Dirk allowed himself a grin. “So, is there anything you want to share before our meeting?”
“Maybe some of the more mundane stuff.” Bane’s tired eyes exhibited increased alertness as she hacked away with one hand at a nearby keyboard. With her free hand, she rotated a monitor mounted on an articulating arm into camera view, then hit a key. “The first thing that stood out to me, and also to Dr. Wilkins, apparently, is that as virulent as Kronosaurus imperator bacteria is, as a species, they appear to be immune to it.”
On the screen, footage of a pair of bull pliosaurs engaging in mating combat ran. Like grappling hippos, the two behemoths interlocked jaws and tore relentlessly at one another.
“A known commodity,” Dirk pointed out. “Their immune systems are amazing, as are their hyper-regenerative capabilities.”
“Indeed. Given their ability to repair tissue at such an astonishing rate, I suspect their lifespans may be preternaturally long.”
Dirk shrugged. “It’s possible. One of the perks of being imprisoned in hell for sixty-five million years.”
Bane tapped a key. “Let’s look at these two specimens.”
Enlarged on the monitor, two vertically-mounted blood sample slides appeared side by side. The cellular activity on the first was obvious, on the second, virtually non-existent.
“Specimen ‘A’ is a sample of live pliosaur blood,” Bane announced. Dirk could hear her flipping pages as she spoke. “It was taken from one of your captive specimens: Fafnir, to be exact. The cells were maintained under optimal systemic conditions and injected with a heavy dose of the microbial soup present in the saliva and bloodstream of a different, on-site specimen, number zero-two-eight . . . Surtr. As you can see, the invasive pathogens, although inactive, are attacked immediately and aggressively by the host’s assorted lymphocytes. Natural killer, thymus, and bone-marrow cells are all present, and in tremendous numbers. The body’s defensive response is similar to that of the immunological components found in the blood of the Komodo dragon; the foreign bodies are confronted head-on and implode instantly on contact with the correlating auto-immune cells.”
Dirk’s eyes narrowed as he watched the oddly-shaped saurian bacteria pop like compressed bubble wrap. He’d seen this type of microbial combat before, but the efficiency and lethality of it never ceased to fascinate him.
Bane continued. “Specimen ‘B’ is also interesting, primarily because the interactions between the invasive antigens and the host’s leucocytes are far less antagonistic.”
She was right, Dirk saw. As in the first sample, the injected bacterium remained predominantly inert. Moreover, they stayed so as the host’s less numerous and more lethargic white blood cells advanced, tackling and destroying them one by one.
“Are the antigens also from Surtr?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What about the host blood? Based on the nucleated erythrocytes, I assume it’s reptilian, but I can tell it’s not from one of our pliosaurs.”
“You are correct. It’s a run-of-the-mill Alligator mississippiensis.”
“Fascinating.” Dirk touched a finger to his upper lip. “The invasive cells appear dormant, almost like they’re hibernating.”
“Yes,” Bane agreed. “They just sit there, neither moving nor multiplying, and allow the gator’s auto-immune system to envelope and incapacitate them.” She clicked on another key. “Now, watch this.”
A third vertical window opened, parallel to the first two and splitting the screen in three. Unlike the first two specimens, the bacteria in the final sample moved in a highly energized and excited matter, enveloping and infecting every cell they encountered, including the host body’s lymphocytes. Within thirty seconds the entire sample had been contaminated.
“That was from a human host, wasn’t it,” Dirk remarked.
“No one you know.”
“Why the extreme difference? Is it the alligator’s immune system? They are remarkably resilient.”
Bane swiveled the monitor back off camera and leaned in close. “It’s more a matter of reptilian physiology. Most of the microbes in a pliosaur’s jaw are temperature sensitive and remain more or less inert when exposed to the carrier’s typical core temperature of around seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit. They function and multiply best when exposed to an iron-rich, aerobic environment and maintained at a temperature around--”
“Mammalian levels,” Dirk finished for her. “So the inference is what – that reptiles are immune to Cretaceous Cancer?”
“Pretty much,” Bane said, licking her lips. “At first, I thought lowering infectees’ body temperatures would be worth investigating, but after crunching the numbers I realized, at best, it would only slow the spread. And the temp needed to be effective would end up being terminal for the host. So . . .”
“So, keep at it,” Dirk said, encouraged. “Maybe there’s something to it you haven’t figured out yet.”
“We’ll talk about that when I see you.” Bane brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “Oh, there is one other point that, although medically irrelevant, is rather intriguing. At least from a paleontological perspective.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, it requires a bit of assumptiveness, but, if land-dwelling Cretaceous theropods like, oh . . . dromaeosaurs, for instance, packed a variant of the same infectious slobber that pliosaurs do, it may have had an impact on mankind’s evolutionary history.”
Dirk’s head angled to one side. “How so?”
“Think about it. If a primitive mammal suffered a near-miss from a raptor attack and ended up infected . . .”
Dirk’s lips did the “ah-ha” thing. “They could’ve developed the same aggressive traits infected humans do when succumbing to the bacteria and spread it to others of their kind.”
“Or other mammals, period,” Bane offered. “It could’ve been transmitted like rabies, spreading from bite to bite and infectee to infectee. That is, until the carrier, or carriers, came across a hungry dino and got snatched up.”
Dirk chuckled. “So you’re theorizing that the common cold kept mammals in check, preventing them from growing bigger and vying with dinosaurs for control until K-T?”
“More like a very uncommon plague,” Bane replied. “And hey, you never know. Sometimes, it’s the tiniest things that kill us.”
“Good point. Thanks, Kimberly. I’m looking forward to your presentation. I’ll see you around six.”
She grinned at him. “Sounds good. I’ll chill the wine.”
As Dirk disconnected the call, his smile faded. He leaned back in his chair, his hands sweeping across his keyboard, maneuvering the system’s shimmering cursor until it hovered above a non-descript file on his desktop. His jaw muscles bunched and he hesitated, his finger suspended over the tab.
It’d been weeks since he watched the clip. He hoisted an eyebrow as the computer screen in his mind highlighted the exact date: Three weeks, five days, and a little over eleven hours. He’d stopped looking because every time he suffered through it, he’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming and flailing so violently he was at risk of injury. Still, if there was something in there that might help with his investigation . . .
Steeling himself, Dirk speed-sucked breaths like he was doing Lamaze on amphetamines. Finally, he clamped down on his last inhalation and jabbed the button.
As the black and white security footage went active, Dirk’s exhalation became a wheezy death rattle. The screen was filled with a worm’s eye view of the amphitheater pool, filmed from the narrow landing along the northwest wall. The antiquated ground-level camera was one of those old-fashioned timer-based, infrared swivelers. He checked its counter; a little after ten PM.
At first, there was little to see. It was fairly dark and, as it panned left, the lens showed nothing except the rippling surface of the pool, extending far into the distance. When it swung right, however, it was close to shore and took in the pool’s thick concrete lip, the walkway bord
ering that section, and a heavy steel door. Other than the podium landing, the old maintenance entrance was the amphitheater pool’s only access point from ground level, the remainder being warded by resilient Celazole walls or towering granite ramparts. The four minutes of grainy footage was all there was and, if the camera hadn’t been a generator-powered auxiliary unit Amara Braddock installed as a backup, it wouldn’t even exist. All the rest of Tartarus’s high-tech surveillance equipment was shut down as a result of the rolling blackout that disrupted the entire facility that evening.
Dirk clocked the video footage counter and held his breath. He knew the drama that was slated to unfold frame by frame – not that the feeling of dread ever lessened. His eyes ached as he watched the camera arc left, just in time to catch the explosive splash of his mother crashing feet-first into the pool. Amazingly, she’d survived the twenty-story drop by twisting her body into an impromptu dive, a moment before impact.
He watched as she regained the surface, her raven-haired countenance a darkened dot in the dimly-lit vastness of the amphitheater. Judging from her jerky movements, she had broken a few ribs on impact, but she was alive and mobile. At least for the moment.
On the screen, Amara looked up, then recoiled and made a desperate dive. A second later, the ten-foot section of steel and PBI barrier that had sheared off came down like a guillotine, slashing into the water and missing her by less than a yard. She surfaced ten feet away, gasping for breath and cradling her right side as she made for the nearby shallows. She tried employing a traditional crawl stroke, but switched to a slower, more laborious dog paddle when free-styling proved too painful.
For the fortieth time, Dirk watched his mother fight her way toward him. Arms and legs working, she drew gradually closer, the counter clicking away and the camera panning as it seemingly followed her progress. He could see her clearly now, her mouth open as she struggled to breathe. Then, suddenly, barely forty feet from the pool’s edge, she hesitated. A look of alarm swept her pain-wracked face and she started treading water. She was looking up at something, or perhaps, someone. A moment later, she turned back and headed for the deepwater.
In the distance, some two hundred feet away, lay the big amphitheater dock with its raised dais and podium.
Dirk leaned forward in his seat, his eyes intently following the camera’s POV as it reached its zenith and began swiveling back. He froze the video and scanned the image of the maintenance walkway as he had a hundred times before, searching for some plausible reason why his mother turned away from that guaranteed sanctuary and returned to the 300-foot depths of Tartarus’s manmade lake.
But there was nothing to see. No villain or threat. No land-dwelling predator or supernatural terror. There was nothing but cold concrete and tiles and the dim, orb-shaped emergency lights that ringed the huge saltwater pool’s edge.
Dirk hit play and swallowed the tumorous lump in his throat as the image suddenly shimmied. Something was causing the camera to vibrate and he knew what. For whatever reason, the paired, sixty-foot titanium-steel gates that separated the amphitheater pool from Tiamat’s paddock were opening.
The young scientist’s fearful gaze was reflected in his mother’s eyes as she abandoned the dais dock and turned back toward the shallows. Buoyed by adrenaline-inducing terror, she ignored the pain of her injuries and swam frantically.
Dirk could feel his heart banging like an out-of-control pendulum inside his rib cage as the camera swung left, causing him to temporarily lose sight of her. By the time it moved right again the vibrations had ceased. The yard-thick gates were open.
At this point, Amara had covered half the distance back and was swimming like an Olympian, with no signs of slowing or stopping. The 200-foot disturbance in the water behind her made the reason for her impetus abundantly clear.
Tiamat had entered the pool.
The Kronosaurus queen was coming.
Whatever had caused Amara to abandon the safety of the maintenance landing, moments before, was either gone or she simply no longer cared. She was coming on strong and in seconds would reach the safety of the rebar-strengthened concrete walkway and its nearby maintenance door.
Dirk’s eyes moistened and his vision began to cloud as the pool’s bright main lights clicked on. Like a passing eclipse, the rolling blackout was gone and the electricity was back. There was power to the air conditioning, power to the filtration systems, and power to the amphitheater pool’s . . . current generators.
The camera was jarred as an unscheduled exercise interval for Tartarus’s captive pliosaurs began. You couldn’t hear the music, but the water at the shallow end of the amphitheater pool started to churn wildly. A moment later, it jetted away from the lens and the thousand-foot impoundment was transformed into a colossal swim spa. Dirk winced as the powerful artificial current slammed into his mother, pushing her back. She spun helplessly out of control, moving further and further away, toward the deepest parts of the enclosure.
Dirk felt hot tears burn his cheeks as he gripped the edge of his desk. On the monitor, he watched as Amara flailed. She’d realized the futility of fighting the current and changed direction, angling herself back toward the dock and its sheltering pilings. She was obviously hoping to escape the giant pliosaur’s notice amid the rush of gurgling water.
It was a calculated gamble. But a bad one.
By the time the strike came, Dirk had closed his eyes. He’d suffered it the first six or seven times, but now could no longer handle it. It was too passionless and insignificant for him. There was no watery explosion. No rising from the depths to inflict a devastating strike. Tiamat knew her tiny target was a slug in terms of speed, and injured to boot. She simply reached out, like a partygoer plucking an hors d’oeuvres from a passing tray, and swallowed his mother whole.
And unlike Stacy, there was no coming back.
Dirk buried his face in his hands, hating himself for having run the video again. He made no sound. He just sat there, waiting for his heart rate to return from the stratosphere. Finally, after what seemed like years, he licked his lips and looked back at the screen.
The last ten seconds were the same as always. The camera continued on its predetermined cycle, swiveling away from the spot where Amara Braddock just died and focusing on unfeeling concrete and the illusory refuge of the walkway. Dirk could see the water rushing by at the bottom of the screen, proving the current generators were still running, but beyond that there was no movement. Nothing was amiss. Everything on the recording was the same as it was every other time he’d viewed it.
Yet something seemed different. He just couldn’t put a finger on it. It was subtle, like a butterfly whispering in his ear; a tiny, soft-spoken voice, telling him to look again. Open his eyes and look harder and he would see it.
He tried. He looked and stared and looked again. He squinted so hard he saw colored motes, but still there was nothing. Nothing but stone and water: everything looked the same.
As a curtain of lightheadedness began to lower his world to white, Dirk blew out the breath he’d been holding and sucked in another. A growl of frustration escaped his lips and he heaved himself back in his seat, cursing quietly. He wished they’d never come to Tartarus and that his mom had never accepted the position GDT offered. If she hadn’t, he’d still have his parents and his family. They’d be alive and in love and he--
Dirk snorted in disgust and sprang to his feet. Heading to the kitchen, he swung open the fridge and snatched up a bottle of spring water. He needed to relieve some stress and, as enticing a prospect as heading to Stacy’s quarters for some impromptu nookie was, a workout was by far the smarter choice. The two of them had been going at it like jackrabbits the last few days and, as compatible as they were between the sheets, Dirk’s heart just wasn’t in it. There was nothing wrong with his ex – the beauteous Jamaican scientist was a catch and then some – but his feelings were caught on someone else. And even though the chances of them ending up together were in the slim to not-a
-chance-you-loser category, hope, like Old Faithful, did indeed spring eternal.
Tucking his t-shirt inside his loose-fitting workout pants, Dirk retied his sneakers, scooped up his gym bag, and headed out the door. He had a spring in his step as he hopped in the elevator and headed toward the facility’s nearby fitness center. Lifting weights was hardly as pleasurable as ripping Stacy’s clothes off and reducing her to a quivering pool of jelly. But crude as it was to say, the gym’s assorted dumbbells wouldn’t bury him under a landslide of recrimination if he decided to stop pumping them.
CHAPTER
24
Something stinks in Tartarus. And it’s more than just the damn pliosaurs.
Dr. Kimberly Bane’s eyes were cold and clinical as she hoisted her hefty “Nobody spreads it like an Epidemiologist” mug and gulped down some disgustingly cold coffee. She made a face as she walked to the sink and dumped what remained, then reached for the nearby pot and “slapped in a fresh mag.” It was a figure of speech she’d picked up from her ex-marine ex-husband. One of the more endearing things he used to say when he caught her pouring a late night refill.
Heading back to the counter that served as the lab’s kitchen island, Bane climbed back onto her high-backed stool. She tucked her bangs behind her ears as she surveyed her computer screen. Her headshake was involuntary. The evidence was overwhelming; before she’d gotten there things had gone way far south with the GDT lab’s research, to the point she needed to raise one hell of a red flag. She scoffed as she imagined what Derek’s reaction would be to her news; she couldn’t even imagine their mutual boss’s response.
Bane tapped an index finger against her incisors as she started to initiate a video call, but then canceled it. After a moment’s deliberation, she settled for an interdepartmental email, addressed to Eric Grayson. It was impersonal, but given the sensitive subject matter and the CEO’s apparent lack of availability, she felt more comfortable leaving a message via text format. It also created a paper trail, so to speak, and at least she could edit it, prior to sending.
Kronos Rising: Kraken (vol.1): The battle for Earth's oceans has just begun. Page 48
