The Reaper Plague

by David VanDyke

  -4-

  Chairman of the Free Communities Council Daniel “DJ” Markis looked up as his intelligence chief Cassandra Johnstone entered his new fourth-floor corner office.

  Its entire southern and western walls were composed of deceptively tough armor glass composites. So clear were they, she had the impression DJ could roll his desk chair backward and off into space. She sniffed. Everything smelled new, of glue and paint and plastic. “Nice. Can I have one like this?”

  “You know you can, but you wanted something more secure.”

  “You should have something more secure too.” She walked to the west wall to look out over the grounds. A crew dug the future reflecting pool while a woman walked her dog along the edge of the construction barrier. Near the next building, lovers on a blanket under a tree ate their lunch between bites of each other. She rapped on the glass. “This won’t stop everything.”

  “It helps me think, the feeling of open space. I grew up flying with Dad and it’s worth the risk. Besides, who wants me dead now?”

  “I have a list of people if you want it.”

  Markis laughed. “Between you and Karl I’d never leave the Bunker if you had your ways.” The Bunker was the new, high-security lab they were building in the played-out mines nearby.

  “Speaking of the Bunker, I want your authorization to add a special annex. It will be expensive but I think it’s necessary.” She handed him a folder, which he looked over.

  “Containment and confinement. For the commandos?”

  “Or people like them. With that final plague coming in the next six weeks – I think ‘Reaper Plague’ is catching on in the media – we might need it. I know I’m not comfortable where we’re holding them right now. It’s inconvenient to the lab and people that need to study the nanos and their effects on human physiology. And they tell me there is a small but real chance that the nanos in their bloodstreams could escape to replicate elsewhere. Unlike the Plagues, they can theoretically jump species. Do we really want nano-rats with nano-fleas running around?”

  Markis sat back slowly. “Dear God. No, we don’t. Okay, you sold me. Until then, do whatever you must to keep that from happening. If you have to sedate them until it’s built…whatever it takes.”

  “What I’d really like to do is try to dialyze them and take the nano out.”

  “And then what?” Markis asked.

  Cassandra, with a growing smile, replied, “There’s an old saying. If you want to destroy an enemy, make him your friend.”

  -5-

  Even at six in the morning the day looked to be heading toward hot. It was breezy with a hint of dust when Master Sergeant Jill Repeth marched up to the scratch Military Police platoon drawn up in formation in front of their hastily-erected barracks on Butts Army Airfield, Fort Carson, Colorado. Time to play the role again. Her uniform was impeccable, her eight-point cap starched to cut paper, and she radiated a palpable intensity, an eagerness that translated into a sense of urgency obvious to everyone there.

  Thus it was all the more surprising when the pudgy Army staff sergeant standing in charge merely gave her a casual nod and kept chatting with the front ranks.

  While of course enlisted ranks do not salute each other outside of certain formal cases, she at least expected an acknowledgment, perhaps a “what can I do for you?” Her mental respect-o-meter, a little rusty from working in special operations for so long, abruptly jolted to life in her head.

  “Staff Sergeant.” Her voice was sharp.

  He turned around to face her, an insincere smile on his face. His name tag read Grusky. “Yes, sergeant?”

  “That’s Master Sergeant,” she ground out. “I know you’re not a Marine, so I’ll overlook that error just this once. Now call this rabble to attention and turn it over to me properly.”

  She heard some mumbles and a chuckle from the rear rank. Grusky stared at her for a moment, evaluating. Finally he said, his voice deceptively casual, “I don’t see how I can do that.”

  Repeth stared at him in turn, shocked by his indiscipline but determined not to show it. She took a long side-step to the right so she could see the platoon, a formation of some forty personnel, four out of five male, all wearing MP armbands, their only uniformity. None were above the rank of Sergeant E-5 or the equivalent. She could see a few Navy and Air Force uniforms, with the rest about an even mix between Marines and Army. She glanced to her right, where fifty yards away she could see another platoon of troops – if one could call them that – in navy blue that was almost black. Homeland Security…most of them probably former Security Service. Great.

  Finally she addressed Grusky’s statement in a glasscutter voice. “Really? Why?”

  “The way I hear it, you’re a deserter.” Muted laughter from some of the troops in formation, with an unsettled undertone. Others looked uncomfortable, glancing to the side or down at their boots.

  She clasped her hands behind her back. “So, Grusky,” she said conversationally, keeping her eyes on the troops, “the Marine Corps and the President of the United States are idiots.” Her head swiveled toward him, a turret. “Right?”

  The man looked uneasy for the first time. “Of course not, Sergeant.”

  “Master Sergeant.” Her eyes bored into him.

  He licked lips grown suddenly dry. “Master Sergeant,” he finally repeated.

  As if to a small child, “So you think the President and the Corps are fools.” This repetition brought some muttering from the Marines in formation.

  “Not generally, no,” he answered more confidently.

  “But you must,” she said with false brittle brightness. “After all, the Corps granted me this rank based on my fourteen years of experience and demonstrated fitness to hold it. When I left my unit the Unionists were in power and I never took an oath to those pigs. When I escaped from a Unie prison camp I had already been stripped of my rank and status. I was a civilian. In fact, I was declared an enemy of a state that does not even exist anymore. There is no more ‘United Governments of North America’. There is only the United States of America, God bless her. ”

  This elicited more rumbling from the troops, and a few cheers. “At ease!” called one of the squad leaders, bringing back quiet.

  She plowed onward. “But recently the United States Marine Corps, at the personal direction of the President of the United States, saw fit to fully pardon and reinstate me. So,” she raised her voice, making a parade-ground left face and thrusting her nose to within an inch of his, “you must think those two sacred institutions have somehow been hoodwinked.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Obviously they couldn’t have actually meant to put me in charge, because a disgrace to the uniform like you has decided he’s smarter than they are. Right?”

  Grusky gobbled, then snapped to attention and faced left toward the troops. “Platoon, atten-shun!” He performed a creditable about-face and stood waiting, obviously expecting her to step in front of him and formally take charge.

  Instead, she stalked through the ranks, looking them up and down. There were some dirty and wrinkled uniforms, accoutrements out of place or incorrectly worn, cables – loose threads – hanging from pockets or button-holes, untucked laces – in short, a shoddy group with just a few standouts who cared about their appearance.

  Finishing her once-over, she marched back up to face Grusky, who saluted sharply, proper military ceremony for giving and taking charge. She paused a moment, just enough to emphasize her displeasure, then returned the salute. He moved out to take his place to the formation's right, facing her.

  She drew a deep breath and pitched her voice to project. “I am Master Sergeant Repeth, United States Marine Corps. I am sure you all think I am a hardass by now, and you are correct. You people look like shit, and as long as you people look like shit you will act like shit and you will be shit on my shit list. The sooner you get your sorry act together, the sooner you will get off my shit list. Until then, until you earn your way off my shit list, it is my ex
plicit and stated intention to kick your sorry asses until you start looking and acting like United States military personnel and not a miscellaneous collection of confused and worthless ragbags.”

  She began to pace, warming to her topic. “Now some of you are thinking to yourselves, ‘MY uniform is pressed. MY boots are impeccable. I’m just fine, thank you!’ But as far as I am concerned, that’s a reprehensible and selfish attitude. ‘To those whom much is given, much will be required.’ That means you will look after your fellow troops, be they Army, Navy, Air Force or Marines, male or female, gay or straight, Eden or normal, Christian or Muslim or Buddhist or Jew or whatever other belief system they hold because I don’t give one flying rat’s buttocks, you are all the same now. You are the Fourth Platoon, First Military Police Company, Second Joint Civil Operations Battalion, and I own your asses from now on, and I don’t like my things reflecting badly on me.”

  Repeth passed to the side of the formation, looking for any laughing, anyone who was bold or foolish enough to try to make light of the situation. She saw no one, so she went on.

  “Some of you might be wondering why you don’t have an officer in command of this platoon. I could rightly say it’s because you don’t deserve an officer, but the truth is we don’t have enough. Until the academies and schools start producing shiny new butterbars, we will have shortages because many officers are tainted. They all had to join the Unionist Party and swear allegiance to the Triumvirate, and now they all have to be interviewed and vetted for readmission to the real United States military. So until such time as we obtain one of those exalted personages, I am in charge. If you want to get technical, the company commander, Captain LeBrun, is dual-hatted as the platoon leader, but as far as you are concerned, he might as well be on the moon, and I am your new goddess of war for this mission.

  She walked around the formation to stand in front of them once again. Though they were already hanging on every word, she thought she saw that declaration prompt even greater attentiveness. “That’s what I said, our mission. We have one week to get ready. We are taking back what’s ours – reclaiming lawless territory in the United States. Between the nuclear strikes and the alien plagues, there are large parts of our country that have simply ceased to function. These zones are inhabited by frightened and infected people. Some are sick with radiation exposure. Some have contracted one or both of the Demon Plagues. And some have just decided to build their own little bandit kingdoms on the backs of ordinary citizens. Our mission will be to set that right, and to secure the medics to inoculate everyone. We will provide traditional Military Police functions, and we will back up our comrades in Homeland Security –” she gestured toward the other formation – “when they get in over their heads.” This jab at their civilian counterparts brought suppressed laughter.

  “But it won’t be fun, people. It will be difficult, and it will be unpleasant. We will have to coerce people, detain and arrest citizens, even shoot some of them, and there will be deaths. I am going to do my damndest to ensure none of those deaths is you or me.” She looked pointedly at her watch. “You are released to breakfast. Assistant Platoon Sergeant and squad leaders will report to my office at 0700 hours, then all NCOs at 0715. Enjoy this little break, people, because it’s the last one you’re going to have for a while.”

  With that she turned the platoon back over to Grusky and marched toward the mess hall. It’s going to be one long week.

  -6-

  Skull bolted upright. His head snapped left and right searching for her, but she was gone. He lay on the bed naked but for his Patek, which said he’d slept for two hours. Nanosilk armor and boots lay jumbled in a corner and the hard pieces of his rig lay scattered about the floor. His assault rifle stood, propped against the wall, magazine still in it. Other than these, the room was empty.

  Quickly pulling on his jumpsuit and boots, he grabbed the rifle and – what now? He banged a fist on the place where the door should be and the second blow went through empty space, the wall irising to let him through. He stared from the opening across the main control room space, at the woman in the chair.

  “What the hell did you do to me?”

  Somberly she forced a smile, not meeting his eyes. “Shouldn’t I ask you the same question? It seemed like you were the aggressor, and you did things to me.”

  “Did you drug me or…or pheromone me or something like that?”

  “What, now I’m some kind of space-succubus that seduces Earth’s most eligible bachelors?” A weak laugh dribbled from her lips. “Yes, it was all part of my elaborate plan, the way we ended up here. Couldn’t you tell?”

  “Then what the hell happened? I didn’t rape you.”

  “Didn’t you? Are you sure? Methinks milord doth protest too much. And how should I know what happened? Half of me was an alien until a month ago and the other half was nearly a virgin, so I don’t have a lot of experience with all this! You should be telling me! Aren’t you, like, fifty years old or so?”

  “Like, something like that,” he mocked. He walked over to sit down in the other control seat, placing his rifle against the wall away from her reach.

  “And if that wasn’t rape it sure wasn’t making love,” she sneered, “not since I’m your hostage. What should we call it? Sexual abuse of power?”

  “It wasn’t like that at all!” he yelled. “It was good! It was good…” He trailed off, to his own surprise caring what she thought, caring what anyone thought for the first time in many years. “Wasn’t it good?” he asked, uncharacteristically unsure.

  She hung her head, her long dark straight hair falling over her face, hiding her expression. Mumbled something.

  “What!” he barked, fighting anger and fear. What am I afraid of? Rejection? Why do I give a shit what she thinks?

  “I said I don’t know. It wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t fair!” Her face broke through her hanging hair, tears sticking strands to cheeks. “My mind said no but my body overrode it. That’s not fair. It’s not me, and it’s not…Meme.”

  “Welcome to the human race.” Skull leaned forward, reaching tentatively toward her, stopping with his hands inches from contact. His fingers furled to fists. “I’m…” Taking a deep breath, he said, “I’m sorry. I think…I think both my mind and body wanted you, but I just don’t know why.” Plaintive. “This really isn’t like me.” Skull looked down at his right hand, opening and closing it convulsively. “I have no problem killing those that need killing, but I feel…” Refused to articulate the rest: ashamed.

  Raphaela laughed, ironic. “Very selective, your conscience.”

  “Stop that!”

  “What?”

  “Stabbing me when I try to say something real!” He felt cracks creeping through his emotional walls.

  She stared at him incredulously. “What kind of conversation do you think this is? Is this a date? Did we just have make-up sex in the wrong order, so the fight is now?”

  Skull glared at her. “I think you’re just feeling guilty and angry it happened and you want to blame me for it. Women never want to take responsibility for doing something improper. They want the man to do it so they’re free of guilt. Ooh, mom, he made me do it!”

  “Wow, that’s some projection you got going. I do want to blame you for it because you’re to blame! You kidnapped me from the lab at gunpoint and forced me to pilot this ship off into space and then you took – we had – whatever you call it, what we did, and how can I help but be angry at you! And I feel guilty, yes, because I wasn’t strong enough to say no!”

  Skull sat back, grasping the arms of the seat in frustration. “You’re right. You are human. No alien would be so damned…female!” He thrust upright, seizing his rifle and stalked into the bedroom, throwing himself onto the bed-dais.

  Rolling over, he stared at the ceiling. What the hell is going on? Who the hell am I? This isn’t me. Something is happening that’s messing with my head. Is it the nano? Is this what it did to JT? And the others, Section Th
ree that suicided, I just figured they got too froggy and high on their abilities. But Huff, all that stuff I could hear him saying over the link, crazy stuff, I just figured it was for effect, to keep control of the situation, but maybe not.

  His thoughts ran around in his skull like rats trying to chew their way out. Eventually he slept, fitful.

  -7-

  Brigadier Nguyen composed himself, resisting the urge to stroke his thin goatee, to check his neat short hair. In a normal, or even an Eden, “composing himself” would be idiomatic, metaphorical. With an aberration like him, it was more literal. He consciously changed minds, wrapping himself in his earlier, warmer, pre-Psycho persona. Method acting, some might have called it, to put himself so deep into a role that he believed it, became that person.

  He pushed a button on his intercom phone, an ancient piece of technology – at least twenty years of age. Spooky liked antiques, liked to keep others off balance by using unusual approaches and devices, liked to impress people. “Send them in please,” he ordered courteously into the device.

  Politeness has no cost, he thought. Like Pascal’s wager, it is always win-win. For my enemies I keep them quiescent, guessing, underestimating. For my friends – those who believe themselves my friends, those who serve me unknowingly – it maintains our relationships and their esteem. And for those who are not yet either, it smoothes their path to join the ranks of my loyal subordinates. Win-win. He laughed to himself at the play on words. Nguyen-Nguyen. Only a speaker of Vietnamese could hear the difference.

  His head of nanotech research, a distant Nguyen cousin called Erik, led his two senior subordinates in to stand in front of Spooky’s enormous polished wooden desk. He bowed, and though not Asian, the other two also bowed with reasonably practiced motions.

  With his cousin the bow was customary. The other two had learned that it seemed to please the Brigadier, had told themselves that they were culturally sensitive.