by David Poyer
“We’ll get back to you on that, Captain.” Now Enders’s tone was frosty.
She caught Mills’s warning glance. Well, to hell with it. If they didn’t want to back her up … she’d seen how Dan Lenson operated. Do what you have to do, worry about consequences afterward.
“I’d like to end with a caution,” Enders said. Beside him, Byrne and the Air Force general nodded agreement. “This is direct from Indo-PaCom himself. This will not be a rollover. This enemy’s been indoctrinated for three generations that we’re devils coming to enslave them. We can expect suicide attacks. Mass assaults. Maybe, weapons we’ve never seen before. Stay alert, observe the rules of engagement, keep us informed.”
The central screen went blank, showing only the Command logo of an enraged eagle, its cruel beak facing west, its outstretched wings shadowing half the globe. One by one, the feeds around it blinked and went dark.
Cheryl blinked too, caught herself scratching, and snatched her hand away.
“Time for turnover, Skipper,” Mills said. “And for COMOPS.”
“Set the ABM watch, XO,” she told him. “And let everybody know what the admiral said. This won’t be a walkover. We’ve got to bring our game to this one.”
“You should tell ’em yourself, Skipper. Get on the horn and tell the crew.”
She grimaced, acknowledging he was right. They needed to hear it from her.
After all, their lives would be in her hands. If she made the wrong decision, or just as bad, the right decision two seconds too late, everyone aboard could die. Instantly, or slowly, in the weeks to come, in the slow agony of radiation poisoning.
Or even worse: If Savo failed in her mission—if she and the entire complex system of systems backing her up and supporting her failed to intercept the weapons an unpredictable despot had aimed at the homeland—hundreds of thousands would die back home.
The responsibility weighed in her gut like a wintry-cold rock. Was probably what drove her neck to ache, her very skin to itch, flake, and burn, rebelling against the weight of how much they depended on her.
But there was no evading it.
For good or ill, she was the Captain.
12
Seattle
THE Archipelago campus drowsed in a heat wave. No one strolled the shaded pathways. No one had spread blankets, to picnic down by the ponds. Below Nan Lenson’s window, the treetops were turning brown. Without rain for weeks, the greensward was desiccating as well. A silver rain pulsed in one quarter of the square, jetting water over the victory garden some of the junior researchers had put in, yet it too was wilting. The tennis courts baked in the sun, empty of players. How many months since she’d held a racquet … At the far end, almost obscured by the trees, an empty carousel rotated, its decorative mirrors flashing in the sunlight.
Nan turned from the view toward the two men who’d just brought her a sealed envelope. They weren’t military, though they wore uniforms. Blue, with a gray wolf’s-head patch. The manila envelope was striped with red, and stamped TOP SECRET. “We’ll need a signature, Doctor,” one said. When she handed their tablet back they nodded, the taller one glancing at her legs. He thanked her gravely and they left.
She examined the envelope. Addressed not to her, but to Dr. Anton Lukajs. She unsealed it anyway. They were on the same team, after all.
She read through the cover sheet.
And smiled. A victory, but in a different battle than the current war.
Though she really should read the entire report—and intended to—just scanning the summary told her the most important fact.
The new drug worked.
It didn’t have a formulary name yet. So far they just called it LJL 4789, after Dr. Lukajs, Dr. Jhingan, and herself. With unpleasant, occasionally fatal side effects, cyclophosphamide wasn’t what you wanted as an antiflu drug. But Archipelago’s massively powerful AI had suggested a subtle reformulation, adding a complex molecule to interrupt the virus’s reproductive cycle.
And it had worked. The first cells the virus infected would still die, of course. Like most influenza strains, Flower infiltrated via nose and eyes. The virions reprogrammed the cells that lined the respiratory system. This triggered the primary immune system to produce cytokines and chemokines—proteins that attacked viruses. Meanwhile, the secondary immune system was designing custom T cells primed to destroy that specific invader.
This secondary response triggered the fever, chills, and congestion the sufferer noted. But the virus proceeded more stealthily, subverting the body’s cells in a steadily accelerating chain reaction.
If the T cells and cytokines won the race, the patient lived. If they lost, he died. But the virus itself, a selfish gene if ever there was one, lived on, sprayed out by the millions with each cough, sneeze, or secretion.
LJL 4789 blocked the neuraminidase protein, limiting Flower’s ability to replicate. The patient would still fall sick. But the body could clear up the damage much faster. And most likely, since the T cells would activate, be protected against reinfection from then on.
A magic bullet? Not quite. Asklepios had predicted low toxicity, high activity, and high solubility, all necessary to enhance delivery within the body and minimize side effects. But the drug’s heat sensitivity meant it would break down rapidly in nonrefrigerated storage. Not to complete uselessness, but it would reduce biochemical activity.
Still, all that aside, the reviewing authorities had judged it worth testing.
And the results had just come in.
* * *
THE old man was outside, under one of the arbors, invisible from above. A small bottle and a glass sparkled beside him on the bench. Artificial bees buzzed from flower to flower. The tiny drones were programmed to replace the ranks of natural ones decimated by lowered protein percentages in pollen—a consequence, researchers said, of increased carbon dioxide in the air. The lead virologist sat quietly, staring into the distance. His wispy white hair stirred in the hot breeze. He looked more emaciated than ever. A drone hovered before his eyes, inspected motionless, age-spotted hands, then moved on about its business.
“Dr. Lukajs.”
“Dr. Lenson.” He bowed courteously and made room on the bench. Gestured at the heat-blown roses drooping above them. “Do you know, my grandfather used to sit like this, a glass of wine lasted all afternoon. Debinë, he liked. A sweet white wine. This from California, it does not taste as well. I did not understand back then how he could sit and do nothing. I wanted to act, to study, learn, work for the People. He would just smile at me.” Lukajs waved away a real bee, or a drone that looked like one. “Now I understand him, I think. I would offer you some but only the one glass.”
“That’s all right, sir. We have test results. From Dr. Jhingan.”
“Ah, the study.” A shadow shaded the old man’s pale watery gaze. “You will tell me? My eyes tire from the screens, these days.” He poured himself another tiny glass and sat back, eyes sinking closed.
She read, “‘This study describes the results of a chemotherapeutic strategy for Central Flower subtype virus infection in humans. A combination of the primary agent and a pretreatment regimen to reduce hematologic damage generated increased survival rates in test subjects. In controls, challenge with an infectious-level dose of the highly pathogenic, wild-type North Vietnamese strain resulted in uniform infection, 42% of whom progressed to death in less than one week.
“‘In contrast, over 84% of treated subjects were asymptomatic for one month, with no detectable virus after one week. Of the remaining treated subjects, 15% progressed to infection but recovered, and one patient died.
“‘These findings demonstrate that LJL 4789 is effective against the specified virus infection in human subjects.’”
She paused, waiting for his reaction. But he didn’t speak. The wineglass glittered untouched beside him.
At last he murmured, “‘Forty-two percent of whom progressed to death.’ This makes you smile?”
S
he cocked her head, confused. “The mortality rate tracks with what CDC reported.”
“So nearly half of the controls died.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“We infected them, in the tests. They would not have died otherwise.”
She bent her head, feeling it like a sudden icicle thrust under her breastbone. Understanding, now, what he was referring to. She’d known it too, but had suppressed the fact somehow. Denied it, even to herself. “Uh, yes. That’s right.”
“And who were these subjects?”
“Dr. Jhingan says they were volunteers.”
“From the camps, yes? From what you call the Zones.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She waited as he blinked off into the distance.
“So we are not so unlike them, in the end,” he said softly, as if to himself.
* * *
AFTER a discussion of the results, the afternoon meeting proceeded to an overview of the way forward. No one mentioned the deaths of the control subjects, or the conditions in which the tests had been carried out. As if they’d made a tacit agreement to overlook that unpleasant topic.
Mike Consiglio, their program manager—Lukajs was the team leader on the medical side, but he avoided administration—wore a white coat, probably to make him look like a doctor, though he wasn’t. Some kind of medical administration degree out of Purdue. He laid out the milestones. Peacetime procedure included filing a new drug application, with review by a team of physicians, statisticians, and pharmacologists from CDER. This would be short-circuited now. BARDA was cleared to begin trial production, which would be subcontracted to manufacturers. Consiglio portioned out tasks to the rest of the team: developing labeling, dosage forms and guidance, production oversight.
He smiled at Nan. “The first batch will be produced by Qwent Pharma, over in Tukwila. Dr. Lenson, would you act as our liaison?”
Nan frowned, chasing an errant memory. “Mike, isn’t … wasn’t the Qwent plant the one FDA sent a warning letter? About contamination from the pesticides they make?”
Consiglio looked away. “Phosphamides are a pretty common ingredient in insecticides. ThanaPest. B-110. It breaks proteins, I understand, like LJL does.”
“Don’t meddle with the biochemistry, Mike,” Dr. Jhingan said. But grinned, to take the edge off.
Consiglio said, “But since that warning, the production lines have been hived off in a separate area of the plant.” Nan started to protest, but he waved her silent. “That’s why we picked a nearby facility, Doctor. So we could keep a close eye on things like that.”
“They were also lowest bidder, yes?” Lukajs put in.
“They say they can grow production tenfold within two months. If that doesn’t work, AstraZeneca and Roche are gearing up too. The target is a hundred thousand doses in two weeks, a million by the end of next month, scaling up to ten million a month. Based on CDC rate-of-spread estimates, even if Flower hits the US at full lethality, we should be able to save over eighty percent of the population.” He eyed Nan. “If you see a problem once you inspect, let me know immediately. Further questions?”
There were none. Consiglio flipped to the next paper on his clipboard. “All right, a related question. About whether we publish.”
“Do we publish?” Lukajs burst out. “Of course! What kind question is that?”
“A delicate one, Anton, given our funding stream. Merck and AbbVie are pushing for publication, massive production, and wide distribution. On humanitarian grounds. And those of profit, of course. But remember, under the Defense of Freedom Act industrial profits are limited and subject to confiscation.”
“What’s DoD’s position?” one of the younger team members wanted to know.
The project leader faced him. “They advise against. They gave me as an example, the restriction on distribution of penicillin during World War II. To keep it secret from the Germans.”
The team exchanged glances. “I didn’t know we’d done that,” Nan said. She turned to the old scientist. “Dr. Lukajs?”
The old man bent his head and didn’t answer. Well, he wasn’t going to be any help. She said evenly, “Well, I think we should publish. What about the Africans, Europeans? Indians? We already have reports of a locus of infection in Delhi. They have a huge generic industry. Are we providing this information to them?”
“That’s not in our hands,” Consiglio said.
Nan shook her head. “Whose is it in, then, if not ours? The discoverers publish.”
The manager smiled. “I’ll make this simple, Dr. Lenson. We’re barred from releasing any information about this drug without specific permission. Under the penalties set forth in the DOFA for defense-specific intellectual property.”
“This isn’t a weapon,” Dr. Han said. Nan looked at him; he was usually so silent.
Consiglio pointed at him. “Doctor. You, specifically, are enjoined from any communication on the topic. As someone in a D-classified ethnicity. I would expect anything you say, record, or transmit to be monitored.” He looked around the table. “And I hate to say it, but that applies to everyone here. Each and all of us could be prosecuted for disclosure of classified information relating to national security. Everything about this drug, and the tests, is top secret. Including the fact it exists.
“Jenny will bring the forms around to sign. Just to make clear everyone understands.”
“I will not sign,” Lukajs muttered, but Consiglio ignored him. As if the chief of the team—the winner of the Warburg Medal for molecular biology—Had. Not. Spoken.
* * *
WHEN they broke up she went back to her desk. The research offices were open plan. Privacy was a long outmoded concept at Archipelago. She opened her email, but instead of keyboarding hovered her fingers over it, staring into the blank template.
Her first impulse was to reach out. Ask for advice. But from whom? Her dad was in the middle of the war. Hadn’t answered her last two emails. Even when he did, sometimes it took days. She couldn’t bother him with this. And probably shouldn’t get him involved, if she did something illegal.
Should she go public? Up until now, the threat had been banishment to the Zones. But now people were being shot for treason. For anything deemed to be “impeding the war effort.” The first execution had been carried live on the Patriot Network last month. A defrocked priest who’d cut through a fence and sliced a tire on a fighter plane.
And she’d just been served with a warning against disclosing the very existence of the drug, let alone its chemistry or efficacy.
Well, what about Blair? She was well connected. Actually, a member of the administration, though she’d come to it from the opposing party. Which was now far from power, with anyone who mentioned it favorably online immediately piled on by paid trolls, flagged by DHS, added to the List, and probably due for a “friendly visit” by the local Loyalty League.
No. Not the Honorable Ms. Titus. She was part of it now.
She felt ashamed for even thinking it. But the country was splitting, like a malignant cell. Its always-present legacy evils metastatizing. The way it had been during Vietnam, she’d read. But that had been long before she’d even been born.
She rubbed her face, a gesture she only seconds later remembered had been a tic of her dad’s when confronted with some painful decision. Such as whether to punish her for riding her new bike through a stop sign, the summer she’d stayed with him and Blair.
No. It was up to her.
She had to decide on her own. To “adult,” as her friends at school used to put it.
Okay, as Lukajs always said, formulating the question correctly was half the answer … Was withholding a medical treatment from a hostile power defensible as a means of war? She remembered Consiglio had mentioned penicillin, and went online to check that out.
* * *
A few minutes later she nodded, closing Firefox’s Incognito window. In World War II, the very existence of the antibiotic had been kept secret from the enemy
.
According to the news, today the Allies were fighting hard somewhere in Asia. Hundreds of thousands of troops were risking their lives. Including her dad and his friends. The woman who’d been his second in command had his old ship now. Once she’d wondered if Staurulakis and her dad were getting it on. She really doubted it. But the way they’d looked at each other … No, forget that, she was avoiding the issue.
So. Cooperate, or resist? Sometimes you had to swallow your misgivings. Toe the line.
But …
Her dad. He’d disobeyed orders sometimes. When he thought they were wrong, or that he could accomplish the mission with fewer casualties. But knowing him, he’d thought about it first. Thought deeply, and reasoned it out.
Something he’d said once. The right way isn’t always the easy way. But nobody else can tell you the right one. That, you have to figure out for yourself.
And: It’s only when you stop doubting that you can be certain you’re wrong.
She shivered, realizing how difficult it must have been for him all these years, to have lives depend on what he decided.
The way so many lives might turn on what choice she made now.
* * *
AN hour later the department secretary brought the security forms around. But by then the younger members of the team were coordinating by text to meet out on the quad.
They convened near the heart of the campus, by one of the pergolas. The carousel was playing oom-pah-pah music, the carillon ringing out, echoing from and imprisoned by the vast enclosing circle of the building. But Nan felt nervous. On edge. The tiny drones kept up a steady buzz all around them. They were supposed to be for plant pollination. But she had no doubt some had different purposes. Fitted with cameras. Facial recognition. Microphones. Maybe even video-to-speech. Archipelago had AIs that could lip-read.
The younger members of the team looked to her. Crap, she thought, biting her lip. How had she become the leader? Of this mini insurrection?
