Red Hands: A Novel

by Christopher Golden

  Something snagged on Walker’s arm, but he plunged onward. A few scratches were the least of his concerns. Maeve might be the most dangerous person on the mountain, but there were other dangers. Bureaucracy could end up the one that got them killed.

  “Elaborate,” Walker said.

  “Her authority was overridden by the undersecretary at the request of General Henry Wagner at DARPA. It seems General Wagner is presently on-site at Garland Mountain.”

  “Wagner.” Of course it is, Walker thought.

  Inside DARPA, the focus was always on science. The human race seemed to have developed a consensus that everything that could be learned about the world had already been learned, but science disproved that thought every day. Archaeologists dug up history that could be understood differently by modern minds. Biologists discovered new biospheres. Virologists encountered mutated bacteria. Astronomers learned more about the universe every time they opened their eyes.

  Every waking moment, the world’s governments and corporations were in a race to make the next breakthrough, and that competition heightened when the breakthrough in question might be used to kill people. DARPA wanted to make sure they were the first to get their hands on new dangers facing the world and the first to weaponize those discoveries. Of equal importance, their job was to anticipate the ways in which enemies might use such developments against the United States and create ways to counter those aggressions.

  There were ethical, honorable ways to go about this work.

  And then there was General Henry Wagner, who seemed like a benevolent enough creature until you dared to question his motivations or his definition of acceptable losses. Walker could remember sitting in a meeting with Wagner and several other DARPA officials, discussing the deaths of three researchers. They had been researching the use of the gene-editing tool CRISPR to create cheaper, more effective, and more precise biological weapons and had accidentally been exposed.

  General Wagner had sighed and sipped his coffee. “You want to make an omelet, you have to break some eggs,” he’d said as he reached for a cinnamon danish.

  “Fucking Wagner,” he said now. “Joel, can you get me on the phone with him?”

  “Right now?” Joel asked.

  Walker wiped rain from his face, pushed his hands through his soaking hair. “Yes, right now.”

  * * *

  General Wagner felt at home in the sublevels of Garland Mountain Labs. He’d spent the lion’s share of his career in secure facilities at the Department of Defense and within DARPA, dealing with the dichotomy between their public and private faces. The upper levels at Garland Mountain—the public face of the lab—weren’t precisely a façade. Accounting, human resources, security, and conference rooms were all housed on those levels, along with dozens of corporate research projects that might involve sensitive or proprietary information but did not require government security clearance. Those levels looked like a thousand different office buildings General Wagner had been inside, a hundred pharmaceutical companies. Glass offices, low-walled cubicles, computer screens, freshly polished conference tables.

  No matter how ordinary those upper levels seemed, however, the whole place felt like a mask. People milled about on their ordinary errands, and perhaps they were fully intent upon those tasks, but General Wagner believed they must think, even on their most mundane days, about the work going on beneath their feet.

  The real work, he thought, glancing around sublevel 2.

  Garland Mountain’s lower levels were designed as a hexagon. Each level hosted six separate laboratories, inside each of which was a fully self-contained research operation. The main elevator bank thrust up from the hexagon’s center. Circling this axis was a wide common space throughout which the designer had placed chairs and sofas, coffee tables, workstations, and other spots where the research teams from each of that level’s six labs could socialize for either business or pleasure. They were encouraged to take breaks, to consult other teams whose members shared the same security clearance, to share excitement and frustration. The first CEO of Garland Mountain Laboratories, Arun Lahiri, had believed that such an environment would be good for both morale and progress, and the results had seemed to confirm that belief.

  Hank Wagner didn’t go for that happy bullshit.

  Too many chances for people to share classified data.

  In Garland SL2-Alpha, researchers were instructed not to socialize with staff from other labs. They worked, General Wagner was sure to make clear, for the Department of Defense. They had been vetted and achieved the top clearance level available to those civilians below the level of project director. As such, they were ordered to steer clear of other Garland Labs employees both on the premises and off. SL2-Alpha staff were to treat everyone else as if they were invisible. The researchers on other projects in the complex thought SL2-Alpha put “asshole” as the top requirement when hiring. General Wagner knew some of the staff working on Project: Red Hands had been bothered by this reputation, but he didn’t give a damn. If they wanted to whine about it, they could be replaced, and they all knew it.

  Now, more than ever, he needed them all to keep their mouths shut. There were well over one hundred hired guns from White Oak out there searching for a civilian, with orders to bring her in dead or alive, as if this were the Wild West. The parade video had racked up tens of millions of hits, and the media were on the story like a pack of rabid dogs. Homeland Security was doing its best to spin the whole thing, dropping hints about a possible terrorist release of a fatal bioweapon. That was enough to keep people away, but not to keep drones out of the sky.

  And it wouldn’t last.

  The faster they found Maeve Sinclair and locked her into a sterile room at the back of SL2-Alpha, the sooner he could get to cleaning up the whole mess.

  General Wagner sat at a desk in a glass-walled office on the upper levels of the complex, far above the secure lab where Project: Red Hands had been painstakingly researched and crafted, and where it had gotten out of control, all thanks to a biologist named Oscar Hecht, who’d started hearing voices and lost his marbles.

  “Sir?”

  Wagner narrowed his eyes to stare at Cristina Vargas, not willing to acknowledge that he had stopped paying attention.

  “I’m listening, Dr. Vargas.”

  Vargas nodded. “I’m not sure what else to tell you at this point. We’ve got an autopsy room prepared, the surgery suite is ready if it becomes necessary, and the staff is confined to Alpha until further notice. If you can deliver Sinclair to us, we will learn whatever we can from her, no matter what condition she’s in.”

  “And then?” General Wagner asked.

  “That will be up to you, sir,” Vargas replied. “Project: Red Hands has produced results—”

  “Results you don’t even understand,” General Wagner sniffed. “All the brilliant minds on your team, and you can’t explain why Hecht became infected.”

  “He infected himself, General,” she said, brows knitting.

  “I’ve traded bullshit with presidents, Dr. Vargas. Don’t test me. You have a lot of data, a lot of research, and you have dozens of different plague cocktails in your fridge. What you don’t have is a clue about what triggered the thing to work on Hecht. Yes, he purposely injected himself with something that killed every lab subject you’ve tried it on—”

  “We’d never tried it on a human subject.”

  General Wagner held up a hand. “Until Hecht did it to himself. But until you can explain to me why it worked on Hecht and not on the animal subjects, and certainly not on Cheng—”

  “You ordered that test, General.”

  Wagner shot to his feet, pounded his hand on the desk hard enough that the papers spread across it jumped. Vargas barely blinked, and it irritated him that he couldn’t make her flinch.

  “Enough!” he barked. “I’m not here to argue with you. That’s not how this works, Dr. Vargas.”

  “Obviously,” she muttered, sitting back in the cha
ir.

  Half an hour ago, White Oak Security had brought in one of their Blackcoats after the woman had been badly injured during the hunt for Maeve Sinclair. General Wagner had known nothing about her except her name—Vivian Cheng—and that to be employed by White Oak she had signed all the waivers necessary for them to run their test and claim they’d been trying to save her life.

  Instead, the injection had killed her.

  If they couldn’t replicate what Hecht had done to himself, the whole project rested on getting Maeve Sinclair into this lab. Vargas insisted that they could learn much more if she were alive, but General Wagner knew that was a preference, not a requirement.

  A knock on the glass door.

  His aide, Sergeant Hannah Loring, shot him an apologetic look through the glass. She held a slender silver phone in her hand. General Wagner rolled his eyes but waved for her to enter. He had told her that he didn’t want a call from anyone unless they were high enough up the chain to give him orders.

  “What is it, Sergeant?”

  Vargas vacated her seat to make room for Sergeant Loring in the small office. For her part, Loring ignored the empty seat and stood not quite at attention. She held the phone down by her hip and spoke quietly.

  “It’s Director Boudreau’s office, General,” Sergeant Loring said.

  “Didn’t I say—”

  “You did, sir. But I’m told Director Boudreau is prepared to abandon any claims or protests, with a single condition that she will only share with you directly.”

  General Wagner rolled his eyes. He’d known Alena Boudreau for more than twenty years and knew this had to be part of one scheme or another. The woman had a moral compass that had made her a pain in his ass dozens of times, but she was a hell of a scientist and she got results. More than likely, she wanted to get some kind of guarantee from him about the Sinclair woman or score some promise from him about future cooperation.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Give me the phone.”

  Sergeant Loring handed it over. General Wagner sighed as he put the phone to his ear.

  “Alena, listen—” he began.

  “Pardon me, General,” said a male voice. “Please hold for Director Boudreau.”

  The office boy put him on hold. He wanted to throttle the prick. Alena making him wait like this was just like her. Wagner glared at Sergeant Loring, irritated that she hadn’t made sure Alena was on the line already before putting him on.

  He heard a click, the call being transferred, but it wasn’t Alena Boudreau’s voice that came on.

  “Hello, Hank.”

  General Wagner stiffened. “Who the hell is this?”

  “You did this, General. Your people got sloppy and let this malicious little bug slip out, and a lot of people died because of it. Because of you. They’re still dying. Now you’re gonna kill this woman or get her killed for something you did, for your mistake.”

  The general swore softly. He recognized the voice. “This isn’t your business, Walker. You’re on paid leave until I tell you differently. I don’t know who the hell you think—”

  “I don’t work for you anymore. I work for the SRC now.”

  Fucking Alena, General Wagner thought. He wanted to spit.

  “I’m on the mountain,” Walker continued. “I’m going to get Maeve Sinclair, and I’m going to bring her down. I want your guarantee that no harm will come to her and that you will withdraw all searchers until this skirmish between you and Director Boudreau has reached a conclusion.”

  Wagner stared at Loring and Vargas. Neither of them could hear a word, and curiosity blazed in their eyes. He smiled thinly and turned his back to them. They would still be able to hear, but it felt more private this way, more personal.

  “Maybe my team shares some blame,” General Wagner said, “but so do you, Dr. Walker. You remember your assignment in Greenland. You and Hector Montez got all kinds of praise for your work there and for the germs you dug out of the permafrost. But you two assholes weren’t as careful as you thought.”

  “What are you—”

  “Heard from Montez lately, Walker?” Silence on the line. General Wagner sneered. “That’s what I thought. Montez came back with a little infection. Nothing contagious, at least at first, but enough to panic us. Enough to start us down a line of research that’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I’ll tell you this much, the idea of weaponizing sickness is a hell of a lot older than any of us imagined.”

  “Is Montez alive?”

  “You must be a great friend to have,” General Wagner said, twisting the knife. “Montez went off duty while you were in Iraq, almost a year ago. He’s been dead seven months. And as far as your guarantees, you can fuck yourself. I’ve no interest in making her suffer any more than she already has, but if it comes down to her safety or the security of the nation, that’s an easy choice to make. Bring her in, Walker. If she behaves, she’ll be safe. If not, I make no promises. As for you, you’re done. You and Alena Boudreau both.”

  He waited for a reply, but this time there was none. Walker had ended the call.

  General Wagner dropped the phone onto the desk and smiled.

  “Sergeant, pass the word along. We’re not just looking for Maeve Sinclair up on that mountain. We’re also looking for Dr. Benjamin Walker. The woman I’d like alive if possible. But if anyone feels like shooting Walker, I’ll throw them a goddamn parade.”

  19

  By the time they reached the gorge, Maeve had grown hungry again.

  That was a lie.

  She kept trying to tell herself again must be the correct word—after all, her symptoms had subsided along with the hallucinations. Seeing Rose had done that, as if Maeve had been slowly sinking into some interior darkness, losing herself, and Rose had reached down into the madness and hauled her out.

  For a while, the whispers in her head, the illusions, the sickness seemed to have gone away. But the truth she could not hide from herself was that the hunger had never really left her. It lingered, hiding down inside her, a small twinge in her gut instead of the gnawing emptiness it had been.

  Now, though, the gnawing had begun to return. And with it, the whispers. The presence that she felt in her mind, like a tumor putting pressure on the inside of her skull.

  “Hey,” Rose said, “you all right?”

  They were at the edge of the gorge, at a place known as Walter’s Descent. There were no stairs and no signs to identify the spot, nothing but a small cairn of rocks that hikers had built and a little spray of blue paint that a casual passerby would barely notice. The way down from here would not be easy, but it ought to be safe enough, even for the wounded Priya, whose love for Rose had earned a bullet wound. Maeve knew she ought to feel worse about it than she did. Not that she felt no guilt—just maybe not enough.

  Regret, though—she had plenty of that for all of them.

  “Maeve,” her sister said.

  “The rocks will be slippery from the rain,” Maeve said, glancing around as if the treacherous descent had been the thought on her mind, instead of which one of them she might kill first.

  No. She squeezed her eyes shut. Rose loved her, in spite of everything. Her too-serious sister with the rare, braying laugh and enormous, vivid blue eyes, always full of wonder … Maeve would throw herself into the gorge before she would hurt Rose.

  She loves you? said the presence in her mind. The voice. The hunger. Maeve yearned for contact, for someone to love her and put their arms around her, to comfort her with an embrace, let her sink gratefully into someone’s forgiveness.

  She won’t touch you. They fear you. Look at their eyes. You’re a monster to them, when all you want is life. Warmth. All you want is the cure.

  The rain pelted her face and the wind kicked up, making her shiver as she gazed at the people who had come for her. The presence filled her, not just her thoughts but her bones, her blood. Like the sickness that had begun to rise again, making her skin itch and bleed, lodging a cough in her chest, the pre
sence wasn’t just inside her now but around her, as if she radiated disease and hunger. And malice.

  Priya stood next to Rose. Beautiful Priya, delicate on the outside, took no shit from anyone except her family. Spent so much time trying not to upset them that she had no energy left to appease the rest of the world. Tough inside.

  Priya, Rose.

  Walker.

  Him. The hunger gnawed at Maeve, and she smiled to cover up the predator’s growl that wanted to come out.

  Rose approached her. Maeve flinched away, and her sister froze. They stared at one another for a second or two, wariness blooming anew in Rose’s eyes. She’d seen that flinch and understood it, knew that Maeve didn’t want her getting close and knew why.

  She didn’t come any closer.

  “Eventually,” Maeve said out loud. Only it wasn’t Maeve who’d said it but the thing inside her.

  For the first time, the presence had made it all the way to her voice.

  Rose paled. Even in the rain, she visibly blanched. “You go first.”

  Maeve nodded. As she turned away, the tears came. A sob built in her chest, tearing at her throat, but unlike the dreadful hunger, she managed to keep it down. Crying, fighting the thing inside her, she started down Walter’s Descent. She coughed, and it came out a cry that nobody could mistake for anything but anguish. Yet as the others followed, no one inquired. What could any of them say?

  The trail wasn’t much of one. Hands out for balance, she slipped a bit here and there, mostly because of the Sperrys she’d worn that morning. They were soaked, her feet squelching. Walter’s Descent was a switchback trail, some of it rock-flecked dirt, some of it bare rock. There were jagged formations and places where hikers had lodged fallen trees to create steps. In a few places there were cairns and paint spots. In one spot, a third of the way down, someone had drilled into bare rock and implanted an iron handhold.

  Priya had more trouble than the rest of them, but only in places where she needed to use her hands to keep from falling. She kept her left arm pressed against her chest most of the time, but the one time she had to use it, Maeve overheard her talking to Walker and it was clear the bleeding had started again.