Kermilda, in contrast, believed the best defense was a strong offense, so she had loaded up on so many micronutrients that her breath and scalp emitted a yeasty, alcoholic scent. “They'll figure out right away what we did.”
“I don't think so,” said Godfrey. “They'll know we started the virus, but they won't know how it's propagated. It won't wash off those yokels’ hands, and anyway, I inoculated every surface I encountered in that hab, starting with the mayor's office and even the airlock. And I added a thin layer of the protein substrate.”
“Yes,” said Kermilda, “but they may try to develop an antiviral.”
“That would take time, and by the time they succeed, let's hope they'll come to their senses and realize we have only their greater good in mind.” Godfrey contemplated a return to Gari Babakin once this whole thing had blown over. He'd love to meet more of the natives. Especially if any were like that Lucile Raoul. He could write a paper on the personality differences wrought by curing the population of toxoplasmosis infestation. What would Lucile be like when relieved of her parasitic burden? Would she be just as convivial, but not as manipulative?
Hilda spoke for the first time. “I wonder how they'll react when the cats start dying.”
* * * *
Lucile found the half-grown kitten under her workstation when she came in for work. It was cold and limp. She flinched, then cuddled it to her chest. Poor little thing! Poor, poor kitten!
This crystallized her fear that the cats were going to die, all of them. Dozens of pet cats on Gari Babakin station had already sickened with a mysterious wasting illness, and the feral colony was reduced to a quarter of its former size.
She had been afraid this would happen ever since Godfrey's visit. Jean-Marie had called a town meeting of the entire station. It was the first time that the entire male population had turned up, many of them sober. Everybody knew Godfrey's team would release a virus to kill the oocysts, but there was no way of knowing what method they'd use to propagate it. The water supply had been examined for new viri, as it was well known that phage virus particles thrive in Earthly sea water, but since Gari Babakin had so few microbiologists who were trained in other than food synthesis, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
She threw open the door of Jean-Marie's office. “We've got to take action. They're killing our cats, our souls!"
Jean-Marie rose heavily to his feet and lumbered over to her. He wrapped hamlike arms around her and breathed wine breath into her face. “I know, I know, my dear, but what, what more can we do? We're working on the antivirals—”
“Let me call the head of their sanitation team, that half-scalped idiot that came out here in the spring.”
“Is he still on Mars?”
“Of course he is! Earth transport hasn't left Equatorial city since he and his she-goons were here. Anyway, he seems the type that wants to stay on Mars. Become a Martian.”
Jean-Marie sighed. “But not a Martian in the truest sense, with the advanced culture provided by our oocyst friends.”
“No. Not in the purest sense.”
Benoit appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a clean shirt and hadn't crashed the station computer system in weeks. Was the phage destroying his toxoplasmosis infection, converting him back into a straight-arrow Martian?
Benoit said, “You might try seducing him.”
“Surely he's not that stupid!”
Benoit stroked his mustache.
* * * *
Lucile spent more time gazing into Bon Bon's inscrutable eyes, as if the sleek affectionate cat might have answers. A weekly lab test of her own toxoplasmosis status showed that she remained seropositive. The immune factors might just remain in her blood after the cysts were gone. But she thought not. Her bills for package delivery service and droplet manufacturing betrayed her continued interest in exotic lingerie. No, she hadn't started any new love affairs since the fateful day Godfrey and his hagfish entourage had arrived, but she had been busy. Anyway, her next project was Benoit.
Or was it?
Benoit would make an interesting playmate. He would need lots of fixing up, but toxoplasmosis-positive women liked that sort of thing. Of course, toxoplasmotic women also got bored easily.
She needed more of a challenge. Terrans were certainly not immune to the charms of women with toxoplasmic infections; this was well known. Many of the station women had a good laugh when one of them seduced another male into coming to the station on the sheer expectation of meeting the famed Gari Babakin sex kittens.
This particular challenge might save the station.
She put through the call.
Dr. Godfrey Worcester, NutriTopia Ares Project Manager for Toxoplasmosis Gondii Remediation, was in fact still on Mars, at Utopia Station. And, his expression told her, even over on her tiny screen, that he was both lonely and shy, but too damned dutiful to admit it to himself.
“Do I have the honor of speaking to the too-young-to-be-so distinguished Dr. Godfrey Worcester? The scientist who developed the antitoxoplasma virus?”
“Martialle Raoul, good sol,” he said. He sounded courteous, but nervous. As he should be.
She made her voice soft and breathy, as if afraid she might wet her pants in admiration. “I have been thinking of you ever since you left us that day. We had so much to talk about.”
He brightened. “I was actually hoping to see you again, Martialle Raoul—”
She method-acted her face into an expression of fetching grief, combined with vixenish fury. “My naughty doctor,” she said in a low, thrilling voice, “Are you aware that you're killing our little kitties?”
He wilted like a failed erection. “We—uh, we considered there might be side effects with the cats. But surely not all—”
“Seventy percent! That includes Aristide Brewpub, the tom cherished by our mayor. Aristide died in agony a week after your visit. Autopsy shows kidney and heart failure, caused by the sudden death of the oocysts that the cat coexisted with.” Actually, Aristide was perfectly well, but several other pet cats had died, and she figured Godfrey would be more appalled if he thought he'd killed the mayor's cat.
“There's nothing—uh, our own feline subjects tolerated the phage very well—”
She closed her eyes slowly, as if infinitely offended.
He blurted, “Are you experiencing any discomfort? I mean personally? I could come to the station and examine you, I'm a physician, you know, I don't want you to feel in peril with this perfectly safe treatment.”
“Don't you understand, my dear bad, bad doctor? We love our cats. They are—how shall I say?—the soul of our culture.”
“But some of them are running around without masters, infesting your vacant tunnels—”
“You mean the feral cat community?” She blinked slowly at him. “On Earth, I believe there are actually more wild animals than domestic. We have reproduced that condition in miniature here in Gari Babakin.” She leaned forward, pursed her lips. “I have an idea. I think you should come, as my guest of course, and experience first hand this culture your corporate masters condemn.”
Godfrey blanched. “You mean allow myself to be infected with toxoplasmosis? I'm afraid that's out of the—”
“But not at all! Your virus has wiped out the oocysts. The death of all our sweet pusskins shows that to be true. Come, you can stay in our charming little guesthouse. You'll be perfectly safe. Or with me, if you like.”
Surely he's not that stupid.
But he was nodding yes. Eagerly.
* * * *
Godfrey's head was spinning when he turned off the call. She wanted to see him. Of course his motive was entirely scientific. He wanted to check the progress of the cure. Were the personality changes going to be obvious? His team had been monitoring internal and external communications from Gari Babakin for seven years. Text analysis, algorithm driven, had demonstrated marked deviation from normalcy. But he had actually met three victims of the disease: the mayor Jean-Marie Laf
ayette; Benoit Bussy, the mayor's research liaison; and of course the mayor's interesting assistant, Lucile.
He would be able to see firsthand if her personality had changed. Had she become less obsessed with fashion and personal appearance? That outfit she was wearing the sol he had been there—provocative, in a way he couldn't describe. Was she less effusive? Most of all, had she been cured of that regrettable promiscuity suggested by her secret smile?
The cure for promiscuity was without question the best feature of the virus cure. Except maybe for saving infants from blindness and encephalitis. And yet! She was interested in him, he could see from the look in her violet eyes that she wanted to see him. Perhaps—
He wasn't interested in romancing an experimental subject. Of course not.
He just wanted to see how the treatment (don't call it an experiment!) had turned out.
From ground level.
Of course if she and he decided to see each other socially, after the experiment was over—
The danger of becoming infected with toxoplasmosis was vanishingly small now, according to the computer model of how his virus cure had spread. And if he did become infected, he could just use the virus cure on himself.
A rocket plane was scheduled to go to Gari Babakin on Thursday. He would be aboard.
Plenty of time for him to make an appointment with his barber.
* * * *
Lucile liked scientists. Since they spent most of their time with their eyes glued to a microscope or a computer output, they lacked the social lubrication of the public servants in the circles she moved in. Scientists were often charmingly direct. Unsophisticated, in the sense of lacking sophistry. She wasn't sure where this would go, but it would be no great chore flirting with Godfrey until she got whatever information she could out of him.
This time, she flinched inwardly when he took off his helmet. His scalp showed through in two places where the barber had apparently not been paying attention. But his eager smile, along with his scent of clean sweat, melted her heart.
“Now,” he said, “let's discuss this issue with the feline side effects.”
She took his helmet from him, helped him with the fasteners on his suit. “Where are your two associates, by the way?”
“They had other commitments.”
Lucile smiled inwardly. But of course. He hadn't even told them he was coming.
* * * *
Less than twenty-four and a half hours later, they were in Lucile's bed, eating foie gras that etienne Bergere had grown from duck liver cells. Lucile was always hungry after she consummated a seduction.
“You are not going back to the guest house tonight,” she told him as he licked the last morsels off her fingers. “I can order breakfast in tomorrow morning. Shall I speak the lights out?”
They settled into the bed. Lucile was always a bit uncomfortable sleeping with a new partner, but the bed was big, and she did like Godfrey. He'd let go a few of the secrets of the virus, including calling up a genomic profile from Marsnet. It was proprietary, but he had a password and went into NutriTopia Ares’ file system. She'd copied it and tucked a duplicate into her own private files.
The wonderful thing was, she could just sit back and not do anything.
Mars itself would do the work.
Lucile was pleasantly dozing when she heard Bon Bon hacking up a hairball on the carpet. The coughing went on too long to be just a hairball. Bon Bon had been extra affectionate lately. Cats with kidney issues often sought the heat of human flesh. She switched on a light.
Bon Bon was convulsing on the floor by her bed. As she watched in horror, the little cat quivered one last time, then lay still.
Without answering Godfrey's sleepy “What's wrong?” she scooped the cat up, bundled on a trench coat, and ran to the emergency medical clinic.
The medico on duty worked on the little cat for over twenty minutes, but it was quite dead.
“The virus?” she said.
The medico washed off her handfilm and shook her head. “Poor little thing. We think it may be like heartworm: Kill the parasite, kill the host.”
Lucile was more than horrified. Her cat, her companion for eight Mars years, which had listened to her secrets and mirrored her slinking and her primping like a tiny mime, was cooling on a clinic table.
“Are you saying it could kill humans?” This was a nightmare!
At this point she realized that Godfrey had fumbled into his clothes and followed her to the clinic.
“No, no, no,” said Godfrey. “The human test was completely successful! No ill effects whatever.”
She turned on him with the fury of a global storm. “Then what killed my cat?”
He smiled unconvincingly. “It has to do with taurine enzymes. Uh, I don't think you'd understand—”
Oh, she was furious. “Try me!”
He buttoned one more button of his shirt. “The thing is, nobody completely understands it. We just know it works, because of the enzyme-blocking, you see.”
The clinic medico said, “It's not really a parasite, like other protozoans. When a parasite evolves long enough with a species, it is no longer useful for it to kill the host. It eventually offers benefits to the host. When rats eat cat feces, the rats become infected. The rats’ brains are changed. We think it might emulate a dopamine reuptake inhibitor. The rats begin to love cats. They are even attracted to the smell of cat urine.”
“And this helps the cat.” Lucile stroked the fur of her dead Bon Bon, who seemed asleep with half-open eyes. “Godfrey, how does the virus work? How do you know it won't kill everybody on this station? Even you!”
“The discovery was an accident. We were looking for a bacteriophage for a different disease.”
She lowered her voice an octave and stalked closer to him. “How does the virus work?”
He backed away. “We—aren't sure.”
She sank down on her heels on the floor of the clinic and buried her face in her hands, unconcerned that her coat gapped open and revealed her nudity. She looked up at Godfrey and said, “You have killed my cat.”
“I didn't—”
“Something was wrong. You must have known.”
“All right!” he barked. “All right! We didn't test it on cats! We tested it on hamsters because hamsters are cheaper. Hamsters are like cats, aren't they? Small, furry, warm-blooded? And we tested it on Fred Remaura, and he did just fine.”
Lucile could barely contain her fury. “This is really true? You tested this virus on hamsters and one man, and then you unleashed it on two thousand innocent people and—oh my god—we have over five thousand cats here.”
“I'm sorry,” he said meekly.
“You'll be sorrier,” she said with icy calm, “if you're not off this station tonight. Within the hour.”
“I can't—there's no rocketplane until—”
“So call Utopia for emergency evacuation. No, wait, I'll call Jean-Marie. We have a rocketplane we use for light delivery. It isn't pressurized, so you'll have to stay suited up the whole flight, but I won't have to look at your lying face tomorrow. Or ever.”
Godfrey got all stiff. “You forget that NutriTopia Ares owns every molecule of this station, right down to—”
“And this is relevant how?”
“I am a stockholder in NutriTopia Ares! I have rights here.”
“How delightful for you! But it won't do you much good if you're here beyond tomorrow morning.”
Godfrey deflated. “Why not?”
“Because you'll be dead.”
He backed off, shaking his head and staring at her. She locked eyes with him until he turned and fled.
She stroked the still body of Bon Bon and wept.
* * * *
She told Jean-Marie, “The feral cats will save us. They inhabit the upper tunnels, where there is less protection from surface radiation. We have to do everything we can to ensure that some survive.”
They fed and watered the feral cats. The cats
died by the dozens, the hundreds. But Lucile, Benoit, and Jean-Marie fed them and took the bodies away.
* * * *
Jean-Marie's cat Aristide Brewpub did die. And so did the cats Benoit kept, Coeurl and her kittens, Albedo One and Chimere, rare albinos.
Lucile herself went through a horrible patch, ill with headaches and jaundice ("Been hitting the wine a bit much, Lucile?” Benoit had leered, and then she had whacked him on the shoulder with her personal office.) She checked herself once more for toxoplasmosis, and the test said she was still positive, but a more expensive test, ordered from Utopia, said no, she was clear of the oocysts. She threw into the recycler silky heaps of expensive lingerie and stiletto-heeled boots with built-in gyrostabilizers to prevent a twisted ankle. She mourned the woman she had been.
How could she have enjoyed being the slave of that microscopic tyrant, the puppet of that parasite? How tragic to be human, to ride the waves of passion steered by the wayward blood. Who was the real Lucile, the manic flirt in love with color, self-adornment, and complex flavors on the tongue, or the sad rational woman cured of her infection?
Benoit did indeed remember the multiplication tables again and proved to be such a finicky organizer of her life and Jean-Marie's that she could barely tolerate the glare of clean desk surfaces.
She wanted a kitten. She wanted to be sexy. She didn't want sex, she just wanted to be crazy and attractive again.
She wanted to be a kitten.
* * * *
It took an entire Mars year for the die-offs to cease.
But.
As hard as it was, Lucile and the others had only one weapon: time.
Time, and the extreme environment of Mars.
The very harsh environment that forced the people of Gari Babakin to live under meters of regolith proved to be their friend.
It was just as she had learned from the notes in the NutriTopia Ares files.
Toxoplasma gondii was a protozoan similar to Plasmodium, the parasite that, on Earth, causes malaria. The difficulty of wiping out malaria on Earth is that the protozoan keeps mutating, so a drug that works one year will lose its efficacy a few years later. The protozoan mutates, develops immunity. On Earth, Toxoplasma gondii never did this, maybe because there was never a concerted effort to wipe it out.
Analog SFF, April 2009 Page 16
