SINdrome

by J. T. Nicholas

  “That’s fantastic,” Hernandez exclaimed. Her next words died on her lips as Tia turned a hopeless stare on her.

  “But we can’t make it out of thin air. Walton built a machine to expedite the process. It’s complicated,” she said, rubbing her face again, “but the short version is that it takes the original virus, breaks it up, and reassembles it into a sort of engineered retrovirus that seeks out and neutralizes the original agent.” She paused. Opened her mouth. Faltered. Look back down at her hands.

  “But it cannot make the retrovirus out of nothing,” Silas said. An understanding smile stretched his lips, the first I’d seen in a long time. He stepped forward and placed one hand comfortingly on Tia’s shoulder. “It is quite all right, Ms. Morita. Please. Tell them the rest.”

  She gazed up at him and the tears started again. But her voice was steady as she continued. “To have any chance of reverse engineering things, we’re going to have to get a lot of different labs involved. We’re going to need a hell of a lot of the retrovirus, of the vaccine, if we’re to have any hope of saving more than a few dozen synthetics.”

  I still wasn’t getting it. “So?”

  “So, we need a lot of the virus to make a lot of the retrovirus, hermano,” Hernandez, said. Her voice had dropped to a whisper and she was looking back and forth from Tia to Silas.

  It hit me then. We needed a lot of the virus. And the only virus we knew we had was currently coursing through Silas’s veins. Satan’s juicer. Motherfucker. “How much?” I demanded. Tia visibly flinched at my tone, and I wanted to reach out to her, but I couldn’t. She was just the messenger, but damn it. Just. Damn it. “Sorry. How much?”

  “Too much,” she replied.

  “What’s going on?” Thompson asked. The rookie looked completely poleaxed, he was so lost in the conversation. “Can someone please spell this out for me?”

  “They need the virus that is in my system,” Silas said. That smile was still on his face. “And to get it, they will need my blood. In my weakened state, I imagine there could be serious consequences from even a moderate amount of blood loss.” He chuckled. Actually fucking chuckled. “I imagine a moderate amount is not what we are needing, here. Correct?”

  Tia just nodded.

  “And so,” Silas said, “I find myself with the opportunity to save my entire race, and all it will cost me is my life. Tell me, would any of you hesitate, if faced with such a decision?” He laughed, softly, strained by the paralytic, but with genuine mirth. “Of course you would not.” He raised his hands to stave off our objections to his high opinion. “You can tell yourself otherwise, but the fact that you are here, putting your lives at risk to save the synthetics, gives away the lie.” He stared at each of us in turn and his shrunken, plague-ridden body seemed to swell. He stood straighter, as if a great weight had dropped from his shoulders. He drew a deep breath. “Thank you,” he said, to each of us in turn. “Each of you has done more for the synthetic cause than I can possibly say.”

  Fortier was trying to turn away, and I swear to fucking god, I saw tears of shame and denial on the fat man’s cheeks. “Even you, Francois Fortier,” Silas said. “Perhaps especially you, since if we are successful, you can be held up as an example of how humanity can change. How humanity must change. But you all have offered up your lives to make the lives of the synthetics better. Now”—the smile broadened—“Now it is simply my turn.”

  LaSorte was openly and unashamedly weeping, and I saw tears in Hernandez’s eyes as well. Hell, I felt them, like little hot suns burning at the back of my own eyes. Tia stood back up, locked her arms around Silas’s waist, and buried her face against his chest. He leaned down, and whispered something into her ear. Shudders passed through her body, but then she was pushing herself away, attempting to straighten out her tactical gear with the sharp little tugs that women often used with suits or dresses. Silas gave each of us another smile, and then said, “I believe the detective would say that it is time to get to work.”

  I damn near lost it at that. I felt the tears spilling over, but I drew a ragged breath of my own and did my level best to will them back into my body. It didn’t work, but the concentration kept me from devolving into a blubbering mess. “There is no other way?” I asked.

  “No,” Tia said in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear it.

  “You are sure, Silas?” His arguments all made sense, and I knew beyond a doubt that I’d make the same choice. Even so, I had to be certain.

  In answer, he started walking off to the lab with the machine Tia had so eloquently described as Satan’s juicer. “I got the door,” Al’awwal said. There was a hitch in his voice, and I turned to see that even he had tears in his eyes. He met my gaze briefly, then turned away, shouldering his weapon and taking up a post just inside the doorway. It gave him a perfectly legitimate reason to turn his back on us, hiding his own tears.

  Silas moved with the same implacable determination that had always been his hallmark. I knew then that not only would trying to stop him from doing this be wrong, it would also be impossible. As soon try to stop an avalanche. The thought brought a smile to my face, even through my tears, and I took two long strides to catch up with the albino synthetic. He might be walking to his death, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to walk alone.

  He glanced up at me and gave me a slight nod, that single gesture saying more than we could have said with words. It, and the gratitude and contentment I read on his normally expressionless face, somehow encapsulated everything we’d been through together, everything we’d done to get to this point. What had Sanjay, the first victim of the plague, said?—“If I die, I die free.” I saw that in Silas’s gaze, felt it in the sureness of his stride. If he died, he died free.

  The others seemed to understand that we needed to do this part alone. They held back—not far, just a few paces, giving us a little space, a little privacy. LaSorte must have been working his magic, because as we approached the airlock-style door into the lab, it cycled and opened. We didn’t even have to break stride. I felt my steps flag a little as I saw the machine. It wasn’t quite as bad as I was expecting from Tia’s description. More than anything, it looked like the big brother of the cell separators used for plasmapheresis. A comfortable-looking chair. A number of tubes and wires. A big blocky machine that, yes, had a cylindrical shape reminiscent of a juicer, particularly with the nozzles and hoses. But that was it. Still, I felt myself hesitate.

  Silas had no such hesitation. He walked up to the machine, gave it a quick once-over and then, smooth as if he’d done it a thousand times before, slid into the chair. Tia appeared at our side, and started doing something with the machine. While she worked, Silas looked up at me. “Do not worry, Jason,” he said. “I truly am ready for this. And I know that if you could trade places with me, you would.” He reached out a hand, grabbing my forearm. “In all my years, I have never had a friend. Friendship, real friendship, among synthetics is—no, was—a path that could only end in pain. These last few months…” He trailed off, and I looked up toward the ceiling blinking rapidly as I felt fresh tears spilling from eyes. “No matter what happens, Jason, I would not trade them.”

  I took his hand in mine, squeezed. I couldn’t get any words out. I was afraid if I tried, I’d lose it. So, I just squeezed his hand. It was enough.

  “You’ll feel a little pinch now,” Tia said. She was holding some plastic tubing that ended in a large gauge needle. She hadn’t bothered swabbing the injection site or anything like that. What was the point?

  “Do it,” Silas said. She inserted the needle into his veins, right near the elbow joint. Aiming, I realized, for the brachial artery. The only indication of pain or fear was the tightening of his grip on my hand. “Make sure Evelyn and Jacinda get dosed as soon as possible. They have to live, Jason. Promise that you will keep them safe.”

  I nodded, tears falling from my eyes onto his brow. He did
n’t seem to notice. “Good. You are a man of your word.” He smiled, though it seemed weaker. I was aware of the machine humming, of Tia stepping away from the bedside to monitor the progress. How long would it take? “Al’awwal and LaSorte, too,” Silas said. “They will both try to refuse. To insist that there are others more important or more deserving. But they are the ones who will have to carry things to completion. LaSorte has all the keys.”

  I didn’t quite understand that last bit, but I just nodded. If nothing else, I could make sure that they got the cure. Silas’s grip was weakening, and his hand was growing colder. His body had been ravaged by the plague. Only his enhanced constitution and iron will had kept him upright for the infiltration of the Walton Biogenics facility. Now, with his blood being rapidly drained, he was losing the ability to fight.

  “Thank you, Jason,” he whispered. And then his eyes closed. His grip eased. I could still see the slightest rise and fall of his chest, and I looked over at Tia, my eyes wide. She just shook her head. He’d lost consciousness, but that shake told me what I needed to know. He wouldn’t wake up again.

  I held his hand, kept it clutched tight in my own. Conscious or not, I couldn’t let him face this last part alone. It didn’t take long. No more than a minute later, his chest rose and fell for the last time. A brief shudder passed through him. And then he was still.

  Chapter 21

  “He’s gone,” Tia said. She looked at me over Silas’s body, the tears running freely down her face. They mirrored my own. The others, all excepting Al’awwal, came forward then, to pay their last respects. I had to turn away from their pain, lest it reinforce my own. Tia was still busy. Still working the problem. Still getting what we came for.

  “How long?” I asked her.

  She knew what I was asking without having to explain. “Not long. This is better tech than anything I’ve seen before. If we could take it with us…” She shrugged. “But we can’t. Maybe we can force Walton to share the technology.” We both snorted at that thought. “It would save lives, Campbell. We’ll have enough to do as Silas wished, to take care of Evelyn, Jacinda, LaSorte, and Al’awwal. With enough left over to synthesize more. But if we had these machines? We could do it so much faster. Save so many more lives.”

  I looked over my shoulder, to see LaSorte bent double over Silas’s body, head down on his folded arms, weeping. “We can only do so much, Tia. But, and I hate myself for this, we have to do it now. We have to get out of here, and every second we wait, it gets harder.”

  She glanced at the screen. “Two minutes,” she said.

  I nodded. Turned to the others. “I need everyone in the next room in thirty seconds.” They looked at me, shocked by the steel in my voice. LaSorte looked more than shocked. He looked hurt. And pissed. I didn’t care. “Do it,” I said, and walked out.

  No one looked happy, but thirty seconds later, everyone but Tia—who was still finishing up with the cell separator or gene splicer or whatever the fuck the machine was—was standing in a loose semi-circle around me. Everyone looked beat, emotionally and physically drained. LaSorte still looked pissed, and Al… the only thing I could call the look on his face was…murderous. At least I didn’t think that one was directed at me.

  “We’re all tired. We’re all hurt. And most of us just lost someone we loved.” LaSorte started to speak, but I cut him off. “I know, LaSorte. I know I’m not giving you time to mourn. I know it’s not right. I know it’s not fair. Too fucking bad,” I damn near shouted. “Every second we sit here, Walton is gathering their forces. Do you think that one paltry security team is all they left behind? No. They’re out there. And they’re going to do everything in their power to make sure that we die here. And if we don’t get out of here, if we don’t get the cure back to revolution central, that means we did all this for nothing. That means Silas sacrificed himself for nothing.” I was glaring at them, practically growling the words, but I didn’t care. “I’m not going to let that happen. Do you understand?” They growled back their affirmatives, and in that moment, I thought that maybe even LaSorte would be capable of pulling a trigger.

  Tia came up to me. Her pack looked much fuller than it had, and I didn’t want to think about the contents. I doubted it was literal bags of Silas’s blood, but that was the image in my head. In her hands, she held two syringes. “LaSorte. Al’awwal. You get the first doses of the cure.”

  “I’m not even sick,” LaSorte objected, even as Al’awwal was saying, “Not necessary.”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” I snarled. “Not my call. Not your call. Silas’s wishes, and if I have to beat you down and inject you myself, I will.” In that moment, I meant it. I was on the very edge of losing control, feeling the kind of unbound violence that hadn’t surfaced in me since the night I killed Annabelle’s parents. I needed to get a grip, to get control.

  But at least it was working. Both synthetics looked at me, the shock of my threat breaking through their reticence. Tia didn’t hesitate, just stepped up and took advantage of the situation to inject each of them. “Good,” I said. “Now, we’re getting out of here. By now, they’ve figured out how we got in. Trying to get out the same way would be suicide. We know the facility is decommissioned, so we’re going out through the main building. LaSorte, you need to find us the shortest path to the surface, and from there out to the parking lot. There’s security here, so they’ll have vehicles. We’ll be commandeering a couple.”

  “On it,” he said. His anger had dissipated, and while his eyes were still dark with grief, his voice was determined.

  “Good. You’re also going to have to help Fortier on your own.” I glanced at the detective. It looked like the bleeding had stopped again. He looked like I felt—tired, wrung out, in a shitload of pain, though, in his case, physical. “You gonna be able to fight?” I asked.

  “As long as someone can hold me more or less upright and point me in the right direction,” he replied.

  “Good. Thompson.”

  “Sir?” Thompson barked, falling, perhaps unconsciously, back into his training.

  “Your job is to make sure that Tia stays safe. She’s got the knowledge and the cure. She’s the one who has to get out. Her survival is paramount. You kill anything that tries to get to her. Got it?” He threw me a salute and stepped close to Tia, who, for once, didn’t bother objecting.

  “Me and Al are taking point. We kill anything that gets in the way.” I looked at the First. “Any issues with that?”

  The smile that creased his face was more like a snarl. “None whatsoever.”

  “Hernandez, you’re tail-end-Charlie and what passes for our reserve. Go wherever you think you’re needed.”

  “Roger that, Campbell,” she said crisply. Even with her arm in a sling and tearstains on her face, she looked ready to kick ass and not bother taking down the names.

  “Good.” I looked back toward the chamber where Silas’s remains would rest. It was foolish to think that we’d be able to reclaim them, more foolish to try and take them with us. This underground facility would be his graveyard, at least until Walton Biogenics or their successors did something with the remains. It saddened me, but I knew that the part of Silas that made him Silas wasn’t with the flesh. He’d shuffled off his mortal coil, and I prayed to god that he was finally free and at peace.

  “Section,” Thompson suddenly barked, turning on his heel to face the chamber. “Atten-shun!” I found myself bracing automatically to the rigid stance of attention and was aware of Hernandez doing the same at my side. Fortier pulled on LaSorte’s sleeve, and the synthetic helped him up, so that he, too, could stand in an approximation of the position. Tia came up on one side, Al’awwal on the other. Tia just stood straight, making no effort to truly emulate the military pose, but Al’awwal slipped into it so easy that I suddenly wondered if he had actually managed to serve at some point in his lengthy years. “Pre-sent,” Thompson said, “ar
ms!”

  I snapped out a salute, conscious of the other officers and Al’awwal following suit. Tia placed her hand over her heart, and LaSorte did the same. It wasn’t much as far as funeral rites went, but it was the best we could do with the time we had. We held it for a few seconds, and then Thompson barked, “Order arms!” My hand snapped back down to my side, ending the salute.

  “Rest in peace, friend,” I said, dashing fresh tears from my eyes. “Thank you for that, Thompson,” I added. Then I drew a long breath, released it as a sigh. “All right, everyone. Time to get to work.”

  * * * *

  Al eased open the door and I reached out into the corridor, using a shard of a broken mirror to survey the hallway in both directions. As expected, I caught faint flickers of motion from either end, where the hallway bent. Walton Security knew where we were, and they’d set up a nice, lethal abattoir for us to walk into.

  “They’re out there,” I informed the others. “But it looks like they’re content to wait for us to walk into the kill box. They know we aren’t going anywhere right now.”

  “Flashbangs?” Hernandez asked. Among the gear they’d smuggled out of the station were a few flashbangs—nonlethal grenades that produced a brilliant flash of light and a massive detonation without any of the fiery explosion or shrapnel of their deadly cousins. We hadn’t had the time to deploy them earlier.

  “Might as well,” I agreed. “But they’re at both ends of the hallway. We’re going to have to toss ’em, and then split up and try to take down whoever’s out there before they get their senses back. If they’ve got defense in depth…” I shrugged. If they were smart enough to set up a layered defense, with one position covering the next, we were screwed. But even if we were dealing with some of Walton’s elite bully boys, they couldn’t have an endless supply of bodies, and I doubted they’d have wasted them all here. Even if it was the better strategy, corporate types always wanted a reserve, a fallback plan. No. They’d have broken their teams up, left some to guard the exits or have some kind of “omega plan” to deal with us if we broke through. “Al, we’re the most mobile. I go left. You go right. Hernandez, you’re with me. Thompson, you go with Al. Tia, take his rifle and give him the riot gun.” They swapped weapons, Tia looking surprisingly comfortable with the long gun. “Fortier, Tia, you’re our reserve. Something goes wrong, you guys need to come to the rescue.” I got a nod from both, though with Fortier reliant on LaSorte to get anywhere, I wasn’t sure how much help he’d be in a charge. “All right. Pass up the flashbangs and get ready.”