ARIA (7 page)

Ryder fidgeted in his seat. “Hey, look that’s Doug Reeman, chairman of the Senate’s NASA Acquisition Committee. More cronies…senators, CEOs. My God, they’ll take it back to the White House and—”

“Isn’t that Manuel?”

“Looks out of it, poor chap. I’ve got to get on to Faculty Dean Maurice Dover. Get the British Government to take notice.”

“Not listening, Ryder, were you?”

“What? You mean about infected people from the States already here? Can’t be that many and we have to do
something
.”

“Loads of people must have left the States, mostly by air, some by road to Mexico or Canada.”

“What? How did they all know?”

“You’re an imbecile. Why do I stick with you? None of them would’ve heard about infectious amnesia. Just normal trips, but they’re carrying the infection anyway.”

“So, what are we waiting for? Let’s tell family and friends and get out of here. At least we should leave London and head for isolation. Just a minute. This needs careful consideration. We should inform the government. They might be able to activate some contingency plans. You know, isolation bunkers.”

Teresa threw her hands in the air. “Ryder, the nuclear-war bunkers set up in the 1960s were dismantled years ago. Get real, for God’s sake.”

“We should make sure somebody other than us knows what’s going down.”

Teresa threw him a tired look. “I know.”

“Do you? I’m talking end-of-the-world stuff.”

“Let’s not get carried away. It’s most likely a case of
temporary
amnesia for
some
people.”

“I wish I had your optimism, Teresa. I’m telling Maurice. Put the onus on him to enlighten people higher up.” He looked straight at her but instead of another defiant, hand-waving gesture, she had a far-away look and walked off. Ryder knew the look. It meant he’d find out about it when she’d accomplished her mission. She loved her little secrets.

He dismissed the idea of e-mailing Maurice, her boss; better to talk to him face-to-face. As he stood, he glanced at the monitor displaying the US lab. Meandering lost people.

Monday 20 April 2015:

Edwards Air Base, Dryden Labs.

J
ACK
B
ALIN
,
ALONG
WITH
HIS
COLLEAGUE
, K
EN
, stood facing the Dryden lab entrance. The morning sun was thwarted by a corrugated metal awning.

“What’s going on, Jack? Why are there only a few of us coming into work?”

“Beats me. Your people at home up the creek as well?”

“I’ve come here to get away from flying crockery.” He rubbed a bruise on his forehead. They were pulling a few more times on their cigarettes before going into the building.

“Thought I’d lost my whole family last night. Stupid critters forgot where we lived. Wondering if the same will happen tonight,” Jack said, pleased he’d recalled something of the previous night’s chaos though Irene hadn’t slept and had reminded him. He’d forgotten but wasn’t letting on. Maybe he should try going without sleep.

“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.

R
OBERT
K
EEFO
, 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.”

B
ACK
AT
E
DWARDS
, 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 body 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.”