Ixora

By Jia Qi Yeo

June 2037: Singaporean immunology professor Warren Er is woken in the early morning to answer a question he had written five years ago. The classified protocol he had designed has been activated. It summons the world’s best scientists to respond to the possible discovery of an unknown, potentially dangerous organism foreign to science.

Flying to China’s Jiuquan Satellite Launch Centre, Warren realizes the situation is anything but what he had planned for. He and his five colleagues are sealed into a secret underground facility, alongside a visiting US-Chinese bilateral delegation now detained in the name of national security.

In Beijing, China’s First Vice-Premier sees a chance to strengthen his position as the Party Congress looms; in the US, the newly appointed President’s Science and Technology Adviser finds herself a key part of an American response handicapped by geopolitical realities.

Facing unfamiliar circumstances rapidly evolving beyond their control, all those involved must protect their own interests and themselves…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Dec 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398435841

Jia Qi Yeo

Jia Qi Yeo (whose first name is not Jia) was born just a few years before the turn of the century. He believes language is humanity’s most marvellous creation and made the relatively unconventional choice of pursuing linguistics for a career. Besides most things to do with the written word (including Shakespeare and Sherlock Holmes) he also likes dogs, chocolate, instrumental music, gardening and tea. He lives in Singapore with roots in neighbouring Malaysia.

Book preview

About the Author

Jia Qi Yeo (whose first name is not Jia) was born just a few years before the turn of the century. He believes language is humanity’s most marvellous creation and made the relatively unconventional choice of pursuing linguistics for a career. Besides most things to do with the written word (including Shakespeare and Sherlock Holmes) he also likes dogs, chocolate, instrumental music, gardening and tea. He lives in Singapore with roots in neighbouring Malaysia.

Dedication

To Daryl

To Kathy

And to Denise

Copyright Information ©

Jia Qi Yeo 2022

The right of Jia Qi Yeo to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398435834 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398435841 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Chapter 1

There was not a single movement. Every one of the thousands of small square images filling the bank of wall-mounted television screens was still. In a way, the closed-circuit television cameras beaming back unblinking, uninterrupted high-definition video feeds from every corner of the complex were unnecessary.

Beyond the electrified fences, there was not a single human soul for miles and miles. Above was restricted airspace, below was barren desert sand and inside were secrets that were being kept at all costs. If there was to be any threat, no one could begin to imagine where it would come from.

The guard yawned and rubbed his tired eyes. He had been on the night shift for 26 days. He could see his comrades sleeping, in a square in a corner of one of his screens. In many more small squares, everyone else was asleep too. In two days, his assignment would come to an end, and he would be redeployed.

To say he was looking forward to it was an understatement. There was no one he could talk to and not a single sound except his breathing. Even the clock was a LED timer, noiselessly flashing its glowing red digits on the whitewashed wall.

The alarms, connected to sensors that would be triggered by the slightest anomaly, had never gone off. He knew exactly what to do for over a hundred possible emergency situations, but that knowledge had not been of use even once. There was nothing for him to do but stare at the grids of still images. He could almost swear he was looking at photos.

Even for that, he was being paid handsomely. He had grown up in a rural area and dropped out of school. He had never been very good with numbers, which was perhaps why he had joined the military. Then he had been posted here, perhaps because his superiors had found him good enough at faithfully following orders and perfectly remembering complex instructions to personally submit his name. Both his and their future careers could be significantly advanced if he could deliver a spotless performance, and significantly compromised if he were to err. Men that did not make mistakes were still needed, to keep a watchful eye, even though most of the security was automatic.

The computers were still far from perfect. Protocol forbade him from talking to them at night, because having conversations could distract him. But he knew for certain the computers were always there. Unlike the souls in the many small squares he was watching, they never fell asleep.

He surveyed the screens again. As expected, nothing, and nobody, was moving. He sighed under his breath, knowing he was being recorded on audio, and reached into his pocket, taking out a battered lighter. Cupping it with his hands to muffle the sound, he flicked it and lit a cigarette that he had taken from his other pocket. Just as he was about to inhale, amid the utter pin-drop silence, there was a single beep.

The guard dropped his cigarette. He quickly stamped it out, rubbed his eyes, shook his head hard and turned to the screens. He was not seeing things. In a corner, in a small square, someone was moving.

That’s the restricted sector…

The guard watched. His drowsiness had long been replaced by complete alertness. It rapidly turned to disbelief and then horror. Forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the small square, which was now blinking red, the computer seeking attention which it already had, he fumbled for the fingerprint scanner, placing his index finger on it. A green light flashed, and he uttered a number.

88.

A verification program would recognise his voice. With his confirmation, the computer would follow up. It merely needed authorisation, which he had just given. The guard turned back to the screen.

88. Medical emergency.

He hoped he had classified it correctly. This looked like nothing he had been trained to recognise. The guard stared at the screen. He desperately hoped the camera feed was anything other than real. He was convinced, unbelievably, that the man hadn’t actually woken up. But awake or asleep, nothing except pure, utter insanity could explain what he was seeing.

This is not supposed to happen…

Chapter 2

Warren Er opened his eyes slowly.

On the bedside table, his phone was buzzing with a vengeance. He blinked and stared at the glowing hands of the alarm clock next to it.

It’s three in the morning!

He hoped it was a wrong number, but the buzzing persisted. Sighing, he picked his phone up and glared blearily at the screen, realising he had, yet again, fallen asleep with his glasses on.

Why is the university calling?

Fearing experiments had gone awry, Warren took the call. Hello?

Professor? This is the night tech. An unfamiliar voice, hesitant. I hope I didn’t wake you up…someone’s looking for you here.

So early in the morning? Who—

They’re going to your flat now, the voice hastily continued.

What? I’m sorry, who—

From the government. They didn’t say anything else.

Warren was now wide awake but lost for words. Okay, thank you.

The line clicked. Probably an intern. Someone watching over the instruments that ran all night just in case, even though everything was automatic. Clearly unsure how to deal with strange situations. Warren blinked hard, trying to ignore the flood of questions in his mind. He realised his visitor, or visitors, could appear any moment. He was anything but far from his labs at the Nanyang Technological University.

Walking out into the living room, which together with the kitchen made up his tiny shoebox flat, he felt for the light switch. The bright LED bulb illuminated the small space and he mechanically checked that nothing was out of place. One of the advantages of living alone was having control over exactly where everything was supposed to go and knowing where everything could be found. That was very important to him. He ran his eye over the plastic foldable bookshelf along one wall, sagging under the weight of numerous stacks of papers and bound journals. Despite everything being available online, he still preferred to have printed hardcopies.

Need to get around to tidying that, he thought when the doorbell rang, a crisp, loud chime completely ridiculous in the cold dark morning. He stared through the peephole. One man and one woman, wearing neutral, serious expressions, looking as though they were going to work on a Monday morning, both of whom he had never met before.

Stranger and stranger. Warren opened the door.

Prof. Warren Er? You lecture immunology, molecular biology and biochemistry at NTU? There was an urgent undertone in the man’s flat voice.

Yes… Warren managed, swallowing and clearing his throat. You are from the government?

We are night watch officers from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the woman took over. We urgently need your assistance.

What’s this about?

That’s the problem, Professor. The woman paused. We don’t know. We only have instructions we were told to follow exactly. They said to find you at your labs, so we went there first. They also said you would know what to do…and you would come with us. We need to ask you two questions…and you need to answer them correctly.

Warren felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He nodded.

From his pocket the man took out an envelope, unsealed it and pulled out a white, laminated card. It appeared no bigger than the cue cards Warren’s students sometimes used. The man looked at it quizzically and shrugged.

So, Professor…we’re looking for an ixora. Have you grown one before?

Warren was gripped by a sudden, overwhelming wave of fear and disbelief.

So it has really happened.

He knew exactly the answer he had to say. He also knew it was printed on the card. Five years ago, he had written it down. Now it seemed an eternity had passed. He swallowed and spoke.

No, but I know an orchid recently bloomed.

The man blinked in surprise. Next to him, the woman nodded, taking out another envelope. This time the card was red. Warren knew the question.

Where is it?

No turning back. Warren took a deep breath. Where you want me to go.

The man and the woman exchanged another quizzical glance. Then the man spoke. Professor, we have been instructed to bring you to the Chinese Embassy.

I understand. Give me fifteen minutes.

They nodded. Warren shut the door. His heart was pounding. He had a sudden headache. All he wanted to do was to go back to sleep. But he knew the unthinkable had happened. At this point, in other countries around the globe, to other people, the same two questions were being read out. The same two answers would be given. A chain of events he had helped to plan had been set in motion.

This is not supposed to happen.

He tried to compose his thoughts. Then it hit him.

It wasn’t the United States Embassy. But there could be no mistake.

It was the Chinese Embassy.

Chapter 3

Six thousand kilometres away, a plane was landing.

Director Hu Fazheng gazed out through a pair of transparent doors, watching the sleek white Gulfstream G550 touch down on the airstrip and slowly taxi towards him. He knew his visitors were very important people, here on a very important purpose. It was absolutely necessary for them to leave without suspecting anything.

He realised, annoyed, that his palms were sweaty again. He rubbed them together and then adjusted his glasses, taking them off and holding them against the morning sunlight to make sure the lenses were clean. Unfortunately, in the hour since he had woken up, a few spots of dirt had already appeared. He wiped them off.

He thought of the incident during the night. He had decided not to mention it at all. A scientist had apparently suffered what had looked like a fit while asleep, and had killed himself by, among other things, repeatedly, viciously, banging his head against the wall and floor. The footage had been truly harrowing and the night guard, a battle-hardened soldier, had been reduced to an emotional wreck.

Thankfully, he had still carried out his duty, triggering the alarm and robbing Hu of an hour or so of precious sleep. Hu had immediately sealed off the dormitory, issued the necessary instructions for disposal of the body and investigation and told his workers to follow up. That was all he had had time for. His visitors were far more important.

Yet again, Hu wondered what the cause was. He knew every single one of his personnel would have been rigorously checked and cleared of all possible known health problems. No chances had been taken. Even previous history would have triggered a red flag. A sudden illness was even more impossible. A chill ran down his spine.

At the moment, he considered the most worrying explanation unlikely, and so he had decided to take the risk and relegate the mystery to a corner of his mind. His visitors were not going anywhere near that section anyway. And by now, even if it had been somehow possible to turn them away, it was too late.

I can handle it later.

Hu took a deep breath and raised a finger to his ear to touch the earpiece he never removed. He often forgot it was there. It was exactly the same colour as the skin of his ear and was so light its weight could barely be felt.

Outside, the plane had come to a stop.

Hu focused his thoughts, straightened his jacket and stepped through the sliding doors as they opened silently, walking out onto the runway.

The plane door opened and the airstairs slowly unfolded. Hu watched as his colleague stepped out and walked down them to join him. Deputy Director Zhang Xichen had a disarming, kindly demeanour. Although only forty-five, he was the most senior scientist at the facility. Unusually, he had made some effort to comb back his head of normally tousled grey hair, and even more unusually, in this day and age, he had perfect eyesight and wore no glasses.

Behind him emerged two men and two women, who followed him down the stairs. The pilot, in army uniform, appeared on the top step, stood to attention and gave Hu a salute. Hu returned the gesture before making eye contact with the two men as Zhang began introducing them. They both wore tailored suits, blue ties and a US flag collar pin on their left lapel.

Mr Ambassador, this is Director Hu Fazheng. Director Hu, Ambassador Thomas Johnson.

Delighted to be here, Johnson said in fluent Mandarin, extending a hand and giving Hu a firm handshake. This is my aide, Roy Little.

The United States Ambassador to China was a slightly built man with close cropped black hair. He seemed less than six feet tall. From the brief he had been sent the night before, Hu recalled he was new to the job. Considering he was the youngest to hold his position in over three decades, he looked remarkably at ease, smiling confidently.

His aide was a head taller than him, which struck Hu as slightly odd as he noticed he had green eyes, made even more stark by his frameless glasses. He somehow appeared slightly uncomfortable, as though he was not particularly used to wearing a suit.

And here, Zhang turned to the women and switched to Mandarin, we have Minister of Science and Technology Yang Minxian, and CCTV senior journalist Dai Huangwan.

As Hu bowed to his Minister, he noticed the diminutive state television reporter was already filming unobtrusively with the miniature camera mounted on the left side of her glasses, turning her head slightly from left to right. Even though he did not show it, he felt a tinge of annoyance. She could have at least asked for permission. He flashed his most brilliant smile and took a deep breath.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Ambassador. Welcome. My colleague Zhang and I are very happy that you are here. Please follow me—

Hu was interrupted by an audible buzzing in his pocket. He felt his cheeks flush red. The Minister raised an eyebrow.

Please forgive me, he hurriedly gestured in embarrassment. Deputy Director Zhang will bring you in—

Taking the cue, Zhang took over and ushered the group away. From his pocket, Hu took out an ordinary-looking black pager and pressed a series of buttons. Even as inbuilt scanners under the buttons would read his fingerprints, the sequence would confirm it was him holding the pager. There was a short, single beep.

Director. Have your visitors landed? Even over the slightly garbled transmission of his earpiece, the urgency in the voice was audible.

Hu swallowed his annoyance at being interrupted. He had already begun to wonder why a secret transmission, which demanded the identity verification procedure, had been requested. Yes, why?

Then it is too late.

Why? Hu felt another chill down his spine.

Three more have fallen ill.

Chapter 4

Warren Er shifted in his seat, trying to shake off the sinking feeling lingering in his stomach. Feeling somewhat surreal, he scanned the rows and rows of empty seats behind him again. He was sitting in the first row of economy class on an Air China Airbus A373 which had been scheduled to depart from Changi Airport four hours later.

Instead, it had hurriedly taken off about five minutes ago and two hundred or so passengers had had their flight delayed at short notice. The massive inconvenience caused had made him feel slightly guilty. Not part of the plan. He mentioned this to the Chinese Embassy official accompanying him, who seemed anything but concerned.

We will send another plane. Our instructions are to get you to Beijing as fast as possible.

Warren nodded. He glanced out of the window, but it was pitch black. Presumably, they were above the clouds, flying towards the South China Sea. Feeling slightly sick, he hurriedly pulled down the window panel. He had never particularly enjoyed flying.

I was instructed to give this to you on the plane. The official produced a bright red folder.

Thank you. The folder was thick and heavy. Warren read the bright gold lettering on the cover page.

TOP SECRET

NATIONAL ADMINISTRATION FOR THE PROTECTION OF STATE SECRETS

PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

—English—

IXORA

Incident 1

This file is to be given to approved personnel before arrival at Beijing.

The enclosed information is strictly confidential and classified.

Disclosure of any information in this file is a breach of the Law on Guarding State Secrets under the Criminal Law of the People’s Republic of China.

READ THIS FILE IMMEDIATELY ONCE IT IS OPENED. DESTROY AFTER READING

Only you have clearance to read this, the official continued, handing over a penknife. I cannot answer any questions. I know nothing more.

The official got up, pushed past the curtain and went into the cabin ahead. Warren wondered where the lone steward was. He had seen him only briefly before takeoff. Perhaps in business class too. He contemplated the penknife in his hand. So much for no sharp objects in the cabin. He was about to slit the thick plastic of the file when a wave of drowsiness washed over him. He suddenly felt utterly disorientated.

In the last two hours, he had been driven to the Chinese Embassy, signed a series of lengthy forms and documents which he had only managed to read briefly, been rushed to Changi Airport in a speeding car with sirens blaring on an expressway closed to traffic, ushered hurriedly through the VIP Complex without immigration checks, and now he was on an empty plane, being flown at top speed towards Beijing.

Bizarre.

He got up and walked down the aisle to the plane’s restroom, passing row after row of empty seats. Splashing cold water on his face, he gazed at his sleep-deprived features. Droplets of water spattered onto the mirror. As usual, the numerous strands of white scattered throughout his black hair caught his attention. At only thirty-three, white hair would normally be a cause for alarm, but it appeared to be a common predicament among Warren’s peers. He was convinced it could not entirely be due to stress, but he had no better explanation.

At the centre of his forehead, his fringe dipped to form a distinct V-shape. An acquaintance had once commented that it followed the outline of a heart. He had never thought of it that way, but he certainly found his hairline relatively unique. He adjusted his half-rimmed glasses and returned to his seat, checking the pockets of his, somewhat battered, dark green jacket which he had had for years.

He had particularly low tolerance to cold and preferred to wear his jacket as long as the temperature was not warm. Inside one pocket he had safely placed a piece of yellow paper that had been folded onto itself into a triangular shape and printed with a hexagram. His Buddhist amulet to him was a sort of charm that he sincerely believed would protect him with luck. Despite the warnings in the protocol, he had decided to bring it.

We all need a little faith.

There was a slight bump. The plane seemed to make a barely perceptible turn to the right. Warren glanced at his watch. It was five in the morning. He picked up the red file again, but in the dim cabin lighting, his persistent drowsiness finally got too difficult to ignore.

He decided the briefing could wait. I can’t do anything until I get there anyway. He put the file on the seat next to him, leaned back and fell asleep in a moment.

Chapter 5

Director Hu stood in his small but high-ceilinged office and wished the facility doctor had not left to clear his leave a week ago. In his absence, the facility supercomputer, Arthur, had taken over managing the hospital on top of his other duties: surveillance, communications with Beijing, maintenance and essential services from food and water to power and air-conditioning.

Rather than making decisions, the computers had been designed to follow preprogrammed instructions, multitask and, most importantly, obey. Unwilling to entrust complete control of the complex to a highly classified prototype artificial intelligence interface still undergoing testing, the National Space Administration had decided to give Arthur only tasks that were more labour-intensive. This would, it had been decided, reduce manpower requirements and free up scientists for their research projects.

Including the one that has gone wrong.

Hu always felt rather uneasy at talking to computers like fellow human beings. Now he was only half listening, biting his lip, as Arthur described the symptoms of the three new patients over his earpiece. The computer spoke in perfectly clear, unaccented Mandarin.

He did not particularly like its name either. The tradition to give computers English names, rather than Mandarin ones, stemmed from the undying obsession among educated, well-travelled Chinese people of adopting an additional English name. Hu, however, saw no need to discard his country’s culture for the West.

The symptoms vary from person to person. There was the first one who died. Then today, another came in complaining of dizziness and a deafening ringing in his ears. The second one had rashes all over him. He kept scratching his skin until he bled, convinced he was being attacked by non-existent parasites. The third one had been incapacitated by a migraine so painful he was sobbing uncontrollably.

Though the voice in his ear had been painstakingly programmed to resemble a natural human voice, Hu still felt rather uneasy. Staring broodingly at the bare concrete wall, he contemplated his options. None of them looked good.

Where are they now? he asked.

In the isolation wards. All lightly sedated but conscious.

Hu thought for a moment.

All from the same flight?

That’s what I’m worried about, Director, Arthur hesitantly replied. They weren’t.

What! Hu whipped around, before realising there was no one behind him.

The first two are a pilot, and another scientist from the same flight as the one who died. Fear had somehow crept into the artificial voice. But the third scientist never left the lab. He did, however, come into contact with the samples.

Hu closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

And no others from yesterday have fallen ill?

Not yet. The computer sounded grim. But I suspect more will soon. I’ve quarantined all the pilots and scientists off. But it may spread further.

So in your opinion, this looks infectious?

A few moments of silence. Then a single word.

Correct.

Hu decided there and then that he would not take any risks. He needed time while he tried to control the situation. Just in case more fall ill. He thought of the important visitors and tried not to imagine what would happen if they found out. Although they were in another part of the facility and undoubtedly did not know the quarantined section even existed, Director Hu had no intention of taking chances.

Making up his mind, he turned and walked over to the wall, locating a concealed built-in compartment and placing his finger on the biometric lock, a square of space almost indistinguishable from the smooth surface. A red light blinked, and the door unlocked with a click, swinging open to reveal a screen and keyboard.

Hu turned, opened one of his drawers and took out a sheet of red paper. It contained a cipher he would use to send a coded message to Zhongnanhai, the headquarters of the Chinese government. The computer would encrypt it twice more.

I’ll ask Beijing for the key, he said slowly. Arthur? Seal off the lab, keep everyone under quarantine… he paused. And activate the protocol. Get them to send help.

There was silence. Hu thought he heard a faint clicking. Then the reply, when it came through his earpiece, was unexpected.

Help has already been sent for.

Chapter 6

The intercom crackled.

Professor? The Air China pilot’s voice sounded strained, his English hesitant. We are approaching Beijing Daxing International Airport.

Warren Er fastened his seatbelt and sat up straight. The lone steward had come by to serve him breakfast a while ago. The generous portion of piping hot porridge had been surprisingly good, but the coffee he had asked for had tasted terrible. He had seen no point in complaining. At least with food, sleep and caffeine, he now felt better. He needed a cup of coffee every morning. It was a habit he had had for over twenty years.

The humming of the engines seemed to change, and the plane began to descend. Warren realised he had yet to read the red folder. It was still lying on the seat next to him. He picked it up and slit the plastic with the penknife as the jet touched down.

On an ordinary flight, he suspected, the plane would have had to circle above in the continuous stream of air traffic at one of the world’s busiest airports, waiting