The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  “I’ll keep you up to date,” Dr. Wellon said.

  Devereaux wheeled Jeremiah out the door and toward the personal transportation cars that would take them to the main hangar of Lunar Base 1.

  As they entered an empty car, Devereaux paled slightly, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. He wiped it off, glancing at Jeremiah.

  “You’re infected with the virus too,” Jeremiah said. “That’s why you’re not wearing a mask.”

  Nodding, Devereaux started the car moving. “I didn’t want the Escala to worry, but I deliberately infected myself so that Zora couldn’t limit my time researching a cure.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Devereaux said nothing as the car slid forward on its track. All Jeremiah could hear was the rush of air hitting the car and the faint whine of the motor as the tunnel lights approached and receded, the ever-present oxygenating vines sliding by on the sidewalls.

  As the car neared LB1, Devereaux said, “We live in a crazy world, Jeremiah. Look at the insanity in India and China. Not to mention that Zora intends to carry out Eli’s plan to attack Earth soon.”

  “That’s why we need you alive. You’re the most important person we’ve got.”

  “Agh.” Devereaux waved his hand carelessly. “Don’t worry, I’ll find a cure. Besides, have you forgotten that you saved my life last year when you gave me some of your blood?”

  Jeremiah flashed back to Minnesota: Devereaux stabbed in the stomach; Jeremiah cutting himself, letting his healing blood drip into the wound. He’d forgotten that detail in the ensuing year.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” Devereaux said. “Your blood made my immune system much stronger than it used to be. And now your blood is so weakened by the virus that it can’t even heal your broken legs, while my blood should protect me for a good long while.” Devereaux winked. “But don’t tell Zora.”

  The car stopped and Devereaux wheeled Jeremiah off. He halted them just inside the tunnel to the main hangar.

  “Meanwhile,” Devereaux said, “I can run comparisons of our blood samples, examine the progression of the virus. Hopefully that will lead me to the most likely means of eliminating it. It’s a tricky virus—constantly evolving, hiding in multiple locations throughout the body, not just the immune system as was previously thought. And it doesn’t always attack the same genomic sequences. It has a familiar look to it, even though I’m sure I’ve never seen it before. More importantly, for the moment, is Zora’s intent to attack Earth.”

  “Do you think she’ll attack the Escala too?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

  “The Escala seem to be expecting it. They’re worried. I could tell. Damon picked up on it too.”

  “A perceptive young man. I hope the Escala will do what they must to survive. You and I, however, have a duty to stop the cadets. We can’t sit by and watch them murder thousands of innocents. If we did, we would be forsaking whatever humanity we claim to possess. Having climbed the ladder of enlightenment, we must do what we can. Even if it means our deaths.”

  “I don’t know how I can help,” Jeremiah said.

  “You’re a strategic thinker. A warrior. If you put your mind to it, you may find a way. But for now, we ought to speak with Zora—see if we can convince her to change her mind.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “I’ll try, but I doubt she’ll listen.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Devereaux said as he wheeled Jeremiah to the main hangar, where half a dozen cadets roamed while the big one named Curtik sat atop the military desk, idly kicking it with his heels. He slid off as they approached, smirking at Jeremiah.

  “Pappy!” Curtik said. “How delightful to see you.”

  Jeremiah felt a shock, like he’d just been plunged into an icy bath. “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t anyone tell you?” Curtik’s grin widened. “I’m your real son, not that spookster, Damon.”

  Could it be true? Fear struck Jeremiah in the gut. He shook his head. “I don’t know what your game is, kid. But I’m not playing.”

  “No game,” Curtik said. “You’re my Papster. You can do a DNA test if you like.”

  Curtik might be a gifted liar, yet his voice, his facial expression, his body language all spoke of veracity. Jeremiah looked up at Devereaux, who shrugged. Dr. Wellon’s DNA test had resulted in an eighty-six percent likelihood that Damon was Joshua, though with all the transgenic and nano-modifications, complete verification was impossible. “Why do you call him a spookster?” Jeremiah finally said.

  “He’s spooky,” Curtik said, “the way he reads people when he’s healthy.”

  “I hear you’re a master manipulator.”

  “Thanks,” Curtik said. “But this isn’t manipulation. I’m just confused. Part of me hates you for abandoning me and part of me hates myself for feeling that way. I think maybe I killed Mouthy Man out of hatred for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I knew he was your friend,” Curtik said. “Every time I saw him I thought of you. And that made me angry. You see, Pappolini, I remember some of my past. The programming didn’t erase it completely. I get these flashes—images of you and Mom. And sometimes they make me feel warm and happy. But then I remember that you just vanished one day. And I get angry again. Why did you do that, Papyrus? Why did you leave me?”

  No, Jeremiah thought. He’s just playing me. It’s all part of his game. And yet Jeremiah couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hearing the truth. He said, “Do you remember the song your mother used to sing?”

  Curtik closed his eyes for a second and began to hum that familiar tune: Children’s Moon. Jeremiah shivered. He felt like screaming. If this was a game, it was brilliant. And if not, this monster was his son.

  When Curtik finished humming, he scrunched up his face as if he were struggling not to cry and said, “I wish I didn’t have to kill all those people. I know it’s wrong, but I feel this need to do it. I’ve been programmed to kill—we all have—and I don’t know how to stop myself. Am I a bad person, Paprika?”

  “You don’t have to be,” Jeremiah said.

  “I’d like to be good—just like you, Papsy Wapsy.”

  Devereaux interrupted: “There’s no secret involved in being good. Do good things. You don’t have to be a monster.”

  Curtik glared briefly at Devereaux, turned back to Jeremiah and said, “I’ve been ordered to fire the Las-cannons at specific targets on Earth. Thousands will die. I don’t even know those people. I’ve got no reason to hate them. Yet I do. Why should that be?”

  Again Devereaux answered, “Why the pretence to something you’re not?”

  Curtik jabbed a finger at Devereaux. “You take a lot of chances, old man.”

  “That’s my nature,” Devereaux said. “Just as your nature is to lie and scheme to gain advantage. I wonder if there’s anyone here or on Earth you actually care about.”

  Curtik stared at Devereaux for a moment before turning his attention to Jeremiah. “Why are you with the spookster? Aren’t I good enough for you?”

  “I was told he’s my son,” Jeremiah replied. “But even if he’s not, he’s more man than you. You’re simply a brutal killer.”

  Curtik grinned. “Ah, just like you, Pappy.”

  “Be thankful I’m in this wheelchair,” Jeremiah said.

  Curtik laughed. “Would you teach me a lesson like Mouthy Man did? He sure showed me. Rammed his face into my fists, over and over until I understood.”

  Jeremiah struggled to his feet, took a step and crumpled in agony.

  Above him Curtik roared, slapping himself on the knee as tears ran down his face. He said, “Oh, do it again.”

  Curtik brought his leg back as if to kick Jeremiah in the ribs. He launched his leg forward, stopping his foot a few inches shy of Jeremiah’s chest, his fac
e wrinkling in surprise.

  “Congratulations, Curtik,” Devereaux said as he helped Jeremiah back into the wheelchair, struggling only a little with Jeremiah’s lunar weight of thirty-five pounds. “That’s a promising sign. You have great potential.”

  Curtik said, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Zora’s expecting us,” Devereaux lied. “And we’re already running late.”

  “Oh,” Curtik said. He backed away with an elaborate bow. “Mustn’t keep Zora waiting. Go, go, go. Run along, children.” He clapped his hands three times. “We’ll chat later.”

  Devereaux rolled Jeremiah past Curtik and down the corridor toward the command office, patting Jeremiah’s shoulder. What was the truth? Jeremiah wondered. Could Curtik be my son? And if he is, how can I love him? And what of Damon? He believes I’m his father. He actually wants me to be his father. How nice that would be. But somehow, Jeremiah knew that Curtik hadn’t lied.

  Zora sat alone inside, staring blankly into space when Devereaux opened the door. When she saw them, she raised a hand to tell them to wait, then stared off again for a few more seconds. Jeremiah studied the screens along the walls, the capitals about to be demolished. Was there any way to stop Zora from launching her attack? He couldn’t think of one. And any plan would require many, if not all, of the Escala to die.

  “Okay,” Zora finally said, “what can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “We have some things to discuss,” Devereaux said.

  “We do, do we?” Zora pursed her lips. “Very well.” She looked at Jeremiah. “Problems with Curtik?”

  Jeremiah realized from her expression that she already knew what had happened. She’d probably been monitoring the whole incident. “He claims to be my son.”

  “So I heard. We’re completing a DNA comparison. He may be telling the truth. It looks like there’s a ninety-two percent chance he’s your son. Of course, there’s also a sixteen percent chance that I’m your son.” Zora laughed. “Aspen is fetching your friend Lendra.”

  “You can’t attack Earth, Zora,” Devereaux said.

  Zora looked at Jeremiah. “Is that what you were going to say?”

  Jeremiah nearly said yes, but one glance at Zora’s face convinced him that any attempt to dissuade her would fail. He said, “I wouldn’t try to tell you what you can and can’t do. But I will point out that attacking Earth is what Eli programmed you to do.”

  “You worked for him.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “I’m no longer his servant and I never will be again.”

  The door opened and Aspen showed Lendra in.

  “Jeremiah!” Lendra said. For an instant her face carried a look of pain. It might have been his imagination. Lendra glanced at Zora, smiled briefly at Devereaux, then threw herself at Jeremiah, bending over and wrapping her arms around his neck. The faint and familiar flowery aroma of her perfume mingled with her sweat and fear. She clung to him, squeezing hard—hurting him—and yet he found her embrace comforting. He reached up and touched her arm.

  She said, “I missed you so much.”

  Her voice carried at least some truth. Jeremiah, in agony, said, “Please let go.”

  Lendra released him and stood, her brow furrowing. She looked as lovely as ever. “Wait a second. You have the Susquehanna Virus.” Lendra backed away. “Why aren’t you wearing a mask?”

  Jeremiah looked at Devereaux, who said, “It wouldn’t guarantee your safety. The virus is already in the air.”

  “An absolute tragedy,” Zora said.

  Lendra looked from Jeremiah to Devereaux to Zora and back. Her jaw set, eyes narrowed. “What are we going to do?”

  “Nothing,” Jeremiah answered.

  “I refuse to accept that. You never give up.”

  “Sometimes surrender is the only alternative.”

  “Lose to win,” Zora said, keeping her eyes on Jeremiah, her smile broadening to let him know she understood he would continue to oppose her and that she didn’t mind. “The willow bends while the oak breaks.”

  Aspen giggled.

  And Jeremiah realized the enormity of the task before him. How could he fight this little girl who was so much smarter than he was, always a few steps ahead?

  Lendra’s face hardened. To Zora she said, “Can we have some privacy, please?”

  “We’re all friends here,” Zora said, “aren’t we? At least, I’d like to be. Won’t you be my friend, Lendra?”

  Aspen laughed. Lendra folded her arms under her breasts and scowled.

  Zora grinned and said, “Aren’t you going to tell him you’re pregnant?”

  “Thank you!” Lendra turned back to Jeremiah and reached out as if to take his hand, but then pulled back. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  “A baby?” Jeremiah said. “When did that happen?”

  “Just recently,” Lendra said. “Aren’t you happy?”

  “In vitro?” Jeremiah said.

  “Darling.” Lendra shot him a warning glance.

  “It’s just that for the past year I’ve been using a contraception,” Jeremiah explained to Zora and Devereaux. He looked back at Lendra. “You probably knew that since you’ve been spying on me for Eli.”

  “Ooh.” Zora leaned forward. “Tension.”

  “Heavy,” Aspen added.

  Zora and Aspen began to giggle. Lendra glared at them.

  “If it makes any difference,” Zora said, “this child’s a girl. Lucky kid. Damon says you’re a great father. And that Kyler girl likes you too. Even Curtik didn’t attack you when I was sure he would. What is it about you that makes people worship you?”

  “Ooh, ooh, ooh,” Aspen raised her hand, waving it frantically. “I want him to be my daddy too.”

  “We all do,” Zora said. “He’s the absolute coolest.”

  “Yes, he is,” Devereaux said. “The best man I’ve ever known.”

  Jeremiah said, “I’m not a good man.”

  “Oh, but you are,” Zora said. “We’re all going to fall madly in love with you because you’re so noble and kind and handsome. And we’re all going to hate the wicked witch who spied on you for the great and powerful Oz.”

  Lendra grasped Jeremiah’s hand. “What I did doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you, Jeremiah.” She kissed his forehead. “Let me take care of you.”

  Her words, her tone, her body language and scent rang almost perfectly true, yet Jeremiah sensed the falseness behind them. What a gifted liar she was. How many had she gotten away with? He’d always found her difficult to read—almost as tough as Julianna. And what was the lie? That she loved him? No, maybe that part was true.

  Zora said, “You’re clever, Witchy Poo. You come up here to kill Poole or at least take over her duties.” Lendra cringed and Jeremiah knew Zora spoke the truth. “How do I know you won’t attack Jeremiah, or team up with him to attack us? You may not be one of Eli’s ghosts but you’re devious and twisted.”

  “I’ve never killed anyone,” Lendra said, “as you so accurately pointed out.”

  “Oh, but you could,” Zora said. “You’re a mean one, Witchy Poo. Besides, I don’t think Jeremiah should play with you.” She looked at Jeremiah. “What do you think? Do you want to have funzies with Witchy Poo?”

  “I’m concerned about you,” Jeremiah replied. “I’ve carried the burden of killing for a long time. I don’t wish that on you.”

  “You’re just too precious to be believed,” Zora said. “I’m definitely going to fall in love with you. Let’s go. It’s time to start the party.”

  Aspen reached down, pulled Lendra to her feet and said, “Come on, Witchy Poo. I’ve heard the Las-cannons make beautiful holes. Nice deep craters. If you like, we just have time to stop for popcorn before the show.” She grinned at Jeremiah and gestured to Devereaux to wheel him out.

  Chapter S
eventeen

  From a hospital bed, Elias looked up at Dr. Hassan and tried to remember how he got here. “What happened?” he asked, his tongue thick.

  “You suffered another stroke, Mr. Leach,” Dr. Hassan said. “You’re under a lot of stress and your body is breaking down. The stem cell therapy hasn’t worked. Without the nanobots, you will die.”

  “Become a thyborg,” Elias said. He frowned at the lisp in his voice and shivered at the thought of becoming a freak, like an Elite Ops trooper or even one of the cadets on the Moon.

  “Nanobots are merely a healing mechanism.” Dr. Hassan nodded.

  The strokes scared Elias, though not as much as the idea of putting thousands of microscopic computers inside his body, turning himself into a machine. It wasn’t just a pathological fear of carrying nanotechnology in his body; it was also because he knew how such technology might be used against him.

  Dr. Hassan continued: “You’ll have another stroke soon. The next one may be fatal. I don’t understand your reluctance to utilize nanotechnology. Even Manyara thinks you should accept the nanobots.”

  Manyara. Where was she?

  “You’ve ill-treated your body for eighty years,” Dr. Hassan continued. “Now it’s falling apart and we can fix it with a simple injection.”

  Dr. Hassan leaned back in his chair and waited. Elias tried to take a deep breath. When was the last time he’d inhaled without pain? He couldn’t remember—a year, maybe—right before Jeremiah left him.

  Nanobots would allow every movement he made to be monitored, spied upon by doctors or computers, making him vulnerable, perhaps making him programmable. Elias had used information derived from ID chips to create the program on the Moon, to find the perfect children to kidnap and alter. How much more data about himself would be floating around—interceptible by some unscrupulous hacker—if he agreed to the nanobots?

  His body, his brain: these were his last bastions against the invasion of technology. By accepting the nanobots he would lose whatever semblance of privacy he retained in a world that offered next to none. ID chips were implanted in virtually every baby. The wealthy used nanobots not only to heal but also to transmit medical information.