by Lucas Cole
Some look hopeful. One woman stops dabbing tears from her eyes and glances at me as if hoping I won’t further crush her faith.
I feel an old anger and resentment threatening to erupt. “And just where, pray tell, does the hell here on Sybaris fit in, Gershom? Corpses rejuvenating, running amok.”
Gershom’s look of peace falters for a moment—and, strangely, this bothers me: the fact that I can induce doubt in such a man so easily—but he smiles. “I cannot explain the return of the dead. Man is given to die, but once. But Satan is bound, now, by the only One who had the power to constrain him. There is still sin, especially out here, so far away from the Lord’s presence. Sin and evil exist. We just can no longer blame our actions on the Devil.”
“Bah!” Todd is incensed. “Satan. The Devil. Next, you’ll be telling us about the Second Coming. Maybe you should come with us.” Todd nods at his security chief. “We can continue this conversation in rather more private quarters.”
Self steps forward. “Mr. Gershom. Come along, now. Don’t make us have to wade through your little entourage. Someone might get hurt.”
Gershom motions with his hand over the men and women around him. “We’ll talk again, God willing. May the Lord’s face shine upon you. May His countenance—”
“Enough!” Todd says. “Bring him, Self. Everyone else, clear out. We’re shutting down this meeting room for a while. It’s due for some cleaning.”
Gershom passes among the still-seated audience. Self grabs him by the arm. “Come along, your worship,” Self says.
“Rabbi,” Gershom says. “That is my proper title. Or just Gershom.”
“Todd.” I stand and touch his shoulder.
He whips around in fury. “What?”
“No accidents—or summary executions—better take place. This man is part of my team. As are Carly and Navarro, by the way.” Which will be a surprise to Carly and Navarro. In Gershom’s case, it is a flat lie.
Gershom smiles at me. “Thank you, Ron. But I am safe.”
“Go to hell,” Todd snarls.
I sit back down quietly, alone, in the room for a few minutes. Not feeling well, maybe coming down with a slight fever. Hell. I think about the pile of corpses down in the tunnels, the bodies now entombed behind sealed walls. Hell or not, we just have to make the best of it. Or die.
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER VII
Viral
Doctor Zuckerman—.”
“Professor Zuckerman. If you please. Genetics Department Chairman. Pathology is more a hobby.”
He still hovers over what is left of Abe. I doubt the Professor has been out of the lab since I was last there.
“Professor. Would you mind testing my blood?”
“For what, precisely?”
“I’ve been exposed to a deadhead’s secretions. Swallowed some, to be exact.”
The professor’s eyes widen. “Good Lord! Have you been experiencing any adverse effects?”
“A certain stiffness in the joints. A tightening of the tendons, perhaps. An altered awareness of the environment.” Imagined? Real? I don’t know.
“Awareness?”
“A heightened sense of belonging. An affinity for the desert. For Sybaris. I feel smothered in the Station. I breathe more freely when I’m out there in the desert. Hard to explain.”
Zuckerman nods, nods, nods. With the tremor clearly evident in head and hands, his touch is still gentle. He places a tourniquet around my arm and deftly draws blood the old-fashioned way. He either doesn’t know about the modern lab equipment or prefers his own methods. He inserts tubes of my blood into a hemoanalyzer and adjusts dials.
“Just a moment and we will have some preliminary results.” He sits himself on a stool and watches the digital screen. On the screen, data flows by and this causes the Professor to peer intently, murmuring, smacking his lips in consternation. He shakes his head and then swivels on the stool.
I take the adjacent stool. “Yes? Anything interesting?”
“Oh, yes. I would say. I take it that you don’t find me particularly appetizing?”
“Appetizing?”
“No desire to dine upon my tired old frame?”
I believe this is the old professor’s attempt at humor.
“No sir. Not in the slightest. Why do you ask?”
“Because your serum is remarkably similar to that of our departed friend, Abraham.”
“Abe?”
“Yes.”
“Dammit. I knew it.”
I stand and pace in front of the professor and the hemoanalyzer. I look at the sick bay and the windows, where some researchers stroll by. I fully intended this to be my final assignment—but not in this manner. Funny how the approach of death is always so inconvenient.
“Your lymphocytes are having a tough time. Right now, they are withstanding the onslaught of the virus. Unlike Abe’s, which was quite overrun with it.”
“A virus, then.”
The professor turns back to the hemoanalyzer screen and continues his evaluation. “Yes. Very invasive, too. How did you become infected?”
I tell him about the encounter with Abe.
“Did you have any open sores in your mouth or on your skin? On your gums, perhaps? Dental disease?”
“No. None of that. I think I swallowed the virus. Or a drop of Abe’s blood. Maybe brain tissue.”
The professor stands, pats my arm. “Try not to despair. Get some rest. I will be working on this little problem. I do not need much sleep these days. We will need more samples later. And probably some bone marrow. Here…or here.” He taps me on the chest and then on my hip. “A little biopsy, very little discomfort.”
“Very well. Thank you for taking an interest.”
He is smiling. He comes close and I can’t help but stare at the freckles on his head; they look like little continents in a pale ocean. “I’ll tell you a little secret,” he says.
“Yes, sir?”
“I have the virus, too.”
“You do?”
“Yes. In fact, we all do. It’s endemic to Sybaris. It’s just…more prominent in you. As it was in Abe. Altered.”
“I’m confused, Professor. Can’t think right now.” I pat the kindly scientist on the arm, then realize I’ll have to disinfect my hand. “I’ll get some rest. See you in the morning. Are you turning in, Professor?”
“Turning into what? Oh, sleep? No, I don’t sleep much these days. Don’t worry about me. Good night, Mr. Crip.”
Crip? I start to correct him on my name, but I let it pass. Much more to worry about than such things.
I leave the bay and walk through the empty corridors for some time before realizing that, once again, I am heading the wrong way. Chin up, I tell myself. Can’t get depressed with so much at stake. But an alien virus coursing through my system…one that is mutating. Still…never give up hope…how many times have I told that to wounded Imperial marines whom I knew were dying from their wounds?”
Carly is waiting for me in my quarters. She’s sitting on the bed and is holding her face in her hands. She looks as tired as I feel. She jumps up and comes over to hug me, her voice muffled in my chest. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt in the fighting. I’m sorry I got mad. You have a lot to deal with. I’m just glad you got back safely.” She raises her face up and looks deep into my eyes. “Leave the heroics to the heroes, Ron. You’re a facility inspector, not a Roman Centurion. Okay?”
“Okay.” But…a marine Major, not a Centurion, I think. Better I don’t tell her that I plan—always had planned—to take command of the entire complex. Not out of heroics. Out of necessity.
She moves her mouth up to mine, but I pull away. Talk about bad timing.
“What is it?”
“I might be catching. I’m not sure, so I better not take chances.”
“Catching what?”
“The Sybaris virus.” I shrug. “Or better—the Abe virus. The Professor isolated it in good ol’ Abe, our friend fro
m the platform. And now in me.”
Carly pulls back. “Abe infected you?”
“I think so. Got some of his fluids on my lip. Now, Abe’s virus is coursing through my veins.” Maybe in yours, too, Carly, I add silently, though probably not as virulent.
“Oh my God.” She puts her hand to her mouth where our lips almost came into contact. “How contagious are you?”
Suddenly very weary, I pull out a chair from the little desk in the corner and sit heavily. “Don’t know. Professor Zuckerman is working on it. Needs more samples from me tomorrow. Biopsies. Maybe some brain tissue.”
She stares, her face void of color. “S—sample your brain tissue?”
“Just kidding about the brain tissue.” I laugh harshly, but she doesn’t see the humor.
She turns her back, wraps her arms about herself. “I’m sorry.” But she does not look sorry, merely aggravated, perhaps even embarrassed by her overpowering desire to survive. “I’m just not willing to become one of those things or to be torn to pieces, just to fulfill some kind of subservient role you’ve picked out for me.”
“I haven’t picked out any—”
“Forget it.” She stuffs the rest of her clothes into the trunk. “I told you we weren’t married, weren’t attached. It was fun while it lasted, okay, but—I’m going to take my chances with Todd.”
“What? You’re making a mistake. Todd’s more dangerous than any deadhead. He’s a psychopath. A tyrant.”
She closes the trunk and stares at me. “So? At least, he’s not one of…never mind.”
“What? A deadhead? Like me? Like what I’m becoming? That’s what you think.”
“I don’t know. You…you’re changing. It’s scary. When I touched you, I felt strange. It scares me. Maybe because a part of me is attracted to you even more. That’s sick, isn’t it? Who knows? Maybe you can treat yourself, develop a cure.” A thoughtful look enters her beautiful eyes. “Develop a cure and I’ll come back. Okay?”
“Playing both sides. Nice.”
She pushes the door release and the portal slides open. “Good luck, Ron. Right now, you scare me a lot more than Todd.” She tosses me a quick glance, but she does not stop. “Take care of yourself.”
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER VIII
Mutation
Sleep is not forthcoming. A sudden spasm wracks my abdomen and I hunch over to wretch. It passes then hits again. I am sick—but from what? No point in waiting. If the Professor is still awake, we better proceed.
“Ah, poor Abe. A fine fellow, really. Underestimated and undervalued. An unremarkable bag handler, but an exemplary chessman. He lost only three games to me in a hundred. He had a good brain. Now look what’s become of it.” Back in the lab, the professor flicks a switch and the slides containing slivers of Abe’s brain tissue and my biopsy samples are illuminated on the screen.
What looks like a blizzard of blue flecks with occasional brown smudges appears on a white background. “What am I seeing, professor?”
“The blue are neurons. Nerve cells. The nasty looking debris is protein. I’ve taken the liberty of naming these cells damaged with protein deposits Seti Cells. The plaques are formed of an abnormal protein, not unlike the Tau cells associated with Alzheimer’s Disease.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
“A neurodegenerative disease of the 20th and 21st centuries that caused brain deterioration and death, generally in the elderly. But this has a new look. Dense and proliferative. I believe it is damaging to the neurons, but not totally destructive. It lets the nerve cells function, but in an altered state.”
“It lets? You make this protein sound alive, intelligent.”
“I don’t know about intelligent,” he says, but alive…yes, in a way. A symbiotic way.” And, with a click, he changes the magnification of the slide. “Observe.” And, upon close-up of the brown protein smudges, can now be seen tiny pink crystals.
“I see them. What are they?”
“Virus particles. The Sybaris Virus.”
I find it objectionable to forever associate this zombie-causing virus with the name of Sybaris, but it is the professor’s prerogative. “An important find, professor. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. This doesn’t explain everything, of course. How poor Abe could function as well as he did, with much of his brain in a type of dehydrated state, basically inert. But, of course, we’ve known for a long time that much of our brain capacity is never realized.”
“Dehydrated. Inert. Like the desert sands of this planet. Until the rains come.”
“Interesting analogy, Mr. Crip.”
“Crisp.”
“Crisp, sorry. Anyhow, I am not sure what would constitute watering the brain of a so-called deadhead. Careful reconstitution of the cranial juices, perhaps, I don’t know. Requires some thought, doesn’t it? I read an article, once, about an arachnologist named Petillon who drowned several spiders in salt water, then after three days of submersion, the spiders were removed from the water. When Petillon came back to check on the spiders, most of them had fully recovered and crawled away. The point being that perhaps they were never dead, but comatose, their systems shut down.”
“The deadheads are far from comatose.”
“Yes, but we agree that they died, yet now they live.”
“Have you encountered this virus-protein infection before? In anyone not clinically infected?”
He purses his lips and regards the slide projection on the wall. “No. But I do not routinely take brain samples from our living workers. Are you volunteering?” His smile is kind, perhaps a trifle superior. But it is short-lived.
“Step up your research, Professor. Serum. Skin. Joint fluid. I want a complete screen for this virus. Get volunteers…say, about thirty to get a statistically valid sample…”
“You have some scientific background.”
“Yes, sir, a little. Get serum from volunteers—tell them it’s routine annual blood testing mandated by EMC and Rome—and run them for checks against the Abe virus. Excuse me—against the Sybaris virus. Can you do that?”
“I can.”
“Do you suppose you will encounter any objections from Todd?”
“He would be a fool to object. This is his station at risk, after all.”
“He’s no fool.” How sane he is, I am undecided, but a fool he is not.
The bone marrow biopsy was not enough, though. He had decided, in addition, to run a tube down my throat for gastric juice analysis. He studies the results on the slide projection.
“We done, Professor?” The chills are worsening, the spasms more frequent.
He nods, but was that a nod for ‘yes,’ or a nod due to his tremor?
The professor rubs his grizzled chin; he needs a shave and—from the whiff I get standing next to him—a shower. He must have been working nonstop for days, a chronic habit. “There is an enzyme,” he says. “Intrinsic Factor, it’s called. It allows absorption of crucial vitamins in the gut. We all have it, normally, but it diminishes, sometimes disappears, as we get older. Without its presence, you can develop a macrocytosis and pernicious anemia. Lack of B12 absorption then leads to dizzy spells, neuro deficits, and—.”
“Professor. Please. What’s the point?”
“Yes. The point.” He reaches out and lifts a beaker containing a yellow liquid to his lips and drinks from it. He notices my stare and smiles. “It’s lemonade, Mr. Crisp. Not urine.” He chuckles and sets the beaker down.
There would be no rushing this man, come hell or high water, so I grit my teeth and wait.
He continues good-naturedly. “So…it is not lack of Intrinsic Factor that sets you apart, but an extra level of it. You seem to have very active parietal cells and produce particularly viable types and amounts of Factor. It was enough to destabilize Abe’s invading viral load—not knock it out, entirely, but weaken it. I suspect the virus in the brain tissue you ingested was affected by the Intrinsic Factor and was altered somehow.”
My patience is running thin. “But what—?”
He indicates the overhead projected microscope slide. “If you had been infected through the blood stream, say, through the tiniest nick in your gums or your oral mucosa, you might be one of them by now. A so-called deadhead. Or you might not. Hard to know. As I said, we’ve all been exposed, but to a non-mutated form. But ingesting the virus seems to have given you a partial immunity and a partial infection. The way receiving an influenza vaccination exposes you to a weakened dose of a live influenza virus. More than this, I cannot say at this time. I need more data.”
“So why has no one noted this before?”
“I imagine because none of us have been tempted to eat the infected brain tissue of deadheads. You are the first. Perhaps you have discovered a way to protect the rest of us.” He peers closely at me. “You may carry the cure within you.”
“I don’t recommend it, professor. At least, not without reducing its side effects.” I have compassion for the old man; the more fatigued he gets, the worse his tremors seem. “You ought to get some rest, freshen up. But I confess that I desperately need to find some way to fight this virus. I don’t think my gastric cells are doing the job entirely.”
“I will push on for a while; I know this is important to you.”
I start to leave, then turn back. “Doc. This weakened virus I have. If I survive—can a vaccine be derived from my blood? ”
“Uncertain. Tests needed, volunteers, risky business. But quite possible, I would think.”
“If a deadhead were given this altered virus? Vaccinate an already infected zombie?”
The professor smiles. “Intriguing proposal. We will have to give this some thought. I expect it would be either healing or fatal.”
“Good luck, Professor. Your work on this—can you be discrete?”
“I understand. Thoroughly.” He winks at me as if we were co-conspirators, then he takes another swig of his lemonade.
