The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Chapter Seven

  Soft string music came from the speakers, mixing with the sounds of waves lapping the shore. Taditha Poole had selected this piece for its subliminal signals that enhanced physical pleasure. Setting aside the chocolate covered strawnanas, she opened her last bottle of LunaWine and poured two glasses, handing one to Marschenko. He took a sip, grimaced and placed the wineglass on the table.

  “Man, that’s awful,” Marschenko said. “I need something to get that taste out of my mouth.” He ran his eyes down Poole’s body. “Hey, you. Drop your drawers and spread ’em.”

  Poole laughed. “Oh, Jack. My big stud.”

  “Get ready to moan like there’s no tomorrow, baby. ’Cause here I come.”

  As his arms engulfed her, she savored the sheer size of him, drunk on the intoxicating aroma of pheromones and infatuation. For the past three days they’d taken every opportunity to indulge themselves in the escape of physical intimacy. She wondered if he worried, like she did, that the feeling might not last. Was this to be only a short-term affair or would it blossom into something more? For now the release of tension provided enough joy. As she kissed him—a long, lingering kiss that melted her insides—the emergency code sounded.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” Poole said as Marschenko released her.

  “Ah, you like to be teased. Good to know.” He stepped out of view of the vid camera on her PlusPhone as she connected.

  “We got a problem,” Admiral Cho said. “Jeremiah Jones is trapped at the bottom of SPR8 with a ripped suit.”

  “Jones? How did he—”

  “I’ve informed Eli,” Cho interrupted her, “and he insists we mount a rescue operation. My team will try to make it in time. Your cadets could help. Oh, and Jack?”

  “Yeah?” Marschenko stepped into the vid pickup.

  “You’d better come too.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll get Curtik and Zora to join us,” Poole said before disengaging. “They’ve done simulated rescues on the Moon’s surface several times,” she added for Marschenko’s benefit.

  She plugged in her interface, activated the level-five emergency code and broadcast separate signals to Curtik and Zora, asking them to meet her at the airlock for a surface rescue, then followed Marschenko out the door.

  “Curtik,” she explained to Marschenko as they slid-hopped down the corridor, the fastest way to move under the low gravity, “leads our male students and is the overall brigade leader. Zora leads our females.”

  “We gotta save him, Doc,” Marschenko said.

  “Jack, I know you care for him, but does Cho know how you feel? Or does he still think you’re enemies?”

  “That doesn’t matter anymore, Doc. Let’s just rescue him.”

  Poole slid-hopped past Marschenko. Her long time on the Moon gave her an advantage when it came to moving quickly. Marschenko leaped too high in the air with each step. The airlock, when they reached it, had two people inside: Curtik and Zora, already suited up. Curtik was nearly a foot shorter than Marschenko and would never be as broad in the shoulders. Zora—bright, lovable Zora—stood shorter still, leaner, more sinewy and catlike. They nodded to Poole and watched Marschenko as the pair donned their suits and checked the seals. When Curtik opened the outside hatch, they all walked quickly to the Lunar buggy. Zora settled behind the controls and the Lunar buggy sped away.

  “This is Jack Marschenko,” Poole said.

  Curtik nodded at Marschenko, then busied himself with preparing the winch for a rescue, even as he fought to keep from flying off the vehicle. Zora, no respecter of others’ imperfections, clearly assumed that everyone else had her fabulous sense of balance. Poole opened the channel to Cho’s rescue party.

  “. . . at SPR8 in seven minutes,” a voice said. “Is he still alive?”

  “We don’t know. The comm was knocked out by the fall. It doesn’t look like he’s moving.”

  Marschenko said, “How long before we get there?”

  “Eight minutes,” Zora said.

  “Can’t you go any faster?”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Look, kid, just get me there. I’ll handle things once we reach the crater.”

  Curtik said, “First time in a spacesuit?”

  “Yeah,” Marschenko said, “so?”

  “You should let us go. We’ve made simulated rescues before. Besides, SPR8 isn’t an ordinary crater. It’s more like a mineshaft. We’ll have to drop someone down on a winch with oxygen and a pressurized sack to enclose the ripped suit and provide a sustainable environment. Zora’s faster and better at that than anyone.”

  “I’m, going, down, too,” Marschenko said slowly, each word an assault on Curtik.

  Curtik said, “A mouthy man.”

  Poole said, “Curtik.”

  Curtik laughed. “What? That’s funny. A mouthy man. Get it? He enunciates his words real good.” His voice carried an edge and Poole knew he’d decided to hate Marschenko. Marschenko caught it too, for he leaned toward Curtik. “So,” Curtik said, ignoring Marschenko’s threatening pose, “who’s down there?”

  “A tourist named Jeremiah Jones,” Poole answered.

  Curtik stiffened but said nothing. She wondered if he would betray his past. And she still wondered how he alone among all the cadets even remembered it. His programming should have erased all memories of his early childhood. A beep in her helmet indicated that Curtik had switched to a private channel. She set her comm to the same frequency and said, “Yes?”

  “Why is my father at the bottom of SPR8?” Curtik asked.

  “Admiral Cho didn’t say. I assume it was an accident.”

  “An accident.” Curtik’s voice told her he didn’t believe her. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I won’t be sucked in. I hate my father. He let my mother die. So if you think my rescuing him will bring us closer, you’re wrong. If I have to save him I will. But that’s it. And if you try to put me together with him, I’ll kill him.”

  Poole’s cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment. She was grateful for the darkened visor that hid her face from his. Even though she’d made him what he was, she still loathed Curtik. Eli said he was necessary. But the sweet boy she’d first encountered—Joshua Jones—had disappeared into the uberwarrior persona until nothing likable remained.

  “We have no intention of putting you together,” Poole said. “As I explained earlier, he came to the Moon for his kidnapped son. We intend to give him Damon, whom he believes is you. You get him out of the crater and we’ll send him back to Earth.”

  “Why all the fuss? Why not just let him die? If we got there a few minutes too late, what would be the harm?”

  “Eli wants him alive.”

  “Why? I’m better than he is, more advanced. Eli doesn’t need him.”

  “I’m telling you as much as I know.”

  Another beep. Zora broke into their private frequency and said, “One minute.”

  Curtik turned to face her, no doubt glaring his disapproval. Zora was Curtik’s biggest rival—smarter and quicker. He didn’t yet see her as a big enough threat to eliminate but for the past six months Poole had been monitoring his emotional subconscious as well as his actions and she knew he was close to violence. Zora knew it too. Poole would have to separate them soon before one killed the other.

  Up ahead, three vehicles and a dozen people stood in a cluster around the crater, shining their lights into the darkness. Poole switched back to the main channel. Curtik and Zora did the same. Then Curtik began to give orders:

  “Step away from the crater. Let our buggy through. All nonessential personnel evacuate the area. Get those civilians back to LB1.”

  He lacked the personality of Zora but no one could question his abilities or his intensity. He was an overwhelming force. And when he had a ta
sk to complete he’d let nothing stand in his way. Ruthless. Relentless. Eli was right. Curtik was perfect for the job. He’d be the best terrorist the world had ever known. He’d unite the world in fear like no one had been able to do before. But could he stop wars? Could he prevent humanity from killing itself?

  Zora pulled up next to the crater, filling the recently vacated spot where the group of people had scattered. Curtik stepped down, opened the boom and swung it around while Zora pulled out an oxygen canister and the pressurized sack. Opening a medkit, Poole removed the physio-monitor. She handed the kit to Zora, who attached a stretcher to the winch and placed the equipment into it. Then she secured the gear and clipped two safety loops to the hook at the bottom of the winch.

  Marschenko stepped to the rim of the crater, grabbed a safety loop and said, “I’m going. He’s my friend.”

  “Okay, Mouthy Man,” Curtik said. He grabbed the winch controller, and Zora and Marschenko disappeared from view. Now that she wouldn’t be in the way, Poole climbed out of the buggy and edged closer to the crater. Powering up the monitor’s receiver, she said, “Zora, don’t forget to place the transmitter on his chest as soon as you reach him. It’ll read through the suit.”

  “Good idea, Doctor.” Zora’s voice carried only sarcasm. No trace of fear for Jones or herself. That was the problem working with children. Despite the enhancements to their brains and bodies, they still didn’t understand the nature of risk. Most children believed themselves invincible. These children were perhaps worse, likely because of their incredible abilities. Death was a foreign concept—an abstract notion barely accorded recognition. She would have to remember to download the data on Curtik and Zora after this was over, study their emotional states during this rescue.

  “Forty meters,” Zora said. “Thirty, twenty, ten. We’re down.”

  “Jeremiah,” Marschenko yelled as if he could make Jones hear him despite the lack of an atmosphere to carry the sound. “Jeremiah, we’re getting you out. Hang on.” His voice carried a trace of panic.

  The readings came into Poole’s monitor. “No pulse. And he’s not breathing. He’s got no oxygen or pressure left in his suit.”

  Zora said, “We’re working on it, Doctor. Lift him up, Mouthy Man. All the way off the ground. Good. Putting the sack around his suit. Move your hands. Okay, closing it up. Put him in the stretcher. Excellent. Pressurizing and injecting oxygen. Not bad, Mouthy Man.”

  “Still no pulse,” Poole said. She glanced at Curtik, who somehow managed to look bored inside his spacesuit, as if unimpressed by Marschenko’s performance. “Body temp falling.”

  “Injecting epinephrine mixture.”

  “Still nothing. Wait! There’s a beat. And another. Very slow. Bring him up as fast as you can.”

  Marschenko said, “We’re moving him onto the stretcher. Okay, reel us up.”

  As the motor hauled them up, Poole studied the monitor. Jeremiah’s pulse flickered as he took in shallow breaths. Pain levels were high enough to render him unconscious but Jones was in a self-hypnotic trance. His legs were broken; half a dozen ribs were cracked; internal organs and brain had suffered massive trauma from the fall. His immune system response was overloading. She’d never seen a white blood cell count that high, not in any of her students, all of whom were supposed to be next generation transgenics, more advanced than Jones. And the white cell count was rising.

  If it continued to rise, his immune system would attack his body and he’d be dead in less than an hour. Something was wrong with him, more than just having fallen three hundred meters—a distance that would have killed any ordinary man—even on the Moon.

  When they rose above the rim of SPR8, Curtik swung the boom winch around, depositing the stretcher onto the bed of the lunar buggy. Marschenko maintained his grip on Jones’ pressure sack, while Zora slid behind the lunar buggy’s controls. Poole climbed back into the buggy, continuing to scan the monitor. She couldn’t do anything to help him until they got to the hospital wing of LB1. And she wasn’t sure how to treat him once they got there.

  On the ride back, Curtik stared at Marschenko the whole way, plotting some sort of torture, no doubt. Poole shivered. She’d have to make sure she kept Curtik away from Marschenko, who noticed Curtik’s hatred, for he stared back at the young cadet. Neither spoke a word. Only Zora’s voice broke the silence and Poole could tell she’d picked up on the tension too.

  “It’s nice to get outside once in a while, don’t you think?” Zora asked. When no one answered, she continued, “I love the open feeling. Only this thin skin between us and death. Makes me feel alive. Don’t you feel alive, Curtik?” No answer. “How about you, Mouthy Man?” Curtik laughed at that—a half laugh, half snort. “Don’t you feel like running across the Moon? Wouldn’t that be fun? Tumbling and cartwheeling? What about ratapulting? We’ll bring a couple rats outside, fling them into the air and see which one flies the farthest. You up for a little ratapulting when we get back?”

  “Zora,” Poole said.

  “You’re no fun,” Zora said. “None of you. Boring.” But when she settled back to the driving Poole could tell that the tension had eased. Marschenko and Curtik leaned back in their seats, watching each other but no longer poised for attack. Zora had put them at ease with so few words. No wonder she was everyone’s favorite. Even Curtik liked her when he wasn’t plotting against her.

  * * *

  In the operating room, Poole consulted with Dr. Hackett, the chief military surgeon, who injected a series of nano-cleansers that should decrease the white blood cells running rampant through Jones’ body. She assisted Dr. Hackett with Jones’ broken bones. They’d already begun to heal in the short time since they’d fractured, so they had to be re-broken before they could be set.

  When she finally had time to check the monitors, she saw that the nano-cleansers were attacking the white cells, pulling them into clumps and disrupting them.

  “The nano-cleansers are working,” she said.

  “No,” Hackett said. “Look at his count.”

  Sure enough, the white cell count was growing again. Jones’ immune system was becoming more aggressive, eating away at him from the inside. Poole said to the nurse, “Give me twenty cc’s Atrapine-hydroxocyl and begin administering hydrogen sulfide.”

  Hackett said, “A medically induced coma? Do you think that’s wise?”

  “What else can we do? We need time.”

  “I suppose you’re right. We should also lower his body temperature.”

  The head nurse prepared a hypo pad and gave it to Poole while the other two nurses engaged the cooling system and connected the hydrogen sulfide mask over Jones’ face. After injecting the drugs, Poole studied the monitors. But even the coma and the lowering body temperature didn’t completely stabilize Jones. His white cell count continued to grow, albeit at a slower pace.

  “Get Dr. Garcia Delgado and Dr. Nakamura,” Hackett said to the head nurse.

  “No,” Poole said. “Get Dr. Wellon.”

  “Wellon?” Hackett asked.

  “An Escala doctor,” Poole said.

  “Nakamura’s an expert on nano-technology. And Garcia Delgado is brilliant.”

  “Jones is a transgenic. Wellon is our best hope.”

  “Okay. He’s your patient. But Cho may not approve.”

  “I believe Cho’s orders are the same as ours—to keep Jones alive.” While they waited for Wellon, Poole continued to watch the monitors, hoping for some sign that he was going to survive. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. But Jones’ incredible healing ability was now working against him, his fabulous immune system turning on its host, destroying him from the inside out.

  And what would she tell Eli? That Jones, after making such a miraculous recovery from his injuries in the Devereaux incident, surviving numerous Las-rifle strikes, somehow succumbed to a fall on the Moon at a time when his h
ealing ability was supposedly far greater? Would Eli believe her?

  Something was wrong with Jones greater than just his injuries. She didn’t know what it was. Perhaps like a caged animal, he had begun to shut down his body while he was trapped at the bottom of that crater.

  The door opened and Wellon entered the room. Despite having encountered her a handful of times, Poole was always awed by her size—six and a-half feet tall, two hundred-fifty Earth pounds (forty pounds on the Moon), tangled black hair that grew down to her waist. She was only slightly bigger than Jack Marschenko, but she seemed much more dangerous, more unpredictable, as if she might lash out at any moment, like some trained bear who one day decided to return to the wild. Focus on Jones, Poole told herself. Wellon tied her hair back in a bun and donned surgical scrubs. Through her mask, in her deep voice, Wellon said, “What have we got?”

  “Jeremiah Jones,” Poole replied. “His immune system is hyperactive. Rising white cell count.” She pointed to the monitor. “I gave him an injection of nano-cleansers but that hasn’t stopped the activity. Right now he’s in a medically induced coma and we’ve reduced his body core temperature by eight degrees. He’s had massive trauma to his brain and internal organs. Any ideas?”

  Wellon closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For long seconds she said nothing while Poole and Hackett stared at her. Poole wanted to scream at her, but knew that wouldn’t help. Either Wellon would find an answer or Jones would die. Poole was well aware of her own limitations on the surgical side of medicine, and Hackett specialized in nano-technology modification.

  “Do you have any new disease cultures here?” Wellon asked suddenly.

  “New disease cultures?” Hackett said.

  “Something he hasn’t been exposed to yet. A weaponized bacterium perhaps? Or a virus?”

  Poole said, “You want to give him something else to fight?”

  Hackett said, “That’s insane!”

  Poole shook her head. “It seems like the wrong thing to do. So it might be just the answer.”