Darwin's Paradox (4 page)

When Daniel woke drowsily to the light of a breaking dawn and reached out for Julie, his hand caught air. She was gone. So were all her clothes. And the gun.

In
the dim light of pre-dawn, Julie rose from the bed with a sad but determined look back at Daniel’s sleeping form. He murmured something in his sleep and continued breathing heavily. She dressed quickly then slipped the gun into the makeshift holster at the small of her back. After stuffing more clothes, her knife and sling and a few other essentials into her backpack she turned for the door then stopped and let her gaze linger over Daniel’s bearded face. Mouth open and snoring softly, he showed the vague contentedness of deep sleep. His dark hair, a mess of sleep-tangles, spread out from his face over the pillow and she wished with all her heart that she could be curled up beside him, to make love again when he woke.

As she committed that image to memory, she felt her throat swell with longing and regret. He’d think she was abandoning him again, and she was certain that this would irrevocably shatter his trust in her. It was a fragile trust that he’d forged over twelve years and which she would crumble within moments. Julie swallowed down her emotions, realizing that everything Daniel had built and accomplished had been to keep her here, content with him. Perhaps he never did quite trust her. And perhaps he was right.
Darling, forgive me...

But there was no stopping what she had to do and she knew he’d try to stop her. Icaria wasn’t going to get Angel and the only way she was going to prevent that was to leave. They were after her now—Aard had—as much as told her that—and they weren’t going to stop following her. She thought of the clean, fresh boot track she’d spotted yesterday in the mud among the willows. That had been the first time a spy had come so close and so soon after they’d relocated. She and Daniel hadn’t even finished building their new home.

That was distressing enough, but then she’d spotted the unique and unmistakable tripod impression of the Shadow Unit’s assassin’s gun mount. She’d recognized it from ones Frank had shown her a long time ago. A further examination of the area had revealed that a struggle had occurred where branches had snapped off and a body was dragged for some distance. Who had stopped this operative from killing her? She wondered if Aard was still out there, fulfilling his initial directive. Either way, the stakes had escalated and she knew she was lucky to be alive. If they wanted her, they’d have to follow her and find her, she thought.

She paused at Angel’s own half-finished hut and peered inside. Her daughter lay sprawled on her stomach on her bed, covers akimbo, feet exposed, mouth open in the bliss of sleep and auburn hair spilling in all directions. Julie raised her hand to her mouth and took in a halting breath, fighting the urge to stay. She swung her heavy backpack over her shoulder and that simple action coaxed back a flood of memories: how she’d carried Angel everywhere as an infant in a modified backpack without once considering the added weight. Julie had carried Angel as she tilled the garden, foraged, fished or hunted or fetched firewood or water; while the happy baby pulled her mother’s hair and put it to her mouth, wriggling with pleasure. Julie had never been apart from her child. Now she was willingly leaving her.

Fighting down a moan of grief rising in her throat and quelling the need to seize Angel in one last embrace, Julie turned away and hurried out of the camp.

***

She struck southwest in the burning summer heat toward the large river once called the Saint Lawrence. She intended to keep fairly close to the river in her 450-kilometer trek until she reached Lake Ontario on whose northern shore the ghost surface city, Toronto, used to sprawl. Lying beneath it, with its resplendent towers sprouting up like great crystal stalks out of the brown froth of heath was Icaria-5.

She foraged and ate as she hiked. The season was ripe for berries and ground herbs and so she had plenty to eat. While her plans were admittedly a bit sketchy, her mission was clear: lure them away from Angel and Daniel and then stop them from pursuing her and her loved ones, forever. The first part had been easily accomplished by leaving her family behind. The second part of her mission ultimately relied on her returning to Icaria-5 and confronting those responsible, Julie decided, as she bedded down for the night under a grove of feral apple trees in a long-abandoned settlement. Before she fell asleep, she wondered if she was just rationalizing her urge to return to Icaria.

On the second day she reached the great Saint Lawrence River at the remnants of the small village of Iroquois. Julie made out the seaway locks and the dam as she waded through the hummocky wetland of sedges and purple loosestrife. Overgrown and crumbling from disuse, the locks used to control the river’s fluctuating levels and linked the northern shore, once a part of Ontario, Canada, to the south shore that used to belong to New York State in the United States of America. Now it was all simply Icaria’s North Am.

The Iroquois Locks formed part of an extensive navigation system of dams, powerhouses, locks, channels and dikes that made up the St. Lawrence Seaway, linking the Atlantic Ocean to the Great Lakes. Julie imagined the deep-voiced grinding of those locks a hundred years ago, serving the constant traffic of heavy cargo ships and pleasure boats. Now these monoliths languished under a thick mantle of moss and scrub in a quiet breeze, ghosts of a bygone age.

***

She’d known the day was going to be hot when she woke from a restless sleep the next morning already perspiring. By mid-morning, the sun blazed with an oven’s heat, rousing the grasshoppers into an oscillating chorus. Their hissing songs seemed to commiserate with the heat that crawled over her body as sweat ran down.

Around noon she stopped to eat a meager lunch of berries, roots and several over-ripe plums she’d picked from a derelict orchard. In the shade of the copse of pitch pine trees she had a view of a bridge remnant that once spanned the two-kilometer wide river. As she leaned back, letting the drowsy heat of mid-day envelope her like a narcotic, Julie peered abstractly up at the canopy overhead. How deeper a shade of blue the sky appeared through the gap in the green than in the open. This was, of course, perception, perhaps enhanced by the physics of increased moisture from the trees—it was the same sky, after all.

Was that how her father saw the world? The same yet different through his lens of stable chaos? And how was it possible that he chose to make his world—the very same one as hers—so different? She would never, NEVER give up her daughter to anything or anyone, no matter what the cause. Julie realized that she’d squeezed the black berries in her hand and their crimson juice ran through her fingers. She jerked to her feet and pressed onward.

By mid-afternoon she was sweating under the beating rays and found an inviting cold creek to cool off. When she returned to her pile of clothes and bent to put them on, she inhaled sharply at the sight of a fresh men’s size nine boot print with unworn treads in the sand of the dried creek bench. After the initial surge of adrenalin, she realized that if he’d meant to kill her, he’d have done it by now—even taking into account a delay out of vicarious pleasure to watch her bathe. She let herself feel the thrill of knowing that she’d lured her pursuers away from her family and concluded that this one was simply a spy like Aard, not an assassin. She smiled grimly and fought the impulse to look around as she rose, feeling like a celebrity caught in a compromised position.

Okay, buddy boy, get a good look
, she thought as she dried off and hastily dressed, careful not to display Aard’s weapon. She slung her backpack over her shoulders and sprinted up a long rise into scrub-forest. In her dash from the open heath, Julie decided against any more luxurious baths. Dirty was better than dead.

That night she camped inside the foundation of an old church beside a hickory woodland populated by moss-eaten gravestones. Despite her physical exhaustion from the fourteen-hour hike, it was a long time before her restless mind gave in to sleep. She lay on her back inside her sleeping sheet and gazed up at the night sky listening to the crickets that chirped together in an endless hypnotic oscillation. It reminded her of her father’s lectures on stable chaos. How order emerged spontaneously from chaos as synchronous self-organization. Like this field of crickets chirping in concert. Or the millions of neurons firing together in her brain to control her breathing...Darwin’s “insect” jargon in her head seemed to follow a similar synchronous pattern. Was it self-organized too and what did that mean?

***

Julie smelled smoke long before she saw the blazing wildfire. It was the middle of a hot day and she’d scrambled up a hogback ridge after traversing a small creek. The smell grew stronger but she saw neither smoke nor fire as she wound her way through the thick forest in the creek’s grotto. She made for higher ground, hoping for a clearing so she could make a bearing and assess the fire.

At the top of the ravine, the trees opened up and she saw carbon-coloured smoke fill the sky. She heard the snapping and crackling of flames ravenously consuming forest and scrub. It was difficult to tell where exactly the fire was burning. It seemed to be all around her, Julie thought with rising alarm. She darted in one direction, realizing she’d chosen it out of no particular reason except to keep moving, only to catch a blaze eating up the trees ahead of her. She veered left, thinking she recognized a clearing. She smelled charcoal and heard the fire sizzle as it gobbled up the juicy flesh of living plants.

Julie burst into the clearing and gasped at the blazing wall of fire as a blast of heat hit her face. Tall flames licked the sky and thick smoke billowed up and roiled in the wind. Coughing from the smoke that burned her throat, she turned and saw that the wind had thrown sparks into the trees behind her. They’d caught like torches dowsed with tube-jet fuel. The fire to her right moved with incredible speed, meeting the flames behind her like mating amoebas.

Julie bore left again, the only direction open to her, and pelted through the scrub forest. She was vaguely aware that several small animals bounded alongside her, likewise dashing for safety.

Somehow—she wasn’t sure how—she made it through an opening in the advancing firewall and pounded down another valley into a shallow wetland. She plunged with a sharp intake of air into waist-deep bog and scared up a large bird. It squawked and took flight, its great wings sweeping with the sounds of wind gusts. Julie gasped with excitement, momentarily forgetting the fire behind her. A crane—her namesake! No, it was just a heron. Since they’d come to live in the heath, Julie had sought the supposedly extinct crane, hoping it still existed. The Head Pol had lectured her once on the Whooping Crane and how it was considered extirpated. Then he’d made some awful reference to her name and her family’s unlucky legacy and personal extirpation.

“Nice guy,” she muttered, stumbling out of the marsh down-wind of the fire. Julie pulled herself out of the rank bog water and forced her screaming muscles into a jog. She refused to stop, throwing frequent glances to her right where the scorched heath continued to smolder.

Exhausted, Julie approached a small creek with giddy relief. She shrugged off her backpack, pulled off her soaked hiking boots and stumbled into the shockingly cold water, sliding and almost falling on the rocks. She directed one of her stumbles into a motion to sit-down and sucked in a sharp breath at the bracing temperature. Pulling off her wet clothes, she once again washed herself, her hair and then her buckskin shorts and faded blue shirt with the soap she’d brought along. It was only then, as she splashed the cool water over her and felt the sharp stings, that Julie noticed the burns on her legs and arms.

She laid out her clothes on sun-heated rocks to dry and settled herself on the nearby grass with her ankles crossed and hands clasped behind her head. She watched in a daze as the cumulus clouds scudded overhead, dotting a shocking blue sky. To the north, from where she’d just fled, whorls of carbon-coloured clouds spiraled up from the still burning forest in self-entangled streams of black filth. They threatened to swallow the sky in a turbulent display of pure destruction. She remembered her father’s creative definition for turbulence. He’d called it the result of a steady accumulation of conflicting rhythms. Odd, pondered Julie, how the fire, in having destroyed so much life in its expansive sweep, was still part of the natural world. Was this simply nature expressing itself in an inexplicable way, seeking harmony in a scabrous world? Another one of nature’s paradoxes, she thought.

Fire had been a constant hazard in the heath. Yet, fire served the heath by discouraging invasive shrubs and halting succession. The grazing deer populations completed the job of keeping the heath from reverting to woodland. So, fire had its place as creative destroyer in the natural cycle of ecosystem behavior. Stable chaos, according to her father.

It was a harsh and rude environment, Julie concluded. Like thieves in the night, bell heather, gorse and purple loosestrife snatched everything for themselves, leaving nothing for the others. Like many things in nature, the heath plants, though beautiful and fragrant, were ruthlessly greedy. Just like Gaia, Julie thought suddenly with a wry smile...Yes, Gaia...

The same day Julie and SAM had discovered that she was Prometheus, they’d uncovered Gaia’s dubious history and her insidious connection to Julie’s dead father. When Julie was five, Gaia, still known as Monica Schlange, the mayor of Icaria-11, oversaw the creation of Proteus by Dr Damien Vogel and its injection into Julie. Schlange had cleverly convinced Janet, the cousin of Julie’s father, to spread the virus, hoping that it would give her city a decided advantage. Instead, Schlange watched in silent complicity as Proteus pathogenically morphed into Darwin disease, the killer plague of the century that eventually destroyed Icaria-11.