by Jeff Carlson
“Yes. And maybe in a hurry, if it’s as simple as uploading our discrim key into the original template.”
“What if that guy took all that stuff?”
“There’s not a lab in the world that doesn’t keep backups of everything, samples, software. We’ll take apart the whole lab if we have to. And it’s almost for sure that their gear is still there, the fabrication laser. The main components are all the size of a refrigerator, so he couldn’t have taken it by himself. As long as we have the schematics and the hardware, at least, you could help us re-create it.”
Cam nodded, fighting his pessimism. So little had gone right for him. The last thing he wanted was to be tied to Sawyer indefinitely, a month, a year, serving as nurse and translator. His hatred for his old friend had thickened as they healed, as he became sure they’d survive when everyone else had died, as he realized how completely Sawyer controlled him.
He believed that what they’d heard tonight was accurate— the son of a bitch was too wasted and senile to lie convincingly, not in such detail—but Cam would be a long time incorporating this truth into his thinking.
Sawyer was not at fault for the plague’s release.
“What about all that other stuff,” he asked, “everything about fixing the body and living forever?”
“Absolutely,” Ruth said. A favorite word, he’d noticed. She prided herself on being direct and decisive. “Once we have our feet back under us...Everyone in nanotech knows a hundred times more than we did a year ago. I think it’s possible.”
She seemed to understand what he wanted to ask next. Will you people be able to fix me someday?
“It’s very possible,” she said, and reached for him in the chill darkness. Her fingers bumped his forearm, traced down and clasped his hand. But she let go before he could react.
The gesture, small as it was, stunned him utterly.
Cam had lost the hope that anyone could ever be so casually intimate with him again.
The morning sky had a color that he didn’t remember, a rich, placid blue. Sacramento, nearly at sea level, lay beneath 10,000 more feet of atmosphere than the mountaintop they’d left just thirty minutes ago. Standing beside Sawyer’s wheelchair, Cam glanced up into this deep tint again and again. Sunlight detailed the fine gray whorls of two fingerprints that someone had left on his Plexiglas faceplate, and he smeared the delicate grease away with his glove.
Tension beat in all of his weakest points, his hands, his ruined ear, the dying teeth at the upper left of his mouth. That he was unable to rub or scratch these wounds only increased his restless fear.
It was an alien place. The cargo plane had no windows, and to step from the rough mountain onto a freeway eight lanes wide had been startling. Bracketing this elevated stretch of midtown Business Loop 80, the buildings of Sacramento formed a dense, unrelenting jigsaw of flat surfaces and lines, block after exacting block. There was no horizon on this level earth.
His suit and radio headset deafened him to anything outside himself, and he was glad. Outside was only silence. Amidst miles of concrete and glass and steel, they were alone.
But the city lived for Cam in a way that could not be shared. He had been here before many times. Sacramento was only an hour’s drive east from his childhood home, and he wondered if any of his brothers had made it this far during the exodus to the mountains—
“For Christ’s sake, just cut them both. We aren’t taking the ’dozer back with us anyway.” Hernandez overrode the exchange of voices on Cam’s headset, uncharacteristically terse. The soldiers had already backed out their jeep but the chains securing the bulldozer to the flight deck were snarled.
“Sir, we can probably just snap ’em if we rev it up.”
“You might snap the brake lines or something too.” The massive vehicle had heavily ribbed monster tires instead of tank treads. “Find the bolt cutters.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Hernandez had not objected to Cam’s sitting in on his briefing this morning, had in fact solicited Sawyer’s opinion through him. And on learning that Cam knew the area, he’d questioned him as well. Hernandez definitely seemed like the right man for the job. In the predawn his troops had set out three crates of supplies he’d chosen to leave behind, and fifteen minutes after sunrise he’d downloaded his first orbital photographs via commsat link.
The greater Sacramento metropolis had been home to 1.5 million people, congested, smoggy, crime-ridden—and with an unparalleled abundance of parks and wildlife areas. The urban sprawl was interrupted nicely by two rivers, several freight canals, and a dozen lakes both natural and man-made.
Cam was certain that the river channels still teemed with life, no doubt the larger parks and playgrounds as well, and he had warned Hernandez of his encounters in the valley with the mosquitoes and the grasshopper swarm. Ant colonies numbering in the millions might have filled every apartment complex and grocery store, prospering first on bodies and decaying food, then on carpet glue and upholstery. The expedition members probably wouldn’t attract insects, being scentless in their containment suits, but if they walked into a horde they could have trouble. He needed Hernandez to be alert for strange threats.
The city might kill them in a hundred ways, collapsing structures, slow leaks of flammable gas. This place was silent but not at rest—and everywhere around them, swirling with every step and movement, was the invisible sea.
He felt too close to success, after so much pain and loss, not to dread that this might also be taken from him.
Last night everything in Cam had changed. Until last night his greatest goal had been somewhat external—to help others in a late, hopeless effort to balance all the wrong that he had done. Now it was more personal. Now the chance existed, however slight, that archos could to developed into a new-generation nano capable of making him whole again, and the possibility alone had influenced his mood.
The larger goal was still real. He would always owe a debt for surviving, but it was the personal hope that was the loudest in him now.
He did not want to end up like Sawyer, ruined and helpless. The damage to his own body would become crippling as he aged—he might only have another five or ten years—and this morning his impatience and his caution felt like a collision in his mind.
Dehydration would be another hazard today. Cam was already moist with sweat, skin sticking on rubber, even though he was wearing little inside his suit, and as the morning warmed his outfit would become a body-shaped oven. They didn’t have enough air to periodically cool themselves by purging the suits.
Each person wore a rigid pack of twin oxygen tanks, narrow cylinders weighing more than ten pounds apiece. Sawyer’s hung from the handles sticking out from the rear of his chair.
One tank, one hour, unless they used it up more quickly in exertion or in fear. Leadville had game-planned for an average of fifty minutes per cylinder. There were six extra tanks for each person, but eight hours total struck Cam as a dangerously thin margin of error.
It was difficult to put his faith, his fate, completely in the hands of these strangers.
As the capital of a world-class economy, Sacramento had no less than three airports and a major U.S. Air Force base. All were near the city’s outskirts, though, which was unfortunate since their target lay within the core of downtown on 68th Street. The expedition planes would need to refuel before heading back to Colorado, but the nearest airport was five miles from the lab and the streets were hopelessly clogged.
This open stretch was an unusual find. As quarantine efforts failed, most of Sacramento fled for elevation. So had the 5 million people living farther west in the heavily urbanized Bay Area, yet in this case a blockage worked to their advantage. A northbound tractor trailer had tangled with two cars and rolled, and a third car plugged the only opening between the big rig and the median divider when its driver did a poor job of shooting the gap. Nearly all of the vehicles that were already past had continued up the highway to
a cluster of traffic, leaving a half mile of generally free room.
The Cessna had landed first again, its crew removing five cars, then cutting two overhead signs with a welding torch.
They were still thirty-eight blocks from their destination, but instead of asking Hernandez to bulldoze straight across, military analysts had mapped out a jigsaw path through residential back streets and, at one point, across two neighboring yards. The detail work was impressive but Cam thought their estimate of seventy minutes to target was bullshit.
They hadn’t even started moving yet.
“Got it!” The Marine’s shout was a relief and Cam turned from staring into the thick blue sky.
“Okay, clear the axle—”
“—reach across?”
Their headsets broadcast and received continuously, which made for some confusion on the general frequency yet left their hands free from toggling send buttons.
“All right, saddle up.” Hernandez again. “Hermano, that’s you, let’s move it out.”
“You bet.” Cam had rolled Sawyer’s chair ten yards from the cargo plane, out of the way, positioning him to face back toward the aircraft instead of the dead city.
Four men in beige containment suits hustled down the loading ramp, making way for the ’dozer. Hernandez might have been any of them. Another soldier stood by the jeep, untangling a yellow tie-down. They had arranged their crates, fuel cans, and spare tires in rows across the long trailer’s front and rear, which looked like a defensive arrangement but was more likely constructed for balance and safety. Many of them would travel sitting on the trailer, and six troops had jogged up the freeway with gas cans and a starter kit to find a truck or a station wagon that could carry everyone else.
Ruth and her two colleagues had crowded into the jeep as soon as it was clear, a choice that reminded Cam uncomfortably of the way Jim Price insisted on staying with the pickup. Two of them sat in back, helmets bent over her laptop, and the third had twisted around in the passenger seat to participate. They were silent, relegated to their own frequency. Hernandez had put the scientists on channel four not long after takeoff, when it became apparent that they were going to talk talk talk.
The odd shape on the left was Ruth. Her cast prevented her from using her sleeve or from wearing her air tanks correctly, because that arm was tucked inside the chest of her suit, so the soldiers had rigged an extra waist strap, neatly folding up and taping her sleeve. Still, Hernandez had cautioned her to be careful, and Ruth said he could guarantee she wouldn’t move at all if he piled another five hundred pounds on her back.
Cam admired her style and her rare ability to shine. He would have liked to talk more, to be close to her again, but he had been stuck in the role of babysitter and she was totally absorbed with D.J. and Todd.
The bulldozer rolled out at a crawl, then accelerated around the far side of the plane, its fat, ribbed tires sending a tremor through the asphalt. Beyond the plane’s nose, it angled across the freeway more nimbly than Cam would have believed.
He leaned into Sawyer’s range of vision. “You ready?” The faceplates in their soft rubber helmets were broad but still hindered the peripheral vision—
Sawyer had his eyes screwed shut, lips open, jaw working, a hideous fish in a tight-fitting bowl.
Cam patted his shoulder, his textured glove rasping on the smoother material. “Hey.” Could he be trying to clear his ears because his suit was overpressurized? “Hey, Sawyer. Jesus.”
During the plane’s descent over the city, their beige suits began to collapse and cling at their bodies. The C-130 could have maintained the same pressure as the mountaintop, the same safe pressure, but Hernandez hadn’t wanted to subject their outfits to the real test after they were on the ground. Instead, two Special Forces soldiers had hurried among them, adjusting the pop valves on their backs to equalize with sea level. Was it possible that Sawyer had only pretended to follow directions to yawn and swallow to keep his eardrums from hurting?
It had been one of Sawyer’s worst days from the start.
His belly had yet to recover from the beef ribs and he’d shaken his head at breakfast, squalling when Cam put a spoonful of freeze-dried eggs to his lips—and there was no way to eat or drink inside a containment suit. Cam only hoped he’d mellow as he weakened instead of becoming more irritated.
The son of a bitch had struggled as best he could when they fit him into his gear, because he hated having so little control over his own body or possibly because he recognized that he’d be forced to wear the same diaper as long as he was inside it. The suits came with bladder pockets and a relief tube that could be slipped onto a penis much like a condom, yet Cam had been guaranteed that this device would slip off, with no adjustment possible, leaving him filling his boot. All of them had chosen adult diapers instead. There was no alternative.
Cam’s diet had been so limited for so long he was normally constipated, but the antibiotics had upset his gut. Not long after getting up he’d endured two loose, wretched movements, then prayed that his body was done. Any embarrassment would be a small thing compared to the day’s potential, but he didn’t want anyone to regard him with the same disgust that darkened their eyes when they looked at Sawyer.
He didn’t want Ruth to look at him that way.
Sawyer had kicked again when their suits began to collapse during the descent, and after he’d dislodged his headset he’d thrashed all the harder, confused and half-blinded by the light aluminum frame. Hernandez ordered the plane back up to safe altitude, where they’d unsealed Sawyer’s helmet and pulled his radio altogether. Cam had suggested that Sawyer would only get tangled in it again—and the headsets weren’t necessary. The suits muffled voices but the last thing they needed was Sawyer battling loose gear instead of focusing on his job.
“Hey!” Cam prodded his shoulder again, rough with concern. “Do your ears hurt? Look at me.”
Sawyer turned his head slightly, not upward at Cam but down toward where he’d been touched. His eyes did not open and his lips continued to work in that weird chewing motion.
“I think I need help.” Cam waved at the soldiers so they’d know who was speaking. “Hey, help.”
Hernandez lifted one arm in acknowledgment. He had been exchanging gestures with another suit, talking on the command channel, but switched to the general frequency in midsyllable. “—ield.” He strode toward Cam, his glove still at the radio control on his belt. “What’s the problem?”
“Sawyer’s suit might be giving him trouble, the pressure.”
Hernandez glanced into Cam’s eyes before ducking to check on Sawyer. The major’s lean face was hard, measuring, yet eased slightly even as he moved past.
Words could not have conveyed his assessment of Cam any better. Hernandez had worried that Cam was panicky, imagining failures in their equipment now that they were deep into the plague—and his decision, his confidence, made Cam proud. It made him feel stronger and more complete.
Hernandez gingerly squeezed Sawyer’s arm, testing the suit’s rigidity, then stepped behind him to examine the gauge on his air hose. “Captain,” Hernandez said. “Over here.”
A shriek of metal cut through them, abrading steel. Cam jumped, his helmet loud with voices, then shuffled to keep his balance for several heartbeats before he realized that it was the ground vibrating instead of his legs. The bulldozer. “Jesus—” But the radio had quieted immediately and he shut his mouth, mimicking their discipline. He tried to look over his shoulder, limited by the suit, and shuffled his feet again as he bent his entire upper body.
The exit ramp they planned to use was thick with vehicles.
Nosing into the jam, the ’dozer rammed its iron blade underneath a burgundy sedan and lifted it onto its side. The sedan bashed into another car, its roof crumpling like a wad of paper. Then the bulldozer shoved into the sedan’s belly and powered both vehicles aside. Strewn behind were gleaming patterns of glass, plastic, and chrome.
Hernandez had jumped too, throwing his arms out from his sides. Beneath his mustache was a rare smile, which he must have thought no one else could see. It was gone when he looked around. “I think we’re okay here,” he said, stepping back from the wheelchair to make room for the Special Forces captain.
Sawyer was blinking inside his Plexiglas, aroused by the tremendous noise; the screech of steel on asphalt; the groaning bass roar of the bulldozer’s engine.
Cam knelt clumsily, rocking his head from side to side until he drew Sawyer’s attention. “How do you feel? Your ears hurt?”
“The suit’s fine,” the captain said, softly enough that Sawyer wouldn’t hear since he lacked a radio.
“Mm tired.” Sawyer stared at Cam with puzzled misery, perhaps blaming him.
“Try to rest.” He stood before his anger could show.
The ski patrol had not been much of an elite, with never more at stake than a broken leg or some kid separated from his parents. These men were of an entirely different class. Highly trained, highly motivated, with everything in the world on the line—it was a privilege to be associated with them and a disgrace to have wasted their time.
Hernandez started toward the plane and Cam took one step after him, leaving Sawyer. Hernandez turned back.
Cam said, “I’m sorry, sir.”
Hernandez studied his face again, quickly, then gave a nod. “Shout out anytime, hermano. We need to keep him happy.”
“Lo que usted diga,” Cam said. Whatever you say.
He wanted so much to be one of them.
26
Ruth realized she had been right not to trust Cam with the secret of the conspiracy. He was too close to Hernandez. Too bad. She liked him. He tried so hard. But the strength of his commitment was its own liability.
Crammed into the back of the jeep with D.J., writing new code and arguing over every line of it, Ruth managed to ignore her anxiety until the bulldozer began crashing around. Lord knew she had always been able to hide in her work—and using the keyboard and ball mouse with one glove-thickened hand was a real chore, enough to keep her occupied.
