Teranesia

As she crouched over him with the vial, struggling to keep her balance on the swaying dinghy, Prabir said, ‘You know, if I’d been alone on the island when they died, I would never have left. I wouldn’t have got away at all, without you to keep me going.’

She said angrily, ‘Don’t talk like that.’

He laughed. ‘Like what?’

‘You know exactly what I mean, you shit.’ Madhusree pulled the empty syringe away, refusing to look at him.

‘You even hooked me up with Felix. I’d never have managed that alone.’

‘Don’t, Prabir.’

‘If I ask you to do this, it’ll be my responsibility. I can’t stop it hurting you, but don’t let it damage you.’

Madhusree met his eyes; her face was burning with resentment.

He said, ‘No one in the world could have done more for me.’

She spat back angrily, ‘How can you say that? You’re already writing off everything I’m trying!’

He shook his head as far as he could; his neck was almost rigid now. ‘It might work, but if it doesn’t, you have to be ready. You’re going to have to be strong for more than this. The gene is going to try to take everything. All it cares about is reproducing. Everything that matters to us: love, honesty, intelligence, reflection—they’re all just accidents. A few freak waves swept them up on to the beach. Now the tide’s coming in, to wash them away again.’

Prabir could see nothing but the cloudless sky. His sense of the heat of the sun was gone, and the motion of the boat had almost receded from consciousness. Fear and claustrophobia came in slower, deeper waves. He wanted more of everything. More knowledge, more friendship, more sex, more music. He wanted to see the revolution, he wanted to see the battle won. His sense of loss merged with the sense of confinement; he was buried alive and he could still see the sky. When the wave retreated he could almost laugh: he had nothing to fear from death now, he’d just been through the worst part of dying. A minute later, this observation was no comfort at all.

Madhusree moved into view. Prabir said, ‘At least it put the adult butterflies into diapause. You’d think it could cook up something for me.’

‘I’ll tranquillise you now. Do you want that?’ There wasn’t much skin left where they could be sure of a dart penetrating, but the venous line was still open.

‘Yeah. Then the rest of your supply. Then burn the body. Whatever fuel you can spare. Right?’

Madhusree nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Prabir said, ‘I’m sorry to put you through this, but there’s no other way. Don’t ever blame yourself.’

She turned away. ‘Who’ll pull the truck with me now?’

‘What about Felix?’

She laughed. ‘Felix with hooks through his back?’

‘He’d love it. He’d see fireworks with every step.’

As she looked down at him, half smiling, wiping away tears, something tore open behind his eyes and he was flooded with joy. It was everything he’d felt for Felix that was more than desire, everything he remembered inside himself as his father or mother had spun him in their arms, everything he’d seen on their faces, gazing up at him as they held him to the sky.

He didn’t care any more where it came from. He didn’t care if he’d stolen it or not, earned it or not. If he loved her like this and she felt some part of it, it was not selfish, it was not evil, it was not dishonest. And however ancient it was, however mindless, he’d torn it out by its billion-year-old roots, dragged it into the full light of consciousness, and claimed it as his own.

He said, ‘Gather up the good things, and run.’

As he heard the needle pierce the vial and felt the first cool touch of liquid in his vein, Prabir saw the sea from above. Madhusree leant back, her hair flying in the wind, and cut the rope between them. She broke free and sped away, leaving the burning boat behind.

15

Madhusree leant over the side of the dinghy and vomited into the water. Her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. ‘I’m sorry, bhai, I’m sorry. I mess everything up. I fuck everything up.’ She checked again, but Prabir was still breathing. After six doses.

She fitted the last vial into the hypodermic. It was impossible. His brain should be flooded now, every tissue poisoned. Nothing could allow him to metabolise so much of it, so fast.

She hit the injection button then rocked back on her haunches, tearing at her hair. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She wiped mucus from her face on to her shoulder. She shouldn’t touch herself with the gloves.

She waited, humming to herself, trying not to weep. Later. She’d mourn him later, when she’d done what he’d wanted.

She started sobbing. ‘Why did you follow me? Why did you come here? You stupid shit! I should have gone to the island. It should have been me.’

She bent forward and touched the still human skin of his neck. Even through the gloves, she could feel its ordinary softness. His pulse had slowed, but it hadn’t weakened. She lifted her hand to his nostrils, and felt the fine film of polymer quiver against her fingertips.

Nothing she pumped in would kill him. And even if that wasn’t true, she couldn’t sit here trying poisons, dose after dose, until the thing metabolised the tranquilliser away so completely that Prabir woke, in agony from whatever she’d poured into his veins.

He couldn’t be conscious, he couldn’t be sensate. He was in the deepest of comas; he’d feel nothing. She tried to peel back one eyelid, but it was frozen in place. She turned away, choking, her throat knotted. ‘I can’t! I can’t do it!’

She stared out across the sea, breathing deeply, trying to grow calm enough to finish this. If he lived through the metamorphosis, he would not be her brother. Worse, he’d not be anything he’d wanted to be. When the truth had become plain, she’d almost offered to follow him. You don’t have to do it alone. I’ll inject some of your blood, we’ll change together. But then she’d realised that even if she’d meant it at the time, she would have backed out later. It was not impossible that the gene would give benefits to its host that they’d find worthwhile themselves, but she wasn’t betting her soul on someone else’s card game, however well it cheated for itself.

Not her own, and not Prabir’s.

She turned without looking at him and picked up one of the fuel cans. She unscrewed the cap and tossed it into the sea. ‘OK, OK. He won’t feel it.’

She squatted down. He was still wearing the life jacket; she couldn’t stand the thought of the burning plastic clinging to him, even if the dinghy was made of almost the same thing. She undid the straps and pulled it off.

‘OK. There now.’ She poured some diesel on to his chest.

Where the fuel touched the carapace, it blistered instantly, spitting a visible puff of vapour. Madhusree backed away, wailing with distress. ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ She crouched at Prabir’s feet, covering her head. ‘I can’t do it! I’ve fucked up!’ She drove the heels of her hands into her eyes, then started punching her forehead.

She waited to grow numb. Just for a few minutes, long enough to finish it. She hummed to herself. ‘You’ve gone into my head. You’ve gone into my memories.’

That wasn’t enough.

But it was more than the gene would leave of him.

She opened her eyes and stood up wearily. ‘OK. We’ll do this together.’ She looked down; she could still recognise his face beneath the plaques. There was a blister full of grey fluid where the diesel had splashed his chest, but there was no blood in it. No Prabir. She didn’t believe he’d felt any pain at all.

‘Why did you take him? What do you want from us?’

Nothing at all. It had no purpose for anyone, no destiny. No journey in mind, no endpoint. It wanted nothing but itself. More of the same.