Brother to Dragons

by Charles Sheffield

  He picked up one of the vials. And then he hesitated. Maybe he was about to make a too-hasty action. But wasn’t that always true? Was there ever enough time in life to evaluate any major decision completely?

  He thought of Father Bonifant’s words, from so long ago. Remember, an easy question can have an easy answer. But a hard question must have a hard answer. And for the hardest questions of all, there may be no answer—except faith.

  Job removed the stopper from the vial. He had faith. He was doing the right thing. He poured the contents into the hollow of his hand and rubbed it onto his face and neck and the skin of his forearm.

  The yellow liquid penetrated his open sores with agonizing speed. He was still gasping and writhing when a supersonic helicopter screamed out of the eastern night sky and feathered down to land beside the silent Tandyman.

  • Chapter Twenty

  So Job died, being old and full of days.

  —The Book of Job, Chapter 42, Verse 17

  The journey to Xanadu had been seven days of misery. The return to the Mall Compound took less than two hours.

  During the trip Wilfred Dell made an inflight call to Job and asked three questions.

  “Did you find out what’s going on with Hanna Kronberg?”

  “Yes.” Job had seen Dell’s puzzled look when communication was first established. The bald, mud-caked and suppurating object that Job had become bore little resemblance to the young man whom Dell had sent to the Nebraska Tandy.

  “Is what you found out important?”

  “Very.” If Dell did not comment on his appearance, neither would Job.

  “Did you bring proof—I mean proof, not hearsay and impressions—of what you found?”

  “I brought proof.”

  “Good. I’m busy now. I’ll set up a meeting for when you get here.”

  Dell was gone. Job lay back on the makeshift bed in the rear of the helicopter. He could feel the changes taking place inside him. They were bad, and about to get worse; he must endure them for at least a few hours more.

  The helicopter pilot ignored the airport across the river and flew directly to the Mall Compound. It was still one hour short of midnight when Job found himself again in the glass-sided elevator, ascending the tall, square-sided tower that dominated the Compound. Dell’s office when he entered had changed a little. The top of the wooden desk had been cleared, and different oil paintings hung on the walls.

  But there had been no visible change to Wilfred Dell. The cherub’s face above the massive dwarf’s body still carried its half-smile as he greeted Job.

  “Welcome back. I thought your return deserved something of a formal reception.” He spread his short arms wide to take in the three other people in the room. “The Honorable Reginald Brook. Senator Graydon Walsh, Senator Horatio Waldo Nelson. This young man—a little the worse for wear—is Job Napoleon Salk. He is here to present the report of his trip to the Nebraska Tandy.”

  The nods to Job were barely visible, but there was curiosity in their eyes. What could this ragged, battered wreck have to offer, of possible interest to us? It was clear to Job that Dell was playing for effect, stroking the egos of the other three by pointing out that they were to hear the report as soon as anyone.

  “You mean he went right, er, inside the Tandy?” said Senator Walsh. He and Reginald Brook were Job’s mental image of a powerful political person: tall, lean, aristocratic, and languid. But their eyes lacked Dell’s luminous intelligence.

  “Right inside, and back out again.” Wilfred Dell was beaming. “But only just. Five minutes earlier, and the perimeter defense would have annihilated him. Did you know you were so early, Job?”

  “No. I thought I was almost too late. Everything a few seconds behind me was wiped out.”

  “Naturally. At my direction.” Dell glanced smugly at the others. “I decided that we were only interested in the first vehicle to emerge. The rest could be destroyed; it was not my intent to encourage a mass exodus.” He turned again to Job. “The hour is late, and the senators and I have another engagement tonight. Keep it short. Details can wait until morning.”

  “I’ll be brief. But I have to give you a little background.” Job sat down uninvited. Flakes of dried mud fell off him onto the chair and into the thick pile of the pink carpet. “I don’t know what was originally intended when the Tandies were used to exile criminals and undesirables, but I can tell you what the effect has been. There have always been people in the world who hated government, or were cruel, or were indifferent to the needs of others. Those people used to be mixed in with everyone else. But with the Tandy exile program, the hatred and cruelty and indifference have been concentrated, distilled out and sent to a few isolated sites. And now all that hatred is directed outward, to the world beyond the Tandies.”

  “Get on with it,” said Dell impatiently. “We know all that, and it’s not important.” Already Senator Nelson was fidgeting in his seat.

  Job took a deep breath. He had rehearsed this mentally for two hours, but he could not say it all in thirty seconds. “It’s important now, Mr. Dell. Your intuition was quite correct. The Nebraska Tandy is dangerous—to everyone. Its leaders are full of hate. They have been working on a project designed to kill every person in the country, perhaps in the world. Only Tandy residents will be spared.”

  He had certainly regained their attention.

  “Xanadu is different from most Tandies,” Job went on. “It not only serves as a concentration camp for ordinary criminals, it is also the main exile point for scientists. So far as they can, most of those exiled still pursue their scientific work. There is particular capability in biological research, and some outstanding minds have been sent to Xanadu. A few years ago, the Big Three who control the Tandy decided to take advantage of those talents. They demanded a synthetic plague, one with a hundred percent kill rate, which only those with prior immunization—people inside the Tandy—would survive. I don’t know what pressures the leaders of Xanadu applied to the scientists, to make them do what they were told, but it worked. The researchers did almost exactly what was asked of them. They took natural microorganisms and modified them using recombinant DNA techniques; they gave the leaders their artificial plague.”

  Job reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed vial with an orange stopper. It was full of cloudy yellow liquid. “Here it is. The killing contagion. It’s a lethal variant of an old, extinct disease called smallpox. The only other place in the world where it exists is in the Techville labs of the Nebraska Tandy.”

  Reginald Brook was backing up in his chair. He turned to Wilfred Dell. “You mean you let him bring that in here when we’re—”

  Only Dell seemed unmoved. The trace of a smile was still on his face. “I’m sure that bottle is tightly sealed,” he said quietly. “I told him that we needed proof, and that’s just what he brought us. Job, you said that the scientists did almost what was asked of them. What did they miss?”

  Job had forgotten the precision and subtlety of Wilfred Dell’s mind. The other three might regard Dell as no more than their hireling, but he could think rings around them.

  “The plague lacked one property,” Job replied. “They are still working on it. As you know, no one leaves the Nebraska Tandy. The perimeter defense system makes sure of that. But at the moment the plague is contagious only by direct contact, person to person. Outside the human body, the microorganism survives for just a few seconds. To do what the Xanadu leaders want, the plague needs to provide airborne contagion. The microorganism must be able to survive outside the body for days, not seconds. Then the Nebraska Tandy can infect the whole world simply by releasing a spray into the air high above Xanadu, and letting the winds blow it at random. There are enough people in the world to guarantee the spread after that. Second and third stage infection would be guaranteed. The residents of Xanadu would know that they had succeeded when there were no more airdrops and the perimeter defense stopped working. Then they would emerge from the Tandy�
�and claim the world.”

  Job stood up, went across to Wilfred Dell’s desk, and placed the vial gently on top of it. “I am sure that you will want others to study this in a controlled environment. As you can see, I have been careful not to break the seal.”

  When he returned to his seat he saw that hatred had replaced fear on the faces of Reginald Brook and the two senators.

  “You were quite right, Dell,” said Brook. “Damn them. We’ll provide you with authorization. Make sure the Techville facility is flattened. The whole Tandy, if you want to.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Wilfred Dell’s smile held genuine pleasure. “The razing of Techville—together with Xanadu Headquarters—should be adequate.”

  Job realized that this task, at least, was to Dell’s taste. What old score was he paying off, to someone who had escaped him by exile to Xanadu Headquarters?

  Job thought of Hanna Kronberg and the rest of the scientists. Would they have time to escape? If they were wise they would have abandoned Techville already, the moment they learned that Job had taken the vials and managed to leave the Tandy. But scientists were learned, not necessarily wise. Job had learned the difference long ago from Alan Singh. Some of them, obsessed with their work, would surely stay in Techville until it was too late.

  Headquarters was on the target list, too, but Job was less worried about Skip Tolson. With Skip’s nose for trouble he was probably hidden away already in some new bolt-hole, far from danger.

  Wilfred Dell had stood up and was moving across to the desk. He picked up the vial and peered into it. “A good piece of work, Job. I’ll send this out for full analysis tonight, and we can continue tomorrow morning. But now I must fulfil other commitments.”

  “There’s more to tell. Don’t you want to hear how I rode a Tandyman to get out of Xanadu?”

  “I do. But that can wait.” There was a glint of lust in the gnome’s eyes. “The senators and I have an appointment with some friends of yours. Should I offer your regards to Miss Magnolia, over at Bracewell Mansion?”

  Job stood up, too, and walked towards Wilfred Dell. “I don’t think she’ll even remember me. If she does she probably thinks I’m dead. A few hours ago, I thought I was, too.” He reached out, took Dell’s hand, and shook it. “I just want to say, it’s good to be here. I don’t know if you are surprised that I made it back, but I am.”

  Dell had looked startled when Job shook his hand. He nodded. “I am surprised. And impressed. I admit it. As I told you before you left, good men are all too scarce. I’ll arrange for you to receive the best medical treatment that we can give. You need rest now—a bath might be a good idea, too. In the morning we will talk about your future.”

  Dell ushered the other three men out, leaving Job standing alone. He went back to the chair, sat down, and covered his face with his hands. He had held up this long, but it had taken all his strength.

  One more step, he told himself. One more step; and then I can rest forever.

  Job had learned on his first encounter with Wilfred Dell that the man needed little sleep. Bracewell Mansion must have occupied much of the night, but it was no surprise to Job to find himself summoned to Dell’s office at eight in the morning.

  Job had already been up for three hours. He had gone to bed at once, still unbathed, but by four o’clock the nausea that had started at midnight was much worse. Long before dawn he went to the medical room in the lower basement of the building to demand sedatives and pain killers. They were provided without objection, but the doctor who spoke with Job gave him a brief examination and shook his head.

  “There’s nothing much we can do for you here. Are you seeing specialists?”

  “Later.”

  “Do it soon. This is going to knock you flat.” The doctor could hardly find a vein for the needle, in Job’s ulcerous and wasted arm.

  Job winced as the injection went in. “How long is the pain killer good for?”

  “Five or six hours.”

  “Fine. That should be ample.”

  “That’s not the point! You ought to be in bed.”

  “I’m on my way.” But Job went upstairs to the twenty-four-hour cafeteria, where he ordered a pint of milk and four raw eggs. The pain killers were beginning to work. They allowed him to force eggs and milk down his blistering throat. The sedatives overrode his nausea, enough to permit him to keep what he had swallowed.

  Back in his room he soaked for two hours in a lukewarm bath, and worried.

  He had no doubts that it had been right to give Wilfred Dell the vial, and explain its contents. In their anger, Gormish, Pyle, and Bonvissuto were willing to destroy everyone in the world, guilty and innocent alike. They were implacable. When people spoke of the Nebraska Tandy and quoted a life expectancy for new arrivals of a year and half, they had no idea that the Big Three were causing most of the deaths. With a more humane policy toward the treatment and training of new prisoners, the average life in the Tandy could be drastically increased—perhaps to the point where it was as long as life outside. But Gormish and her colleagues were fanatics. If they would not try to save people who had been condemned to the Tandy with them, how much less would they care about everyone else?

  Job had been given the chance to stop them. He had taken it. There was no doubt in his mind about that decision.

  But what about the other vial, and his own action?

  That was Father Bonifant’s hardest question, one that Job could not answer; but he knew the reply that Reginald Brook would give, and he could not accept it.

  He at last forced himself to leave the tub. The warm water had soothed and relaxed him, but overall he felt worse. Dressing, even in the softest and loosest clothes, was an exquisite agony. When he was clothed he went to sit by the window and stared at the city, spread below him in the morning sunlight. Already a thick haze hung over it. From this distance it was less pleasant a prospect than the clean plain of the Nebraska Tandy.

  When the call came from Dell, Job was ready. He placed the empty second vial in his pocket and walked gingerly across to the other side of the building. He knocked and went into the luxuriously appointed office.

  This morning the only man with Wilfred Dell was Reginald Brook.

  “The senators are still a little under the weather.” It was apparent from Dell’s manner that he was not. “We’ll begin without them. Let me start by saying that a first examination confirms what you said. The bottle contained a genetically modified form of the variola virus—the smallpox virus, to us simple folk. It will take a while longer to confirm the potency of that new virus, but there’s no reason to doubt what you said. So much for Dr. Hanna Kronberg, and her ‘great love’ of humanity.”

  Job shook his head, and felt new pain in his neck and chest. “She didn’t develop that virus. The work was done before she arrived in Xanadu, by other scientists. Hanna Kronberg was actually opposed to plague virus development—believe it or not, she really does love people. I was there when she had a big argument with the others in the lab. She wanted to hinder development of an airborne contagious form. What she wanted them to work on, without telling the Big Three, was something quite different—another tailor-made microorganism.”

  Dell snorted. “Still chasing her old idea, making us so we can all chew wood like a bunch of beavers?”

  Job saw Reginald Brook’s pop-eyed look. It must be his first exposure to Hanna Kronberg’s pet project.

  “Not that. For three years she has been after something new. Her latest organism is designed as a symbiote to the human body, to live inside people and help repair damaged structures. It grew out of her earlier work on cellulose digestion. She had started to wonder, what was the point of more babies if all they had to look forward to was disease and early old age? She managed to produce a symbiote that strengthened the immune system and inhibited the aging process, but there were problems. Simulations, confirmed by lab tests on human subjects, showed that the symbiote would produce side effects:
diminished sex drive and reduced fertility. And there were other difficulties, ones that she was never able to solve.”

  “Well, they’re all history. She’ll do no more experiments.” Wilfred Dell glanced at his gold wristwatch. “Her efforts will end in three and three-quarter hours, precisely at noon today—when Techville and Xanadu Headquarters are blown off the map. She’ll never make her symbiote.”

  “She already made it.” Job reached into his pocket with shaking hands and carefully took out the vial with the yellow stopper. The pain killers were still working, but Job’s condition was deteriorating. He could feel new ulcers and blisters erupting on his tongue and inside his mouth. In another hour speech would be impossible. He held the vial out towards the two men.

  “I stole this, too, from the lab. Hanna Kronberg’s latest genetically tailored microorganism.”

  Reginald Brook was beginning to repeat his action of last night and flinch away in his chair, but after a moment he frowned and leaned forward. “Wait a minute. That bottle is empty!”

  “Quite right. It is empty—now.” Job could hear his voice slurring the words. “It wasn’t, though, when I took it.”

  “What did you do with it?” That was Dell, the urgency in his voice showing that he was jumping ahead of Job’s explanation.

  “When I was still in the Tandyman, I poured it over my hands and rubbed it on my face. It’s inside me now. You see, Hanna Kronberg never found a way to make an air-carried version of this, either. It can only spread from person to person by actual body contact.”

  “Goddamn.” Dell was glaring at Job. “You may have killed us all. Body contact. Last night, when we were leaving, you shook my—”

  “That’s right. Inside me, and now inside you.” Job giggled like a drunkard. “Sorry about your sex drive, Mr. Dell. You’ll miss it more than most. I hope you avoided body contact last night at Bracewell Mansion.”

  Dell gasped. “You fucker! You’re dogmeat, Job Salk. I’ll see to it personally that you’re dead before I eat dinner.” Every veneer of sophistication had gone from his voice. His speech was pure chachara-calle.