by Greg Bear
NEW MEXICO
“We trade a lot of aptronyms to let off steam,” Jonathan Turner said as he spun the golf cart up to the concrete guard box.
“Aptronyms?” Christopher Dicken asked.
The sun had set in typical New Mexico fashion—suddenly and with some drama. Halogen lamps were switching on all over the facility, casting the plain and often downright ugly architecture into stark artificial day.
“Names that suit the job. I’ll give you an example,” Turner said. “We have a doctor here at Sandia named Polk. Asa Polk.”
“Ah,” Dicken said. The guard box stood empty. Something small and white moved back and forth behind smoked glass windows. A long steel tube jutted from the side. He used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his cheeks and forehead. The sweat was not just from the heat. He did not like this new role. He did not like secrets.
In particular, he did not like stepping into the belly of the beast.
Turner followed his gaze. “Nobody home,” he said. “We still use people at the main gates, but here it’s an automated sentry.” Dicken caught a glimpse of a grid of purple beams scooting over Turner’s face, then his own.
A green light glowed beside the gate.
“You are who we say you are, Dr. Dicken,” Turner said. He reached into a small box under the dash and took out a plastic bag marked BIOHAZARD. “The rag, please, Kleenex in your pockets, anything used to sop. Nothing like that is allowed in or out. Clothing is bad enough.”
Dicken dropped the handkerchief into the bag, and Turner sealed it and slipped it into a small metal drop box. The concrete and iron barriers sank and drew back.
“In accounting, we have Mr. Ledger,” Turner said as he drove through. “And in statistics, Dr. Damlye.”
“I once worked with a pathologist named Boddy,” Dicken said.
Turner nodded provisional approval. “One of our arbovirus geniuses is named Bugg.”
The cart hummed past a dark gray water tower and five pressurized gas cylinders painted lime green, then crossed a median to a fenced enclosure containing a large white satellite dish. With a flourish, Turner did a 360 around the dish, then drove up to a row of squat bungalows. Behind the bungalows, and beyond several electrified fences topped with razor wire, lay five concrete warehouses, all of them together code-named Madhouse. The fences were patrolled by squat gray robots and soldiers toting automatic weapons.
“I once knew a plastic surgeon named Scarry,” Dicken said.
Turner smiled approval. “An auto mechanic named Torker.”
“A nuclear chemist named Mason.”
Turner grimaced. “You can do better. It may be essential to your sanity, working here.”
“I’m fresh out,” Dicken admitted.
“I could go on for days. Hundreds and hundreds, all on file and verified. None of this urban legend crap.”
“I thought you said just personal acquaintances.”
“I may have been handicapping you,” Turner admitted, and pulled the cart into a parking space marked in cargo letters on a white placard: #3 madhouse honcho. “A gynecologist named Box.”
“An anthropologist named Mann,” Dicken said, peering right at the sunning cages for the more hirsute residents of the Madhouse, now empty. “Mustn’t let down the team.”
“A dog trainer named Doggett.”
“A traffic cop named Rush.” Dicken felt himself warming to the game.
“A cabby named Parker,” Turner countered.
“A compulsive gambler named Chip.”
“A proctologist named Poker,” Turner said.
“You used that one.”
“Scout’s honor, it’s another,” Turner said. “And I was a scout, believe it or not.”
“Merit badge in hemorrhagic fevers?”
“Lucky guess.”
They walked toward the plain double doors and the white-lit corridor beyond. Dicken’s brow furrowed. “A pathologist named Thomas Shew,” he said, and smiled sheepishly.
“So?”
“T. Shew.”
Turner groaned and opened the door for Dicken. “Welcome to the Madhouse, Dr. Dicken. Initiation begins in half an hour. Need to make a pit stop first? Restrooms to your right. The cleanest loos in Christendom.”
“Not necessary,” Dicken said.
“You should, really. Initiation begins with drinking three bottles of Bud Light, and ends with drinking three bottles of Becks or Heinekens. This symbolizes the transition from the halls of typical piss-poor science to the exalted ranks of Sandia Pathogenics.”
“I’m fine.” Dicken tapped his forehead. “A libertarian named State,” he offered.
“Ah, that’s a different game entirely,” Turner said.
He rapped on the closed door to an office and stood back, folding his hands. Dicken looked along the cinder block hallway, then down to the concrete gutters on each side, then up at sprinkler heads mounted every six feet. Long red or green tags hung from the sprinkler heads, twisting in a slow current of air flowing north to south. The red tags read: caution: acid solution and detergent. A second pipe and sprinkler system on the left side of the corridor carried green tags that read: Extreme caution: chlorine dioxide.
At the southern end of the corridor, a large fan mounted in the wall slowly turned. During an emergency, the fan would switch off to allow the corridor to fill with sterilizing gas. Once the area had been decontaminated, the fan would evacuate the toxic atmosphere into big scrubbing chambers.
The office door opened a crack. A plump man with thick black hair and beard and critical dark green eyes watched them suspiciously through the crack, then smiled and stepped into the hall. He quietly closed the door behind him.
“Christopher Dicken, this is Madhouse Honcho number five, or maybe number four, Vassili Presky,” Turner said.
“Proud to meet you,” Presky said, but did not offer his hand.
“Likewise,” Dicken said.
“He happens not to be a computer geek,” Turner added.
Dicken and Presky stared at him with quizzical half-smiles. “Pardon?” Presky said.
“Press-key,” Turner explained, astounded by their density.
“We will pardon Dr. Turner,” Presky said with a pained expression.
“We’re at step two of the initiation,” Turner said. “On our way to the party. Vassili is Speaker to Animals. He runs the zoo and does research, as well.”
Presky smiled. “You want it, we have it. Mammals, marsupials, monotremes, birds, reptiles, worms, insects, arachnids, crustaceans, planaria, nematodes, protists, fungi, even a horticultural center.” He snapped his fingers and opened his door again. “I forgot, this is formal. Let me get my coat.”
He emerged wearing a gray tweed jacket with worn cuffs.
The labs spun out like spokes from a hub. Turner and Presky led Dicken through broad double glass doors, then navigated in quicktime a maze of corridors, guiding him toward the center of Sandia Pathogenics. Dicken’s ears throbbed with the surge in air pressure as the doors hissed shut behind them.
All the buildings and connecting corridors were equipped with sprinklers and evacuation fans, emergency personnel showers—stainless steel–lined alcoves with multiple showerheads, decontamination rooms with remote manipulators, color-coded red-and-blue containment and isolation suits hanging behind plastic doors, and extensive collections of emergency medical supplies.
“Pathogenics is bug motel,” Presky said. Dicken was trying to place his accent: Russian, he thought, but modified by many years in the U.S. “Bugs come in, they do not go out.”
“Dr. Presky never gets our jingles right,” Turner said.
“I have no mind for trivia,” Presky agreed. Then, proudly, “Also, not watching TV all my life.”
A group of five men and three women awaited them in the lounge. As Dicken and his two escorts entered, the group lifted bottles of Bud Light in salute and gave him a rousing, “Hip, hip, hurrah!”
Dicken stopped in the doorway and rewarded
them with a slow, awkward grin. “Don’t scare me,” he admonished. “I’m a shy guy.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said a very young man with long blond hair and thick, almost white eyebrows. He wore a well-tailored gray suit that took a stylish drape on his substantial frame, and Dicken pegged him as the dandy. The others dressed as if they wanted covering and nothing more.
The dandy whistled a short tune, held out a strong, square-fingered hand, crossed two fingers, shook the hand in the air before Dicken could grip it, then backed away, bowing obsequiously.
“The secret handshake, unfortunately,” Turner said, lips pressed together in disapproval.
“It symbolizes lies and deceit and no contact with the outside world,” the dandy explained.
“That’s not funny,” said a tall, black-haired woman with a distinct stoop and a pleasant, homely face with beautiful blue eyes. “He’s Tommy Powers, and I’m Maggie Flynn. We’re Irish, and that’s the extent of what we share. Let me introduce you to the rest.”
They passed him a bottle of beer. Dicken made his greetings all around. Nobody shook hands. This close to the center, it was apparent people avoided direct contact as much as possible. Dicken wondered how much their love lives had suffered.
Thirty minutes into the party, Turner took Dicken aside, using the pretext of swapping the half-consumed Bud for a bottle of Heineken. “Now, Dr. Dicken,” he said. “It’s official. How do you like our players?”
“They know their stuff,” Dicken said.
Presky approached, bottle of Becks lifted in salute. “Time to meet the master, gentlemen?”
Dicken felt his back stiffen. “All right,” he said.
The group fell silent as Turner opened a side door leading off the lounge and marked by a large red square at eye level. Dicken and Presky followed him down another corridor of offices, innocuous in itself but apparently rich in symbolism.
“The rest back there don’t usually get this far,” Turner said. He walked slowly beside Dicken, allowing for his pace. “It’s tough recruiting for the inner circle,” he admitted. “Takes a certain mindset. Curiosity and brilliance, mixed with an absolute lack of scruples.”
“I still have scruples,” Dicken said.
“I had heard as much,” Turner said, dead serious and a little critical. “Frankly, I don’t know why in hell you’re here.” He grinned wolfishly. “But then, you have connections and a certain reputation. Maybe they balance out.”
Presky tried for an ironic smile. They came to a broad steel door. Turner ceremoniously removed a plastic tag from his pocket and let it dangle from the end of a red lanyard imprinted with Sandia in white letters. “Never tell the townies you work here,” he advised.
He lifted his arms. Dicken lowered his head, and Turner slung the lanyard around his neck, then backed off. “Looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” Dicken said.
“Let’s make sure you’re in the system before we enter.”
“And if I’m not?”
“If lucky,” Presky said, “you are hit by Tazer before they use bullets.”
Turner showed him how to press his palm against a glass pad and stare into a retinal scanner. “It knows you,” Turner said. “Better still, it likes you.”
“Thank god,” Dicken said.
“Security is god here,” Turner said. “The atomic age was a firecracker compared with what’s on the other side of that door.” The door opened. “Welcome to ground zero. Dr. Jurie is looking forward to meeting you.”
5
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Gianelli swept through the waiting room of his office, accompanied by Laura Bloch, his chief of staff. His face was red and he looked just as Mitch had once described him: on the edge of a heart attack, with a big, friendly expression topped by shrewd eyes.
Kaye stood up beside the long wrought iron-and-marble coffee table that held center position in the lobby. Even though she was alone, she felt like a card being forced from a deck.
“They’re wrangling,” Laura Bloch told Gianelli in an undertone. “The director is late.”
“Perfect,” Gianelli said. He looked at a clock on the wall. It was eleven. “Where’s my star witness?” He gave Kaye a lopsided smile, his expression combining both sympathy and doubt. She knew she did not look prepared. She did not feel prepared. Gianelli sneezed and walked into his office. A young male Secret Service agent closed the door and stood guard beside it, hands folded in front of him, eyes unreadable behind smoked glasses.
Kaye let out her breath.
The maple-and-glass door opened almost immediately and the senator poked his head out.
“Dr. Rafelson,” he called, and crooked his finger.
The office beyond was stacked with newspapers, magazines, and two antiquated desktop computers perched on three desks. The huge desk nearest the window was covered with law books and leftover boxes of Chinese food.
The agent closed the door behind Kaye. The air was close and mustily cool. Laura Bloch, in her forties, small and plump, with intense, bulging black eyes and a halo of frizzy black hair, stood and handed papers from a briefcase to Gianelli.
“Pardon our mess,” he said.
“He says that to everyone,” Bloch said. Her smile was at once friendly and alarming; her expression reminded Kaye of a pug or a Boston terrier, and she could not seem to look directly at anyone.
“This has been my home away from home the last few days. I eat, drink, and sleep here.” Gianelli offered his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Kaye shook the hand lightly. He let her determine the strength and duration of the grip.
“This is Laura Bloch. She’s my right hand… and my left hand.”
“We’ve met,” Bloch said, and smiled. Kaye shook Laura’s hand; it was soft and dry. Laura seemed to stare at Kaye’s forehead and her nose. Suddenly, irrationally, Kaye liked and trusted her.
Gianelli she was not so sure about. He had moved up awfully fast in the last few years. Kaye had become suspicious of politicians who prospered in bad times.
“How’s Mitch?” he asked.
“We haven’t spoken for a few weeks,” Kaye said.
“I like Mitch,” Gianelli said with an undulating shrug of his shoulders, apropos of nothing. He sat behind his desk, stared over the crusted boxes, and frowned. “I hated to hear about what happened. Awful times. How’s Marge?”
Kaye could tell he did not really give a damn about Marge Cross, not at the moment. He was mentally preparing for the committee meeting.
“She sends her regards,” Kaye said.
“Good of her,” Gianelli said.
Kaye looked up at a framed portrait to the right of the big desk. “We were sorry to hear of Representative Wickham’s death,” she said.
“Shook up everything,” Gianelli murmured, appraising her. “Gave me the boost I needed, however, and here I am. I am a whelp, and many kind folks in this building are bound and determined to teach me humility.”
He leaned forward, earnest now and fully focused. “Is it true?”
Kaye knew what he meant. She nodded.
“Based on what data sets?”
“Americol pharmacy tracking reports. Drop-in data collection systems in two thousand area hospitals servicing epidemiology contracts with Americol.” Kaye swallowed nervously.
Gianelli nodded, his eyes shifting somewhat spookily over her shoulder as he thought this through. “Any government sources?” he asked.
“RSVP Plus, Air Force LEADER 21, CDC Virocol, NIH Population Health Monitor.”
“But no sources exclusive to Emergency Action.”
“No, though we suspect they listen in on some of our proprietary tracking systems.”
“How many will there be?” Gianelli asked.
“Tens of thousands,” Kaye said. “Maybe more.”
“Jesus, Homer, and Jethro Christ,” Gianelli said, and leaned back, his tall chair creaking on old steel springs. As if to calm himself, he raise
d his arms and folded his hands behind his head. “How’s your daughter?”
“She’s in a camp in Arizona,” Kaye said.
“Good old Charlie Chase and his wonderful state of Arizona. But how is she, Dr. Rafelson?”
“Healthy. She’s found friends.”
Gianelli shook his head. Kaye could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. “It could be a rough meeting,” he said. “Laura, let’s give Dr. Rafelson a quick tour of the subcommittee’s players.”
“I was briefed in Baltimore,” Kaye said.
“Nobody knows ‘em better than we do, right, Laura?”
“Nobody,” Laura Bloch said.
“Laura’s daughter, Annie, died at Joseph Goldberger,” the senator said.
“I’m sorry,” Kaye said, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
Bloch patted Kaye’s arm and set her face in grim reserve. “She was a sweet kid,” she said. “A little dreamy.” She drew herself up. “You are about to testify before a baboon, two cobras, a goose, a certified bull ape, and a spotted leopard.”
“Senator Percy is the baboon,” Gianelli said. “Jakes and Corcoran are the cobras, lying low in the grass. They hate being on this committee, however, and I doubt they’ll ask you anything.”
“Senator Thomasen is chairperson. She’s the goose,” Bloch said. “She likes to think she’s keeping the other animals in order, but she has no fixed opinions herself. Senator Chase claims to be on our side—”
“He’s the bull ape,” Gianelli said.
“But we don’t know how he’ll vote, push comes to shove,” Bloch finished.
Gianelli glanced at his watch. “I’m going to bring you in first. Laura tells me the director is still stuck in traffic.”
“Twenty minutes away,” Bloch said.
“She’s working hard to get the directorship of EMAC legislated into a Cabinet-level position, giving her sole budgetary control. The director is our leopard.” Gianelli scratched his upper lip with a forefinger. “We expect you to help us counter her suggestions, which are bound to be nasty beyond belief.”
“All right,” Kaye said.
“Mark Augustine will be there,” Bloch said. “Any problem with that?” she asked Kaye.
