by S. S. Segran
“Crap luck.”
“Tch, I believe it.”
Hajjar hummed deep in his throat, then said, “I’m thinking, you know, to have been assigned this job . . . that means we’re in the Boss’s good books.”
“I’ve been in the Boss’s good books for a long time, Elias. This is nothing new.”
“You can’t let me enjoy this one moment, can you, sir? Yes, we all know about the great Vladimir Ajajdif, from a poor town in Russia who found himself homeless in America at eighteen. Then the Boss saw him one day, and picked him off the street like the garbage he was sweeping!”
“I could clock you for that.”
“You could, but how many of our sparring matches have I won?”
Ajajdif flicked his cigarette ashes at the big man. No one could ever converse with him the way Hajjar did. Despite their difference in positions in Phoenix’s hierarchy, they maintained a professional but amiable camaraderie.
Which is to be expected after nearly a decade of working together, Ajajdif thought. But long years of service don’t always guarantee good company. I wouldn’t mind breaking a few teeth of some of the Inner Circle idiots . . .
Now at the edge of Jerusalem, they followed the SUV as it came to a halt a quarter mile from the colossal St. Louis French Hospital. Blue and red flashes strobed against the baroque Renaissance architecture as nearly half a dozen ambulances blocked the area around the building. Ajajdif could see EMTs pulling out people on stretchers from the backs of their vehicles.
“They’re all sick,” Hajjar rumbled. “Poor schmucks. At least we don’t have to worry about that.”
The SUV reversed and did a U-turn, speeding past them. Hajjar allowed them a short head start, then followed. Ajajdif nodded in reluctant approval. “Not going into a hospital full of possibly infected people. Wise move.”
Keeping to the edge of the city, the SUV wove past minimal traffic before turning into a residential area and continuing on until arriving at a row of small houses across from a long apartment building. Hajjar turned off the headlights and maintained a healthy following distance.
The teenagers parked in front one of the residences and jumped out. The front door of the house flew open and a man, silhouetted by the light inside, ran out to help them lift a body from the SUV while the rest guided another man out of the vehicle.
“Looks like Mr. Sawyer’s conscious,” Ajajdif muttered. “Turn into the apartment complex, Elias.”
Hajjar did as ordered. He parked in an empty stall facing the street, a half wall providing sufficient cover for them.
“They’re probably resting here for the night,” he said. “I’ll take first shift. You need some sleep. You’re looking gaunter than I’ve seen you in a while.”
“It’s because I hate being out here.” Ajajdif flicked his cigarette out the window and reclined his seat. “If they so much as step out that door to make a phone call, wake me up. I want to make sure we don’t screw this up like Tony did.”
* * *
Tegan slumped against Mariah on the couch. She was drained now that the adrenaline of the dash to Jerusalem had worn off. In the small open-plan kitchen beside the living and dining room, Kody and Aari spoke quietly, each with a glass of water in hand. Despair polluted the environment like a thick, heavy smog.
Marshall limped out of a room across from the couch. His cuts and bruises had been cleaned but he looked a little green from his near-death experience. The Sentry had regained consciousness in a fit of panic just as the teenagers were about to arrive at the hospital in Jerusalem, and instead directed them toward the home of his IDF associate.
The girls scooted over so Marshall could sit between them. “How are you feeling?” Mariah asked.
Marshall smiled tiredly as Kody and Aari made their way over. “I think I’ll be seeing that fall in my dreams for a while, but there’s no permanent damage. I got off almost scot-free, and that’s all thanks to Jag.”
Tegan looked toward the room with its door ajar. “Is he okay?”
“Danny took a look and said that he’s got a broken tibia and some other injuries. That’ll take some time to heal.”
Aari paled. “He’s out of commission? For how long?”
“A few weeks.”
Tegan buried her face in Marshall’s arm. “Oh, my God.”
“Hey, hey. At least he’s okay.” Marshall placed a hand on the side of her head, lifting it. “I think you should go see him. He came around as we were putting the cast on, said he wanted to talk to you.”
“He’s awake?”
Marshall’s friend emerged from the room, wiping his hands on a small towel; Daniel was as tall as the Sentry, though darker in complexion with short black hair. “He is.” He had a slight accent but his English was impeccable. “I’ve done all I can, but I hope you know that he’s in no condition to travel.”
“Yeah,” Marshall said. “Thanks again for letting us crash here, Danny.”
“C’mon, Mars. Don’t mention it.”
Marshall gently nudged Tegan so she’d get off the couch. Tegan gave Daniel a tight-lipped smile as she passed him and entered Jag’s room. The man was incredibly friendly and not nosey in the slightest, which was exactly what the group needed. He trusted Marshall and Marshall trusted him. That was good enough for Tegan.
Jag lay in bed, his leg wrapped in a thick white cast, his head propped up by pillows. His feet, red and blistered, were lathered in ointment. A glass of water and some pain medication rested on the nightstand, and the lamp on the tabletop was the only lighting in the room.
Tegan took a seat in the vacant chair beside the bed. “Hey.”
Jag looked at her, eyes barely open. “Hey.”
“I see you’re already on the good stuff.”
“Daniel only gave me two pills.”
“Hah. You never were good with meds.”
His gaze wandered to the ceiling. “So. No seeds. No cure.”
“No.”
“Square one.”
“Yes. Although honestly, as disappointed as I am, I’m not really surprised. Nothing’s ever handed over on a silver platter, is it?”
“Tegan Ryder, ever the optimist.”
“Realist, thank you very much.” She examined his injured leg. “How’s this doing?”
“The cast is solid. Marshall put in some of his homemade Dema-Ki healing powder. He said it should quicken the mending.”
Tegan leaned back, resting her feet on the corner of the bed. “You’re insane, you know that? And brave. What you did—”
“I agreed to let him climb down, and what happened was the result of that decision. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if we had lost him.”
“He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”
Jag tilted his head toward her, half of his face buried in the big pillow, and held out his hand. Tegan took it.
“Maybe this needed to happen,” he said. “Me breaking my leg and being stuck here for a while, I mean.”
Tegan noticed his eyes shifting away before returning to her. She knew where he was going. She knew it when he’d called her the Spock to his Kirk in the restaurant. She pulled back her hand. “I will not take your place, Jag.”
Dumbfounded, he couldn’t form words for a full minute. She held his gaze in icy calmness and repeated, “I will not take your place.”
“How did you know I was gonna—”
“We’ve known each other all our lives. I know you as much as you know me. The five of us, we’re all open books.”
“Then you know I can’t do this. Right now is the perfect time for you to step in. With all the uncertainty of this mission and the world spiraling out of control, we need someone reliable to lead it. And I know you’ll do well.”
Tegan looked away. Why is he still doubting himself? she wondered. Does he ignore all the years we followed him just because it happened when we were younger? He’s cutting loose and trying to slip away again . . . Mmph. Maybe pushing him will just k
eep him at bay forever. Maybe I could keep the gears moving, then by the time he recovers the team’ll be all set for him to take the reins again. Yeah. Maybe that’s all he needs.
“Tegan, please—”
She held up her hand. “I’m not going to debate this, so I’ll make you a deal. I’ll do it. But the moment you’re well enough to be in the field with us, you’re back on the job.”
His expression leapt from pleased to confused, then to surrender. “Alright.”
She patted the blanket, then got up. “I should let you rest.”
As she headed to the door, Jag asked, “How are the others?”
“Tired,” she said. “Extremely dejected that the seeds weren’t in the cave. But you and Marshall surviving the fall is quite literally a lifesaver for all of us.”
“We’ll find the seeds. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Time isn’t a luxury we have. But I hope you’re right.” Tegan walked out and found the couch and floor covered with blankets. “What’s going on here?”
“Welcome to the communal bed,” Kody said, windmilling his arms. Tegan stared at him blankly. When he realized what he’d said, he looked mortified. “That came out really weird. We’re bunking here for the night is what I meant.”
Mariah, curled up on the couch, had wrapped herself in a brown blanket like a burrito. “How is he?”
Tegan grabbed another blanket from the floor and wound it around herself like Mariah. “He’s fine, considering. Looked like he was about to knock out, so I let him be.”
As Marshall helped Daniel pump up an air mattress, he said, “You four wanna rock-paper-scissors to see who gets this bed?”
“You take it,” they piped in unison.
Daniel grinned. “Good bunch of kids you got.”
“They’re awesome,” the Sentry agreed. “But really, it’s been a long day and—”
“And the guy who had a brush with death needs that bed,” Tegan finished. “Yes, Marshall, we completely agree.”
Daniel capped the mattress’s air valve. “All done. So, guys, I have to run an errand early in the morning. I’m going to bed, but mi casa es su casa. Eat what you like, watch what you like. Just don’t use my toothbrush, okay?”
Marshall bumped the side of his fist against Daniel’s. “Thanks, Danny. Again, we really appreciate it.”
Aari turned on the TV once Daniel had retired and they were all snug with their blankets on the couch and floor. He flipped through a few stations until coming across CNN. A blonde anchor was listening to a reporter who stood outside the CDC headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia where a press conference had just concluded.
“. . . Those were definitely some terse remarks from Ruben Flint, the director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention,” said the reporter, glancing down at a sheet of paper in his hand. “What we do know is that all available resources have been channeled to the investigation of this outbreak. The pandemic has taken the world by shock and is spreading at an alarming rate, with a hundred-and-fifty thousand reported cases and over fifty thousand fatalities globally from both strains of the disease.”
The anchor looked bleakly into the camera. “My God. Is there any news of a cure? Is a vaccine in the works?”
“Afraid not. As we heard from Dr. Flint, this is an entirely new type of disease and there’s nothing in the CDC’s database that provides a clue about the pathogen. As I said earlier, it’s taken health authorities by shock. No doubt experts around the world are scrambling to make sense of this virus and engineer a cure. Vectors are now suspected to be zoonotic, meaning the carriers are most likely birds and/or other animals. It’s also believed to be airborne and capable of surviving in the air for about seventy-two hours.”
“Is there any additional information, maybe about the incubation period and more about the symptoms?” the anchor asked.
Kody poked Aari’s ribs. “Incubation period . . . isn’t that the time it takes for the symptoms of an illness to show after a person’s been infected?”
“Yeah,” Aari said.
“Shh,” Tegan whispered, eyes glued to the television.
The reporter held up his notes. “Yes, actually. We do know more now than we did earlier this week—and the picture isn’t good. The incubation period is said to be between two to seven days for both strains of the disease. The period of communicability is from the time a person is infected until the moment the victim succumbs. Now add to that the survivability of the virus in or outside of the deceased host, and it’s quite the pathogen that’s invaded our biosphere.” He looked up briefly, ashen, then continued. “Initial symptoms for the first form of the disease, which authorities are calling the Alpha Strain, includes coughing, blurred vision, bleeding in the digestive tract, and signs of accelerated aging such as loss of hair, teeth and mobility.”
“And the second one?”
“At the CDC’s last public address, we were told that the initial symptoms of the second variant, known as the Omega Strain, are fever-like. Now we know that the mild headaches the victims experience grow in intensity within days until it becomes completely unbearable, resulting in bleeding from the eyes and ears and possible seizures. At that point, those infected erupt in sudden violence before they . . . expire. The reason for this is still unclear.”
The anchor stared into the camera, loss for words. The reporter on the split-screen jumped in to fill the void. “Until effective screening methods are made widely available, governments across the globe working closely with the World Health Organization have imposed strict travel bans in their respective countries.”
Mariah took the remote from Aari and turned the TV off. “Okay, I’m done. I don’t want to go to sleep feeling even worse.”
“Fifty thousand gone, just like that,” Aari murmured. “In almost two and a half weeks. That’s brutal.”
Tegan wrapped herself tighter in her blanket and burrowed deeper into the couch. “And we’re at a dead end now.”
Marshall, lying on his back on the mattress, said quietly, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there are no real dead ends.”
Kody turned off the light, and one by one the group fell asleep. Tegan, exhausted, sent a plea to the universe before she, too, nodded off.
Help us.
27
Along an arm of the partially frozen Irtysh River, at the eastern tip of Kazakhstan, construction of a hydroelectric dam was in progress. A ramshackle barge made its last rounds for the year, plying between both banks before winter set in. The rolling, snow-draped slopes on the southern shore gave way to a miniscule town by the water, beside which lay a vast staging area for the hydroelectric project.
Since its independence from the Soviet Union in 1991, Kazakhstan had become the strongest economy in Central Asia. In spite of global turmoil, the nation’s economy fared relatively well due to oil exports. Though the country maintained a stable government with an authoritarian form of democracy, greed and corruption in public and private undertakings benefited Phoenix Corporation’s construction divisions, as well as its more clandestine operation, Arcane Ventures. Free from government oversight, the hydroelectric project provided cover to build a Sanctuary.
Like Russia, Kazakhstan had been mostly spared by the nanomite scourge—though certainly not due to magnanimity—and the government-controlled media kept this fact as closely guarded as possible to avoid raids on its grain reserves. Sitting between Russia and China as they warred earned the country a great profit from skyrocketing oil prices, but that didn’t protect it from the disease. Even so, while the illness affecting those in the larger cities had started to spread outward, the workers at the remote project site seemed to be faring well.
The hills to the east of the small town both supplied building materials for the dam and concealed the entrance to the underground Sanctuary, which resembled the five others in layout but was twenty percent larger. Inside the main administrative building in the subterranean complex, two pairs of
footsteps echoed down the extended hallway, the pitter-patter of one as it tried to keep pace with the stark snapping of the other.
Dr. Nate stole a quick glance at the looming figure beside him. The Boss, garbed as usual in a long black coat with the golden hood pulled up, walked in silence. The doctor had instructed employees to vacate specific areas within the administrative section upon their arrival three days prior, leaving them exclusively to him and his superior.
He looked down at the tablet in his hands, scrolling through a file he’d put together just minutes before meeting the Boss. “Increased productivity in the Sanctuary ’as been nothing short of remarkable since our arrival,” he said jauntily. “I suppose sometimes all that’s needed is the motivation of a strong presence.”
When the Boss answered, the deep, digitally-distorted voice that emerged made the doctor jump. “It would seem so. All the same, I would—you look startled, Doctor. Did the voice modulator catch you off guard?”
Dr. Nate smiled, embarrassed. “Ah, yes, yes it did. Seeing as you’re wearing it, I assume that means you’re waiting for a call?”
“I am. As I was saying, I intend to remain here for at least two more days. Don’t want to lift my foot off the neck prematurely.”
“Sensible. I’ll notify Zarya.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Mmh, yes. Dr. Bertram emailed me a few minutes ago, said that we need to speak soon on an important matter.”
“Something wrong?”
“There’s very little information in the email, for security reasons, I assume, but it’s about Dr. Deol.”
The tall figure halted at the mention of the woman heading Quest Biotech, one of Phoenix’s most crucial subsidiaries, and turned to him. Dr. Nate craned his neck to look at the black void where the Boss’s face was. That damned hood sucks all the light like nothing else. I may as well be looking at a grim reaper.
“Dr. Deol,” the Boss said flatly, “is vital to our plans. I want to know what the problem is, if any, as soon as you do.”
“Of course.”
