The Swarm: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  She pursed her lips. ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll call you when Ford gets in touch.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Or you call me - he’ll probably not want to wake me or something.’

  Delaware shook her red ponytail at him and walked slowly to the door. She paused. ‘And another thing,’ she said, without turning. ‘It’s time you thanked Greywolf for saving your life. I’ve been to see him already.’

  ‘You’ve done what?’

  ‘I mean it. You can despise him for everything else, but he still deserves thanks. If it wasn’t for him, you’d be dead.’

  She went.

  Anawak slammed the bottle on to the table and took a deep breath.

  He was still sitting there, flicking through the channels, when an emergency broadcast came on. The TV stations were full of newsflashes with the latest on the situation in British Columbia, plus broadcasts from the US where shipping was at a standstill too. In the studio, a woman in naval dress was speaking. Her short black hair was combed sleekly off her face and there was an austere beauty about her features. She looked Oriental, perhaps Chinese. No, half-Chinese. One small detail didn’t fit with the rest: her eyes were a deep unAsiatic blue.

  A text box popped up at the bottom of the screen: General Commander Judith Li, US Navy.

  ‘Should we consider withdrawing from the coast of British Columbia?’ the interviewer was asking. ‘Giving it back to nature, so to speak?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that we haven’t taken anything in the first place,’ said Judith Li. ‘We live in harmony with nature although, of course, there’s room for improvement.’

  ‘Yet in the present situation there seems little sign of harmony.’

  ‘Well, that’s something we’re working on in close collaboration with leading scientists and scientific institutes on both sides of the border. Sure, it’s alarming when animals collectively change their behaviour, but it would be wrong to over-dramatise the situation. It’s certainly no cause for panic.’

  ‘In other words, you don’t believe we’re dealing with a mass phenomenon?’

  ‘Before speculating on the type of phenomenon, I’d want to know for certain that this is a phenomenon at all. In my opinion, we’re looking at a cumulative series of broadly similar events—’

  ‘Events that the public knows nothing about,’ the interviewer interrupted. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘We’re keeping the public informed.’ Li smiled.

  ‘Well, I’m surprised and delighted to have this chance to talk with you, but let’s be frank: the provision of public information, both here and in the United States, has been patchy to say the least. And now we’re finding ourselves in a position where we’re unable to report the views of experts since all attempts at communication are being blocked by the authorities.’

  ‘Crap,’ growled Anawak. ‘Greywolf was only too happy to shoot his mouth off. I thought everyone heard it.’

  On the other hand, had Ford been asked for an interview? Or Fenwick? Palm was an expert on orcas - had any news crews or reporters been in touch with him? And what about himself? It wasn’t so long ago that Scientific American had cited him in an article on cetacean intelligence, but no one had come banging on his door.

  Belatedly he was struck by the absurdity of it all. In any other circumstance - terrorist attacks, plane crashes or natural disasters - anyone resembling an expert was dragged in front of the cameras before the day was out.

  Yet they were working steadily in silence.

  Come to think of it, even Greywolf hadn’t given vent to any outbursts since that interview in the paper. Until then he had seized every opportunity to push himself forward. The hero of Tofino had been dropped.

  ‘That’s a one-sided perspective,’ Li said smoothly. ‘Clearly we’re in an extremely unusual predicament. Nothing like this has ever happened before. So of course we’re anxious to prevent hordes of self-appointed experts jumping to conclusions. I mean, apart from anything else, we’d never be able to set the record straight. Besides, I don’t see any threat we can’t handle.’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s under control?’

  ‘That’s certainly our goal.’

  ‘Some people would say that you’re failing.’

  ‘In that case I’d like to know what they expect. The military is hardly going to attack the whales with warships and Black Hawks.’

  ‘The number of casualties is rising by the day. The Canadian government has restricted the emergency zone to the coast of British Columbia—’

  ‘The restrictions apply to pleasure-boats only. Ferries and freighters have not been affected.’

  ‘The past few days have seen a spate of reports about missing vessels. Perhaps you could comment on that.’

  ‘Let me make this quite clear. Those reports concern fishing-boats. Small motorboats,’ said Li, in a tone of martyred patience. ‘Every now and then a ship goes missing. We’re looking into the incidents. Needless to say, we’re doing everything we can to search for survivors. But in the meantime we shouldn’t assume that every unexplained incident is the result of an attack. I hope people will see that.’

  The interviewer adjusted his glasses. ‘Please correct me if I’m wrong, but I understand that a recent incident involving a freighter belonging to Inglewood, the Vancouver-based shipping line, resulted in the sinking of a tug.’

  Li pressed her fingertips together. ‘I assume you’re referring to the Barrier Queen.’

  The interviewer looked briefly at his notes. ‘That’s right. There’s very little information available on what actually happened.’

  ‘Too right,’ agreed Anawak. He’d forgotten to chase it up with Shoemaker since the crash.

  ‘The Barrier Queen,’ said Li, ‘had a problem with her rudder. A tug sank during a botched attempt to fix a tow line.’

  ‘Then if I understand you correctly it wasn’t attacked. You see, according to my information—’

  ‘Your information is obviously wrong.’

  Anawak stiffened. What the hell was she talking about?

  ‘All right, General, two days ago a Tofino Air seaplane crashed into the ocean. Could you tell us a little more about that?’

  ‘A seaplane crashed. That’s correct.’

  ‘Reports suggest it collided with a whale.’

  ‘The incident is under investigation. Please forgive me for not commenting on each individual case. My work is at a higher level, as I’m sure you’ll understand.’

  ‘Of course.’ The interviewer nodded. ‘Perhaps we should talk about your work, then. What exactly does your job entail? How would you describe the committee’s brief? Presumably it’s a case of responding to events…’

  Li’s face twitched. ‘Emergency committees are there to act as well as react. We meet the situation head on, tackle it and see it through. Early detection, clear and comprehensive planning, prevention and evacuation are key to our success. But, as I mentioned before, we’re on unfamiliar ground. So far, we haven’t been as good at detecting and preventing incidents as we’d normally expect. Everything else is covered, though. You won’t find a single boat out there in danger from the whales. Essential items of cargo from at-risk vessels are being diverted to nearby airports. Larger vessels are sailing under military escort. We’re maintaining constant aerial surveillance and we’re ploughing large sums of money into scientific research…’

  ‘But you’ve ruled out military action.’

  ‘We haven’t ruled it out. We said it was unlikely.’

  ‘Environmental groups are claiming that the change in the animals’ behaviour is due to human intervention. Noise, toxic waste, shipping…’

  ‘We’re doing all we can to find out.’

  ‘What progress has been made?’

  ‘Let me spell this out clearly: until we’re in a position to pass on concrete information, we refuse to engage in speculation. Nor will speculation be tolerated from any other quarter. Fishermen, industrialists, shipping lines, whale-watchers, pro-
whaling activists and any other would-be vigilantes will be dealt with severely. This situation must not be allowed to escalate. When animals attack, it’s because they’re feeling threatened or they’re ill. Either way, it would be foolish to use violence against them. We need to find out what’s causing the problem so that we can deal with its symptoms. And until then we’ll stay out of the water.’

  ‘Thank you, General.’ The newsreader turned to face the camera. ‘That was General Commander Judith Li of the US Navy, who was recently appointed military chief of staff to the Allied Emergency Committee representing Canada and the United States. And now for today’s other stories…’

  Anawak turned down the volume and called Ford. ‘Who the hell is Judith Li?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I haven’t met her in person,’ said Ford. ‘She’s always on the move, flying about the place.’

  ‘I didn’t know Canada and the US had formed a joint committee.’

  ‘You can’t know everything, Leon. You’re a biologist, remember?’

  ‘Have you talked to the press or anyone else about the attacks?’

  ‘We had a number of media enquiries, but nothing ever came of them. The television people seemed keen to get you.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t anyone—’

  ‘Leon.’ Ford sounded wearier than he had that morning. ‘Li pulled the plug on it. It was probably for the best. The minute you start working for a state or military organisation, you’re expected to keep your mouth shut. Anything you hear or do is classified.’

  ‘So how come they let the two of us keep talking?’

  ‘We’re in the same boat.’

  ‘But that general’s talking crap! All that stuff about the Barrier Queen—’

  ‘Leon,’ Ford yawned, ‘were you actually there when it happened?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start.’

  ‘I’m not. Like you, I don’t doubt your Mr Roberts was telling the truth about what happened. But think about it. First, there’s an invasion of mussels - odd creatures, with no taxonomic history, covered in ominous gunk - then an assault by whales on a tow line. And that’s your story. Plus there’s that incident in the dock, with you getting slapped in the face, not to mention Fenwick and Oliviera finding more of the gunk in the whale brains. Now, do you fancy telling that to the public?’

  Anawak was silent. ‘So why can’t I get in touch with Inglewood?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You must know something. You’re scientific adviser to the Canadian response team.’

  ‘Exactly! Which is why I’m drowning in dossiers right now. For Christ’s sake, Leon, I don’t know. They’re not letting on.’

  ‘Inglewood and the response team are in the same boat.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to discuss it further with you, Leon, but right now I’ve got those darned videos to deal with, and it’s going to take longer than I thought. One of the guys is laid up in bed. Diarrhoea, apparently. Perfect. There won’t be anything for you to look at before tomorrow.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Anawak.

  ‘Listen, I’ll give you a call, all right? Or I’ll ring Licia, in case you’re asleep.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting to hear from you.’

  ‘She’s doing nicely, don’t you think?’

  Of course she was doing nicely. You couldn’t wish for anyone more dedicated. ‘Yes,’ mumbled Anawak. ‘Now, is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Think. Go for a walk. Visit a Nootka chief.’ Ford laughed wryly. ‘I bet the Indians know something. Just think what a relief it would be if they came out and told you that all this had happened hundreds of years before.’

  Joker, thought Anawak. He wrapped up the conversation and stared at the pictures on the screen.

  After a few minutes he started pacing up and down. His knee was throbbing but he carried on, as if to punish his body for letting him down.

  At this rate he’d soon be paranoid. He already had the feeling he was being sidelined. No one ever called him up to tell him anything unless he called them first. He wasn’t disabled: he had a limp, for Christ’s sake. Sure, things had been a bit much lately, but…

  That wasn’t the problem.

  He froze in front of the plastic whales.

  No one was treating him like an invalid, and he wasn’t being sidelined. Ford was doing him a favour and saving him a trip to Vancouver by sifting the data himself. Delaware was doing her best to be supportive. They were only being considerate - nothing more, nothing less. He was the one acting like he was crippled. He was the one with the problem.

  What’s the best thing to do, he asked himself, when you’re going round in circles? Break the cycle. Do what it takes to get back on the road. It’s no good looking to other people. Look to yourself. Do something out of the ordinary.

  But what?

  Ford had said he should visit a Nootka chief.

  The Indians know something.

  Was it true? Canada’s Indians had passed their knowledge from generation to generation until the Indian Act of 1885 had broken the chain of oral tradition. It had encouraged them to sell their identity by leaving their homeland and sending their children to residential schools to be ‘integrated’ into white society. Like a forked-tongued serpent, the Indian Act promised them one thing and offered another. With a smile it talked of integration, but the Indians were integrated in their own communities, yet that wasn’t good enough for the snake. The nightmare of the Indian Act continued. For decades Canada’s native peoples had been trying to reclaim their lives. Many had picked up the thread of memory where it had been severed a hundred years earlier. The Canadian government had made reparations, but nothing could bring back their culture. Fewer and fewer Indians knew the old lore.

  Whom could he ask?

  The elders.

  Anawak hobbled on to the veranda and looked down the street. He’d never had much to do with the Nootka. They called themselves the Nuu-chah-nulth, meaning People Along the Mountains, and with the Tsimshian, Gitksan, Skeena, Haida, Kwakiutl and Coast Salish, they were one of the main tribes on the west coast of British Columbia. It was almost impossible for outsiders to understand how the various tribes, bands and linguistic groups were related. Most people’s attempt to get to grips with Indian culture failed at the first hurdle, before they got anywhere near regional dialects and customs, which differed from one bay to the next. However, if you wanted to find out about Vancouver Island’s Pacific coast, it made sense to ask the Nootka, from the west of the island. You might be lucky. On the other hand, you might get bogged down in the myths of the various bands of which the Nootka were composed. Each band had its own territory. To say that the Nootka’s traditions were closely bound up with the landscape of Vancouver Island, and that their mythology was rooted in the natural world meant everything and nothing. At the heart of Nootka belief was the story of a creator, a figure capable of changing shape and form. In, say, the stories of the Ditidaht, wolves were of particular significance, but orcas played a key role too, and anyone wanting to find out about orcas had to get to grips with the wolf legends. Animals and humans were spiritually linked, so animals could transform themselves into other creatures and some had a dual identity. If a wolf went into the water, it changed into a whale, and a killer whale on land became a wolf. In the eyes of the Nootka, to tell stories about whales without thinking of wolves made no sense at all.

  Since the Nootka had traditionally hunted whales, they knew countless whale stories. But not every band told the same ones, and a similar basic story varied, depending on where it was told. It was a moot point as to whether the Nootka included the Makah, but at the very least they shared a language - Wakashan. Apart from the Inuit, the Makah were the only North American people with a treaty to hunt whales, which, after a century of abstinence, they were planning to exercise, prompting widespread concern. The Makah didn’t live on Vancouver Island, but on the other side of the water, on the north-westerly tip of Washington State. Their oral tradition include
d stories of whales that were also told by the Nootka on the island, but when it came to describing the reasons behind a whale’s behaviour - its thoughts, feelings and intentions - they all took a different line. That was only to be expected, though: the whale was also known as the iihtuup or ‘big enigma.’

  Do something out of the ordinary.

  Asking Indians for advice would certainly be that. Whether it would be helpful was a different matter.

  Anawak gave a sour smile. It was the kind of thing he usually avoided like the plague.

  Although he’d lived in Vancouver for twenty years, he didn’t know much about the local peoples, mainly because he’d never tried to find out. Every now and then he felt a yearning for their world, but suppressed it before it could take hold. He found it too embarrassing. Delaware had mistaken him for a Makah, but he was the least suitable person to grapple with Indian myth.

  Other than Greywolf.

  It’s pathetic, he thought bitterly. No self-respecting Indian ran round with such a lame-assed Wild-West surname. All the chiefs were called Norman George or Walter Michael or George Frank. None called themselves John Two Feathers or Lawrence Swimming Whale. Only arrogant jerks like Jack O’Bannon indulged in that kind of nonsense.

  Greywolf was an ass.

  And as for himself…

  They were as bad as each other. Greywolf tried to be an Indian, and wasn’t; while he looked like an Indian and was determined not to be one.

  His goddamn knee had started him thinking, and he didn’t want to think. He didn’t need Alicia Delaware to send him back along the path he’d come.

  Who could he ask?

  George Frank was a chief he knew. He wasn’t exactly a friend, but he was a nice guy, who also happened to be the taayii Haw’ilh of the Tla-o-qui-aht, one of the Nootka lands from the Wickaninnish area. A Haw’ilh was a chief, but a taayii Haw’ilh was a step up from that - a head chief. The taayii Haw’ilH were a bit like the British monarchy: their status was hereditary. These days, most bands were governed by elected councillors, but the hereditary chiefs were still respected.