As the plane swung through one hundred eighty degrees she heard an exhalation and an exclamation from the cockpit.
“What is it?” she heard David say. “Are we blown?” He pushed the throttles forward and the engines picked up speed.
“I don’t know,” replied Larry. “It’s just one vehicle. No lights. Slow down, man. The Feds wouldn’t come in like this. They’d be all guns blazing and shit. It has to be them!”
David brought the throttles lower, but did not brake the plane. The aircraft and the SUV approached each other on opposite courses, the truck speeding down the runway much faster than the turboprop, heading directly toward it.
At the last second it slewed sideways and two men bailed out, waving frantically. David Markis slammed the throttles back to idle, feathered the props and hit the brakes as wild cheering broke out among the passengers.
Elise couldn’t hold back the tears as Spooky and Daniel climbed aboard. Her husband threw himself into her arms and held on as if he’d never let her go. And he won’t, not if I have anything to say about it, she resolved.
As the plane ran down the runway she saw the SUV flash its lights twice in goodbye, then turn and race away across the dusty desert landscape just turning pink in the light of dawn. Goodbye, Skull, she thought. I don’t like you, but right now I love you. I hope I get to thank you sometime.
Epilogue
I
Interstellar space, 1.6 light years from Earth, velocity .17C.
The organisms on the Meme scout ship were known by their functions. Thus, Commander was awakened earliest, and was the first to begin processing many thousands of planetary revolutions-worth of stored data from the target world. Some time later, two other organisms joined it in consciousness, to digest with Commander. They were designated Biologist and Executive.
It was two full revolutions more before they felt the need to confer. The Meme were meticulous beings, and they examined the data in detail, scanning from the moment their Lightbearer probe had deposited the Adversary Worm onto the target world thousands of cycles ago, until the moment of anomaly.
Commander was first to speak, as was proper. “Biologist. Explain the existence of these sentients. Why did the Adversary Worm not corrupt them sufficiently to reduce them to animals?”
“I cannot explain at this time, Commander. We must continue to process the stored data, and analyze. Perhaps the data will yet relate their fall.”
“Noted. Continue.”
A half a revolution later the Commander spoke again. “I am processing data from circa timepoint minus 3000. The sentients formed large collectives, developed symbolic communication, built permanent structures, and made organized war upon each other. They grow more numerous.”
Biologist replied, “I do not yet have sufficient data to form a conjecture. The Watcher probe is limited in its ability to sample at its orbital distance, and it is only transmitting Level One data.”
“Why do we not have Level Two data? Was the Level Two worm not deployed?”
“Unknown. Each perihelion brings more detail. I will continue to process.”
Executive also waited, and listened, and processed.
While the subordinates were by nature creatures of logic and of very even temperament, Commander was by design less so, having been given more flexibility and motivation to address threats, anomalies and irritations. Thus it was only another revolution, a mere moment to the deep-thinking beings, before Commander spoke again, hardly able to contain itself. By the standards of its race, it was agitated. Its protoplasmic body, huge with age and genetic knowledge, shook within its containment tank.
“I am processing data from circa timepoint minus one hundred. The sentients have developed control of basic electrical forces including electromagnetic communications, internal combustion, and atmospheric flight. The level Two worm must have failed.”
This time it was Executive that responded. “I have been digesting the data as well. I have begun constructing courses of action using the resources at hand.”
“Those resources are very limited. This is a Survey craft, not a Destroyer.”
Executive and Biologist exchanged fleeting thoughts of concern, or perhaps amusement. Commander was sometimes given to redundant statements of well-known fact. The two remained indulgent.
Biologist responded, “Let us continue to digest data. Approximately one hundred target-revolutions will bring us to data-timepoint zero. Then we will have maximum information and can formulate strategy.”
“We must formulate an effective strategy to reduce them to animals. The Race must not Blend with fully sentient beings, or we shall lose who we are. Yet they must be clever enough to be trained to serve. We must prepare Level Two phages for deployment.”
But it was only a fraction of a revolution later that Commander, after processing data from only some fifty cycles ago, exclaimed, “They have harnessed atomic forces for weaponry and research!”
“Yes. Adjusting projections and strategies. These sentients have grown dangerous.” Executive mused momentarily that it itself was now beginning to make obvious and pointless restatements of known fact.
“Artificial orbiting objects! Interplanetary probes! Nuclear weapons numbering thousands! Digital computing devices! Biological informatics and life-code engineering! We must prepare Level Three phages!”
“Calm yourself, Commander,” soothed Biologist. “We have now processed the record until target-data timepoint zero. They are still primitive. Even now, Executive is developing strategies. I am digesting data from our Watcher. And even better, I have an ever-growing store of information from the sentients themselves, broadcast by electromagnetic carrier waves into space.”
“But we are still at least fifteen revolutions from arrival. In that time, who knows what capabilities they will have developed? Remember Species 447? It consumed thousands of revolutions of time and untold racial resources to reduce them to animals. I do not wish to be brought before the Assembly for failure to subdue this species.”
Executive interjected, “Let us continue to study and plan. It appears by my preliminary trend analysis that these sentients may still reduce themselves to animals of their own volition between timepoint zero and our arrival. If not, we will assist them to do so. And we have yet to gain access to the more recent Watcher Probe logs. Their records end some 4000 cycles ago.” For unknown reasons.
“I agree with Executive, Commander. Let us apply our best efforts and we may yet avoid censure.”
Commander released the Meme equivalent of a long sigh. “Accord. I will compose a lightspeed communication burst to the nearest Conglomerate ship, detailing the situation and requesting advice, along with all of our data. We should receive an answer in approximately seven revolutions. Biologist, what is the designation of this new sentient?”
“Commander, designation is Species 666.”
---
End of Eden Plague, The SecondEdition
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* * *
The following is an excerpt from The Demon Plagues, Book 2 of the Plague Wars science fiction thriller series. Look for it on your favorite bookseller’s website, or visit www.DavidVanDyke.org.
---
Infection Day Minus One.
Jill Repeth, Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, stared out over the rail of her upper cabin balcony aboard the cruise ship Royal Neptune. The object of her gaze was the frigate USS Ingraham, keeping station to windward at about two nautical miles distance. Beyond, hull up on the horizon at perhaps twelve miles, was a Landing Platform/Dock amphibious assault ship, probably the USS Somerset. It was this ship that held her frustrated attention.
She lowered herself down from her hold on the railing; she had been perched there with her hands taking all her weight. She settled into the comfortable deck chair and picked up her small 5X optical binoculars; she cursed herself for not bringing her 18X electronic monst
ers, but she hated to carry a month’s pay around on a Caribbean cruise.
The LPD leaped into view, the angled, radar-deflecting planes of its superstructure identifying it as one of the most modern ships of the US Navy. She was familiar with the type, having served a Fleet Marine Force tour on her sister ship, the USS Arlington.
Twelve miles. Just sitting there for the last two days.
Food aboard the cruise ship was getting low; Jill had recognized the impending problem as soon as they had been detained. She had taken pains to smuggle everything that would keep back to her cabin and stash it in anticipation of making a break. But her stock would run out shortly, and there was no sign of them being allowed to land or disembark. She was hungry all the time.
The announcements aboard ship had said they were quarantined because of a ‘dangerous disease’; that dangerous disease had apparently cured cancer, blindness, even old age among those aboard, and had started to regrow her legs.
She looked down at the strange pink skin down there, contrasting with the tan that ended just below her knees. The nubs couldn’t bear her weight without excruciating pain, and they wouldn’t fit her prosthetics anymore, so she had used the wheelchair service a lot. Reaching down to scratch the itchy growth, she pushed aside thoughts of why it had happened, or even how, and concentrated on what she had to do.
Night was starting to fall over the Atlantic. Making her final preparations, she wrote a letter to her parents in Los Angeles, leaving it addressed on the table for the steward to find. She ate as much as she could hold, and put the rest into the waterproof bag, along with her combat uniform, her wallet and ID, and the jury-rigged prostheses. She had ripped the expensive electronic guts out of them and she now had something that she could use, if barely. Padded with pillow-stuffing and cut-up blankets, they strapped onto her stumps and allowed her to stand, even walk gingerly, as long as she could take the pain, and look somewhat normal in her uniform.
A bottle of ibuprofen went in as well, and a few other odds and ends. Then she sealed it up and put it in her rucksack. Wet suit on next, a stylish blue and green never intended for clandestine work, but it was all she had. Then the scuba gear, combat knife, rucksack strapped in reverse to sit over her belly. Lastly the swim fins, reconfigured to fit her regenerating stumps.
Levering herself up to the rail, she looked out between the slats at the two ships, now visible mainly by their navigation lights. Earlier she had seen hovercraft embarking and disembarking out of the combat well at the back of the LPD. Now she could see a strobe and running lights from a helo landing on the flight deck at the rear, one of a continuous droning above and around the ships. She had seen Hornet and Lightning naval fighters high overhead earlier in the day, so there was a supercarrier out there somewhere too, running combat air patrol.
She took several deep breaths, wondering if she was making the biggest mistake of her life. Hell, there’s an old Corps saying: ‘The worst plan executed quickly and violently is better than the best plan not executed at all.’
It was far better to do something than to do nothing.
Facemask and regulator on, she hoisted herself up to the railing, looked at the thirty feet to the water, and launched over the rail like a gymnast. Balling up, she wrapped herself around the rucksack, holding her hands to her face to shield the delicate apparatus from the impact. The sea struck her like a cold wet fist, and she fought to stay out of sight below the surface, fought to get the mouthpiece settled and clear it of water. For a moment she just floated beneath the waves, recovering her breath.
Then she began the long swim.
---
End of The Demon Plagues excerpt, Book 2 of the science fiction thriller Plague Wars series. Search for it on your favorite bookseller’s website, or visit www.DavidVanDyke.org.
***
In case you are interested, below you will find the original Eden Plague, published as a first-person action thriller from Daniel Markis’ point of view.
The (Original) Eden Plague
Prologue
Long, long ago.
The woman stared at the shining metal serpent as it wound itself around the tree. Good or evil? Desire for knowledge beckoned her closer.
It shone with beryl and gold. Many tiny legs glittered as it moved over the branches, its fangs delicately penetrating fruit after fruit, leaving holes glistening with sweet slime.
Aroma overwhelmed the woman, tempting her to pluck a succulent growing orb and eat it all. Finished but unsatisfied, she seized more fruit to bring to her garden, to offer it to her man.
The robotic snake slithered off to find more trees for its deadly gift.
-1-
You know it's a bad day when you shoot your future wife. A weird, fateful day, the start of all the changes.
Let me tell you about it.
Something was out of place when I came home from work that afternoon. The side door to my house stood open. I turned into my driveway in the suburbs and pulled my beat-up old van to a stop. I shut it off right away, listening. Dale City was quiet, just the thwock - thwock of tennis balls in the court across the street.
I stared at the open door. Something was wrong, because I live alone.
Ever since Becky left, I live alone.
Echoes in my head: Crazy brain-damaged loner.
I reached under my seat to pull out my car gun. The stock full-sized Springfield Arms XD rested in my hand, and two extra mags slid into a clip-on holder. My carry piece, an XD compact, became my backup, nestled on my right rear hip. God bless Dixie, the Commonwealth of Virginia and the Second Amendment.
I lived on a corner – generally a bad idea, far too much traffic – I’d usually lived on military bases before – sorry, getting off track. My thoughts do that sometimes. Keep it together, DJ. They said it was the organic damage, so that I can't focus like I should. Explosion, concussion, brain injury, three-two-one-boom.
Focus, Daniel. I forced my mind back to the now.
Debating calling the cops for about three seconds, I realized my phone was dead. Forgot to recharge it last night in the house, stupid car charger’s broke, gotta get a new one. Hell with it.
The serpent in the back of my head woke up.
I needed some chemical concentration now. Pharmaceutical brainpower. I pulled a ziploc bag full of jelly beans out from under my seat. The purple ones were gel-caps. Good way to hide your stash from the cops, and I couldn’t afford to get busted. I chewed two of them, along with some of the candy to kill the taste. The stimulant-painkiller combo flooded into my bloodstream. I really wished I’d had a cortisone syringe handy for my knee.
I took a deep breath, forced it out.
Exiting my van and onto the concrete, I kept the XD in front of me and low in a?tactical crouch. My left knee was stiff, courtesy of that Taliban IED, but the pain was dulling now. I gritted my teeth, concentrated on the job in front of me and powered through it.
Probably some kids doing a daylight break-in, though they were stupid to have left the side door open to be seen.?I opened that with my left hand and looked around inside without entering. Nothing looked damaged. I let my eyes adjust for a moment, and then eased in, listening.
Quiet.
I took a quick look at the door hardware. Didn’t look broken. Deadbolt was intact. Had I forgotten to lock it this morning before work? What if I hadn't come home early? Maybe they had already left. Yeah, that was it. Odds were they had already ripped me off and were long gone. Still, Dan Markis goes by the book. Always do the right thing.
I was having less difficulty focusing now. Better living through chemistry: dexedrine, hydrocodone and a little epinephrine. My heart hammered.
I cleared my house room by room, looking for anything out of place. Ground floor, my widescreen and my desktop computer still there. Then upstairs to the bedrooms and bathrooms. No one. Nothing missing or disturbed that I could see, either.
I left the basement for last. If there was anyone in there they shoul
d have heard me moving around. At least I hoped so. The house was forty years old, and it creaked. I hoped they had bolted out the basement walkout into the back yard, over my useless waist-high Housing-Association-approved rail fence and across the neighbors' lots to escape. I didn't want to shoot some stupid kid or pathetic junkie.
I'd shot much better men for much better reasons and it wasn't something I hoped for anymore.
I crept down the basement stairs. I knew this was a bad move, if I wanted to catch someone unawares. Obviously I should have gone back outside, and tried to come in the sliding glass door of the walkout. But I wanted whoever it was, if there was anyone, to leave out that door. Never corner a rat, unless you mean to exterminate him.
Always leave him a way out.
At the bottom of the stairs I turned sharply left, back along a short hallway which opened out into the main finished part of the basement. I didn't hear anyone, but I smelled him. It was easier for me than some people, because everything I use is fragrance-free. Artificial scents bother me; they’ll make my eyes water and my nose clog up. This smell was faint but unmistakable, man-cologne. Something expensive. I rubbed the bottom of my nose with my offhand finger to keep from sneezing.
From being fairly relaxed, comfortable on the chems, in a combat-mode sort of way, everything inside me shifted sharply into overdrive. This wasn’t some kid. The world crystallized in that way it does when my life was truly in danger. The serpent in my head knew someone wanted Daniel J. Markis dead, erased, blotted out. It charged out of its cave and sank its fangs into my hindbrain like a terrier on a rat. Everything took on a cut-glass clarity, with slightly rainbow edges.
Eden Plague - Latest Edition Page 23
