The SONG of SHIVA (37 page)

* * *

Lyköan shifted stiffly in the soft leather seat. After twenty hours, including an in-flight refueling over Diego Garcia, the C-37A was now eating air over the eastern edge of the Andaman Sea. The cabin was empty except for Fremont, Nora and himself.

Like Classic Greek tragedy, events were playing out to formula.
Hubris
or presumptive pride had lead to
ate
, an arrogant act offensive to the gods, which in turn was now sure to blossom into
nemesis
: retributive justice, ruin, infamy and death.
Nemesis
, that deified opponent, could not be avoided, beaten or overcome once hubris had arisen in the human heart. The trick right now was determining who possessed the greater hubris, Pandavas or himself. He hoped it would prove to be Dr. Pandavas. That seemed about right. Perhaps. But hadn’t there been plenty of presumptive pride in his own actions lately?

Might he also have done something to deserve it, perhaps something he was entirely unaware of doing? Hadn’t Oedipus, the classic example, asked the same question? Did
he
ever get a satisfactory answer? No, he only learned the nature of his unintended sin after the fact, when it was far too late. Sometimes committing a sin wasn’t even necessary, the gods one day simply found some previously innocuous mortal act offensive. Wasn’t that how genuine tragedy operated? In the end, Lyköan wondered, were all fates sealed, before the sin unknowable, and most unfortunately, after their commission, always unavoidable?       

Take the illogic of Bremer allowing him to accompany the first wave assault on the Node. All he had done was ask. Obvious hubris. But why had Bremer agreed so quickly? The same for Fremont immediately acquiescing to his request for diplomatic credentials and a first-class government-paid ticket back to Thailand. What could explain any of it?

Nora was in the rattling seat next to him, her eyes closed, head thrown back, but he was pretty sure she was awake. The twin engines were humming monotonously in the background. They would be landing shortly. Across the narrow gulf of the fuselage, Fremont stared ahead blankly, a rainbow-hued cloud of sparkling fractals billowing out of his nostrils and dissipating with each repeating breath. They had talked themselves silent hours ago. Lyköan caught himself imagining Fremont wishing he were capable of reading minds, his two companions’ in particular.

Nothing much here, Felix. A little hubris. A little Greek tragedy
. He smiled darkly and returned to the most troubling detail of his spectral foray to the Node days before, something that had failed to register at the time. During the conference room visit, Pandavas had referred to the meeting taking place in the afternoon. What afternoon could he have meant? The ‘yesterday’ referred at that meeting? The previous afternoon, when Nora had been caught on camera changing trains in Crewe? Impossible. No
next
afternoon existed between
that
yesterday and the following morning when he had witnessed the reference. There was only the afternoon that had not yet arrived. So what had he witnessed? A vision of the future? Of a possible future? One of Pandavas’s illustrious uchronia? He had relied upon the information and it had proven accurate. But how?

The plane banked. “Looks like we’re coming into Krung Thep,” he whispered into Nora’s ear with a nod towards the window. “Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.” His breath, though warm, made Nora shiver.

Spread out like a blanket below lay the lights of sprawling Bangkok ― the vastly overgrown village of wild olives ― an ocean of illumination painting the serpentine Mae Nam Chao Phraya in long, gaudy strands of electric incandescence, reflecting every garish color the human eye was capable of discerning as it flowed slowly south onto the distant Bight of Bangkok darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Truth is a mobile army of shifting metaphors

Ludwig Büchner :
Kraft und Stoff

Armed military patrols had been a common sight along Suvarnahbumi’s main concourse for as long as Lyköan had lived in Bangkok. During innumerable visits to the airport over the years, the faces of those automatic weapon-toting soldiers had generally been friendly. Not any longer.

A young, attractive American embassy attaché was waiting for them at the diplomatic gate. Lyköan had almost grown accustomed to the disturbing visualizations, in this case taking the form of the young woman’s brave, but nervous smile, radiating broadly from the corners of her mouth with a brilliant aurora of incandescence, accompanied by iridescent sea-green eyes burning even more fiercely than the forced smile ― twin pools of fathomless aqua ― a bizarre head-enveloping mask into which he felt himself being swept. Smiling self-consciously, he looked away.

“Hope you’ve already confirmed your plans,” she announced pleasantly, introducing herself as she presented each of them in turn with freshly-issued passports. “The whole country’s gone into emergency lockdown. If you’ve got any official business ― anything not directly related to the influenza threat ― it’s not going to be met with much official response – at least not until this thing blows over.”

Digitized photos, thumbprints and retinal scans were hurriedly downloaded onto passport-embedded biometric microchips in the private U.S. annex, accruing to each newly minted civil servant the full panoply of diplomatic honor and privilege. With a flash of diplomatic credentials, they passed through customs without inspection and were on their way.

Ambassador Lyköan
, Egan thought, grinning at the irony.
Wonder if it comes with full immunity.

“I’m going to have our bags delivered directly to the embassy,” Fremont said, moving them through the gate turnstile. “We can pick them up later. And head out to the WHO labs immediately.”

“The embassy limousine is parked right outside airport security,” the attaché offered. Lyköan had already forgotten her name. Embarrassing. The tiny gate annex felt inexplicably oppressive, its silence deafening. “Anywhere you need to go,” she continued, “anything at all, it’s at your disposal. You’ve received full clearance from State, so anything you need...”

“I was hoping to swing by my place first ― check on a few things,” Lyköan said, his voice echoing hollowly as they entered the nearly empty international concourse. All he wanted, right now, was to put some distance between himself and Fremont, take Nora and follow their own noses. “It’s been weeks and I haven’t had a minute to myself.” Didn’t Felix have clues of his own to follow?

“Sure, but let’s not get separated,” Fremont insisted. “Staying together ― establishing a base of operations at some central location ― is much wiser than spreading ourselves all over town. At least for the next few days.”

“If you want to tag along, fine, but let’s get moving,” Lyköan agreed grudgingly, already walking with Nora towards the escalator, a flurry of hollow footsteps thundering down the half-empty concourse. Twenty hours stuck inside that cramped plane had been an eternity. It was emancipating just to be ambulatory again. Fremont and the attaché had already fallen ten meters behind and were forced into a run to catch up.

Looking from Lyköan to Nora across the limousine’s facing back seats once the black Cadillac had pulled away from the curb, Fremont went into more detail. “I’d suggest a suite at the Oriental or the Peninsula ― even the Ayutt Haya if you’d like. Don’t want to give you the wrong impression ― we’re not offering unlimited expense accounts here but, within reason, the administration’s agreed to cover all incidental expenses – for the duration.”
   

Away from the airport, as the limousine melted into the city’s exotic bustle, it was impossible to tell anything was amiss. Before Lyköan realized it they were exiting busy Phaya Thai onto Rama I and passing into the heart of downtown where the surrounding cityscape became even more comforting. Approaching Ratchadamri, the vehicle passed a harnessed elephant plodding along in the middle of traffic. The sight was somehow reassuring, the long flight’s tension evaporating into the welcomed local ambiance. His head was clearing too.

The government-controlled media would be manipulating the facts, massaging the truth, mitigating potential panic in an effort to soothe the rumors that fear of another epidemic would naturally raise in the threatened population. There was no sense looking to the government for honest answers. He had contacts and resources elsewhere. Maybe a call to Jimmy, who spent a lot of his time listening to the faint whispers that blew in upon the local political winds.

* * *

“Assuming, on average, a ten-day incubation,” Nora figured, “individuals in the outbreak clusters now being reported must have been infected while we were still in England.”

After being rebuffed by Thai police at the WHO laboratories, she had come alone to Yin Yat Chen’s apartment in tony Thonglor, hoping to win an ally. The WHO’s now ranking epidemiologist had been put in charge when Tardieu had left for Atlanta. From there, Tardieu had gone directly to Vietnam. Nora hoped to persuade Chen that a serum analysis of the quarantine subjects was urgently needed. Egan and Felix had left on separate errands.

“Doctor Tardieu was convinced, even before he left for the United States,” Chen agreed, “that this was the mutation we have anticipated for some time. Already we are on the defensive – as much as a week behind asymptomatic carriers. It is not a favorable position for any epidemiologist.”

“And the government is making matters worse. What was their excuse for turning everyone out?”

“No explanation. They said ‘medical emergency’. Security. But they have since contacted the UN directly and, by the data they are requesting, suspect the WHO may be responsible for the viral mutation.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Nora assured Yin. “But if the government believes it, then it’s going to make our task much more difficult. I was hoping, with your help, to blag
our way back into the labs—”

Chan gave her a confused look.

“Sorry. English slang for crafty persuasion. Convince the Thai authorities that giving us lab access would be acting in Thailand’s best interest. You and I are much better equipped to handle contagion dynamics and countermeasures—”

“And of course, you are right!” Chen agreed enthusiastically. “I was just about to ask the Health Ministry to reconsider, allow the WHO scientists still in Bangkok to assist in whatever way the government will permit ― under direct supervision if necessary. Your recent recognition for development of the TAI-1 vaccine should add weight to that argument.”

“Let’s hope.”

“We may need to offer further proof that our assistance will be of value, but yes, of course.”

“With JG stuck in quarantine at the Ho Chi Minh City conference,” Nora suggested, “along with many of the world’s best epidemiologists ― until they can be replaced ― it’s entirely up to whoever’s left.”

It seemed clear to her now that Tardieu’s arrival at the CDC, feared at the time to have been too neat and cozy ― almost in lock-step with Innovac’s designs ― was far more likely to have been completely coincidental and innocent. He had been exposed to Pandavas’s virus along with all the other conference participants. The Thai government’s panicked response was only compounding their difficulties. Who had suggested the WHO might be complicit in the TAI-2 outbreak?
 

“Here’s an idea,” Nora continued. “Under ideal conditions we can’t expect to synthesize an experimental vaccine for weeks, maybe months ― even if we successfully developed one from currently infected serum. Is anyone even drawing blood samples? But if we already
had
one, inoculating the uninfected WHO staff in Thailand would be possible ― a first step.”

While she was suggesting this possibility, Nora was working on other ― hopefully better ― ideas. If Egan was right and nano-scriptors were now replicating and coursing through her own bloodstream, reconstructing and perfecting her own genome ― enhanced intuition might be one of their benefits. Whatever the reason, she was wondering whether Pandavas might have protected his precious Shiva vessel from both the H5N1 and H9N2 viruses. If that were true, Egan’s blood might already possess elevated titres from which vaccines could be developed. Nora envisioned a rapid breeding culture, derived from Egan’s antibodies. The idea was worth pursuing.

Without spelling out her whole design, she suggested a worldwide medical Manhattan Project. If need be, the vaccine could be constructed from Pandavas’s own viral design. But the first step would require access to the WHO’s Bangkok lab, which housed the sophisticated tools available no where else on earth, except at Cairncrest and the Node, which were now unavailable half a world away.
 

“There have also been reports of infections outside Vietnam and Thailand,” Chen added darkly. “No matter what course we take, very difficult moral decisions will soon be forced upon us. We can only protect a few. Who will we decide to save and who will we be forced to abandon?”

* * *

Jimmy hadn’t answered at any of the numbers Lyköan had tried. The
bon vivant
was probably out on an important shopping trip. Running down the fashion fugitive would have to wait.

A quick search around the apartment building had not turned up Blossom either. Lyköan
had
been able to locate Mrs. Disatapon, who had eagerly accepted every hundred baht bill he had offered, all the while complaining that she had not received a single baht for her pet care duties since Whitehall had visited weeks before. After stuffing the cash into the waistband of her
sampot chang kben
skirt, the wrinkled crone had happily informed him that, since his departure, the dog’s daily routine rarely varied from ambling the soi shadows and avoiding the sun during the day, and then returning to the courtyard for dinner every evening. Lyköan decided not to go out looking for her.

The WHO labs had turned out to be another no go, recently occupied by the Ministry of Health. Nora had called to let him know she was on her way to meet with the Korean microbiologist, Yin Yat Chen, hoping to find a way to do something about it.

In what seemed to be the only positive development, Fremont had finally cut his tether, leaving for the American embassy. With the ambassador’s support, he was hoping to exert a little diplomatic pressure and maybe persuade the Thai ministerial offices that it would be in everyone's best interest if the WHO research offices were opened again.

Hoping that another line of inquiry might still bear fruit, he laced up his running clothes and set out on foot for a visit. Forty-three minutes later, seated on the
Wat Tee Pueng Sut Taai
dirt floor, Lyköan was anxiously relaying everything that had happened since he had left for England.

“All the science in the world,” Sun Shi explained, “all the inherent power of man’s technology, actually has very little impact on the internal working of the universe. The so-called “progress” of science in the modern era, is not even the result of man’s efforts, but the operation of something much different, something placed in the human psyche by another, far more subtle power. But because Spirit, the seat of the psyche, is eternal and immutable, the temple of that spirit, the physical body, is rarely if ever capable of recognizing this hidden operation. Much like truth, the manipulation of any individual soul can only be dissected and revealed through indirect methods.”

Same old Sun Shi
, Lyköan thought. This too, in a strange way, felt comforting. Even so, Lyköan did remember reading something about a similar idea, contained in a mid-twentieth century discussion among four metaphysical masterminds: Lewis, Tolkien, Garfield and Dyson, who finally agreed that the
truth
can
never
be viewed directly; that it persistently escapes our gaze and, therefore, must
always
be approached obliquely.

Lyköan could hear Sun Shi's measured voice, but could not make out his intent. “It is akin to reading the symbolism in an abstract expressionist’s painting,” the old monk continued, "hoping by inference to determine the underlying intention of the artist. Since no one can fully fathom how a human self ― a soul ― follows its internal motivation, how much more difficult then, to comprehend the intentions of the soul of the universe? And more difficult still, its purpose. But rest assured, the search for ultimate truth and for oneself is the same exhaustive journey ― and both journeys begin and end at exactly the same point. Unfortunately, unseen forces are also forever at their labor, manipulating everything that transpires upon the experiential, observable plane.”

“...and our little lives are rounded with a sleep?” Lyköan suggested sarcastically, but also honestly.

“Rounded repeatedly,” Sun Shi expanded. “Still, beneath those manipulations, there is a deeper, more significant statement being made. Life’s journey is one of exploration that anticipates an even greater presence. This is by no means any sort of proof, but it can, for the truly concerned seeker, satisfy every needful facet demanded of the search.”