She put a hand on her chest, and said, smiling, “I volunteered.”
Stark stood there feeling like Carlos IV, stiff and unmoving, expected to stand here with a bronze face while a pyre made of his friends blew oily smoke straight at him. “No, Domenica.”
“Contact Dr. Ahwaz, Rosangelica,” Domenica said. “I’m ready.”
Inside her helmet, Rosangelica muttered, “Paprika. Primavera. Epilepsy. Get him back to the hot lab. Pepenar.”
“Oh, you sad, sad, little—” Stark shook his head in disbelief and opened the push pack he’d originally grabbed from Muñoz’s Joint office and swabbed the syringe filled with omnivalent vaccine. Then he injected her. People had died of Generation One in minutes at Zapata Hospital. Such a risk. She might have died needlessly if they hadn’t arrived in time to vaccinate her. The omnivalent would only delay the inevitable, but even a delay of mere hours was crucial. He withdrew the needle from Domenica’s arm. Stark’s cruel, clever plan to lure Joaquin into the open had worked all too well and now that it was finished, Stark felt flayed open by it, his bones and blood exposed.
“Ginger. Gingibre. Handkerchief,” said Rosangelica.
Stark turned away and found Joaquin’s medical kit, jerking it open and shutting out Domenica, Rosangelica, and this bloody scene as he removed gloves and an empty syringe. The coldness that Stark had felt only a few hours ago had melted and now reined in a passionate anger. He knew which way this was headed. The worst jobs in humanity’s most wretched moments always fell to Henry David Stark, after all. He swiftly knelt at Joaquin’s side and took his teacher’s hand. They didn’t need his blood, now that Domenica had contracted the virus, but in case the recoding experiment failed, they would need a sample from Patient Minus One. Now more than ever, Stark didn’t want to be trapped without options.
Joaquin couldn’t move. Something was wrong with his back, but he opened his heavy-lidded eyes extra wide, as if afraid of falling asleep, and watched the needle. “Vaccine from unmutated virus?” he said in English.
Stark thumped a vein on Joaquin’s arm with his thumb and growled in English, “You just so damn smart, ain’t you?” Then in contempt for both himself and Joaquin, muttered, “Ghana.”
Joaquin shook his head, and said regretfully, “I win either way now, Enrique.”
It was what Joaquin said after Stark forever failed to defeat Joaquin at chess. Stark stuck Joaquin hard and drew a plunger full of blood, then sealed the syringe in a cryopack from the kit. The impending resurrection of the epidemic was upon them, but the Task Force’s chances of stopping it had just quadrupled. “We just gonna see about that.”
“You can’t stop what I started.” Joaquin kept shaking his head as if disappointed. “You should thank me.”
Stark couldn’t stomach hearing that voice anymore. The sounds of clambering made Stark turn as Carriego waved a team of suited medicos into the room and over the ALHEPA filter’s wreckage.
“Why don’t you have a suit on?” one of the doctors shouted at Stark, Racal speaker cranked.
“You brought up two suits, right?” Stark said, standing. “Give me one. And two of you get Sister Domenica to the Immune Complex ahorita!” Stark began tugging on his suit, trapping any stray viruses he might have contracted inside the Racal-plus with him. He pointed to Joaquin. “And get that man suited, too. Hurry!”
“But you can’t leave this room,” the doctor who had handed Stark the new suit said, “not with all this blood. Not without having an assay yourself. We have to quarantine this whole facility before—”
“This man has been injured. He’s been shot,” said a doctor, taking a closer look at Joaquin. “We can’t put a suit on him!”
“That man is the source of the outbreak,” Stark said. “Suit him. It’s the best way to quarantine him or he’ll spread it all over La Alta.”
An awed silence filled the room and the only sound was Stark stuffing himself into his suit. The team of doctors moved slowly through the horizontal sunset light, cutting long black shadows behind them. Two crept toward Domenica, and the others stepped in a deliberate circle around Joaquin Delgado where he lay in the center of the cell, as if they did not want to disturb the elements of the prophecy as it had been told to Mexico for weeks.
The nun.
The Spaniard.
Pools of infected blood.
When the team had Joaquin suited, they sprayed his clean suit with bleach and did the same for Stark’s and Rosangelica’s suits. Then they moved all four of them—Domenica, Joaquin, Rosangelica, and Stark—into the cloister’s quarantine room, standing them in the particle arresters and spraying them down again. Rosangelica kept linking to her satellites as they moved from stage to stage in the antiseptic operation.
“Besame. Sesame. Caje. Kismet.”
Carriego and a doctor carried Joaquin, his arms draped over their shoulders as he limped, his helmet sagging forward. Two other doctors all but carried Domenica, urging her to keep her head up. The cloister outside the quarantine was empty. So were the hallways outside the Cloister of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Ascensión was never this quiet.
“Someone spilled the beans,” said Rosangelica.
“Just as well. We’re taking chances by moving Joaquin,” Stark said. “Better if the corridors of Cuauhtémoc are empty.” He looked at Joaquin hard, hoping for an acknowledgment of guilt or an apology.
Rosangelica was watching Stark. Finally, she said, “You don’t need him anymore?”
The question chilled Stark. She was going to kill him. If she could shoot an innocent infected doctor, then killing Joaquin Delgado would be a lark. Stark held the black case of the medical kit to his chest. “I have what I need.”
“Are you absolutely positive? I don’t want you saying afterward—”
Stark turned away. It was like looking at a vicious caricature of a dear friend. “No. We don’t need him anymore.”
“Estarque,” Rosangelica said. “Beyond my wildest fantasies, I never considered taking Joaquin Delgado alive to stand trial.” Already the name had a sneer to it, a luscious, coveted hatred. He would never be Joaquin or Dr. Delgado again. Forever would he be remembered in Mexico as Joaquin Delgado, and all that the odious name implied. Rosangelica said, “Carriego, let’s take him to the Majority Holding Cell. They have the cleanest cells in town.”
“Hear that?” Carriego said to Joaquin. “Emil the Damned wants only the best for you.”
Rosangelica and the two carrying Joaquin walked out of the cloister and made their way across the esplanade of swaying date palms and crimson bromeliads. Creamy sunlight fell on their white suits, and the vast, empty space around them seemed claustrophobic to Stark, the enormity of the tower itself constricting around them.
“How are you, Domenica?” asked Stark, turning to her.
“I must be heavy.”
By the looks on their faces, the doctors didn’t mind helping the most famous woman in Mexico.
Stark looked back at Rosangelica and her quarry, noted a few people in white Racal suits skirting the palm-tree-lined margins of the esplanade. “We have to get to Dr. Ahwaz’s office, and then you can rest, Sister.”
—… the last of three troop movements, these from Arizona into New Mexico [data to follow], doubling the supply line into San Antonio [sat link codes sent 0300] in case things got dicey and a line of war drones [packet the sabihonda for codes] angled for an expected attack from the strategically superior Blue units in the hill country north of Austin [31 long by 98 lat] that way when the ground war starts our boots are covered all the way up the Guadalupe [but they will need security codes so that—
Rosangelica walked behind Joaquin Delgado, Carriego, and the doctor. Carriego’s black-leather coat was a hard contrast to Joaquin’s white Racal suit. Her eyes drifted lazily away to another set of white suits in the distance, shadowing along the northern edge of the esplanade.
—highest military clearance authority to Rosangelica [node: 4×4×4×4×4×] an
d there can be no further discussion. She brought to us the Holy Grail of the Cassini satellite codes from Houston. Listen to her, Ministers. She is as my own mind in the Austin and Almaty shipment matters. >Agenda Point 205.605 Outbreak Task Force Coordinator I am awaiting an explanation from Rosangelica, Chief of State. I concur. Her actions were rash. I will inform you of my judgment in this matter when—
On the south side of the square, three more people walked parallel to Rosangelica, the medicos, and Joaquin Delgado. That made seven altogether.
—reports an Almaty shipment [800 million pesos Iranian-Siberian crude] aweigh off coast of Maine. Pemex seeking reprisal against Kazakh-Ethiopian Consolidated. Old US corporate chauvinism at work. KEC in violation of embargo Chapter Two. Contact oil ministers at Tenghiz, Kazakhstan, Pan-Islam re isolation of USA as Mexican vital interest. Federal sabihondos should be prepared to attack KEC central net—
More people emerged from the shadows of the far corridors and edged forward into the sunlight. Ten or fifteen of them. Strolling along.
“You paying attention to that?” Carriego asked.
The people were still too far away, walking too slowly, for Rosangelica to consider them a threat. When she could discern facial features, she would decide what to do.
Adjusting the holster under her armpit, she said, “They’re just gawking. That’s all. Keep moving.”
—citing the work of noted futurist and economist, Dr. Isuzu Ibrehim.(12) “The technology has been in place for decades but there have been too many small players on the international geopolitical arena for any single free agent to take advantage. The United States was the last, strongest candidate to create an established orbit economy. If it weren’t for woeful agriculture problems in the US, that country would still be a candidate. This leaves China, India, Mexico, Brazil, and Kazakhstan as countries with the populations and oil reserves capable of maintaining a double economy: a megalithic oil-based financial system on earth supporting the info and tech commodities of an orbit-based research and development system in outer—”—
Rosangelica was still a little drunk from the tequila, which caused her wetware to race. She could have controlled it if she wanted to but it was fun to let her alcohol-suffused connections run where they willed. She could watch the surge of information, react to it if need be—recommend that the supply line into San Antonio not be doubled, for example—or she could watch reality, the world, the thirty or so people slowly closing off the angle she would need to leave the esplanade and enter the Majority Cloister. She could contact the civil militia node with a blink of her eye. Or she could unzip her suit and draw her gun before any of them could react. Plus, there was Carriego.
Total control of the situation.
>PEMEX< Belay reprisals against Kazakh-Ethiopian Consolidated. We can’t afford to upset Almaty commersants [Russ trans: businessmen] or Pan-Islam oil imams. Sabihondos otherwise engaged, unable to commit to node warfare. I recommend swamping US offer on cargo and purchasing Almaty shipment Iranian-Siberian crude for 1 billion Mexican. If KEC will not transfer title, node me at once. >Minister of Defense< Strategy for Austin offensive is too conservative. We don’t have the resources for two supply lines. As soon as outbreak is under control I will release the Cassini codes to you. Draft attack accordingly. >President for Life< I have Joaquin Delgado.—
Rosangelica let her hands swing at her sides, unconcerned by the figures in white. They followed as if being towed by subtle forces of magnetism or gravity.
Curious, Rosangelica tapped into their discussion.
—that it’s him.< >It’s him.< >That’s him.< >The Spaniard. From the prophecy. I know it’s him.< >That’s him.< >He’s right there.<
“What’s happening?” Stark asked, anxious as an expectant father.
Jarum worked his palms together as if he were crushing something in his hands. “She’s dying now.”
“But is it working?”
“We won’t save her,” Jarum said. “But she just has to live long enough to let the new immune system create the T cell.” Jarum sat quietly for a long time, swiveling his chair back and forth and listening to it squeak. “Generation One. You are a lucky son of a bitch, Henry David Stark.”
Jarum never swore, but that was the third time he’d said that since starting the tests on Domenica.
“Now what’s happening?” Stark asked. “Is she developing the fever?”
“Yes, a very bad one,” Jarum said. “That’s good. It means one of the immune systems is winning.”
“Let’s hope it’s the visiting team,” Stark said.
Numbers scrolled up the silver screens, but Jarum ignored them. He read the interface on his desktop memboard. Finally, the numbers stopped running, the gel screens cleared, and the three ia.’s chattered at Jarum. “There. She’s dead.”
“Finally,” Stark said.
“Well?” Domenica asked from the other chamber, her voice twee in Jarum’s memboard. “How did I do?”
Jarum shifted in his chair so that he was facing the window between the chambers, speaking to Domenica as well as Stark. “Domenica1 offers the same results as the three Debora sims,” he said, eyes on Stark. “Her natural immune system killed the wetcoded one, but the matrix got a good look at it before it collapsed. We’re very close.”
“Chance of success for the matrix?” asked Stark. “Despite killing Domenica in the process?”
Jarum pulled up the number with a grudging flick of his hand. He raised his eyebrows. “Fifty-four percent of creating the T cell we need.”
“Generation One almost quadrupled our chances.”
Jarum pushed the memboard away in fatigue and irritation. Certainly in his research clinic back in Bethlehem, it wouldn’t be good enough. But in this situation the number was promising. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the screens. “I near my limit.”
Stark wanted to say the number was good enough but he knew they had to squeeze every percentage point they could get out of these simulations, or Domenica would die without the matrix they needed to wetcode a proper T cell.
“Fifty-four percent?” Domenica said. “That’s excellent, Dr. Ahwaz.”
Stark turned away as if the sound of Domenica’s voice were a slap. He checked the timepiece on his suit’s twenty-four-hour air tanks. Because Stark had dosed her with omnivalent vaccine right away, Domenica had eight hours before her Generation One virus mutated.
The door buzzer sounded. Someone wanted into the level-six hot lab.
Stark checked the security screens and saw a figure in Holy Renaissance red-and-black Racal-plus suit. He couldn’t see the face, but one red glove was raised, giving the camera the finger.
“I wonder where she’s been,” Jarum said, glancing at the security screen and buzzing the door unlocked. “I haven’t seen her since this morning.”
A moment later, Isabel joined them, smiling wanly at Stark, the same sort of smile she’d given him a week ago, when he first arrived in Ascensión. He could read her haggard face plainly. Muñoz’s death had cracked her in two. Domenica’s infection, a kick in the head afterward.
Jarum filled the awkward pause, saying, “Is everything all right, Doctor?”
Isabel shrugged. “I went to Cazador to see about an exit pass back home.” Isabel sat next to Jarum, where she could see his gel screens and Stark, too. Her back was to Domenica in the lab. “He said no.”
Stark said, “You were going to leave us?”
She nodded, her gaunt face looking almost skull-like, even worse than this morning in her bedroom. “Cazador won’t let me go. He says I’m needed here.”
Isabel had never abandoned ship before, never in their many outbreaks together had she even offered a slim hint that she was finished—quite the opposite. She normally stayed until an outbreak was officially declared over by Stark or WHO. Rare for a pathologist or wetcoder. “You are needed here, Bela,” Stark said.
“Cazador also told me he’s coming to oversee this projec
t. But he wanted you to know, Henry David, that Orbegón has reinstated you as Outbreak Coordinator.” Isabel sounded like she was forcing breath and words out of her body. “So where is the project now?”
Stark was relieved to hear her ask, but it was a hollow victory. No sassiness. No cursing. She was a ghost, half-here, only. “We were just discussing our bright sunny options,” Stark said, nodding to the bank of i.a.’s and memboards.
Isabel said, “What’s your success rate up to?”
“Fifty-four percent. But we still can’t save the subject, Isabel,” Jarum said.
“Is fifty-four percent good enough?” Stark asked Isabel. Clonufacturing was ready. If they could get them a viable matrix and augmented T cell, a vaccine would be finished hours later. “Can we proceed on a coin flip?”
“It’s an impressive figure.” She leaned toward the nearest gel screen, scanning it. “But the wetcoded immune system still gets strangled in birth.”
“Now I understand your contempt for this project, Isabel. It’s maddening!” Jarum gesticulated at his screens. His daughters’ faces in their photos smiled at him as if bemused by Father’s outburst. “We can recode eye color and skin tone, but not one little immunocyte?”
“Explain it to me, Bela. Why is it so difficult?” Stark said. “If Joaquin Delgado can recode a virus that slips past every Mexican immune system’s histocompatability exam, why—?”
“It’s not every Mexican,” Jarum said.
“I know it’s not every Mexican, Jarum,” Stark said, irritated, but Jarum had turned away with an abrupt swivel of his chair. “It’s Native Mexicans and people who’ve received the wetware therapy. But what I want to know is—”
“Cálmate, Doctor. Shh shh,” Isabel said. “Listen, it’s like this.” She looked at Jarum, who began nervously tapping numbers into his memboard. “A virus is simple, Henry David. One cell, that’s it. But an immune system? I personally don’t think we can account for all the nuances, all the variables, all the complexities of an immune system. A number of systems working simultaneously within the body are responsible for creating a T cell, so creating a matrix of viruses and nanocoders that will rewrite them simultaneously is a very ambitious task.”
The Patron Saint of Plagues Page 40
