There was nothing in those 300-odd home-grown bacteriophages that could achieve what Kathy pretended.
Has she simply lied to the public? Was she offering vaporware to the press?
That struck him as a weird note—he couldn’t see what possible reason she had for either option.
He rechecked the repository without any different result.
OK, there’s nothing to be gained by staying awake the whole night, apart from a headache.
He switched off and returned home, with the nagging sensation he’d missed something.
***
It was only on Sunday afternoon, spent as usual with his sister and her family—nephews included—that a rather disturbing thought dawned on him.
The virus biome storage facility listed only the original viruses they had sequenced and modified, but not the variations that had not resulted in a different RNA or DNA code. What if one of them is Kathy’s magic wand?
"Amber, I need to get back to the lab."
"Are you having pangs of conscience or you're just a greedy bastard looking for a fat bonus?"
"Can you please lay off, sis. I told you I had nothing to do with that. But I do need to urgently check something out."
"Can’t it wait until Monday morning? We’re going to have a fantastic Korean barbecue for dinner."
No, it can’t. Not if what I'm thinking is true.
He hurried back and this time he went straight to analyse the bacteriophages's variations, starting from the one he knew the best: PhiXZ42.
And then he saw it.
Variation 2, the one he had discarded as unsafe for development, had been instead taken out of his nest and sent to another lab of the complex. For doing what, he couldn’t tell, because access was forbidden to anybody except the team working on it at the moment. The transfer was unusual given the company’s policy and even unlawful, in Ashton's case, considering he had been the one to create it.
But he didn’t need to inspect further records to know what had happened.
They have taken out PhiXZ42-variation 2, re-sampled and sequenced it in a different way and used it to work—somehow—with bacteria in the human body. The reason why I had discarded it in the first place—its adaptation capabilities, its reactivity, and its resistance—had been used in a way I would have never imagined could work.
What’s worse, it is indeed working.
***
Kathy let him in and offered him a drink. He sat on the couch, as if all strength had abandoned him, and looked around at Kathy’s house. Spot-clean, elegant, cold, and functional—like its owner.
"What the hell have you done?" Ashton barked out at Kathy.
"Keep calm, Doc. Nothing I wasn’t entitled to." Her eyes were calm and collected, while she removed with decision her hands from her body.
"This is my virus."
"And this is my company."
"Don’t put it out in the market. Just don’t."
"Too late. It’s done. It’s in transparent little capsules waiting in the pharmacies—ready for the people that now will flock to buying them. Maybe they’ve already started."
There was a long silence.
"You’re stark raving mad," he said eventually.
"And you lack imagination, Ashton. A real pity, considering how gifted you are." She smiled at him. "I knew you would have never accepted the direction I wanted to drive this company. So I simply hired somebody else to do the job. She’s not half as good as you are, but for modifying a virus you don’t need to be a genius."
"Same for forecasting what is going to happen, Kathy. I guess even my seven-year-old nephew easily can make it."
"Tell me, Ashton, what’s going to happen?"
"It might be possible that variation 2 of PhiXZ42 won’t work with bacteria different from the ones it has been designed to interact with—no matter what evidence you might have. Lab conditions are different from the ones you find in the human body."
"Always optimistic, you," she said. "I hope you’re wrong. The press was enthusiastic to hear the news, and I’m sure the company’s shares are going to fly tomorrow morning when the stock markets open."
"That was the best-case scenario. In the worst…" He shrugged. "You might have just created the worst new virus after Ebola, one which we have no idea how it works in mutating conditions. Congratulations, boss."
“You’re starting to sound like your sister. You spend too much time with her.”
"Don’t say I haven’t warned you." He stood up, putting on his coat. "Goodbye, Dr. Ellis."
"Have a good night, dear. I’ll see you tomorrow."
"No, you won’t. And not any other day after."
She looked at him with a quizzical look. "You’re not going to work for the competitors over such a minor disagreement, are you, Ashton? I will compensate you, of course. You know I can be generous. This is a new beginning—we’re going to do great things together."
He shook his head. "No. I’ve finally got the message. Too bad it’s probably late."
He slammed through his former employer’s door without saying another word, and went straight to his sister’s house.
"You decided kimchi was an offer too good to refuse?" Amber said, opening the door and allowing him inside.
"Yes. By the way, that job opening as Infectious Diseases and Virology Specialist in your department—is it still available?"
"You joining the army?" She stared at him without masking her surprise. "How did that happen?"
“Viruses are ten times more numerous than bacteria, did you know that?” He sliced the back of his hand where the company's biochip was located, and threw it into the fireplace. "I thought you might need some help in the near future."
More than some.
Adrift
Bruce Golden
Editor: Not knowing can be as deadly as a bullet—learning the truth can sometimes be worse.
The hardest part was the waiting. At least that's what it seemed like to Brett. Even though he'd served seven years on a sub, the empty hours, the tedious passage of time, reinforced the claustrophobic aspect of a submariner's life. Not enough to overcome his love for the silent service in general and Savannah specifically. Instead he thought about his days of growing up in the wide-open spaces of Montana, his work on his father's horse ranch. He'd long ago admitted to himself it was a strange dichotomy. But now, submerged in the Atlantic, waiting for a comet to come crashing into Earth, he felt more confined than usual.
Command had not been very forthcoming about the Smith-Kim Comet and what would happen when it hit. The theories and opinions he'd seen from the scientific community varied by extremes. He'd read enough to know that, unless a miracle occurred and Smith-Kim somehow changed course, it would have such a devastating effect that things would never be the same.
His parents were dead, and though he'd always wanted a family, kids, he was glad, now, he didn't have anyone else to worry about. But then there was Wendy, his on-again, off-again girlfriend in Norfolk. Things had been strained between them for some time, and they'd drifted apart, but he still cared about her. The captain didn't have a wife or kids either, but most of the crew did. The tension aboard the Savannah, when it had deployed two weeks ago, had been palpable. Two men had gone AWOL by not even reporting to the Norfolk dock, and he didn't doubt if they weren't at sea, more would have left. Despite the lack of any acknowledgement of the situation from the captain, most of the crew had some idea of what might happen. Scuttlebutt took care of the rest.
That's why he was going to talk to the captain now. Part of his job as executive officer was to keep the captain apprised of the crew. He felt it would be better for morale if the captain were to speak with the men openly about their situation and orders.
He knocked on the cabin door.
"Enter."
It took a few seconds for Captain Dunning to look up from whatever paperwork he was studying. Brett waited.
"Have a seat, Mr. Conyers. I'll be right with yo
u."
Brett sat in the chair opposite the captain's small fold-down desk and waited. This was his first tour of duty aboard the USS Savannah under Captain Dunning, and he was still getting to know the man. Like most captains Brett had served under, Dunning gave the impression of being a no-nonsense, by-the-book officer, who showed little emotion around his men. However, as the boat's executive officer, Brett should have been the one person the captain could open up to. Thus far he hadn't done so. Brett was hopeful that would change.
Finally looking up, Captain Dunning asked, "What can I do for you?"
"Sir, I'm a little concerned about crew morale. Many of the crew were aware of the possible consequences of the comet before we sailed. Those who weren’t likely heard all sorts of wild things via rumor control. I thought maybe you should—"
"I'm not concerned with rumors. I'm only concerned that the crew do their jobs."
"I'm sure they will, sir. I only thought if their captain would put the situation to them plainly, openly, it could go a long way toward ending all the speculation."
"And what situation is that, Mr. Conyers?"
Brett was sure the captain understood what he was talking about, but he replied, "The comet Smith-Kim, sir, and the likely catastrophic effect it could have on the entire planet."
The captain stared at him momentarily as if evaluating him—a disconcerting tendency Brett had noticed in the man.
"I know, as XO, it's your duty to keep tabs on morale, Mr. Conyers, but I have all the confidence in the world in this crew to fulfill our mission."
"Has there been any adjustment to the mission due to the comet—any new orders?"
"There's been no deviation in our orders." He stared at Brett again, to see if he'd respond. "Look, Mr. Conyers, it's my understanding no one is sure what to expect. Scientific predictions have been all over the map. The only thing I've heard from command is what may affect us. There's a possibility the ocean may become overheated, increasing the chance of hurricanes, and there's the potential for undersea quakes."
"What if..." Brett paused, trying to frame his question just right. "What if the worst happens? What if this comet is as destructive on a planetary scale as many are predicting? What will we do then?"
"You said it yourself—'what if.' Right now it's all conjecture. But let me be clear about this. No matter what happens, we'll go on."
"Go on with what, sir?"
"Our mission. Our mission to protect the United States of America."
It seemed, to Brett, like a pat military response for a situation that was anything but pat.
"Sir, what if there is no United States anymore?"
The captain looked at him as if it were a totally unexpected question. He didn't know if Dunning was going to answer or not when the boat's com sounded.
"Captain to control. Captain to control."
***
He followed the captain's swift pace to the control room, more than once calling out "Make a hole" in the crowded passageways.
"Captain's in control," called out the chief of the boat when they arrived. "Captain, we have an incoming flash directive from COMSUBLANT."
As if on cue, the radioman rushed in with a printout and handed it to the captain. He read it and looked puzzled.
"What is this?" he asked the radioman. "Where's the rest of it?"
"I don't know, sir. It cut off mid-transmission and I wasn't able to regain contact. There's nothing on any frequency I've tried."
The captain handed the message to Brett.
"Confirm comet split, three fragments to impact within the hour, one fragment targeting mid-Atlantic coast, proceed to—"
Brett had read somewhere about the possibility of the comet splitting into pieces, though he didn't remember how or why. But this was the first time he'd heard anything about the location of impact. He wondered where the other fragments were landing, and what else the message might have said.
"Get back on it, sailor. Let me know as soon as you can reestablish radio contact."
"Yes, sir."
"Where do you suppose they want us to proceed to?" Brett asked the captain.
"Away from the impact would be logical."
Brett nodded.
"Is it the end of the world, Skipper?" asked the quartermaster.
"It's the end of days," responded the chief behind him.
"Belay that talk," barked the captain. "We're still here, aren't we—we've still got orders and a mission to accomplish."
The captain looked around the control room as if to see if anyone would dispute him. "All ahead standard. Diving officer, make your depth one-five-zero feet."
"Making depth one-five-zero feet, five degrees down bubble."
"Navigator, continue present course."
"Aye, sir."
"Raise radio buoy."
"Raising buoy."
To Brett the captain said, "I'm going to my cabin. Alert me when we establish radio contact again. Until otherwise ordered, we'll continue southeast to our patrol zone, away from the reported impact area."
"Yes, sir."
"XO has the conn," stated the captain as he abruptly exited.
"I have the conn."
The captain's voice was edgier than normal. Brett was surprised he chose to leave the control room at a time like this. Of course his impression of the man could have colored his own emotions. He didn't believe in the chief's "end of days" dogma, but whether or not it was the end of the world, only time would tell. And, apparently, that time would come soon.
***
"Conn, sonar...reporting hurricane force winds and waves close to a hundred feet. There's one hell of a storm up there, sir."
Brett looked at Captain Dunning. "Just as we were warned by COMSUBLANT before we left, sir."
The captain nodded and flipped the intercom switch.
"Radio, conn. Anything at all coming through the buoy?"
"No, sir. Nothing at all."
"XO, come with me," said Dunning. "Mr. Maxey has the conn."
"I have the conn."
Brett followed the captain to a nearby passageway where they could speak in private.
"Don't you find it strange we've had no radio contact at all?"
"Yes, sir. But then, we don't know the extent of the damage on the mainland. From what I've read, worst case scenario, the comet could have caused a firestorm that's destroyed most of what's on the surface. That could include COMSUBLANT."
"Even so," said the captain, "I imagine the president and his staff have taken refuge in the White House's underground command center. I would have expected to have gotten some kind of a general message from there."
"The last communication said a comet fragment was headed for the mid-Atlantic coast area, sir. What if...?" Brett didn't finish the thought. "It wouldn't even have to be a direct hit. Anything within several hundred miles is going to be devastated by major earthquakes. Even the White House bunker might not have been strong enough to withstand it."
Brett saw the captain didn't care for that scenario.
"I don't know where you got your information, but I find that highly unlikely. It could be they're just too damn busy to communicate with us. I guess we're on our own until they do. Our standing orders will apply."
"Sir, maybe we should return to Norfolk and see what's happened for ourselves. It could be that last message was telling us to proceed to Norfolk."
Dunning looked at him as though he'd just suggested they scuttle the boat.
"That message could have said anything. Without any contravening orders, we'll follow the orders in-hand. I'm not about to countermand them, mister. Not at this juncture."
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir."
What Brett understood was that the captain didn't seem to grasp the enormity of the situation. Or he was doing a good job of hiding it.
***
"Captain, we've lost the radio buoy."
"How could that happen?"
"The sea was churning pretty good up t
here," said Brett. "Sonar says it was rougher than any they've ever registered. The cable must have snapped."
Captain Dunning considered this. "Sonar, conn. What's the weather like up there now?"
"It's calmed down a bit, Skipper, but still rough. Winds are 30 knots, waves about 15 feet."
"XO, take her to periscope depth and we'll see if we can pick up any transmissions."
Brett gave the order. "Diving officer, periscope depth."
"Periscope depth, aye."
Brett hoped they'd learn something—that someone was still out there to be contacted. He wasn't sure the captain would ever return to port unless ordered to, and crew morale was deteriorating every day. They wanted to know what had happened—they needed to know about their families. He'd repeated his views about the crew to Dunning, but had been shut down again.
"Raising number one scope," called Maxey, the officer of the deck. "Breaking."
Maxey did a 360-degree check of the surface and reported, "No close contacts."
Brett moved up and peered through the eyepiece. He saw little but darkness. Strange, he was sure that…"Chief, what's the local time?"
"1430 hours, sir."
Brett stepped back from the periscope and looked at Dunning. "It's as black as night out there, sir."
Captain Dunning looked through the scope, then spun it around checking all quadrants. When he backed away Brett saw a strange look on his face. It was as if he'd seen a ghost. It wasn't so much a look of fear as it was one of disbelief.
Brett wanted to know if there'd been any incoming messages. "Radio, conn. What have we got?"
"Nothing, sir. No UHF or VHF chatter. No radio contact on any frequency. The board's blank."
That wasn't the only thing that was blank. Captain Dunning had a thousand-mile stare that said he was no longer present. The apocalypse had likely arrived, but Dunning didn't seem willing to process it.
Brett decided he had to say something, and he didn't care if the men heard it this time.
"Captain, we've been without contact for days now. I suggest we turn the boat around, head for Norfolk, and see if we can pick up any signals closer in. We can always—"
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