T-minus six months and counting.
M read the screen, wondering what had changed. Finally, it hit him. For the first time, every remaining Step fit on the monitor at once.
And there, at the bottom of the screen, the final step.
A single innocent word:
Infection
Stephanie gazed out the window. A tree blocked most of the view, but she’d nothing much better to do. Leaves just beginning to turn, a handful showing a touch of red but not many. Not yet. Autumn was coming, not quite here. It was a pretty view. Nothing really to complain about the view.
She wasn’t about to complain anyway. Still malnourished, she’d gained a little weight on the institutionalized meal plan at the Thornwell Home for Children in Clinton, South Carolina. Three meals a day. Plus, snacks after school and every so often one of the aides sneaked a brownie or a cookie or, once, an entire bag of potato chips just for her.
The other kids laughed. Not really at her. No, they laughed at the way she enjoyed the terrible food, including the soggy meatballs most of the others threw away before going to bed hungry.
Ninety-eight orphans were currently in residence and, being the newest, Stephanie was a matter of great concern. She’d already heard the rumor she might be too old to adopt out. One foster family had considered her, but it hadn’t quite worked and at seventeen and three months, there wasn’t much of a hurry to find a better one.
Nine months was now all that separated her from childhood and all those adult responsibilities she’d been dealing with for years. Or so they kept telling her. They listed her options on a variety of subjects, usually beginning with the school assessments that followed her like trained seals barking for fish.
The perfect score on the SATs she’d received in sixth grade stood out like a sore thumb among the other kids at Thornwell. The orphanage included an excellent school, producing excellent students, but nothing like Stephanie. ‘Special,’ the school administrators had always called her right before sending her home to her ‘oh-he-must-be-so-proud’ father who never cared about her or her perfect grades or her limitless potential except when it came to cleaning the kitchen or getting him a beer.
She’d brought a plastic bag of clothes from the house but her first and only foster family replaced every article of clothing within days. They refused to allow her to wear threadbare hand-me-downs that made her look like she’d lived on her own for ages rather than just a few weeks since her father had died on the toilet.
Her only other possessions were the two computers the orphanage finally agreed to let her keep in her room when she threatened to leave if they tried to take them from her. They’d said yes just to keep her safe but refused to let her online.
One phone call with Devid helped her hack through their firewall before she’d finished asking him how.
Stephanie turned from the view outside to her computer. Six different browsers open and active, each named for one of them: Levi, Devid, Billy, Yasmeen, Amy, and herself.
Each browser with dozens of tabs open. On the other computer, Stephanie scrolled through different spreadsheets, adjusting each pattern and analyzing the data each change presented to her.
Virus distribution finally hit 76.28% and Devid had stopped trying to get it any higher.
She scheduled Billy and Yasmeen to begin two days early to get in position on the other side of the globe, the former in Tokyo and the latter in Sydney. Devid would begin one day early in Berlin. She’d begin in Mexico City that morning. Amy in Rio. Levi, per his request, in Reagan International outside Washington, DC.
For the rest of the day, they’d transfer repeatedly, with brief layovers spread through Europe, Asia, South America, North America, and Africa. In all, they’d visit forty-eight airports, each with their eight 3.4-ounce non-aerosol toiletries in their TSA-approved plastic zippered bag.
Stephanie turned eighteen in nine months. The world would stop counting in five.
“Clear.”
L stared at the ceiling. She kept the sensor array attached. No point in taking it off. There’d never be a point again.
“How is he?”
“All systems operating within recommended stasis parameters.”
She inserted a food pouch before tossing the notebook to the floor. The pen followed.
“Any signs of life today?”
“Negative. No radio or wireless signals indicative of human habitation. Sensors detect no biosignatures above the microbial level.”
“How much of K left to explore?”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
“Access secure databases.”
“DNA authorization required.”
She didn’t have the time to descend to K, explore, and return. The mystery would never be solved. She was going to die. She was always going to die.
Without ever leaving the medpod, L injected the poison, watching the yellow liquid swirl through the port until her vision dimmed.
Amy checked the status on her collection of fall armyworms. The control groups producing more possible subjects and the multitudes of infected in their separate enclosures. A baculovirus removed a portion of their genetic code, replacing it in order to create a new cell, one that produced a specific protein of her own design to match Stephanie’s reformulated Ebola virus.
There were no FDA approval processes to worry about, no red tape or bureaucratic obstacles to maneuver around. Only the science, and the resources she had access to.
She introduced the new virus into a tank of armyworm cells, reprogramming them to produce the protein she needed. Only then did she harvest the hemagglutinin, using the centrifuge Levi had sent her to separate the protein from cell debris and DNA before purifying the potential vaccine.
One by one, she injected the infected mice hidden in her closet and waited.
“Clear.”
L woke, half-remembering a dream of happier times. M kissing her awake. Or her kissing him. Just kissing. That had always been the dream. Kissing.
She stared at the translucent panel hiding him from view.
“How are you?”
“Sensor functionality at 62.11%—”
“Really wasn’t talking to you.”
“Please repeat your request.”
“Fine, no one else to talk to anyway,” she said, inserting a second food pouch. “How are you?”
“Sensor functionality at 62.11%; electrical, life support, and all maintenance sub-routines at an effective rate of one hundred percent. All diagnostics have been satisfactorily completed.”
“Any signs of life?”
“Negative. No radio or wireless signals indicative of human habitation. Sensors detect no biosignatures above the microbial level.”
“Tell me a story.”
“Please repeat your request.”
“A story, surely you know a story.”
“Accessing education logs,” the computer said. “The last completed lesson covered European History during the years following the Second World War. Do you wish to continue your studies?”
“No, absolutely not.” L’s leg twitched hard enough to kick the side of the medpod.
L killed herself; it was better than returning to school.
“Please repeat your request.”
L studied the mess of Billy’s room. Thick bundles of wires snaked across his bed, connecting the computers. One entire wall covered with monitors, each of them dark save for a blinking cursor in the bottom left hand corner.
Billy pushed back from the desk, spinning in his chair.
The room spun around L, giving her a view of everything but not for long enough to see anything.
He stopped and pulled out his phone.
Levi’s voice came through the speaker. “What?”
“Any questions?” Billy asked.
“Questions? You called me for that?”
“Any for her?”
“Her? It’s an it.”
“N
o, it’s a girl. I created her, I think she’s a girl.”
“Fine, she’s a girl. What’s her name?”
“Ask her.”
L watched the blinking cursor, the swelling emotions pouring through Billy burning the thing into her memory.
“What’s your name?” Levi asked.
“My name is Elizabeth,” the computer said.
“Elizabeth? You named her after your mom?”
“Seemed the right thing to do.”
“Does she pass the Turing test?”
“Does it matter? Fake AIs have been passing that thing for years. She passes my test.”
“What’s your test?”
“Elizabeth, access United States Department of Defense NORAD classified satellite command.”
“Accessing.” Her voice echoed out in surround sound from speakers installed in every corner of the room. “Access granted.”
“How many classified military satellites are currently in operation?”
“There are currently three hundred eighty-three operating military satellites. 51.18% in low earth orbit, 25.06% geostationary, 16.97% in medium earth orbit, and 6.79% in elliptical orbits. One hundred and twelve tasked to the United States military. Ninety-eight tasked to the Russian Federation’s Armed Forces. Eighty-seven tasked to the People’s Republic of China and the People’s Liberation Army. Sixty-two tasked to twenty-eight other countries. Plus, an additional twenty-four tasked to non-state actors and organizations, do you require those listed individually?”
“No, that’s enough,” Billy said. “Will that do?”
Levi laughed. “Is this your way of telling me you’re done?”
“It was either that or a text. This seemed more entertaining, I suppose.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Clear.”
“Elizabeth?” L asked.
“Please repeat your request.”
“Your name is Elizabeth?”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
She inserted a food pouch.
“How is he?”
“All systems operating within recommended stasis parameters.”
“Anything new?”
“Please repeat your request.”
“Any changes in anything?”
“Sensor efficiency is down to 59.87%.”
“Any signs of life?”
“Negative. No radio or wireless signals indicative of human habitation. Sensors detect no biosignatures above the microbial level.”
She stared at M’s medpod until her fingers twitched.
“Time?”
“Three hours, two minutes.”
“Don’t put me in stasis.”
“Override of prior command instructions requires DNA authorization.”
“Whatever.” L injected another vial.
L tried to ask a question, but nothing happened.
“Status?” Yasmeen asked, sitting up and swinging her legs off the mattress.
“Unchanged in the last twelve hours,” the computer said.
L tried to make sense of the white metal walls surrounding her. She’d arrived home, but not really, she was someone else.
She’d died, hadn’t she?
She was Yasmeen, living in the habitat now.
Status of what?
The door opened. Levi walked in, throwing a stack of papers at her. The bulk of them smacked into her cheek, others flipping to the floor.
“What the hell is your problem?” Yasmeen asked.
“That’s what I was about to ask you,” Levi said, kicking some of the papers into the air. “Know what happens when bees die off?”
Yasmeen shook her head. “Bees? This is about bees?”
“No, this isn’t about bees! It’s about food. Without bees, there’s no food diversity.”
“So?”
“Your virus mutated.”
“That’s what they do.”
“It’s killing animals. Bees. Fish. Everything.” Levi scanned through the pages, handed one to her. “There’s supposed to be a world left to rebuild.”
L read the paper, a simple listing of numbers. At the bottom, one line:
Six-month projected living non-microbial organism count: 6
“Six,” Levi said raising his hands, ticking each name on his fingers. “Me, you, Stephanie, Devid, Amy, and Billy. And Amy’s cure left us sterile.”
Yasmeen fell against the wall, sliding to the floor with the paper crumpled in her hand.
“The virus will die at one year, no matter how many mutations it goes through.”
“That’s more than six months too late.”
“What—” Yasmeen said, the word cracking in half. “What are we going to do?”
Levi kicked the rest of the papers. “We’re going to forget. Then we’re going to die.”
“Clear.”
L didn’t bother to open her eyes.
“Access secure databases.”
“Accessing secure databases. DNA authorization required.”
She finished a food pouch. Another. And one more.
Then, she killed herself.
Devid powdered his fingers, stretching before sliding into the gloves positioned in the chamber. Within the box, microprocessors controlled everything from humidity to the actual environment, controlling for temperature and electrostatic discharge and more. Most importantly, the chamber was absolutely air-tight.
“Test number four-hundred, twenty-one,” Devid said into his recorder.
Inside the box, he maneuvered the blue gloves around in order to pick up the tube of toothpaste in the corner.
“Temperature and humidity set to Tokyo Narita International Airport. Begin stopwatch.”
Devid flipped the toothpaste cap open. His phone started counting.
At sixty, he closed the toothpaste.
“No dispersal.”
L watched as Devid pulled his hands out of the gloves and then vented the chamber through a series of filtration systems.
He pulled the toothpaste out and threw the tube away into a hermetically sealed garbage disposal unit. Grabbing a stick of deodorant from the latest batch that Yasmeen had made, he slid it through the access port of the chamber. Each batch contained different formulations based on their combined recipes, using Stephanie’s reconfigured virus and Devid’s dispersal formula trying to get the process to work.
“Test number four-hundred, twenty-two.” He slid into the gloves.
“Begin stopwatch.”
Devid removed the cap.
When the computer reached eight, the top layer of the white stick deodorant bubbled. Then, a fine mist, almost invisible, spread across the chamber.
Sensors on the face of the glove box ticked upward, counting higher and higher, until stopping at 76.28%.
“Clear.”
An alarm sounded. “Medical emergency, please respond.”
L convulsed and the medpod tilted, the sensor array burning her skin, the drug calming her whether she wanted to be calm or not. She let herself drift on the tired waves of the medication.
“Let me die.”
“Please repeat your request.”
The medpod shifted to its original position. L reached for a food pouch and her entire body started shaking.
“Medical emergency, please respond.”
She grabbed a yellow vial instead of food. Her fingers twitched, muscle spasms crushing the breath out of her lungs.
“Medical emergency, please respond.”
“Time?” she asked through broken teeth, blood filling her mouth when she bit her tongue trying to speak the word.
“One hour, forty-two minutes.”
She killed herself.
Amy grabbed the closest energy drink bottle. Empty. She grabbed another one. Kept going until she found one with something in it. A couple dozen sat in the garbage can beneath her desk, strays escaping and littering the carpet. She took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into her lungs.
Opening a new energy drink, she swallowed it in one long gulp. She burped.
“That was lovely, thanks for sharing,” Devid said over the phone.
“Sorry. I’m tired.”
“You’ve got this.”
“I’ve got nothing,” she said, eyes rapidly scanning from one monitor to another, twitching from caffeine overload and exhaustion.
L’s memories of another life faded and strengthened. She remembered, or remembered she should remember, random things she’d never forgotten. And she’d forgotten so much. The more she tried to know, the less she knew.
“I have faith in you.”
“Says the person who’s all finished.”
He laughed until she joined in.
“Thanks,” she said. “I needed that.”
“Anything else you need?”
“Sleep. More caffeine.” She held her hand up. It trembled like a leaf in a storm. “Well, maybe not so much on that last one, I guess. More time. I need more time.”
“You have five days.”
“I know.” Amy stood, jumping a few times to burn off some energy before opening her closet. She’d thrown all the clothes on the floor to make room for a small table holding a series of cages. Mice tweaked their noses at the sudden light.
Behind her, Devid’s voice filled the room. “Any luck?”
“Ask me in an hour or so.” She read the small index cards attached to the cages, scanning the information she’d recorded a couple of days ago. “They’re still alive.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Better be. I need more time.”
“You’re seventeen years old and creating a vaccine for a weaponized version of Ebola in your closet, you don’t need anything.”
Amy checked the lock on her door before holding the phone to her ear. “I need you.”
“You have me.”
“Not here.”
“Five days.”
Eight Minutes, Thirty-Two Seconds Page 13
