by Nicholas Lim
Garrett stared at the merciless countdown in her face plate. It would not stop.
Six minutes! She squinted. Or five? For a moment she was uncertain. Six. She turned slightly. Five? She shook her head. Six. Five. Six. Five. She moved towards the centre of the room.
An LED chip of light of the same lime green as her face plate countdown glowed unmoving, separated now from that number. Garrett felt carefully. Her gloved fingers explored the outline of a thin tablet resting on top of one of the fridges. A cord extended out of one side. Power. Off. But the LED was still on. Battery power.
***
Operating mode: isolation. Power remaining: 4 minutes. Warning: please exit the lab or reattach helmet to a power source.
Garrett found the laptop catch. She opened the lid. Dead keys rattled beneath her fingers.
The power switch had a positive click. The machine vibrated with the shiver of a waking animal. Garrett stared spellbound at the dazzle of white lettering spinning for a memory chip check. The electronic fire lit the storage room, making of the grey walls a cave where her shadow moved. She looked around her, wondering.
Operating mode: isolation. Power remaining: 2 minutes. Warning: please exit the lab or reattach helmet to a power source.
Garrett tapped in login credentials. The machine gurgled. Garrett waited. Come on! Faster! The machine gurgled more. Come on! Like a baby, it would not be hurried.
Operating mode: isolation. Power remaining: 1 minutes. Warning: please exit the lab or reattach helmet to a power source.
The machine showed a desktop. Garrett requested a network link. The machine thought a moment, muttered something inaudible then agreed to initiate a connection.
Garrett watched the electric paint dry and tried not to watch the countdown. Okay, where’s the silver lining here? She tried to grin. She considered one piece of luck, a fact of modern infrastructures, that power and communications are delivered by separate distribution networks: occasionally useful, during miners’ strikes, or trapped in sealed military biosafety labs... She smiled, then winced at fresh pain in her left arm.
A beep announced a connection.
Operating mode: isolation. Power remaining: 30 seconds. Warning: please exit the lab or reattach helmet to a power source.
She accessed her webmail, her mind a white pin of concentration. Time for one sentence. To all staff. Send. She checked the Sent Messages listing.
Christine Garrett
To: ALL_STAFF;
Subject: UK malaria outbreak
Sent: 23 July 2020 10:54
Importance: High
The agent causing the UK malaria outbreak carries a message in its genome at Chromosome 8, Base Pair 1,102,223, start sequence Gs, encoding EBCDIC, with manufacturing instructions for an antidote.
Dr Christine Garrett
This email is intended for the named recipient only. If you have received it in error you have no authority to use, disclose, store or copy any of its contents and you should destroy it and inform the sender. Whilst this email and associated attachments will have been checked for known viruses whilst within WHO systems we can accept no responsibility once it has left our systems. Communications on WHO's computer systems may be monitored and/or recorded to secure the effective operation of the system and for other lawful purposes.
Garrett re-read the message. Done! She sat back.
After a moment something like a shrug leaned her towards the laptop again. She clicked “Forward” then typed an address. To: [email protected]. Send.
Operating mode: isolation. No power remaining. Exit the lab or reattach helmet to a power source.
Garrett closed her eyes. Adrenaline drained away. She had done what was necessary. She felt the dizzying spin of blood pressure loss. In that moment she lost her bearings, lost track of her breaths and the countdown. Time slowed.
Her mind reached beyond the lab, beyond the great buried wheel of sealed rooms around her, up above Salisbury Plain, the Cotswolds, England, out among specks of rock and gas circling in an endless day, out farther to where clusters and whorls of stars retreated before greater wheels, mathematical and chemical. Successive moments distanced, became fixed panes of sensation in a spinning apparatus filled with light. She glimpsed her life not starting and ending, not as causes and events, simply a succession of moments, whole as it would always have been, in the eternal cinema of the present.
Eternal recurrence: the thought visited her fleetingly and she remembered the Eye of Faith and its ring of paved stones with their carved inscriptions of heaven and rebirth. Accepting her fear, she saw the childishness behind the wishes.
Illuminated by the pain flooding her body, events replayed in her mind. Not the end. It seems like it at first. But it's not... Every day I see him all around me. And I am him in so many small ways. How I cook a meal, read a newspaper, write a letter… Her words to Cherry came back to her. Then, without possibility of action, she reached back further and chose at last the consolation of memory.
Jason was running beside her in a grey dawn, holding her hand, forever quicker on his feet, a faint smile on his lips when he glanced at her. The image faded as her sight dimmed, but her life lay still and present, out of time, like linked scenes in a film lying dark on the reel.
She bent her head until the visor of her helmet rested on her arms. In the gloves of her suit her fingers clenched reflexively around the memory of Jason’s hand as they ran through the valley.
Chapter 44
“Shani’s still in there!”
White faced an angry department head outside the entrance to the lab complex. He had arrived at the base barely an hour ago, after reassignment to profile the Porton team. His interview with Major Skinner – the research manager facing him – had been interrupted by the alarm.
“Sir!” A military policeman approached in a hurry. “Sir, we've just been told–”
“Wait up,” White extended his hand for Major Skinner to continue.
“One of my team, Shani Zahra’s missing,” Skinner gestured at the guard standing a little way off, “Gary saw her in the lobby maybe twenty minutes ago. She took the lift down to the labs. No one’s seen her since.”
Skinner's phone beeped at his belt. He ignored it. White turned to the MP who spoke in rapid bursts, like a semi-automatic.
“Sir, we've completed a physical perimeter inspection. All exits secured.”
“Signals?”
“They're running full diagnostics remotely. All offsite admin servers and routers are still up. They've just reported the containment alarm was raised in Sector II, Level III.”
“That’s my lab.”
White’s eyes flicked back to Skinner. “It’s possible your man raised the alarm.” He turned back to the MP. “What else?”
“The main lift access shaft has been sealed. System monitors are showing all sectors, all levels locked down. The service shaft is registering an error. It is being checked.”
“The DeCon team?”
“On its way.”
“Thank you sergeant. Keep me informed.”
“Yes sir. Oh, sir, Gold command is being set up in Whitehall.”
“Who is it?”
“General Allcock.”
The MP retreated to a black Land Rover whiskered with aerials. White turned back to Skinner. Something in the other man's face caught his attention.
“What is it?”
“I think you need to read this.” Skinner passed over his phone.
“The agent causing the UK malaria outbreak carries a message in its genome at Chromosome 8, Base Pair 1,102,223, start sequence Gs, encoding EBCDIC, with manufacture instructions for an antidote. Dr Christine Garrett.”
White’s eyes focused past the other man, over his shoulder. Three vehicles had appeared on the road between the lab complex and the Porton base. White looked back at the message. It had a ghostly quality, as if sent from the grave.
“If it's true–” Skinner did not complete his
sentence.
“Forward it to me.” White tapped at his own phone. “CDSC can look into it.”
Garrett's e-mail was sent on to Colindale and the other investigating labs. White left a voicemail with his service head then dialled a number. The vehicles on the road could be seen more clearly now, green four-tonners moving at speed. “Yes. I need an e-mail trace. Now.”
The lorries approached the compound. The racing throb of their diesels could be heard from a distance. The vehicles entered the compound and circled to a stop in a roar of dust. A small group in white biohazard suits jumped out of the back of the first. A uniformed officer coordinated unloading with barked orders.
The trace report was short and simple. White nodded at the lab. “The e-mail came through routers in this complex.” He did not sound surprised.
“Christine’s in there too,” Skinner whispered.
“Colonel Scales, Bronze scene commander.” The uniformed officer stood in front of White. “Who are you?”
White made introductions then briefed him. “Colonel, we’ve got two, possibly more, people inside.”
“Alive?”
“We don’t know. But as of five minutes ago, it appears Dr Christine Garrett was alive enough to send this.” White showed the officer the email they had received and explained the trace.
“Sir,” the MP approached again, “The service lift shaft did not seal. There was a fail on the sealant trigger.”
“Can it be repaired?” Colonel Scales asked. “Can we seal the shaft?”
“Wait!” Skinner interrupted. “It's possible to override the door locks remotely, isn't it? I saw it done in training.”
“My orders–” Colonel Scales began.
“Commander,” Skinner spoke low and fast to White, “The information in this e-mail, if true–”
“My duty–” Colonel Scales began again.
Skinner raised his phone. “–could save hundreds of thousands of lives, maybe avert a catastrophe. Christine Garrett may know more, if we're not too late.” He pointed into the ground. “That lift shaft is a chance. If we don't use it, if we seal it, we may be bottling in that lab our best hope of stopping this disease.”
“Major, are you suggesting we break containment protocols?” Colonel Scales said, openly astonished.
“Containment! The epidemic is already running! Early cases are dying. Hundreds are infected. Transmission is happening across the country!” Skinner swept his arm across the surrounding fields. “The disease is out.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Colonel, is it possible to override the door locks?” White asked.
“I should remind you, this lab contains Level V weaponized agents,” the Bronze commander said stiffly.
“Colonel, is it possible to override the door locks?”
Colonel Scales did not look prepared to reply.
“Sergeant?” White asked the MP standing beside the colonel.
The man looked from one officer to the other. White's waiting silence forced him to speak. “Theoretically, yes.”
“How?”
“Signals are already accessing the admin servers. They have root authority.”
“I will not authorize any action that will compromise the integrity of this facility without direct orders from Gold command,” Colonel Scales said. He turned on his heel. Discussion was over.
White called Whitehall. Dame Frances Burnett had received his voicemail. She had called Sir Peter Hammond directly. They set up a conference call with a WHO lab which had been forwarded Garrett’s email.
They waited four minutes, the time it took their top biogeneticist to check twenty-four amino acids – the message start sequence – in a dataset he had received the previous evening. While they waited, White explained the situation to Burnett. When they had confirmation, she put him through to General Allcock personally.
Decisions took ten more minutes, time Skinner was aware they didn’t have.
Chapter 45
Zahra squinted at the wall. Long hand on the five, short on the four. She closed her eyes then opened them again. Long hand on the nine. How had that happened? Only an hour now till visiting.
Who’d be first through the door? The usual suspects. Her Mum. George Skinner. Fly hopefully. A strange man – he had an earring – but she liked him. He brought her jokes instead of flowers. Her eyes closed. When she opened them again the clock hands had straightened out. She looked over at the other bed. Christine lay still, her left arm bound in white at her side. Her face was closed, the skin pale. When she had first woken, her open eyes had looked like two holes in snow.
Zahra had been told about the final lab operation at Porton. The DeCon team, led by Skinner, had worked fast. They had reached Garrett where she had sealed herself in Level V. Her helmet had still been running on reserve power, as cautious in its warnings as a fuel-empty light. She had been quarantined. Screened. Stained slides had shown the presence of the Krissa infection. Nothing else.
Her own survival was thanks to the tourniquets; they had stopped critical blood loss. The paramedics had found her unconscious through body shock and reduced blood pressure. She put a hand on her stomach. The foetus was stable.
They owed Jim – Mr Da Costa the nurses called him – the room. Soon after they had transferred he had arranged it. He said he'd noticed the messages back and forth. Said he thought the nurses had better things to do than run between the two of them all day. Said conversation was good for recovery but they shouldn’t stay up too late. He had been formal, like he was writing a prescription. Three chats a day, after meals.
Zahra glanced over at a rustle of starched sheets. Ah! And was that a smile? Well, something. Not much of a smiler, is Christine. Too tough for her own good.
“Hi.”
That’s better. Her eyes look okay. Still a little dull. That'll be the morphine.
“Nearly showtime.”
“Oh, is it? What time?”
“Six.” Zahra glanced up at a knock at the door. She pushed a pillow up behind her back, adjusted her hair. Garrett watched then did likewise. They looked at each other and nodded. "Come in!"
Zahra smiled. "Hello Fly!"
"How you doing, girls?” Fly stepped into the room. “I brought someone to say hello."
"George!" Zahra smiled.
"Ladies."
The men crossed to the beds.
"We've been told we can't stay long," Fly said. "She been behaving herself?" he asked Garrett.
Garrett met his careful, measuring stare. "No."
“I’m not the one caught trying to get out of bed,” Zahra protested.
"Jim says you're not out of the woods," Skinner cautioned.
"Jim’s just a worrier." Zahra frowned at Skinner.
"He is," Fly agreed, looking from Zahra to Skinner. Something passed between the three of them, easy to miss, like the flight of a bird.
"Why can't you stay long?" Zahra asked. She rubbed at the side of her stomach with the heel of her hand.
Fly shrugged. "Apparently Christine's got to talk to some big cheese."
Fly went over and hugged Garrett.
"My turn," Skinner said over Fly’s shoulder.
The visitors found chairs. They spoke of Cherry. Fly had attended her funeral. He had given a short speech.
Garrett said little during the conversation. She listened, and nodded. Skinner sat beside her. He spoke often to her, small exchanges, about pain relief, her arm, bits of news. His sentences were paced slow, to match her stamina. She replied mostly with single words. She had learned that he had spent a lot of time with her while she was unconscious, watching the monitors, the drips, as she recovered from critical blood loss. It had left them comfortable with each other without speaking. It was an odd bond – inherited half-conscious, like a parent's – and she wasn't sure how she felt about it yet. She wasn't a child.
It was easiest when they chatted medicine. Something done before. Skinner had new statistics on the epid
emic. Mostly good news. Paris was effective, and easy to manufacture and distribute; because it was water soluble it could be added to public water supplies. With a cure, public co-operation was high. Regional Epidemic Centres were controlling re-infection. The conversation became technical.
Fly interrupted, leaning over to kiss Garrett on the cheek. “You did good,” he said. When she started to speak he held her with his old, weighing eyes a moment. The memory of Cherry was between them. Then he shook his head slightly. “You did better than good.”
He went out for teas. Garrett lay back and closed her eyes.
“I’m a very busy man.”
“I don't care how busy you are. You’ll wait your turn. This is a hospital not a government ministry. It's bad enough having police officers on my ward day and night.” The head nurse pointed at the clock. “Come back in twenty minutes. I suggest you wait in reception.”
Andy Connell took out his organiser. The head nurse stared. “And I'd appreciate your turning that off while you’re in the hospital.”
She picked up a sheaf of papers and bustled away down a corridor. Connell stared after her.
“Yes matron,” he said, sotto voce.
White watched the other man holster his phone like a defeated gunfighter. “I don't think they call them that any more.”
“Nice legs,” Connell said, still staring after the nurse. “Come on, let's go outside. I need a fag.”
They found a windy corner away from the expectant dads and doctors on breaks.
“We’ve found another commune. South Peru. Near the Aguada Blancas.”
“Sounds lovely.” Connell offered a cigarette. White shook his head. “And?”
“Same setting as the others: a deep coastal river valley. That makes thirteen now.”
“Don’t tell me: there was no-one there.” Connell lit his cigarette.
“Some squatters moved in six months ago. They know nothing except useless gossip.” White spread his empty hands. “It’s the same pattern: nobody left behind with hard information.”