ARIA

by Geoff Nelder

  “Jack, we going mad?”

  “I’ve promised Irene I’ll keep off the booze, but—all right, stop laughing—it can’t be the alcohol, can it? Kids are just as confused.”

  “You’re right, unless you’ve been knocking back Ankers. Hey, you do.”

  “So?”

  “Local brew, Ankers. Artesian well at Bakersfield. Man, it’s used for all local drinks. Maybe we’re all being poisoned.”

  “Could explain a lot, Ken. Can’t think what else it could be. Let’s go in and get some work done. I’ll buy bottled water on the way home.”

  On automatic, the two waved at the security guard and signed in. They plodded the corridor to the locker room, changed into overalls, adopted their another-day-another-dollar attitudes and strolled to the schedule office. Except there was no list of work to do. All the relevant supervisors were new to Dryden and hadn’t turned up.

  “Does that mean we go home, Jack?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Let’s grab a coffee until a super comes along.”

  Ken led the way to the canteen.

  “Yeah, maybe Bret’s there.”

  “Sure, Jack. What the hell?” Ken’s mouth dropped at the sight of a dozen colleagues in the canteen. A Road Runner cartoon kept some occupied while others clustered round their coffees.

  “Hey, Jack,” Gibson called at the drinks machine. “Wanna white sweetened, as usual? Welcome to the Dryden Retirement Club.”

  Jack considered that observation. There was no one there who had started employment during the last few months.

  “It’s as if no one new knows where to go, man. Is that how you see it?” Jack asked.

  “What? You think there’s a case of mass Alzheimer’s? Nah, Jack, it’ll be one of them flu virus things. Mary and the kids have headaches with it, and me.”

  “So did I. Doesn’t explain why we’re losing our memory though. You remember what you did last week?”

  “Hell, after a few drinks, I don’t know what I did yesterday. You’re messing with my head, Jack. Watch TV.”

  Jack accepted a coffee from Gibson and made an effort not to think. He saw that his friends were not as relaxed as their language. Several were holding heads and looking at watches. A few made a huge effort to be absorbed in Wile E. Coyote’s not-so-cunning plan to dynamite the Road Runner. Jack glanced at an ACME ambush device about to be detonated when the large screen switched to an image of NASA’s reception at the Goddard labs.

  “What the fuck,” shouted Dwight Pulaski, a beefy engineer who grabbed the remote off his neighbour and jabbed at the plastic.

  Jack, although slim-built, came up behind Pulaski and, without saying a word, took the remote to reselect the Goddard visit.

  “Give that here, Jack.”

  “No, Dwight, it’s important.”

  Shouts of encouragement to both men should have filled the canteen with onlookers, but silence shoved everyone back into their seats.

  Pulaski puffed up, towered over Jack, shrugged, and sat down. All stared at the screen.

  ROBERT KEEFO, NASA’S CHIEF ADMINISTER, couldn’t believe his eyes. The NASA reception should have been the pinnacle celebration of the year’s progress. Astronauts on their best behaviour should have been toadying up to senators and congressmen. Instead, VIPs wandered around as if in a daze. Many NASA staff hadn’t turned up, and those that did were either overworked or confused.

  “Keefo, what the hell’s going on?” Congressman Philips’ demand bounced around the room.

  “Sir, I have no idea but, ah, there’s Michael Evans.”

  The Flight Center Director looked confused. “Robert? I mean Mr Keefo? What are you and all these people doing here?”

  “This, Michael, is a very important pre-arranged visit. You’re all behaving like zombies looking for very early retirement—damn it!”

  “Director, what the hell...?” The congressman’s red face looked overheated.

  Keefo had the congressman’s elbow, steering him to the VIP suite where there were nibbles and copious alcoholic drinks.

  The congressman threw a parting shot at Evans. “Damn lucky for you the President is on a plane away from this charade. She wouldn’t be impressed.”

  BACK AT EDWARDS, Jack guessed the link was on a pre-arranged auto setup or they wouldn’t have seen the debacle. He gasped as he realized the highest government offices would be infected in just a few hours. His head hurt again like a bad dose of influenza. He wanted to believe that’s all it was but knew it was much more. Something else nagged at him, but although he knuckled his head real hard, he wasn’t able to figure it out. A bear roared behind him and Pulaski’s elbow crashed down on his head.

  The flimsy table and chairs collapsed under the two grunting men. Jack jerked back an elbow into Pulaski’s face and heard his cheek crack. Blood and spittle splattered the floor before friends of both yanked them apart.

  Crashing the canteen door open, supervisor Bret Cornfield shouted over their heads. “Jack, I want you in the comms office now!”

  Shocked from being attacked, Jack shook his head then raked his fingers through his thick hair. They came away greasy. Could the new buzzing in his head seep into his hair? Cracking up.

  “What the fuck does he want? Hey, Gibson, I thought none of the supers got in today.”

  “Bret’s the only one who made it in. He’s all right, Jack.”

  “I’m in no mood to be sociable to no one. Even you, Gibbo.”

  “Like I care. Don’t see him then. Go home, stay home.”

  “All right, don’t go on about it.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going. See?” Jack found co-ordinating his thought processes difficult, but the need to hang on to his job was ingrained, so he followed supervisor Cornfield to the comms room where links to other labs, including the orbital ISS, fluoresced the room.

  Bret grinned and waved Jack into a chair. “Now, Jack, I need your help.”

  “What? Oh, that’s all right then.”

  “I’ve been forgetting stuff, just like everyone else round here, but there’s a difference between me and you morons. Isn’t there, Jack?”

  “You’re a bigger prick?”

  “I’ve noticed abuse is replacing intellect. I’m just hoping that it happens to me later because I’ve got more brains.”

  “Naw, you’re just a bigger prick.” Jack laughed at his own joke, and by the look on Bret’s face, humour was infectious.

  “There you go. Anyway, Jack, I’ve been making notes on my NoteCom so I can catch up each day. Clever, huh?”

  Jack fumbled in his pocket for his own NoteCom wondering if he’d remember to use it.

  “Look at this screen, Jack. It shows you suited up and handling a case found on the outside of the space station.”

  “Yeah, so?” Jack struggled to remember being that responsible; squeezed brain cells half-recalling his son admiring him being in touch with aliens. It was too much.

  “So the case went to Goddard, opened, and then what?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, look at them. Chaos. Also at JPL, Pasadena they’re not normal—my friends, Jack. They’re loopy. I tried to grab a drinking pal at Tucson...you listening, Jack? Good. Hank recognised me and he was at work. I thought he was normal for a few minutes until he got irritated at strangers in his office. Obviously he’d forgotten they were colleagues.”

  “Anybody normal out there?”

  “The guys on the space station are okay.”

  A light switched on in Jack’s head. “Hey, the space station. Will they get—”

  “Supplied? God knows. Doesn’t look like it, but they can return under their own steam.”

  “Can we link to Goddard? That VIP visit–”

  Bret pointed at a blank screen then played with some buttons until a picture flickered up.

  “This is bad, Jack. We’re looking in the VIP lounge, can’t hear jack shit, but the bo
dy language shouts enough. And those bodies decide budgets. Hell, what am I jabbering on about, this thing is bigger than NASA’s survival.

  “Jack, why have you and others here lost their memory? Yesterday’s a bit foggy for me but you guys have lost weeks.”

  Jack stood to examine the screen closer. “Your turn will come.”

  “Suppose I’m immune? Hey, don’t go telling anybody or they’ll be cutting me up to find out why. Ha.”

  “You don’t understand. Tomorrow I won’t remember this chat. Who’s going to work on you? All the medics are sure as hell like me too.” He slumped onto a chair. “Why is it happening, Bret?”

  “Must be that case from the ISS. You got contaminated then everyone else. Big question is how’s it going to stop?”

  “Maybe if I was exposed to the case a second time. You know, two negatives make a positive.”

  “Yeah, but two positives stay positive. Anyway, Goddard’s a goddamn long way to walk. Last I heard, most flights out of Bakersfield and some from Edwards, here, have been cancelled. Staff not turning up.”

  “There must be pilots coming in who haven’t been contaminated, for want of a better word.”

  “Hey, my head’s buzzing. Oh, fuck.”

  “Bret, my headache’s gotten better, but we should warn people who are clear—tell management.”

  “Jack, today we are the most senior here. It’ll take hours trying all the other labs.”

  “There’s Goddard on the screen. And Keefo. If we can see him through this, we can talk to him, and we can’t get higher than NASA’s chief administrator.”

  “Go for it, Jack.”

  Monday p.m. 20 April 2015:

  NASA Goddard Labs, Maryland.

  ROBERT KEEFO, CHIEF ADMINISTRATOR OF NASA, juggled scenarios. A budget meeting scheduled for next week needed more cunning than keeping apart a foxy lady friend and a smart wife. Add to that a lost-contact Mars mission and a bucketful of failed communications from all over the place; he was having the worst goddamn headache. He’d met with and conquered bureaucratic fuck-ups before, but the bungling of this VIP visit to their flagship lab was a nightmare. Keefo’s blood surged, pulsing and pushing against arterial walls. The increased blood pressure forced him to loosen his top shirt button. Damn the incompetents here. Just when he had to focus to manipulate the anti-NASA congress members.

  Making his way through the partygoers, he grabbed the elbow of Michael Evans, the director of Goddard, and tugged him to a corner.

  “Michael, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Don’t worry, Robert, I’ve already drawn up layoff notices for these idiots.”

  “Did you include yours?”

  “If you insist. But I was in Darmstadt till yesterday. Anyway, I’ve an ace.”

  “You might need two.”

  “Doug Reeman. As acquisition chairman, he’s the most influential critical bastard in there.”

  “And making the most noise—at least I double charged his whiskey,” Robert said.

  “Done better than that. You know Isobel from R&I?”

  “Do I want to know this?”

  “Let’s just say Reeman’s squeaky-clean marriage is a liability for him, especially with his eye for sultry women.”

  Robert Keefo knew he had to keep aloof from such activity, so he welcomed the interruption by an official bringing his attention to a communication from the Dryden Lab at Edwards.

  Evans pulled at Keefo’s sleeve. “We don’t need this, Robert. We’ve the VIPs to pacify.”

  “On the contrary, Mike, I need to get away from those attention-seeking creeps. Engineers want to talk aeronautics and space. Real things—no contest.”

  The most senior NASA man wasn’t so sure he’d got it right when at the screen he scrutinised the image of the two men. They looked awful, in particular the older, thin one with JACK BALIN on his badge.

  “Mr Keefo, am I glad to talk to you,” Bret said, closing on the camera.

  “Mr Keefo is too busy,” Evans said, moving to stand between the screen and Keefo.

  “Just a moment, Mike, I’ll choose who I’ll talk to, thank you. Is everything all right, Mr...?”

  “Cornfield, Bret Cornfield, sir. No, sir, things are going very weird, aren’t they, Jack?”

  “Sure, Bret.”

  “Come on, guys,” Keefo said.

  “People are losing their memory, sir.”

  The chief administrator laughed. “Been having a party, Bret?”

  “No, sir, begging your pardon. It’s much more serious. People have been forgetting where they work, where they live, who they’re married to–”

  “I’ve had days like that.” Keefo grinned at Mike Evans.

  “Sir, there have been power blackouts where engineers forgot procedures, buses ran out of drivers, the local TV isn’t on air and—”

  “Bret, I’m sure there’s been a local festival, Mardi Gras, Democrat Convention, or whatever. It’ll be all right, I’m sure.”

  “No work is being done here, sir.”

  “Now that’s serious. Can you put your director on? Matt Ewloe?”

  “Appointed last month, wasn’t he, sir? The only workforce turning up are those who’ve been here at least a year.”

  Evans turned the connection off. “We don’t need to listen to cranks. They’ve had too many beers. I’ll see they’re finished.”

  “Hold your water, Mike.” Keefo turned the connection back on. “Like I said, I’ll decide who I listen to. I’m gonna be angry as hell if I find you’ve covered up a major event.”

  Evans shrugged as if he didn’t know what the problem was.

  The screen flickered to reveal Jack’s retreating back and a pore-revealing close-up of Bret tapping at the screen.

  “Bret.”

  “Ah, you’re still there, sir. It’s that case from the ISS, sir, it must have had something odd inside.”

  Evans butted in. “Take no notice, Robert. I’ll sort it.”

  “What’s wrong with your man Evans, Mr Keefo?”

  “Classic case of denial, Bret. Either that or he’s in league with the aliens or whoever left their case out in space.” Keefo stopped himself. After all, Michael Evans was the head of Goddard and was just attempting to protect NASA from allegations of negligence. Nevertheless, he had to decide if action needed to be taken or whether the problem, like so many others, would blow over.

  “Bret, I want you to find the most senior—no, let’s say experienced—personnel in Edwards, who have not been affected by this amnesia problem and get them to communicate to me in an hour. Can you do that?”

  “Sure thing, Mr Keefo, if I can. It won’t be easy. I’ll try and keep this link open. Over.”

  Evans had a self-satisfied grin. “Just what I’d have done. But what have you in mind?”

  “I wish I knew, Michael. But I know what my family is going to do.”

  “I expect my wife and kids will be on the same flight to London.”

  Robert flipped open his cell phone. “I have a feeling London is not far enough, Mike, not nearly far enough.”

  Tuesday 21 April 2015:

  Baltimore, five days after amnesia started spreading; many people have lost thirty-seven weeks of their memory.

  MANUEL GOMEZ SUFFERED. The bright sunshine helped cheer him. He never tired of blue skies, never longed for those growing cumulus clouds and their cooling showers of New England. It must have been instinct for him to lift his otherwise saddening face to the sunbeams for some childhood memory. He remembered like yesterday, better than yesterday, eating an ice cream while sitting on an iron bench at the Moorish Alhambra Gardens in his home Spanish city of Granada. His sister, Maria, having finished her cornet, pointed behind them and the distraction allowed her a surreptitious lick of his ice cream. Another twenty seconds and the unrelenting sun melted several licks-worth of ice cream, necessitating his mother to rush over with a handkerchief but too late as he had licked the dribbles.

  His smile br
oadened at the recollection but twisted once more as he attempted to recall where his workplace hid today. Had he worked the day before? If so, where? He knew his job as Education Officer for NASA took him all over the States and sometimes abroad. He could picture some establishments, such as Edwards and Goddard, but not where he was supposed to be today. That was it. His diary should tell him. He fumbled his NoteCom out of his inside jacket pocket and switched it on.

  Tuesday 21 April 2015

  10:20 meeting with Michael Evans at Goddard.

  14:00 video link update with Ryder Nape.

  So helpful. It even told him he’d missed a VIP reception at Goddard the previous day and a doctor’s appointment. Why did he need to see the doctor? He didn’t feel ill. Maybe the failure to attend explained the reason. The one certainty he knew hammered at him: he could only remember the odd damn thing from recent days. Other things niggled at him: half-forgotten comments from someone like Ryder about just this problem. At least he remembered Ryder, one of few genuine guys in the media business. A good friend.

  He struck a deal with himself. He used his electronic calendar to call the doctor and bullied his way into an immediate appointment. Not that difficult when patients forget to turn up. The deal? To keep the NoteCom as a more detailed diary, at least until the doctor gave him a panacea.

  A shadow blotted the sun as a cloud threatened Baltimore’s aridity. He stood for a moment outside the doctor’s street door, admiring the brass plate. The door was ajar. Not trusting the lift, Manuel took exercise by walking up three flights of stairs.

  MANUEL THOUGHT HE’D WALKED INTO A MEDICAL MUSEUM. The doc was walled in by dark oak panels, walnut desk, and with the sunlight so enfeebled by wooden window slats, he had to walk real slow until his eyes adjusted. A comfort these days.

  “So, Mr Gomez, you miss other appointments but expect just to waltz in whenever you like,” said the elderly doctor whose crotchety words argued with the twinkle in his eyes.