. She reminded herself of a resolution.
“Hello Skyler.”
“I thought you’d arrive around now.” He squinted up at the sun then inclined his head. “I’ve just completed the Dues of the Seventeenth Hour.”
He looked down at her. She didn’t know what to say. She glanced up at the exposed geosyncline.
“I–”
“Welcome to Asari Valley.”
“Thank you. It’s good to see you.”
“How was your journey?”
“Not too bad. A little traffic around Cardiff. After that it was fine.”
“You’ve hurt your arm?”
“It’s only a cut.”
“Does it give you pain?”
“It’s fine.”
Skyler shrugged a small backpack onto his shoulders. He rose in one smooth motion and stepped down from the rock. “I’m glad you’ve come. Shall we go up?”
He raised a hand to indicate she walk with him. Garrett looked back the way she had come. “I – I came with a friend. Cherry. She’s waiting in the car.”
With his left hand Skyler unlooped a short string of brown stones from around his knuckles. His thumb counted beads over his fingers in quick succession; they clicked to a steady rhythm.
“Are you parked at the jetty on the beach?”
Garrett nodded.
He turned and began walking towards the tree line. “You came the long way round. I’ll ask Rayan to walk over and drive her up.”
Garrett stared at his retreating back. “Are you sure? I can go and get her–”
“Ray won’t mind.”
***
From the tall sash windows of his office White studied the traffic along Whitehall. His fingers trembled as he lit his fifth cigarette of the afternoon.
He watched a red double-decker overtake a line of parked tourist coaches. The familiar sight was soothing. He had heard somewhere that air traffic controllers often kept fish, and after a shift would unwind by staring into the tank. His fish – the cars moving in slow shrugging lines along the grey tarmac below his window – helped him too.
He thought about his career – until five years ago distinguished and unblemished. One mistake that’s all it took; one decision taken under time pressure
with limited information. And it had started so quietly, with just a few odd facts, a trickle of infection reports, then increasing evidence of anomaly… Just like now. Was it all happening again? He took a deep drag on his cigarette. Steady as she goes.
Simon Kirkpatrick had not sounded in control. Perhaps that was his natural state. Perhaps. White didn't like dealing with unknown quantities. At sea, he had seen many men under stress: everyone reacted differently; some couldn’t cope. He returned to his desk.
“Jenny, Charles White here. I need another favour. I’d like some background. On a Simon Kirkpatrick. Works at CDSC Colindale. Project manager. Yes, anything you can dig up. Thank you. Oh and Jenny – Chief’s back tomorrow isn’t he? Okay great! Can we reach him before if needed? I see. Is it a direct flight? Right.”
Major decisions should be taken by the department head. Tomorrow. Not long. White took another drag and partially exhaled a still circle of blue smoke. On screen in front of him was a collated report of all information relating to the current malaria outbreak. It listed all recent alerts received by CDSC. Also included were the Porton Down lab reports. They were full of worrying details: high parasitaemia, unsynchronised broods and rogue cell forms.
The jigsaw was incomplete. White poked at a haphazard collection of papers on his desk, printouts of intelligence and lab reports and the personal notes he had made on the restricted file. He understood all too well that the critical time to control an outbreak was at the start. With each infection the chance of containment reduced.
The smoke ring drifted up slowly, catching his attention again. He sent three smaller rings chasing through its centre, then blew them all away with an impatient sigh. Perhaps this Simon Kirkpatrick would have good news. He pressed the intercom button again.
“Jenny, Charles again. Yes. Yes I know, I just can't help myself. It’s your lovely voice. Yes, those too. Okay guilty. I do: two service files, UK army – Major George Skinner, Sergeant Shani Zahra, both working out of the Ring Laboratory at Porton. Also anything you can dig up on a Dr Christine Garrett, an epidemiologist with Sussex CDSC.”