Dark Biology

by Bonnie Doran

  “Sorry to hear that.” Worth dropped his head on his pillow, a bit breathless from so much talking.

  “We’ll pray for her.” Laura smiled.

  Annie looked at them as if they’d just sprouted antennas. She shook her head as she left the room.

  Laura squeezed his hand. “We should pray for her. And for Hildi and Chet.”

  Worth bowed his head as Laura prayed. He managed an “amen,” his heart swirling with worry and doubt. He was the one needing prayer. He was supposed to be a Christian leader, for crying out loud, someone people turned to for answers, not some sort-of-a-Christian who couldn’t rub two sticks of faith together.

  ****

  Carol waved at George and Betty as they left her room. So nice of them to stop by. She turned her attention to the tabloid. Her jaw dropped at the latest sensational article in National Exposé. “Aliens Unleash Virus on Earth”

  Extraterrestrials are to blame for the recent deadly flu outbreak, according to Bruce Willit of the Network for UFO Sightings (NUFOS).

  “They covered Reconciliation with disease-laden particles,” said Willit. “The virus spewed its poison when the spacecraft entered the atmosphere.”

  Willit went on to say that the aliens damaged the International Space Station. “The so-called docking accident was an attack by a flying saucer,” he said. “NUFOS has been tracking them for weeks.”

  Unnamed sources have confirmed that the space capsule was on a secret mission to meet with the alien craft.

  “The visitors responded to our peaceful overtures with an unprovoked attack. They intend to destroy all the inhabitants of Earth,” said Willit.

  One astronaut was killed. The other three barely escaped with their lives.

  Carol’s funny bone kicked in at the audacity of the paper to even publish such fiction. Mike had brought her a copy that morning along with a vase of daisies. She added the paper each week to her grocery cart of frozen dinners and fresh fruit. Mike frowned every time he caught her reading it, but he apparently had a change of heart with her hospitalization.

  She’d been cleared for discharge from the hospital, but the nurse explained it usually took a couple of hours to process the paperwork. She itched to get home and slouch on her own couch.

  She flipped through the pages, scanning news items entitled “Boy Trapped in Refrigerator Eats Own Foot” and “Science Fiction Actor Arrested as Terrorist.” She finally couldn’t contain herself. Her giggles grew louder the harder she tried to stop.

  Mike walked in at that moment, consternation wrinkling his forehead. “Something wrong?”

  Tears streamed down Carol’s cheeks. She wiped them hastily with a tissue and held out the paper for Mike’s inspection. “Can you believe this?”

  Mike smiled, tired lines around his eyes testifying to his long hours at work and at her bedside. Carol grabbed back the paper. “Listen to this. ‘This is the first step in an invasion that space aliens have planned for months. Watch the skies.’” Carol snorted as she handed the paper to Mike. “That’s what I like about this tabloid. Cheap entertainment.”

  Mike scanned the article, then his expression grew grim. “That’s not too different from what the newspapers are reporting. I brought you a copy.” He handed Carol an edition of The Denver Post. Their headline, “Space Capsule Blamed for Virus Outbreak,” was barely less out of this world. Her funny bone handed her emotions over to her worry gland as she read the story, frowned, and dropped the paper onto her bedside tray. “So now it’s a deadly virus that was on board when Reconciliation splashed down?”

  “It’s ridiculous, of course. Someone at NASA spilled the beans that the space capsule had carried a virus sample for research purposes, but the CDC insists it was just an ordinary flu. It couldn’t have caused this.”

  She read the next column and startled. “The astronauts on the station are running out of oxygen. NASA plans to launch a rescue mission on Sunday. Mike, Hildi Hildebrandt is one of the astronauts. That’s Worth Hildebrandt’s daughter, isn’t it?”

  Mike shrugged.

  “He must be worried to death.”

  33

  “I” Plus Ten Days

  As CAPCOM Pete read the news article to the station crew, Frank’s body stiffened in a fight-flight-or-freeze response. He should have seen this one coming.

  Frank’s rant peppered the air as his hands balled into fists. Joe had awakened him and Maria for this? He’d rather be sleeping instead of facing this nightmare. “So the media is blaming me for the crash and want an investigation? And they think I’m mentally unhinged?”

  “Calm down, Frank.” Hildi laid a hand on his arm. He yanked his arm away.

  “You gotta cut down on the coffee, bud.” Jasper’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, that’s right. We ran out two days ago.”

  “Yes, Frank. Calm down.” Joe’s voice held more of a command than a suggestion. Frank willed his fists to uncurl, but his stomach still churned. “Go ahead, Houston.”

  Pete continued. “NASA’s conducting the investigation.” He lowered his voice. “Not some politician angling to get more votes.”

  “Yeah, like that’s comforting.” Frank clamped his mouth shut as Joe shot him a warning look.

  “Frank, no one is blaming you.” Hildi’s voice was gentle.

  Frank glared at her. She didn’t understand. No one did. Larry died because he saved my life. I could have grabbed him. Should have grabbed him. “The media will skewer me.”

  “You’re not the only one that’s been skewered,” Pete said.

  Frank frowned, trying to figure out what in the world he was talking about.

  “The media claims Hildi caused the virus outbreak. Congress is investigating NASA as well because we allowed a disease-laden capsule to de-orbit.”

  “How in tarnation did they come to those conclusions?” Joe looked ready to wrestle an angry bull.

  “How does the media come to any conclusion?” Frank’s muscles tightened.

  Pete huffed a breath. “Apparently they got wind that the influenza vial was on Reconciliation when it reentered the atmosphere. They found some expert who said the virus had mutated when it combined with seawater. They added two and two and came up with seventeen.”

  Angry voices rose, Hildi’s the loudest. “It couldn’t have. Viruses don’t mutate that way. And the sample vial was securely capped. I checked it myself before launch.”

  “The vial broke. The CDC’s still trying to figure that one out.”

  Jasper grinned. “Maybe it was aliens.”

  “You’ve been reading the tabloids.” Pete’s voice hinted at amusement. “But enough of the news. NASA wants to know how you’re coming on the repair work.”

  “It’s been mighty slow goin’.” Joe rubbed a stubbly chin.

  Frank bit back a response. He willed himself to change gears and don his mask of professionalism before his mood brought the whole crew down. They all needed to act methodically and logically in this crisis without emotions blurring their focus. The thin air already made that a problem. They’d gathered parts from the station’s supplies and cannibalized some equipment. Kluging a patch to repair the docking ring was like using stone knives and bearskins to build a radio.

  “Could you elaborate, Joe?” Pete’s voice was back to matter-of-fact calm.

  “Thing is, it’s hard to concentrate right now.” Joe straightened. “We’ll have it before Valiant drops in for a visit on Tuesday.”

  Murmurs crackled in the background at Mission Control, then Steve took the mic. “People, we’ve done more calculations here on your oxygen supply. It won’t last until Tuesday.”

  Frank took a deep breath. “So that’s that.” He grabbed a handhold so he could propel himself to his room and mope in private. My fault.

  Steve’s bellow followed the faint sound of a breaking pencil. “No, it’s not. Valiant will rendezvous on Monday.”

  Frank whistled. “And Shorty and Dandy signed up for this suicide mission? Now I know they
’re crazy.”

  “Who are you calling crazy?”

  Frank’s jaw dropped at the sound of Dan’s voice. “You, buddy. The whole pack of you, NASA included. Are you nuts?”

  “We’re astronauts.”

  A flame of hope lit Frank’s mind, but doubts still hunkered in a dark corner.

  Steve’s intensity blared from the radio. “So I ask you again, people. When will the repairs be completed?”

  “Sunday, sir,” Joe said.

  “Houston out.”

  34

  Chet sat in the Jacuzzi, his mind swirling as fast as the water. What should he do? If he told the authorities he’d unleashed the virus, they’d throw him in the brig. So much for his vacation. If he didn’t ’fess up and contact the CDC, his inaction could slow the vaccine’s development. The delay could kill thousands. Millions.

  His sister was fighting for her life, and he was responsible for that, too. He’d pushed her into a race for the prize of top vaccinologist, and what better way to lord it over him than to sneer at him from space? Some big brother he was. Instead of encouraging her choice to follow in his footsteps, he’d discounted her every academic accomplishment and refused to attend her graduation or her sendoff into space. He’d vented his anger on her as a spillover of his rage at their parents. She didn’t deserve that.

  His mind jumped back to the deadly threat on the station. An accident had caused a critical air leak. The media blamed it on Frank’s piloting. He knew better. Frank was a jerk, but he was also one of the best pilots in the business.

  Chet frowned. He was overthinking this. Dan would launch Sunday and save the day.

  Or would he?

  Valiant had to be carrying a sample of the new virus to Hildi. But experiments could put the astronauts at risk again, assuming they didn’t die of asphyxiation before the capsule got there.

  He could help her with the research if he were there. If he could get a message to her…

  “Hi, stranger.” The voice startled him. He looked up. Sandy smiled from the edge of the deck, dressed for performance—a red, glittery formal and no splints on her wrists.

  “Hi, yourself. Heard you were sick.”

  “Yeah.” Her grimace was endearing. “What a horrible case of the flu. I think the shot I had last month did some good, but I’m not sure.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt if it helped. Every vaccine is tailored to the individual strain, and seldom does one substitute for the other. The last flu shot was made for H2N4. This one is…different.”

  She cocked her head. “How come you know so much about viruses?”

  Chet hesitated. He didn’t want to give himself away, but he’d have to soon anyway. “I’m a vaccinologist with the CDC.”

  “In Atlanta?”

  Chet nodded.

  Sandy whistled then glanced at her watch. “I’d like to talk with you more about that, but I need to hurry. I’m due to play in twenty minutes. Tuning forty-seven strings takes time.”

  “Where are you playing?” Chet spoke to her retreating back. A rather exposed back.

  She twisted her head to answer. “Wine Cellars, deck 4.” Her stride was brisk, considering the height of her heels.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Chet waited until she was out of view then heaved himself out of the Jacuzzi. He’d never been the athletic type, and she obviously was. Hauling that harp around the ship probably gave her those toned arms. He dried off with a white towel and sandaled his way to his stateroom. As he showered off the chlorine, his thoughts swirled again.

  He should tell Hildi. She needed to know what she would be dealing with. He had no idea how to do that. Just call the NASA operator and say, “May I talk to the International Space Station, please?” He just hoped the biology lab module on the station could deliver Level 4 isolation.

  Chet donned slacks and a polo shirt for the evening. He paused as he combed his hair then shook his head. Enough introspection.

  His stateroom assistant was still missing. He spotted the man who had replaced him. “How’s Enrique?

  “In quarantine. Flu.” Concern creased his forehead.

  Chet fled through the hallways but couldn’t escape his own worry. Everyone near him had caught it. Typhoid Mary couldn’t have done a more thorough job. But why had he been spared? He was seldom sick, but exposure to the flu usually laid him low. Unless, like he’d wondered earlier, he was immune. He stopped before he climbed the stairs. If he was immune, Hildi could be, too. If NASA really was shooting a sample to her, she might have a chance to identify the immunity gene from her own blood. He grimaced. It meant giving away his part in the epidemic.

  Passengers in dinner attire crowded the elevators. He took the stairs to deck 4, still preoccupied with his dilemma.

  Sandy was playing. He sat at one of the round tables—unfortunately the farthest from her–and ordered a glass of chardonnay. He sipped it while she played popular music then switched to a classical piece. Tension left his shoulders. Hard to be uptight while listening to harp music. The instrument fascinated him. So did the harpist.

  Sandy bowed to scattered applause. He debated whether to invite her over for a drink, but she left without seeing him. His gaze followed her until she disappeared past the bar. He glanced at his watch and shrugged. Time for dinner anyway.

  A waiter escorted him to his assigned table of eight. So far, he’d tolerated his dinner mates. The newlyweds were more engrossed in each other than inane chitchat. A family of three had never returned after the first evening, apparently appeasing their young daughter with the more casual atmosphere of the ship’s buffet. The remaining couple he remembered from his eternal wait before he boarded. The dumpy woman who had dug into a voluminous tote bag for her paperwork was missing.

  He nodded at everyone per protocol and turned to the woman’s husband. “Where’s your wife?”

  The bearded man sighed. “Sick. She’s in the ship’s hospital.” He stared out the window.

  Chet’s tension tightened its grip. “What’s wrong with her?” He already knew the answer.

  “Flu. Pneumonia.”

  Chet drew in a sharp breath. Another case. The numbers must be more than he originally estimated. He glanced at empty seats throughout the dining room. He should do something. Send an anonymous tip to the CDC. Figure out a way to contact Hildi. But self-preservation shouted louder in his brain than his conscience.

  He picked items from the menu without his usual interest and ordered a bottle of Bordeaux to share. It was his turn. The food came as his appetite failed. The creative dishes lacked their usual flair, at least to his indifferent taste buds.

  Before the servers presented the dessert menu, Chet excused himself and headed for his stateroom. He sank to the bed as his stomach churned like the propellers driving the ship through rough waters.

  He’d killed his father as surely as blasting him with an Uzi. A bad virus infection and HIV equaled death. He’d lashed out in hatred that was twenty years old. Did the man deserve to die for his hypocrisy? Had Chet played God?

  He could blame it on his stupid eyeglasses, but truthfully, he’d been too angry at his boss to notice he’d chosen the wrong vial. After five years as a Level 4 vaccinologist, he knew better than to let his emotions rule him, especially around the lab.

  He opened a drawer and pulled out his origami materials to escape his growing self-blame. He folded the paper mechanically. Maybe it would soothe his aching mind. The dove he made by rote startled him. Where did that come from? Throwing the creation on the bed, he opened the sliding glass door. The dove fluttered to the floor as he stepped onto the balcony. The whooshing wind ruffled his hair. Threatening a violent storm, thunderclouds gathered on the horizon.

  There was nowhere but down from here. Hunt would eventually make the connection and realize Chet was responsible. He could disappear into London, forever looking over his shoulder for the FBI. The thought of running rankled him. This wasn’t a funny spy game anymore, and he
definitely wasn’t laughing.

  Hide and be caught, followed by a lengthy jail sentence, or confess his crime and face a lengthy jail sentence. Big choice.

  He leaned over the railing. If he jumped, would he land in the water or splat on someone else’s veranda? It certainly would solve the prison problem.

  For the second time since his teenage years, he prayed. “God, help me.” But why should he expect an answer? The engines of the massive ship rumbled, the waves slapped against the bow, but heaven was silent.

  Hide or confess. Maybe talk to Hildi somehow. There had to be a way. Maybe…apologize to his parents? The thought dropped cannonballs into his strained stomach, but he knew it was right. He wanted to do anything but that, but his lousy conscience wouldn’t leave him alone.

  Well, he would at least make the effort. He could call. Maybe an e-mail instead…

  Coward.

  Chet stepped back into his room and closed the door. He wished he could shut off his guilt as easily. He picked up his cell phone before his resolve could vanish. It actually worked in the middle of the Atlantic.

  The news had said his dad was in ICU at Littleton Hospital, so he’d start there. The roaming charges would cost a fortune for a connection, but that was the least of his worries. The automated voice of the phone company’s information line finally gave him the hospital’s number. He endured another long delay before the hospital receptionist dialed his father’s room. He nearly dropped the handset when he heard the characteristic buzz of a call going through.

  “Hello?”

  He recognized Mom’s voice. Panic set in. His tongue folded into an origami he’d never tried.

  “Hello?” Pause.

  Chet opened his mouth but couldn’t force a sound out.

  “Is anyone there?”

  “Mom?”

  Silence. Maybe he shouldn’t have called.

  A gasp. “Chet, I can’t believe it’s you.”

  I can’t believe it either. “I—well, I just wanted to call. It’s been a while.” He couldn’t have picked a lamer thing to say. He sank back on the bed before he could dash out of the room.