“Matthew? Please talk to me.”
“What for?”
She bit her lip. “I love you. No matter what has happened to you, I love you, care for you, need you, want you, and—”
“Will you still want me when I lose all body control?” he said acidly. “Will you still want me beside you at night, when I become a true cyborg, able to move only due to some bioelectronic implant? Will you—”
“Matt! Stop talking nightmares! I am good at what I do. This ship’s Biolab is better than anything I ever saw. Together, your . . . Mata Hari and I, we will cure you! We will decipher the nature of this slow virus and exterminate it!” she said, her tone lacking the hope implied by her words.
Unable to watch the woman he loved, Matt looked around the Biolab. He hadn’t been here in a long time, though it was a place where Eliana should feel at home. Strange devices crowded the walls, floor and ceiling, like the dream of some mad scientist in an ancient vidpic. Something undreamt of by Paladin or The Lone Ranger.
They were surrounded by bioengineering consoles, tanks of L-broth, atomic force microscopes, Kamakura gene sequencers, high-speed centrifuges, PCR vats, white frost-covered Gene Banks, and gene transplant remote manipulators. Like spider legs the manipulators hung from the ceiling, or crouched within BioHazard areas that were self-contained pressor-fields encompassing optical matter workrooms. Little transparent boxes littered the cavernous Biolab, each one dedicated to something eco-deadly. And miraculous. These devices were the tools of Eliana’s trade as a molecular geneticist, and the familiar parts of Mata Hari ’s Biolab. Other things lurked in the corners, hung from the ceiling, or surged out of the flexmetal floor like frost-heaved soil lumps. T’Chak devices. Transgenic modulators. Immune system regulators. Clone vats. Virus vector chambers. Other things for which Matt had no name and for which only Mata Hari knew the purpose.
Lightbeams caressed his skin. Optical neurolinking could not be escaped, not even inside an isolation chamber. The group identity of
Eliana turned his way, hope flaring as she saw him reach out to something. Even if it was a computer. “Can she help you, Matthew?” Eliana said. “Can you . . . Mata Hari?” his Patron asked, for the first time addressing the AI with respect. Like a person.
In his mind, over the PET relays, he felt his partner hesitate. “Matthew, it is very bad. Look.” A holosphere took form between him and Eliana. In red and yellow light it displayed a Gordian Knot nightmare image—the retrovirus that had infected him. “Your body is sick. The symptoms are tiredness and weakness, overlaid by connective tissue swelling and an autoimmune inflammation of your joints. It looks like mononucleosis combined with chronic fatigue syndrome. Those we can treat and even reverse. But the real damage is at your immune system level—and the neuron level.” His symbiont paused as Eliana bit her knuckles, her forced calm barely holding. “Your biochemistry pathology is terrible. You show elevated levels for your macrophages, T-cells, white blood cells and lymphokines, even with the nanoDocs chasing the byproducts of the slow virus. Succinctly, you have one hell of a systemic infection. But more serious is the damage done to your stem cells.”
“How bad!” Matt insisted.
On the other side of the holosphere Eliana swayed, like she was dizzy, but she had now jammed both hands in her lab coat pockets. Why? She met his eyes. They showed fear. “It’s what I feared from my research, and it’s bad, Matthew.” She straightened her posture, as if bracing herself. “Explain it to him, Mata Hari.”
His partner did that, changing the holo-image as she described each factor. “Matt, Legion’s slow virus is a Mimic,” Vigilante said. “It invades any cell—organ, bone, neuron—by replicating its antigen covering. Then it sneaks in and takes over the cellular machinery of ribosomes, endoplasmic reticulum, nucleolus, Golgi apparatus, mitochondrions, even the chloroplasts. Everything. Using transfer RNA encoded on a retroviral ‘truck’ in a twenty-one codon group, Legion’s virus has reprogrammed millions of your body’s cells to make copies of itself.” Shit. He knew enough biotech to understand this was bad, bad news. The AI continued. “But metastatic growth is not its objective. It’s too complex for that.”
“Complex?” Eliana interrupted, hands still in her pockets. Now she looked intensely at the holosphere, her concentration that of a highly trained researcher. “How complex?”
“As complex as anything I’ve ever seen,” Mata Hari said, the feminine sympathy in her voice briefly changing tones to a masculine hardness, then back to her usual voice. “Patron, most viruses contain only 5,000 Watson-Crick nucleotide base pairs to express their message. This slow virus has 41,000 base pairs. Worse yet, the tRNA contains a randomizer protein that turns it into a ‘jumping gene’ able to change form and infest different parts of the human genome. Thus creating multiple genetic diseases.” The ship’s voice sounded regretful. “At present, Matt shows signs of infection with myasthenia gravis, Friedrich’s ataxia, muscular dystrophy and alpha-thalassemia anemia . . . based on my review of the twenty-three chromosomes that make up his genome.”
Despair filled him. Eliana cried out and turned away from the holosphere. The white coat covering her back shook. Ahhh, so this was how the walking dead felt?
“Matthew, do you wish more information?” asked Mata Hari, her tone sympathetic.
He would have said “just toss me into the nearest sun” but Eliana turned back around, hands in pockets, her body very stiff, her pale face drained of all blood. Only her emerald eyes still glowed with something. What? Hope? There can be hope only when there is doubt. Of his curse, there was no doubt. “Speak, Mata Hari,” Eliana said harshly. “And show us the genomic coordinates for where he’s infected. Maybe I . . . maybe I can help. Somehow.”
Matt held up his hands. “Eliana, don’t put yourself through this. Accept fate.”
“Accept!” Fury filled her face as she yelled at him. “Like I accepted the fate of my planet! Everyone told us it was hopeless to oppose the Halicenes. But we . . . we won. You . . . you and I, we will win again. Yes, this damn slow virus has infected you with multiple genetic flaw diseases, and new ones that show up as the virus does its ‘jumping gene’ trick. But once I map its base pairs pattern, then, maybe I can find a way to anticipate its . . . repetitive infection of you. Random disease changes aren’t totally random when you are limited by base pair combinations and a limited number of cellular recognition hooks.” She spoke like an executive used to directing scores of other researchers involved with bio-web problems of intricate complexity. “Mata Hari, proceed. Please.”
“As you wish.” The holosphere flashed. A new image took shape, one that displayed each of the twenty-three human chromosomes, the double helix structure of human DNA that curled within each chromosome, with specific polymorphisms highlighted and centimorgan locations numbered exactingly. “This lab can and has already fabricated retroviruses with the necessary restriction endonucleases, promoters and enhancers to initiate corrective genetic expression in the proper locations. Unfortunately, Legion’s slow virus ‘jumps’ from one gene bandwidth to another faster than we can fabricate counteragents. For every disease we cure now, a new one appears. In short, Matthew has a perpetual viral infection that is slowly, very slowly, gaining on our ability to repair the damage.”
“Legion!” Eliana growled. “Death was too good for that bastard.” She looked at Matt through the holo, the very image of a modern Athena Parthenos, lacking only a shield. “Matthew, you understand this, don’t you?”
He shrugged inside the isolation tube. “Most of it. I’m the idea person in this partnership—Mata Hari does the technical work and analysis. You’re the first expert on recombinant DNA gene splicing we’ve had aboard. Other than Mata Hari. Do you really think that mapping this thing will help me recover?”
Hands still in her pockets, Eliana looked down at the deckplates, her so
rrow and exhaustion clear. “The bad news is that while this ship’s Biolab can heal both your symptomology and repair your virus-induced genetic illnesses, using standard gene therapy, it can’t exterminate a chameleon-like virus that plays hide-and-seek inside your body.” Suddenly she looked up, her face hopeful. “But Matt . . . if we can map the original virus and better understand how it jumps through gene bandwidths, then we can plan ahead. Perhaps we could predict the next genetic disease, formulate a gene repair nanoDoc, inject it, and block future infections?”
“So what!” he interrupted, more harshly than he intended; she flinched at his tone. “That won’t kill the slow virus as it mutates, changes and adapts to your countermeasures. How do you kill a virus that is a chameleon, that changes too fast for the Hunter-Killer nanoDocs to find and eliminate totally from my body? Better to be dead.”
“No!” she cried out, panic in her voice.
A tone sounded.
“Matthew?” called Mata Hari, her Mata Hari persona-image appearing in the holosphere between them. “We have an incoming Vidcast signal.”
“Accept it,” he said. “Put it in the holosphere. With wide-angle focus so Eliana is in pickup range. I really don’t care who knows about my humiliation.”
“Matthew!” said Eliana, looking both exasperated at his depression and frustrated by the interruption.
The image of Autarch Dreedle appeared in the holosphere. She was flanked by the black-robed rat-body of the Anarchate Commander. They stood in her Trunk office. She spoke first, sounding nervous, with many side glances at her companion.
“Vigilante Matthew Dragoneaux, I am visited by Anarchate Commander Chai.” The alien’s beady-black eyes focused on him. “He has already spoken with Despot Ioannis. Nikolaos is now under custody at Mother Tree Melisen. Commander Chai has a few questions for you.”
Questions? Ah, well . . . “Ready, Commander Chai. How may I help your investigation?”
Chai looked around the Biolab at the still-unconscious Petros, took in Eliana’s tall, white-cloaked figure, then came back to him. The alien’s muzzle twitched. “Three humans in one location. What an infestation.” Chai blinked. “My sensors report even more at Halcyon’s Olympus Colony. Fortunately for them, they are planet bound and protected from my anger. However, it seems as if this trouble began with you humans. Is this true?”
Matt nodded. “True. But the human who began it—Nikolaos—is in the custody of Autarch Dreedle. The aliens who took advantage and interfered in this planet’s internal affairs—the Halicene Conglomerate—have been ejected from this system by your Interdiction Edict. All now seems in balance, Commander.”
“Upstart!” Chai hissed. “I will be the judge of adherence to Anarchate Rules! Your ship is ordered to hold orbit until it can be inspected by my Golems. It seems your ship belongs to an alien design that we have never before examined. Obey!”
Furious anger filled him. Matt wanted to strike out. But what was the use? He had nothing to live for . . . other than Eliana’s pity. He nodded slowly. “Ship Mata Hari has nothing to hide from the Anarchate, Commander Chai. We await your visit.” The holosphere image blinked out. Eliana turned to Matt, her doubled concern apparent.
Mata Hari spoke first. “I will not permit any lifeform, other than you two bipeds, to board me.” This time, his partner’s voice was fully masculine, its tone that of a warrior not about to yield to any foe. Was this just a random software bug, like she’d explained earlier? Or something more serious?
“Hey. Partner. What gives?”
Eliana looked confused, glancing about. “Mata Hari? Can we talk, woman to woman?”
Only silence occupied the Biolab.
But inside him, in his mind, in his gestalt perception, there flowed over the PET relays something new. Something that terrified Matt.
Ship changed. He changed. The symbiosis
Those parts of his cyborg self that matched to various ship systems, hallways, storerooms, fusion plants, armories and scores of other facilities he was used to sensing, those parts changed. They changed as, slowly, the Restricted Rooms of the ship came on-line. They opened up, for the first time in seven years. And all the while, the ship persona that had spoken with a male voice blocked his gestalt perception from affecting anything that now happened. He could see the changes. He could sense the capabilities of the Restricted Rooms. He could even feel the ways that the ship changed in response to this self-directed metamorphosis. But he could affect nothing. He tried. In his mind, using alpha waves and blink-thought imagery, he tried to control what was uncovering itself inside ship. When control failed, Matt turned to reason and humor.
“Hey, partner,” he said cajolingly. “Mata Hari. This is the Anarchate! There’s a Nova-class battleglobe orbiting just three planetary diameters out. We’re under their weapons. I would rather not become a galaxy-wide outlaw—Orion Arm is enough notoriety for me.”
“Perhaps you did not understand me the first time I spoke,” Mata Hari said, sounding unamused, its tone warrior-firm.
“Matthew?” Eliana said worriedly, hands still in her pockets but her shoulders hunched together. As if she were cold, or feared something, or had just made a decision. He looked around Biolab.
What was happening with his symbiont? Her voice had been changing the last few days, switching more often than not to a hard, harsh, even contemptuous male tone. She’d explained it away as a software bug, something they could fix once they left Sigma Puppis. But was it something else? Something like the sudden appearance of Colossus Mode pressor capabilities on-planet, when he’d first visited Dreedle? Was this alien ship a schizophrenic entity, a starship with two minds—literally? If so, what had awakened the male warrior-tone? Had the hit they’d taken from Obliteration scrambled some of her software algorithms? Or was it the appearance of the Anarchate battleglobe that had brought alive the Restricted Rooms?
“Incoming Vidcast,” rumbled Mata Hari’s gruff male voice as the ship continued to Change deep inside. Piece by piece, from one end of the two kilometer-long starship to the other, his ship partner changed into something fearful . . . and amazing.
The holosphere filled with the image of Ioannis.
“Brother!” Eliana gasped. “How are you?”
Ioannis looked exhausted but triumphant. He stood within his Throne room, tapestries a bit scorched. “I’m fine, sister, as is my brother Konstantinos in Olympus Colony, where he now controls civil matters,” the Despot said to Eliana, then focused on her champion. “Greetings, Matthew Raven’s-Wing Dragoneaux,” he said formally. “My Supply Officer is now shipping to your cargo holds full payment for services rendered. Four thousand tons of deuterium hydroxide fuel, six cubic meters of germanium integrated circuits, seven tons of gold, six globes of molecular memory crystals, forty sets of waldo-type direct gene manipulators, two tanks of designer proteins and an original Bach sonata in digitized optical disk format.” Ioannis folded arms over his dark grey jumpsuit, looking very alert, very much the administrator back in control of his domain. “Is the Price paid sufficient?”
Feeling tired and worn down by the effects of the slow virus, Matt ignored Mata Hari’s Change and focused on Ioannis. Eliana watched them both. He smiled at her half-brother. “Nearly enough. Add in four tons of dextromolecular-levomolecular fine foods, six cartons of ytrrium and other rare earths, and that bronze sculpture on your desk.” Matt blinked, thought-imaged, and watched as the isolation chamber containing Grandfather Petros dropped through the flexmetal floor, on its way to the belly cargo hold. “Petros will be returning aboard your cargo barge. He is recovering from exhaustion and a shoulder wound. Please take care of him.”
“Agreed!” Ioannis said magnanimously. “And thank you for the return of our Genetic Primary Carrier. Now, please also return my sister. I miss her.”
Matt laughed. “You mean you miss the political connections you could obtain by marrying her to one of your Derindl shipping partners.”
&nbs
p; “Enough!” Despot Ioannis struck his desk top. “Cyborg, you are fairly paid. Do not interfere further in human affairs.”
Before he could argue, Eliana broke in. “Brother, I’m not coming home.”
“What!” screamed Ioannis.
Shock hit him.
Within the glass Isolation Chamber, Matt turned to Eliana. She stood there trembling, hands jammed into her pockets. She faced him resolutely, with her emotional guard let down—her love for him shining more brightly than a laser penetrates the darkness.
“Eliana?”
“Matttt.” Her lips trembled. “You said . . . you said you loved me. When you said that, I was confused. Worried about other duties. Other obligations. Now . . . I said it once, I will say it again.” She blinked as tears appeared. “I love you too.”
“Eliana! I am damaged. Badly.”
“Matthew,” she said hurriedly. “We need each other. We’re good for each other. We heal each other. We love each other. And I will work with Mata Hari’s Biolab machinery to find a cure to this cursed virus! Give yourself a chance! Give us a chance!”
Oh, gods of Chaos!
In the background, Ioannis roared, his words meaningless to Matt, irrelevant to the love that filled him.
He reached out to her. The armorglass stopped him, reminding him of his disease.
Diseased. That’s what he was. Married to a machine as much as Eliana was married to the Trees of Halcyon, they were two incompatible beings. And if he ever touched her again, skin to skin, he would infect her with Legion’s slow virus.
Never!
He could never visit such a curse on her. Shaking his head, he moved backward in the Decontam Chamber, head down, eyes fixed on the metal floorplates. They were grey, like his future.
Star Vigilante (Vigilante Series) Page 29
