Pandemic i-3

by Scott Sigler

  The look on Margaret’s face made it clear she didn’t want to remember that moment.

  “The disease seemed to adapt,” she said. “We stopped the triangles. In the following outbreak the disease expressed itself in at least two new ways.”

  Tim closed his eyes, let his brain work through the details, hoping he could find that spark of inspiration. “We’ve had no new activity since the Orbital was shot down. Now we find a piece of the Orbital, and blammo, we’ve a third new form. So it’s reasonable to hypothesize that all the designs originated with the Orbital. You stopped the first attempt, the Dawsey-era infections, so it retooled and tried again with the things you saw in Detroit. You stopped that, so maybe it was already making additional changes when it was shot down. Maybe the hydras are that new design.”

  Margaret bit at her lower lip. “Maybe. But that doesn’t explain why hydras would kill crawlers. Why would the Orbital make something that kills something else the Orbital made?”

  Tim didn’t have an answer for that. He felt like he was on the right path, although he couldn’t see where that path ended.

  “Well, the hydras aren’t an accident,” he said. “The infection reprogrammed Walker’s body to make them.”

  Margaret’s eyes stared off, seemed to lose focus. Her lips moved slightly, like she was talking quietly to herself.

  “An accident,” she said. She closed her eyes, kept mumbling to herself like a student trying to work out a complex math problem. Tim wasn’t even sure if she knew he was there anymore.

  “Tim, what if was an accident. Or rather, a mutation. Maybe there was something different about Walker’s body, about the way her cellular factories reacted to the infection’s reprogramming.” Margaret blinked rapidly, raised her eyebrows — her eyes again focused on him. “Can you get Walker’s medical records?”

  “Of course. What do you want to know?”

  “Start with her medical history. Maybe there’s something unusual in her system that wasn’t in the other victims.”

  Tim called up Walker’s records, scanned through the usual list of military checkups, inoculations, physicals… then found exactly what Margaret was looking for: something unusual.

  “She had lupus,” he said.

  Margaret shook her head. “That can’t be it. I can’t see how an autoimmune disease would affect the crawlers. They hijack stem cells to produce copies of themselves.”

  Tim looked deeper in the record. When he found the next difference, he felt his heart start to hammer.

  “Jesus, Margaret… Walker underwent HAC therapy to treat the lupus.”

  Margaret narrowed her eyes, not understanding. “What’s HAC therapy?”

  That question surprised Tim. She hadn’t just tuned out from life, she’d tuned out from medicine altogether. She wasn’t even reading research journals.

  “HAC is human artificial chromosome treatment. It’s an experimental way to treat genetic defects. The process introduces a new chromosome into stem cells. The end result is stem cells with forty-seven chromosomes instead of the normal forty-six that all cells are supposed to have. The forty-seventh chromosome probably has a myriad of immune system modulators meant to reprogram cells to stop the autoimmune effects of lupus — new transcription factors, genetic code to modify gene response, et cetera. In some cases HAC even introduces fully artificial gene sequences.”

  Even as he said the words, it struck him how similar the process sounded to the Orbital’s infection strategy: targeted changes to the host’s DNA, altering the processes created by millions of years of evolution. Was humanity that far away from harnessing the very technology that threatened to wipe it out forever?

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared. Normally, she looked like she couldn’t hurt a fly, but now her expression was that of a predator.

  “An artificial chromosome in stem cells,” she said. “Maybe the Orbital’s technology can’t properly integrate that forty-seventh chromosome.”

  She nodded, slowly at first, then gradually faster.

  “This therapy,” she said. “Where did Walker get it?”

  “Let me check.” Tim read through Walker’s records. “Looks like a clinic within the Spectrum Health System in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Cutting-edge stuff, only ten people in the trial.”

  Margaret thought for a moment. Her excitement seemed to grow.

  “Correlation isn’t causation, but this is one hell of a correlation,” she said. “We need to see if these new, larger crawlers colonized Walker’s brain, like the older ones colonized Petrovsky’s. Let’s find out right now.”

  Tim walked to his prep tray and lifted the compact Stryker saw, preparing to cut into Walker’s skull.

  PREPROGRAMMING

  Perhaps a thousand modified neutrophils had reached Charlie Petrovsky’s squamous epithelium. Most of them died there, wiped out by the ever-growing apoptosis chain reaction that steadily turned Charlie into a pile of black sludge.

  Some, however, held on to life, held on just long enough for a gloved hand to brush against Charlie’s skin.

  When that gloved hand moved away, a dozen neutrophils moved with it.

  They emitted a new chemical, an airborne signal that announced their presence to any other neutrophils that might be near. If a neutrophil detected that chemical coming from mostly one direction, it moved in that direction: flow, reach, pull… flow, reach, pull. If it detected roughly equal amounts of the chemical coming from multiple directions, it stayed where it was. This simple process created an instant implementation of quorum sensing, of individuals using a basic cue to communicate as a single individual.

  The microscopic neutrophils had a relatively massive area to cover. The equivalent, perhaps, of a dozen mice scattered onto an area the size of a dozen football fields. Much ground to cover, and yet the neutrophils had been designed for this very action.

  Three were too weak to make the journey. They expired along the way, leaving nine that found each other, amorphous blobs pressing in on each other.

  At the center of this shifting pile, three neutrophils underwent a rapid physical change. They altered their internal workings to produce a caustic chemical, a chemical specifically preprogrammed by the Orbital some five years earlier. This trio pressed themselves flat against the Tyvek material of the gloves upon which they rode. The trio started to swell, to fill with fluid, until — following those same, preprogrammed instructions — they sacrificed themselves by tearing open their own cell walls.

  The caustic chemical spilled onto the Tyvek: just a microscopic drop, something not even visible to the naked eye, but enough to weaken the material, to create a tiny divot.

  Another neutrophil flowed into the divot, then repeated the process, deepening the hole. Then another, and another.

  The chemical burst of the last one was enough to punch all the way through.

  Pressurized air flowed out, an infinitesimal, nearly immeasurable amount, sliding past the flat bodies of the seventh and eight neutrophils that climbed through the microscopic hole all the way to the glove’s inner surface. These, too, began a phase change — their bodies quickly split into dozens of tiny, self-contained particles.

  Those particles flaked away, scattered like an invisible shower onto the skin of the person wearing the gloves. There the particles began to burrow.

  The Orbital had watched. The Orbital had learned. It knew of the primitive-yet-effective technology the humans had developed to protect themselves from infection. Drawing on the knowledge of a vastly superior technology, the Orbital had prepared a way to defeat this protection.

  The last neutrophil sensed that its fellow microbes had succeeded. It underwent the final portion of the preprogrammed dance. It slid into the microscopic hole and began to swell, bloating until it pushed against the sides.

  Air stopped flowing out of the glove.

  That final neutrophil hardened, then died, fulfilling its role as nothing more than a plug in a hole so tiny it would take a
n electron microscope to see it, if anyone ever looked.

  And no one ever would.

  IT’S ABOUT CANTRELL

  Clarence needed a shower. At least he was out of that suit. Built-in air conditioner or not, when he wore it, he sweated like a whore in church — probably less from any heat and more because of what waited just outside of the thin material.

  He sat in the small control center that looked down through the clear roofs of the three science modules. The console in front of him and the walls on either side were packed with computers, monitors and communication equipment — neat, tidy, space-conscious military design. The built-in microphone in front of him let him speak to people in the modules; speakers in the console let him hear them talk.

  Through the control center’s glass, he saw Margaret and Tim working away. They’d pulled Candice Walker’s scalp down over her face. The inside-out flesh looked bone-white, smeared with tacky blood. Tim was cutting into her skull with a handheld saw.

  Clarence had been in the BSL-4 suit for about two hours, total, and had been counting the minutes until he could get out of it. He didn’t know how Margaret and Feely managed it so well; the two of them would probably be in their suits for another eight to ten hours, at least. They had both opted for devices that allowed them to urinate and defecate while still in the suit.

  You told her she’s not a soldier. You can barely keep your suit on for ninety minutes but she can piss and shit inside of hers for twenty-four hours straight if she has to.

  Not that Clarence hadn’t faced his own fair share of awful conditions. In Iraq, his unit had been pinned down. Waiting for support, he and his buddy, Louis Oakley, had hidden behind rocks, suffering 120-degree heat while dreading that the next bullet would hit home. Lou-Lou took a round to the head. He died instantly. Clarence had lain there for the better part of a day, unable to move away from the corpse, willing his body to press closer to the ground. Louis had looked on, unblinking.

  Clarence shook his head, came back to the moment. No time to get lost in those memories.

  He finished up the notes from his interview with Cantrell. Margaret preferred her information summarized, the most-important stuff bullet-pointed right up top. If she needed info beyond that summary, she would ask.

  At times, being in a relationship with a woman who was clearly much, much smarter than he was felt a little intimidating. In their day-to-day life it hadn’t been noticeable — she was a woman, he was a man, things worked out. But when it came to talking politics, finances, history, or — God forbid — science, the gap in their IQs became clear. At least he knew more about football than she did. Or, at least that’s what she let him believe. He was never really sure about that one.

  Clarence turned on the microphone. “Margo, is now still a good time?”

  She and Tim stopped what they were doing, looked up. Margaret nodded.

  Tim had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Suit’s a little stuffy, eh, fella? You want me to go to the kitchen and fetch you a nice glass of lemonade to cool you off?”

  Clarence ground his teeth in embarrassment.

  “Or some talcum powder,” Tim said. “Maybe your bottom is damp?”

  Margaret reached out, slapped Tim lightly on the shoulder. He stopped talking, but the grin didn’t go away. Was he actually posturing, trying to impress Margaret? At a time like this, the guy was hitting on her?

  Just hope we never step into the ring, you little runt. We’ll find out who’s the better man.

  “Margo,” Clarence said, “verbal or send it to your HUD?”

  She tapped her visor. “HUD. Tim’s as well.”

  Clarence did as he was asked.

  Both Tim and Margaret read through the info playing on the inside of their visors.

  “Fancy,” Tim said. “It’s like Cliff’s Notes for Holy Shit the World Is Going to End Theater. Bullet points? Please, Agent Otto, don’t spend any time going into actual detail.”

  “Tim, cut it out,” Margaret said, still reading. “This is how I want my data. Clarence knows what I like.”

  That line shut Tim up. He glared up at the control booth. Clarence knew Margaret hadn’t meant anything sexual by the reference, but he couldn’t help but give Tim a little nod that said, Awww yeah, I know what she likes, and you never will.

  Margaret tapped the air, shutting off the report.

  “The bleach thing is interesting,” she said. “Is anyone checking their suits for holes or malfunctions?”

  “I asked Captain Yasaka if someone could test them,” Clarence said. “She’s going to have the nonquarantined divers run a pressurized rate of fall test as soon as they can, probably first thing tomorrow morning. The divers pressurize the suit and watch the gauges, see if there is a loss greater than expected. In other words, fill it with air and see if it leaks.”

  “The holes could be small,” Tim said. “The crawler spores are tiny. We’re talking microns, here. Gauges might not show pressure loss from something that size.”

  Clarence nodded. “Correct, which is why if they don’t find a leak that way, they will then go for a full submersion test. They need our airlock for that, the big one that leads outside the ship.”

  Margaret waved a hand dismissively. “Any hole so small the pressure test won’t show it is too small to worry about. I mean, a spore or a crawler would have to randomly land on that tiny hole, and somehow fall through that hole when the suits are pressurized to push air out, and then still land on skin.”

  Her eyes again focused on the report displaying inside her visor.

  “You emphasize Cantrell’s intelligence,” she said. “Why?”

  “When he told me what happened, it was almost a word-for-word rendition of what he wrote in his incident report,” Clarence said. “He remembered what he said perfectly, all except for smelling bleach. It strikes me odd he has perfect recall for everything save for that one detail.”

  “So you think Cantrell is lying,” Tim said.

  Clarence wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Something just didn’t seem to add up.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Another thing about that report struck me as odd. When he and Clark reached Walker, one of the things she said was they bit me. Did you guys find a bite mark on her body?”

  “None,” Tim said. “But just because we didn’t find one doesn’t mean Clark and Cantrell were lying about hearing her say that.”

  Clarence rubbed his face. He already felt so damn tired. “Yeah, that’s a good point. But the bleach discrepancy still bothers me. Maybe Tim should test him again.”

  Margaret tapped the report back on, read something, tapped it back off.

  “It’s been thirty-six hours since Cantrell was exposed,” she said. “If he was infected, he’d have probably come up positive by now. Even if he’s got a longer incubation period than we’ve seen in the past, he’s being tested every three hours so we’ll find out soon enough. He’s scheduled for his next test in twenty minutes. Clarence, can you take over the testing duties? I need Doctor Feely here with me.”

  Clarence looked at Tim.

  Tim nodded: Awwww yeah.

  Clarence ground his teeth. “Sure, Margo,” he said. “I’ll make sure Cantrell is tested every three hours.”

  She turned back to the table. Tim got to work; Clarence heard the bone saw’s whine even through the control room’s security glass.

  Then, Margaret turned back. She stared up at Clarence.

  He had seen that look on her face before. She had figured something out, or was just on the edge of doing so.

  “Margo, what is it?”

  She looked down at Walker’s corpse. Margaret lifted the severed arm, stared at it.

  “The bite,” she said. “Walker claimed to be bitten, but there are no bite marks. What if she was bitten on the arm?”

  Tim stopped cutting into the skull. “You’re thinking she cut off her own arm not because she was infected, like Dawsey, but because she thought it would prevent her from being in
fected?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Tim set the saw on a tray. He reached out into the air and started calling up information.

  Clarence tried to imagine himself in Walker’s shoes. A submarine full of people, some of them turning into killers, killers that worked together like those soldiers in Michigan did during the last outbreak… and nowhere to run.

  “It can spread from a bite?” he asked.

  “Probably,” Margaret said. “Some of the infection victims had growths on the tongue that could spread the contagion. But what matters is if Walker thought it could spread from a bite. Maybe she saw her friends being turned into murderers, maybe she did anything she could to not become one herself.”

  “Like a zombie movie,” Clarence said. “You think she got bit, panicked, did what she thought might keep her from becoming one of the bad guys?”

  Tim shook his head. “Timeline doesn’t add up for that,” he said. “She cut off that arm around thirty-eight hours ago. Based on the state of her crawlers, she was already heavily infected by that time. She was already… what’s the word I want… oh, she was already converted. Why would she cut off her own arm if one of her own kind bit her? Hell, Margaret, why would one of them bite her at all? The Converted all work together, like ants in a colony.”

  “My point exactly,” Margaret said. Her eyes were sharp, full of sudden assuredness. “The Converted. That’s an excellent term. Candice Walker had crawlers, absolutely, but she was not converted. Feely, get that brain out, and get it out now.”

  BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

  Steve Stanton was done with the cold weather. The small stateroom he shared with Bo Pan wasn’t toasty by any stretch of the imagination, but it was easily thirty degrees warmer than it was up on deck. Plus, no wind. Plus, no ice-cold water spray.

  Maybe he should have hired a bigger boat. The guest stateroom was smaller than his freshman dorm room back at Berkeley. It was cramped to begin with — sharing the space with Bo Pan made it miserable. Bo Pan didn’t do much, mostly just sat in his bunk. Sat and watched Steve type code.