by Scott Sigler
“And the distribution infrastructure is already in place as well,” he said. “Most of the breweries have either their own bottling facilities or direct contracts with them, fleets of trucks, dedicated distribution centers — they can brew it, bottle it, and ship it.”
No wonder Murray thought he was going to win.
“Sounds good in theory,” Margaret said. “But will it work for the entire planet?”
Murray waved a hand in annoyance. “Do you mind if we focus on the USA first, Margaret? This is a massive effort, yes — one of the biggest projects in our nation’s history. Fifty of the largest breweries already have starter cultures. Each of those fifty is delivering subcultures to at least ten more. In two days, we’ll have fifteen hundred American breweries producing inoculant. We can make everyone who drinks it immune.”
“Temporarily immune,” Margaret said. All eyes turned to her.
“Let’s not forget that one dose doesn’t last forever. Tim’s inoculant is good for …” She turned to Tim. “For how long?”
His eyes glanced upward in thought. He pursed his lips, tilted his head left, then right.
“Oh, about a week,” he said. “Then it’s going to fully process through the body.”
Margaret nodded. “A week. So you’re not just talking three hundred and twenty million batches for the good ol’ USA, Murray, it’s three hundred and twenty million batches a week. If the disease gets to the mainland, the inoculant can slow the disease’s spread — but it can’t stop it altogether.”
Cheng huffed. “Unless the disease breaks out in the next three weeks, we’ll have enough repeat doses for everyone in North America.”
Margaret shook her head in amazement; Cheng was really starting to piss her off.
“This disease could give a fuck about borders,” she said. “If you don’t get regular doses to the entire world, you’re looking at a disaster of epic proportions. This is about logistics as well as production. Across the planet, one person in seven is starving not because the world doesn’t produce enough food, but because we can’t get food to all the people. And you really think that you can get a regular supply of this to everyone?”
Cheng’s face turned red with anger. “Yes, that is exactly what I think. This event will bind the human race together.”
Margaret saw the expression on his face, understood it — he was annoyed because she doubted his ability to save the planet. He wanted to see his face in the history books.
Careful what you wish for, Cheng …
“We can’t even bind Americans together, let alone the world,” she said. “And what are your plans for the people who refuse to take it, like the idiots who refuse to vaccinate their own children? What do you do when the companies that are so helpful now decide that they’ve done their part and they have to go back to business as usual?”
Cheng’s face furrowed into a tight-lipped scowl. “Doctor Montoya, this is the answer to the problem. We will find a way.”
Margaret wanted to grab his fat cheeks with both hands, twist his head, make him whine like the little weakling he was. She wanted to slap him.
“We have a chance at a permanent solution,” she said. “What about the hydra organism? There were ten people in that human artificial chromosome clinical trial — have you tracked down the other nine?”
Cheng leaned back. The scowl faded. He looked smug, like he’d defeated her argument merely by letting her say it out loud. He waited.
Murray answered her question.
“The president doesn’t like the hydra solution,” he said. “She doesn’t like the idea of introducing one unknown disease to fight another. And as you pointed out, it’s possible that the hydras are an airborne contagion — if we use them, they could spread uncontrollably and we have no idea what they might do. President Blackmon told us to focus on the yeast. If Cheng’s … excuse me, if Feely’s inoculant works, there’s no need to expose the population to an unknown organism.”
Her face felt hot. Now Murray was against her as well?
“Blackmon doesn’t like it,” she said.
Margaret knew what was happening. Cheng was sabotaging her work, whispering in the president’s ear. Margaret felt an intense anger welling up inside of her.
She stared at Cheng. “So the president doesn’t like it, eh, Cheng? And who gave her the idea that the hydras were so godawful dangerous, huh?”
Cheng’s eyes sparkled with delight.
“You did, Doctor Montoya,” he said. “Your reports labeled the hydras an incalculable risk.”
She blinked. Her reports had said that.
“But … but that was before,” she said. “Surely you’re not so incompetent you can’t see what we’re up against. We still don’t even know if Tim’s yeast works. And if it does, what if the disease evolves to beat it? We have to at least pursue the hydras as an alternate solution.”
Cheng shrugged. “We have some people seeing if they can track down other patients of the HAC study, but to be blunt, I don’t put much credence in your theory, Doctor Montoya. I hardly think infecting people with your contagious space worms is a viable solution.”
She reached her fist high and brought it down hard, pounded it on the table like a gavel.
“That’s the fucking point,” she said. “The hydras are contagious. If it is airborne, and I think it is, it will spread from person to person without your fucking bottles and goddamn distribution routes.”
Cheng leaned in, sure of himself. He had all the power and he knew it, relished it.
“We’ll look into it, Doctor Montoya. I appreciate what you’ve done so far, believe me, but there’s little you can do while you are isolated on that ship. My team is on the front lines. We’ll manage it from here.”
She stood so suddenly her chair shot from under her. “The front fucking lines? I’d like to come up there and see you face-to-face, you miserable, fat fuck. I’d like to cut off your motherfucking balls and fucking feed them to you. Would you like that, you stupid cunt?”
A hand on her shoulder: Clarence, reaching across the table, looking at her in shock and concern.
“Margaret, take it easy.”
She blinked. Her words played back in her head. Her face flushed red. Everyone was staring at her. She slowly sat back down.
Clarence turned to face Murray’s screen.
“Director Longworth, Doctor Montoya is under considerable stress.”
Murray nodded. He looked less than pleased.
“I can see that,” he said. “Doctor Montoya, get some rest. Doctor Cheng, assign more people to look at that stem cell therapy, as Doctor Montoya requested.”
Cheng couldn’t hide his smirk. He stared right at her.
“Of course, Director Longworth,” he said.
“Good,” Murray said. “That will be all.”
His side of the screen blanked out, leaving just Cheng’s face.
“Good day, Doctor Montoya,” he said. “Enjoy your time away.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Margaret said, then she stormed out of the mission module.
PORT
Cooper and José worked to tie the Mary Ellen Moffett to the long pier. Jeff was in the pilothouse, managing the fine maneuvering that brought the ship into place.
Waiting at their slip were three vehicles: a white van, a long, black limo and a pickup truck. Four Chinese men stood outside the white van. They wore jeans and sweatshirts, very nondescript, but Cooper wouldn’t have wanted to bump into any of them in a bar. Hands in pockets, shoulders shrugged against the cold — they clearly hadn’t understood that the temperature at the docks was usually the same as the temperature out on the water. Maybe they were here to help Steve and Bo Pan?
The pickup truck’s doors opened and two men — properly dressed against the cold in work jackets and insulated pants — stepped out. They had the burly look of dockworkers. They approached the Mary Ellen. Cooper had no idea who these men were, either. He noticed that when the dockworkers came forward, the Chine
se men shrank back, just a little bit.
The limo was the most interesting of all: a man in a chauffeur suit — the driver, obviously — stood in front of it, a drop-dead-gorgeous woman on each arm. The women were laughing and smiling, but also shivering beneath thick fur coats. Past the hem of their coats, Cooper saw sparkly dresses and high heels.
The hanging bumpers on the Mary Ellen’s port side ground against the seawall.
Cooper was about to greet the two approaching men when a voice called out from behind him.
“Wait!”
He turned to see a bundled-up Steve Stanton rushing out of the cabin door. Steve ran across the deck, two overstuffed laptop bags strung around his shoulders. And not far behind Steve, Cooper saw Jeff descending from the bridge.
Steve slid to a stop, pointed at the dockworkers. “I hired these men,” he said in a rush. “And a bonus for you!” He pointed to the limo. Or maybe at the girls, Cooper wasn’t sure.
“A bonus?”
Steve nodded hard. “Yes! For such a good job. I have two nights at the Trump Tower for everyone! All paid for. The limo will take us there.”
Jeff joined them, a wide smile on his face.
“Stop the presses,” he said. “Did I hear you say you bought us two nights at the Trump Tower, and a limo ride with some girlies?”
Steve nodded furiously. He seemed overly hyped up. Stressed, maybe? His eyes kept darting to the cabin door. Was he waiting for Bo Pan?
“My way of saying thanks,” he said. “And maybe we can all get a beer after we check in?”
Cooper frowned. “You’re there, too?” Cooper just wanted to be rid of the guy who bothered Jeff so much. Although at the moment, Jeff couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t quit looking at the girls.
Again Steve’s eyes flicked to the door. He looked at Cooper, forced a smile.
“I need a break, too,” Steve said. “If I can hang out with you guys tonight, I’ll pay for one more day at our agreed rate. I really think I should, uh, be around you for a while.”
Cooper started to say no — he’d had his fill of Steve Stanton and this weird job — but Jeff put an arm around Steve’s shoulders and gave the smaller man a friendly, solid shake.
“Hell yes, you can hang out with us,” Jeff said. “Thanks for the gift, Steve! We appreciate it. Coop and I will show you all the good spots in town. Won’t we, Coop?”
Hours earlier, Jeff had wanted to get as far away from Steve Stanton as possible, and now he wanted to be the kid’s best friend? A couple of nights in a five-star hotel — and a limo loaded with some high-class ladies — could have that effect.
“Sure,” Cooper said. Cooper pointed up to the two dockworkers, who were standing at the edge of the pier, waiting for instructions. “Steve also hired these guys to help us unload.”
Jeff slapped Steve’s back, then invited the dockworkers aboard. He led them to the crane and gave them the rundown on how they’d off-load Steve’s crates.
Steve glanced to the cabin door again, and this time he froze. Cooper looked as well — Bo Pan was quickly approaching, a duffel bag over his shoulder. Inside of it, Cooper knew, was the case recovered from the lake bottom. Bo Pan looked like he was trying to control his temper.
“Steve,” the old man said, “what is going on?”
Steve took a step away.
“I hired help for unloading,” he said.
Bo Pan looked to the dock, saw the white van, pointed at it. “We have help.”
“They’re not union,” Steve said. “We have to hire union labor in Chicago, right, Cooper?”
Cooper glanced at the Chinese men near the white van. They were edging closer, like they wanted to approach but were waiting for instructions. Bo Pan looked furious.
Cooper thought of pointing out that they could have unloaded themselves, and therefore didn’t need to hire help — union or otherwise — but Steve looked more than on edge … he looked afraid.
Steve was the one in charge, wasn’t he? Or had this all been some kind of strange sham all along? Was Bo Pan the one who called the shots? And if so, just how much trouble was Steve in?
“Steve is right,” Cooper said, following an instant instinct to protect the kid. “If you hire labor to unload, Bo Pan, they’ve got be union. This is Chicago, my friend.”
Bo Pan’s bony hands clutched into fists. Anger smoldered in his wrinkled eyes. He looked to the dock.
“I see,” he said. “And the limousine? And those women, standing there, watching us … are they union, too?”
“Steve gave us a bonus,” Cooper said. “In fact, Mister Stanton, why don’t you wait in the limo? We’ll be off-loaded in just a moment.”
Steve shook his head. “Uh … I’d rather stay on the ship with you and Jeff until everything is finished.”
That line made Bo Pan even angrier. He coughed up a wad of phlegm, spat it onto the deck, then started climbing out of the slightly moving boat onto the pier. Two of the Chinese men ran over to help him. One took the duffel bag. The man handled the bag delicately, reverently.
Bo Pan and the men got in the van, which quietly drove down the dock toward the pier gate.
Cooper turned to Steve.
“Want to tell me what that was all about?”
Steve shook his head. “No. I do not.” The kid looked like he might puke at any moment. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a banded stack of hundred-dollar bills and handed it to Cooper.
“Another part of your bonus.”
Cooper looked at it, dumbfounded. Another mad stack, another ten grand, just like that.
Steve started climbing out of the boat. Cooper had to help him, thanks to two computer bags, one of which was stuffed with two laptops.
As Steve walked to the limo, Cooper wondered what had just happened. He’d try to get it out of Steve later, if, indeed, Steve was really going to hang out.
Cooper turned, waved to José. The Filipino came running over.
“Yes, Jefe?”
“Big surprise,” Cooper said. “We’re all staying in the Trump Tower for the next two nights. All free, big guy.”
José’s smile faded. “A tower?”
“A hotel,” Cooper said. “Big one. Fancy as hell, from what I hear. Steve paid for it. We even get a limo ride.” He nodded toward the long, black car, the shivering girls.
José coughed, then sneezed. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“Bless you,” Cooper said. “You okay?”
José shrugged. “Coming down with something. I think I’ll just go home. I miss my family.”
Cooper wanted to talk him into coming but could see there was no point. José missed his family, true, but he was also always paranoid of anything that involved giving ID or being around lots of strangers. The man was so hardworking, so at home on the boat; it was easy to forget that once on land, he didn’t have the same rights and privileges that Cooper and Jeff enjoyed.
“Okay,” Cooper said. “You need a ride anywhere?”
José shook his head. “My cousin is coming to get me. It’s just a two-hour drive to Benton Harbor, no problem.”
He coughed again, much harder this time. His eyes watered.
“Damn, dude,” Cooper said. “Maybe you should swing by a hospital and get that checked out.”
José cleared his throat, shook his head and smiled; he thought Cooper was joking.
Cooper felt like an idiot for the second time in as many minutes — José was as afraid of hospitals as he was of hotels. He probably feared that a trip to the hospital might turn into a visit with the INS. A ridiculous fear, Cooper knew, but then again he never had to deal with such concerns.
Cooper peeled off twenty one-hundred-dollar bills from the stack, handed them to José.
“Tell your cousin not to drive like a goddamn illegal, will ya?”
José’s face lit up in surprise. He put the money in his pocket. “Sometimes, Jefe Cooper, you’re a good guy — for a racist asshole, I mean.
Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Cooper said. “Great work. Now help get Steve’s crap off the boat, okay?”
José jogged over to join Jeff and the two dockworkers, who were already unloading Steve’s crate.
A tickle flared up in Cooper’s windpipe, a tickle that quickly turned into a small cough. He cleared his throat … felt a little scratchy.
Well, he wouldn’t let a little cold stop him from having one grade-A bitch of a good time.
Windy City? Here we come.
FREQUENT FLIERS
Bo Pan put a bottle of water and a tin of Sucrets on the counter.
The cashier grabbed it, ran it across the scanner, spoke to him without looking up.
“Hello, sir,” she said. “How are you today?” Her name tag said Madha. She held out her hand. “That will be seven fifty-five.”
Bo Pan adjusted the strap of his carry-on bag so he could get at his wallet, then handed over the money. When he did, his hand touched hers.
Neutrophils detected contact, reversed their grip, letting go of Bo Pan and clinging to Madha instead. In two days, she would kill her husband by driving the point of a clothes iron into the back of his skull.
“Would you like a bag, sir?”
Bo Pan shook his head. “No, thank you. I am fine.”
She offered him his change. “Thank you for shopping at Hudson News.”
He took his money, moved to the magazine rack. Bo Pan pretended to look at the covers showing bright cars, men with too much muscle or women showing too much skin. Americans certainly loved big breasts.
He tried hard to stay calm — his contact was late. His plane boarded in ten minutes.
What if Ling didn’t show?
He unwrapped a Sucret and popped it into his mouth. Cherry flavor. He liked that. His throat was scratchy, and it felt like he had a fever coming on.
Bo Pan heard the rattling of wheels rolling along the concourse’s tile floor. He looked up just as Ling rolled a dolly into Hudson News. The dolly held five blue plastic trays, each loaded with soft drinks. Ling met Bo Pan’s eyes but didn’t acknowledge him in any way.
