Dark Biology

by Bonnie Doran

  “We’re patching a call through to Dr. Hildebrandt.”

  Hildi groaned. “Probably the CDC again.” She had a good enough idea on measures to secure the lab, which weren’t much. Hunt couldn’t give any better solution. She and Maria would do quite fine, thank you. Or as well as they could.

  “It’s not the CDC,” CAPCOM said. “It’s your mother.”

  Hildi gulped. Another farewell call for another dying astronaut? She grabbed the microphone. “Mom?”

  “Evie?”

  Mom’s sobs solidified Hildi’s stomach into a solid block of ice.

  “Mom, are you OK? How’s Dad? Mom?”

  Mom’s sniffles told Hildi the truth. “You know how much he loved you.”

  Loved. Past tense. Hildi hung her head. Space suddenly seemed a very lonely place.

  “Mom, I’m so sorry.” Hildi swiped at her tears, alternating between hot and cold. If it hadn’t been for her brother…

  Frank wiped tears of his own. He and her father had been close.

  Her mother continued. “Chet called and talked to us before…your father left to meet Jesus. He asked for forgiveness.”

  Hildi’s muddled brain tried to comprehend. There’s that foreign word again.

  Mom waited for a response, then cleared her throat. “Listen, I’m planning a private memorial service.”

  Good luck with keeping it private. Everyone in the world would want to be there, either out of concern or curiosity. Her voice hitched in her throat. “I’m glad Chet called.”

  “Yes, your father died at peace. Uh, when will you be back?”

  Same old mom, changing the subject mid-sentence. “I don’t know.”

  “Hmmm. Well, don’t be late for dinner.”

  “I’ll try.” She didn’t trust her own voice beyond that promise. Her throat constricted. Must be the thin oxygen.

  “My five minutes are up. Love you.”

  “Love you, Mom.” Hildi signed off and turned to her crewmates. They’d heard the conversation but pretended to go about their business. Privacy was a precious commodity. They waited.

  “My father died. He caught the virus.” Her own words of reality sliced through her. Dad. Dead. She wanted to curl into a ball.

  “I’m sorry.” Joe touched her arm. The gentle gesture from the hard-riding, flea-bitten cowpoke restarted the tears pooling in her eyes.

  Hildi took a shuddering breath, willing her mind to switch gears. “I need to get to the lab.”

  She’d discover the key to the vaccine. Not for glory but as a tribute to her father. The equipment needed to be calibrated. She needed to implement safety protocol so everything would be ready to go when Dan and Shorty got here. She stopped in mid-thought.

  If they didn’t get here with the oxygen in time, it wouldn’t matter.

  ****

  Frank listened to Hildi’s radioed conversation with growing grief. He’d really liked her father, even though Worth rankled his own lagging faith. Frank had put on the act, speaking Christianese, saying grace at meals, and attending Worth’s gigantic church with Hildi. Worth hadn’t been fooled. Neither had Hildi’s mom, for that matter. Yet they loved him as a son.

  Frank floated back to his room and zipped himself into his sleeping cocoon. The lack of pressure points from a gravity-bound mattress should have sent him to slumberland, even without the drugs the crew was taking. Instead, his brain ran at full tilt.

  Valiant would dock in twelve hours, but Frank doubted it would be soon enough. He’d rather step out of the airlock without a pressure suit for a quick death than die gasping or be brain damaged from oxygen deprivation. It was amazing they were still alive. That he was still alive. He prayed—for Dan and Shorty, for his crewmates, for Mission Control. He couldn’t say he felt better afterwards.

  “And, God, help them get here in time.”

  40

  Carol wiped her damp cheeks as Mike bounded up the stairs after work. Still in her pajamas, she stared again at the pregnancy test in her hand. She tried to sniff all the emotions back into her head.

  “Hi.” Her husband gave her a quick kiss. “Did you get some rest?”

  She took a deep breath for the announcement she wanted to make under happier circumstances. She blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

  “Honey, that’s wonderful.” He whooped as he picked her up and spun her around. “Do we want a girl or a boy? I…” He set her down and frowned. “What’s wrong?” Then he gasped. “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh.’” Carol’s emotions took another nosedive. “I caught the flu during the early stages of pregnancy. Remember? The baby could be deformed or mentally…or I could miscarry.” She reached for another tissue that joined the collection of damp ones on the nightstand. “Right now, I vote for the latter.”

  Mike stiffened. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I do.” She stomped toward him and stopped, just inches from his face. “I’d rather have a dead baby than a child who could never”—Carol choked on her words—“run and laugh and skin her knee…”

  “Honey.” Mike hugged her.

  That was the last thing Carol wanted as her tears turned hot. She pushed him away. “Don’t ‘honey’ me. This isn’t something we can fix with a kiss and a hug.” She turned her back on him and threw the plastic wand in the trash, where it belonged.

  Mike put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re jumping to conclusions. We don’t know what will happen.” He turned her around and held her for a long time.

  Carol ran out of tears. She hiccupped as she tried to pick up the shards of her shattered dreams. “I wanted a little girl. A perfect little girl.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Oh, no.” Carol’s eyes widened. She winced as her puffy lids stung. “George and Betty can’t see me like this. Tell them I’m still sick.”

  He pecked her cheek. “It’ll be all right. Just get dressed.”

  Carol fumbled with her PJ buttons and tugged on a pair of slacks and a blouse. Her hair was hopeless, her face worse, but she did her best to cover her pain with makeup. She took a few deep breaths, the cure-all for rampant emotions according to the experts. How would they know? They’d probably never had even a bad hair day.

  As she trudged down the stairs to the living room, Carol donned a bright smile. “I’m so glad you came.” She dropped next to Betty on the couch, wishing she could scoot to a distant corner of the room without being rude.

  Betty scanned her face then squeezed her hand. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Carol dissolved into tears, unable to speak without gulping. She exchanged glances with Mike.

  “Carol’s pregnant.” His voice lacked the joy he should have felt—they should have felt—with such an announcement.

  George and Betty beamed. George shook Mike’s hand. “Congratulations.”

  “We’re so happy for you.” Betty hesitated. “It’s good news, isn’t it?”

  Carol shook her head. She dreaded having to face this response over and over. Maybe they shouldn’t tell anyone. Pretend nothing happened.

  Mike sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulder as George lowered himself into the easy chair. He and Betty wore puzzled frowns.

  Betty gave her hand another squeeze. “You think the flu might affect the baby.”

  Carol nodded.

  “Oh, you poor dears. No wonder you’re so upset.” Betty reached for a tissue and wiped away her own tears.

  Carol started another pile of used tissues as George and Betty waited patiently. She wanted to discuss this privately with Mike, not now. When she could talk without the embarrassing hiccups, Betty squeezed her hand. “Go on, dear.”

  “I…I already talked to the doctor.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow.

  Carol mumbled, “I didn’t have time to tell you.” She plowed on, just wanting to get it over. “The doctor said there’s a chance the baby could have physical or mental handicaps. All because of some stupid flu.” She placed bot
h hands over her still-flat stomach. “He mentioned abortion,” she whispered.

  Mike shook his head. “We won’t do that, of course.”

  Fresh tears threatened to squeeze past her eyelids. “I wanted a healthy child.”

  Betty gripped Carol’s arm, and the strength to admit the real issue flowed through her.

  “I’m scared. Scared for our baby and scared we won’t be able to handle a special-needs child.” She wondered at her automatic use of “our” and “we.”

  Mike tipped her head and met her gaze. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

  “Don’t forget God.” George’s eyes speared theirs. “None of us knows what will happen, but God will give you the power to face it.” He smiled. “And He has the habit of giving us the strength when we need it, not nine months in advance.”

  “It’ll be so hard to wait.” Carol wrapped her arms around Mike’s waist. “And there are no guarantees.”

  “There never are, dear.” Betty patted her shoulder. “Even without the fear of influenza affecting the baby. Our firstborn son was perfect in every way, but the umbilical cord choked him, and he was stillborn. Our youngest daughter was full of life and a sense of adventure, but she was killed in a car crash at sixteen.” Pain dimmed Betty’s face.

  Carol’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know.” She frowned at their friends’ serene expressions.

  “God got us through those tragedies, and He’ll get you through this and whatever else you two face as a couple.”

  Silence descended on the four of them. Then George cleared his throat. “Let me pray.” They joined hands. Carol feared her grip would break bones. George bowed his head. “Father, we commit this child to You. Thank You that You love him—or her—more than we can ever understand. Give Mike and Carol the faith and courage to face these difficult days ahead. Amen.”

  Carol and Mike reached for the tissue box at the same time. She chuckled.

  “Uh, I don’t know about you, but I’m not in the mood to eat out, and I know Carol doesn’t feel like cooking.” Mike turned to their guests. “Would you mind if we got something delivered?”

  Her man had read her thoughts. But wasn’t that what husband and wife were supposed to do? She leaned over and whispered, “Thanks.”

  Betty smiled. “That sounds just wonderful. I’d be happy to set the table if you’ll tell me where you hide the plates.”

  Carol took another deep breath, grateful for Mike’s suggestion. “I’d like pizza.”

  “Sold. One pepperoni and mushroom, coming up. Is that all right?” He raised an eyebrow at their guests.

  George grinned. “Could you order a ham and pineapple, too?”

  ****

  Carol grabbed another slice of pizza with more appetite than she expected. Betty had arranged the dishes and flatware, transferred the delivered food to a serving plate, and even added a candle as a centerpiece. The flame reminded Carol of the newfound resolve she and Mike had for their marriage. A spark of determination ignited, urging her to face this crisis with God and her husband to steady her hesitant steps.

  They laughed at George’s deadpan jokes. Carol drained the last of her soda as the day’s upheaval and her lingering illness caught up with her.

  Betty washed the dishes as George dried, waving away Carol’s protests. Betty glanced at her. “You look tired, dear. I think we should be going.” The couple stood to leave.

  Carol wished they could stay longer, but she was about to keel over from exhaustion. “Thank you for coming. Will we see you again?” Soon?

  “There’s the little matter of bridge and bowling, if I recall.” George winked.

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner at our place sometime? We’d love to have you.” Betty leaned toward them. “George makes the meanest hamburgers this side of the Rockies.”

  “Deal.” Mike smiled.

  Betty gave Carol a long hug before they left.

  Aching for a good night’s sleep, Carol climbed the stairs. Slumber might not come tonight with her crashing waves of worry, but she clung to the hope of calmer seas.

  41

  Captain Papadopoulos sat behind his desk and glared at Chet. “I’m tempted to either throw you overboard or keelhaul you.”

  Chet winced. Dragging someone under the keel of a ship was an ancient torture. Barnacles scraped skin and much more, and often proved fatal. But he deserved no less.

  The officer in charge of ship’s security stood at the door, at attention and without comment.

  Chet had expected this treatment ever since he’d turned himself in. At least the captain had arranged his patch-in to NASA and his sister. There was nothing more Chet could say or do in defense. He dropped his head.

  Papadopoulos stood and paced in front of a sliding glass door leading to his private balcony. In more carefree times, the ocean’s surges would have invigorated Chet. Now they only reflected his churning thoughts. The captain turned to face him. “This is going to be a real mess. We’re holding position until the FBI can board, arrest you, and take you off my ship. I only hope we can continue our cruise without too much of a delay.” He huffed a breath. “You’ll be transported to Southampton, but I don’t know how the authorities will sort this out. You’re an American citizen. I’m guessing you’ll be incarcerated in a London prison before you’re extradited.” Disgust etched his face. “You don’t need to know the details. However, thanks to you, we won’t be docking anytime soon. The World Health Organization has quarantined this ship.”

  Chet sighed. Quarantine wouldn’t slow the relentless march of the disease. Internet news now reported cases in France and Spain. The world teetered on the brink of a pandemic. Once again, he wished he could go back in time.

  Someone knocked on the cabin door. The officer opened it and waved a couple of security guards inside. The captain nodded to them. “Escort this man to the brig.” He scowled again. “Bread and water is too good for you, but never let it be said that a captain of Atlantic Imperial Cruise Lines starved one of his guests.”

  Chet accepted the sentence without comment. They marched him through the bowels of the ship. Sandy blocked their path. “Eric, is it true? Are we under quarantine? I haven’t heard any…”

  The guard ignored her and motioned for the others to hurry their procession.

  Sandy startled as she glanced at Chet, as if she’d just noticed him. “You told me you worked for the CDC. Do you know anything about this quarantine?”

  “Yeah. I caused it.”

  She paused then met his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  Chet set his mouth in a grim line. “Believe it. It was my fault. Now I’ve threatened millions of people.” He didn’t want to talk to her for fear it might implicate her in his inadvertent—no, evil—crime.

  “I don’t believe you meant to do it.”

  Chet stared at her as the guards pushed him through the hallways to his temporary home in the brig.

  ****

  Chet moped. He hadn’t slept last night and felt crusty. He’d tried to read something from the Gideon Bible in the cell, but his childhood verse memorization was in shambles. He half-remembered passages about God’s forgiveness but couldn’t dredge up the references.

  He’d begged some origami paper from his stateroom, a request which the captain granted. Idly he folded another crane to join the others on the floor. Japanese tradition claimed that after folding one thousand cranes, you’d get your wish. Nine hundred and eighty-seven to go. Only he didn’t know what to wish for.

  Someone had delivered a gourmet meal last night, not the bread and water the captain had threatened. He’d had no appetite yesterday. Now he was ravenous.

  A knock on the wall next to the brig’s bars signaled the delivery of breakfast. The guard turned the key. The person carrying his tray was the last one he expected to see.

  “I talked the guards into letting me bring it.” Sandy’s lilting voice greeted him without condemnation. She placed the tray o
n the table. “Eat up.”

  “What are you doing here?” Challenge barbed his words.

  She stepped back, hurt showing on her face. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. You need a friend.”

  Chet took a deep breath. “Sorry. Guess I’m a bit jumpy this morning. A jail cell will do that to you. Thanks for coming.” He pulled up a chair and removed the metal cover from a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, sticky bun, and honeydew melon, with coffee as a chaser. The aroma of the Costa Rica brew mingled with the scent of caramel. He ate with gusto, grateful for her unexpected kindness.

  “How is it?” She smiled as if she wasn’t talking to a condemned man.

  “Fine.” He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, stopping in mid-wipe as he remembered the napkins he’d sprayed. “I told the captain I was responsible for the outbreak. I stole the virus sample from the CDC and exposed everyone at a Christian marriage seminar my father taught.” He shook his head. “I thought I’d taken something as mild as a bad cold, not a lethal strain. I just wanted to make him sick…Instead, I killed him. Maybe others who attended are dead, too—”

  Sandy held up a hand. “You shouldn’t be talking about this. Not until you have a lawyer.”

  Chet sighed. “They say confession is good for the soul.” But it’s not helping. “I came aboard to escape, and now people here are dying of it.”

  Sandy cocked her head. “Why did you do it?”

  Chet’s eggs stuck in his throat. He set down his fork. “Because I hated my father. He pretended to be a great preacher and Christian. In his personal life, he was a different man. I hated him for it. I hated all hypocrites.” Chet wondered why he was referring to his hate in past tense. Had his anger cooled that quickly?

  Sandy’s eyes widened. “Your father was Worth Hildebrandt?”

  “Yes.” His shoulders slumped. “Look, I’m under arrest. I’ll be tried as a bioterrorist and locked up forever. Maybe even executed. The authorities are probably arguing right now who gets to crucify me. You don’t want to hang around me.”