Pantheon 00 - Age of Godpunk (32 page)

BORN AGAIN VIRGIN RAINFOREST

T
HE NEXT DAY
they exchanged the bitter cold of Alaska for the swelter and humidity of the tropics. Ecuador, to be precise, where the Gulfstream touched down at Lago Agrio Airport in the east of the country.

The following morning, the group travelled upriver by motorised canoe into the western reaches of the Amazonian rainforest.

The journalists were already sullen and tetchy, thanks to a combination of jet lag and the switch from one extreme of climate to another, but now illness started to take its toll as well. OwlHenry had come down with a severe cold, which he was treating with homeopathic remedies, to little avail, while Dorothea was suffering from an upset stomach – caused, she said, by the travel inoculations she had been given prior to leaving the UK, but more likely a result of her insistence on drinking tap water with her dinner at the hotel last night rather than the bottled water everyone else opted for. “If it’s good enough for the locals,” she had declared, “it’s good enough for me.” The upshot of this noble sentiment was a case of cramps and acute diarrhoea.

Isaac and Aletheia had managed to avoid contracting any ailments, but were still tired and taciturn. Isaac had withdrawn into himself, emerging from his shell every so often to grumble or snipe. Aletheia was preoccupied with filming everything on her compact Contour+ HD camcorder, mediating the world through a lens.

Of the five of them, only Lydia remained chirpy and upbeat.

The two long canoes navigated various winding tributaries of the Amazon basin, passing Indian villages and the occasional private landing, consisting of a jetty, a deserted-looking colonial-style hacienda, and not much else.

“There was a time when gringos came,” the head guide, Rodrigo, explained when asked about these houses. “They tried to carve out land for agriculture and start up rubber plantations, sugarcane farms, that sort of thing. It never lasted. The jungle was too much for them.” He chuckled. “The ones that didn’t die went mad.”

“Mother Nature can be overwhelming,” said Lydia. “You think you can tame her, but at best you can only reach a truce with her.”

“You said it, pretty lady,” said Rodrigo, beaming. “Never a truer word spoken.” He had taken an evident shine to Lydia, and had already asked twice if she was single, to which her only answer had been an ambiguous shrug.

Barnaby’s feeling was that if Rodrigo wanted Lydia, he could have her. It puzzled him, however, that he should even care about another man’s interest in her. Were she His Type, he could understand being proprietorial about her, even jealous. But since she was not His Type, why did it require an effort to overlook someone else making a pass at her? Why couldn’t he simply be oblivious?

The canoes put in on a shallow beach at a bend in the river. Everyone waded ashore and tramped inland for a mile or so, Rodrigo and the other guides cutting a path through the undergrowth with machetes.

Eventually they arrived at a low-lying area, a shallow valley dominated by towering hardwood evergreens. The leaf canopy cut out all sunlight but for a few bright, piercing shafts. Birds warbled, a rippling chorus of competing song. Monkeys and macaques, unseen, hooted and shrieked. The air was thick with biting, stinging flies that seemed to find the insect-repellent gel everyone had slathered thickly on their skin alluring rather than offputting.

“Virgin rainforest,” said Dorothea, with something like a sigh. “Magnificent. The lungs of the world.” Then she retreated behind a mahogany tree and voided her bowels, groaning with discomfort.

“Yes, yes, all very lovely,” said Isaac tersely. He wiped sweat from his bulbous forehead. “But all said and done, it’s just a patch of rainforest.”

“Rainforests are disappearing,” Aletheia piped up from behind her camera. “An area the size of Wales every year. Logging and agriculture are eroding them away. Soon they’ll all be gone, and then where are we going to get our oxygen from?”

“From phytoplankton in the oceans,” said Barnaby. “Fully half the world’s oxygen comes from plankton photosynthesis, maybe even more. Also, your Wales statistic isn’t quite correct. Yes, rainforests are getting chopped down, but what many people don’t take into account is how quickly they can regrow. Take this spot, for instance.” Now was the moment to play his ace. “Would you believe me if I said that eight years ago there was a GloCo oil extraction plant situated right here?”

The journalists looked dubious.

“Tell them, Rodrigo.”

“It’s true. Señor Pollard isn’t lying. I used to work here. There were prefab building units, rigs, a two-track mud road all the way down to the river. We pulled tens of million of barrels out of the ground.”

“It wasn’t the most lucrative field I’ve ever exploited,” said Barnaby. “The infrastructure and transport costs ate into the profits, and then the global oil price took one of its periodic dips and we were starting to lose money, so in the end we shut up shop and pulled out because it wasn’t viable any more. We dismantled everything, loaded it onto barges and took it away, and now look.” He gestured at the rampant greenery all around. “You’d never know we’d ever been.”

“I call bullshit,” said Isaac.

“That’s your prerogative. Rodrigo? Why don’t you show them the wellhead cap?”

Rodrigo and the other guides got busy hacking away at a huge clump of lianas and vines until they had exposed a flat round concrete plug set into the ground, one foot high and six feet in diameter, like some ancient, forgotten altar. A small tarnished plaque in the centre bore the GloCo logo: the world held between two hands, superimposed over the initials GC.

“That’s all that’s left,” Barnaby said. “The only sign that this was once a GloCo site. A few more years, and even that will be gone from sight, buried beneath leaf mould and soil.”

“All this grew up in just eight years?” said OwlHenry, his consonants blunted by his blocked nose.

“The jungle comes back fast,” said Rodrigo. “Left to its own devices, it soon reclaims what was taken from it. You could say it’s a quick healer.”

“What about indigenous tribes?” said Dorothea. “I bet they weren’t happy about oil prospectors coming along and churning up their ancestral home.”

“On the contrary,” said Barnaby. “Most of the manual labourers we employed were locals. Rodrigo himself is half Indian.”

“My mother belongs to the Oriente Quichua. And my people were glad of the income. Me especially. I saved what I earned, and it paid for me to study at San Francisco de Quito University. I now have a degree and am a professional geologist.”

“So am I still the bad guy?” said Barnaby.

There was a pause, then Lydia said, “Jury’s out.”

HARMONIOUS COEXISTENCE

B
ACK AT THEIR
hotel that evening, Lydia joined Barnaby on the verandah. Built into hillside, the place boasted views over a part of the rainforest that was preserved as a national park. Wisps of evening steam clung to the treetops. The rumpus of the daytime fauna was quietening down, but the nocturnal animals were tuning up and finding their voices.

“My colleagues are all tucked up in bed,” Lydia said. “Need their rest and recuperation, poor things.”

“How come you’ve stayed in such good health?” he asked.

“Clean living. Sturdy constitution. No neuroses. You?”

“I’m one of the ultra-rich. Haven’t you heard? We don’t get ill.”

She laughed. He was weirdly gratified that he had amused her.

“And,” he added, “I’m used to flying around the world, flitting between time zones and waking up in all sorts of odd places. Drink?”

He was working his way through a bottle of Ecuadorian Pinot Noir, astringent but palatable.

“The local rotgut? Don’t mind if I do.”

He filled a glass for her. “Be warned: it takes a few sips to get used to. They say you can’t make decent wine on the equator, because grapevines need cold winters to help produce better, hardier fruit. They’re right.”

“Well played today, by the way,” she said.

“You think so?”

“Brilliant sucker-punch move. Touché.” She clinked her glass against his. “Not that it’s done you any favours.”

“No?”

“Nobody likes to be tricked. Nobody likes to be made to feel a fool.”

“It was a salutary lesson.” He frowned. “Wasn’t it?”

“Not exactly. Remember, you’re wooing, not browbeating. Haven’t you ever had to woo anyone?”

“I don’t think anyone’s had to woo anyone since about 1930.”

“Seduce, then. How do you go about enticing your succession of blonde coat-hangers into bed? Don’t you have a technique? Some neat chat-up lines you use?”

“The only line I need is my line of credit,” he quipped.

“Gosh, that wasn’t at all glib and smarmy, much.”

“I thought it was funny.”

“Well, you go on thinking that, Barnaby, if it makes you happy. All I’m saying is, if you want to impress us, don’t treat us like we’re ignorant heathens who have to be shown the light. We’re entitled to our opinions, even if they differ from yours. Be nice. Show us some respect, not condescension.” Lydia tried her wine. Her nose wrinkled. “Ooh, good Lord. I take your point. That’s... novel.” She tried again. “But it grows on you.”

“I’m not winning?” he asked. “That’s the consensus so far?”

“Why does it have to be about winning? In your world, is it so important to always have the upper hand?”

He thought about it. “How else does one measure success?”

“By harmonious coexistence, I’d say,” was her reply. “Getting along with other people, not getting one over on them. No doubt you’d call that ‘hippy bollocks.’”

“If OwlHenry had said it, yes. But from you...”

She glanced at him. “From me... what?”

He turned away. “Nothing. Never mind.”

The sun was going down, burnishing the foothills of the Andes. Barnaby and Lydia stood side by side at the balustrade, drinking their wine and watching the day die.

Barnaby was starting to resent her. She invariably had an effective counterargument, a riposte that kicked the legs out from under him, a question that questioned his question. He hated that. He hated anyone who talked back and, worse, who could wrongfoot him.

He imagined ways he could control her, make her do his bidding, bring her to her knees. He could think of nothing more satisfying than seeing Lydia Laidlaw acquiesce to his wishes and become his thrall.

That was when he realised that he desired her.

It had stolen up on him, caught him totally unawares.

But yes, oh, God, he was actually attracted to this large, buxom woman, with her strange bicoloured eyes and aggravating smart comebacks. He actually fancied her and wanted her.

He had never, ever had a woman like her before.

But that just made it all the more of a challenge, all the more exciting.

A DAMN GOOD MERGERING

S
OMEWHERE IN AN
air corridor over southern China, Jakob slipped across the cabin aisle and lowered his bulk into the seat next to Barnaby’s. He said nothing. Eventually Barnaby looked up from his Fragbook.

“We’re going to have a chat, aren’t we?” he said.

“’Fraid so, boss.”

“One of your heart-to-hearts. Remind me, do I pay you to do this?”

“You pay me to take care of you.”

“My physical safety, yes.”

“I see it as extending further than that.”

“All right,” Barnaby sighed. “What’s on the agenda today?”

Jakob swivelled round. The journalists were asleep, sprawled in different postures, seats reclined. Dorothea’s snores vied with the Gulfstream’s twin Rolls-Royce BR725 engines for loudness. Only Lydia was awake, but she was listening to music on her iPod Nano, earbuds firmly wedged in place.

“Her.” He jerked a thumb. “The redhead.” He raised his voice. “Lydia Laidlaw, who can’t hear us talking about her.” Lydia didn’t stir, didn’t even glance up. He nodded in satisfaction. “Her... and you.”

“There is no ‘her and me.’ I don’t know what you’re getting at.”