Virus

by Bill Buchanan

  The infirmary was in sight of the airlock. There was nothing PAM could do to stop them from entering the infirmary except close the door. If PAM tried to keep them out, it was a simple matter to manually wheel the door open. PAM knew that and didn’t try to stop them.

  Once inside, Scott pinned the sliding door shut with a stainless-steel rod.

  Gonzo severed PAM’s control from the infirmary life-support system by disconnecting a series of optical control cables attached to the air handling and pressure regulator units. Once Gonzo had finished his cutoff procedures, the infirmary provided them a safe haven, an isolated island where PAM could not see or control any aspect of their lives. Gonzo set the oxygen mix and adjusted the infirmary pressure and temperature. Once the pressure stabilized, the crew pulled off their helmets and EVA suits.

  It felt good.

  Gonzo positioned Pasha on a bed in an examination room on one side of the infirmary and went to work on his injuries. On the other side of the infirmary, Scott X-rayed Mac’s leg and set it as best she could. Neither was trained in the medical field but they followed the manuals.

  After icing, heating, wrapping, and patching nonstop for two hours, Scott finished with Mac and stared at her handiwork in disbelief. His leg was encased in a rigid full-length cast. In his weightless condition, Mac had mobility but it came with a price. Moving caused his leg to swell so his range was severely limited. She gazed across the room at Gonzo and Pasha. Pasha had his ribs loosely wrapped, intravenous tubes stuck in both arms, and wires attached to his chest monitoring his vital signs.

  With Mac and Pasha secure in the infirmary, Scott and Gonzo looked at one another, knowing the easy part of the job was behind them.

  Gonzo returned to Hell Fire to reset the black box. Once he returned, they would get on with the business at hand.

  The Jugular, 12/2512014, 2248 Zulu, 3:48 p.M. Mountain

  Standard Time

  The Yellow Power Plant,

  Freedom's Core

  Without electrical power, PAM threatened no one.

  Their plan was as simple as it was elegant: shut down Freedom one face at a time. Pin the airlock doors closed and scram the reactor on each face, leaving Freedom's central core pressurized but without power.

  Moving cautiously behind a massive blast shield, Scott and Gonzo advanced toward the yellow airlock along the main passageway. After checking their position with the distance meter, Gonzo maneuvered the dense metal shield into firing position. Satisfied, he spoke into his helmet mike. “This should be the spot.”

  Scott trailed in Gonzo’s wake carrying the corridor map and flamethrower. There was emergency lighting, but dim. She lit a small flashlight and began tracing lines on the map. “You see it?”

  Peering through the small gun port, he surveyed the corridor for telltale signs of weapons. Unaided, his eyes couldn’t penetrate the low light further than thirty feet. Lowering his night vision visor into position, Gonzo saw the corridor transition into ghostly shades of green shadows. He saw a faint reflection moving in the distance and, visibly shaken, he froze motionless. This was no drill—there was real danger here. Ahead, suspended above a sharp bend in the passageway, an agile turret-mounted laser pivoted back and forth, tirelessly standing sentry duty. Around the bend, yellow airlock doors stood open. “Yeah, Scotty. Take a look.” The bulky EVA suit and helmet made even the simplest task a laborious chore. Leaning forward, Scott looked through the gun port and blinked. She saw only darkness. Using the flashlight while reading the map compromised her night vision. She lowered her low-light visor and locked it in place. Searching for PAM’s sensory organs, she focused on the corridor walls. As expected, the walls were equipped with flush mounted cameras, microphones, and motion detectors constantly feeding PAM information. Scott’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning every detail along the corridor walls. PAM hadn’t detected them—yet. Turning toward Gonzo, she spoke quietly. “Only a matter of time. No place to hide.”

  Cranking the adjustable blast shield legs snugly against the walls, Gonzo secured the massive plate in position.

  Scott positioned both flamethrower barrels through the gun port.

  Once the shield was wedged into position, Gonzo began anchoring the flamethrower tripod to the deck at breakneck speed. Lagging the front leg down, Gonzo tensed, sensing all hell was about to break loose. There was no air, there was no sound, but there was vibration from his drilling.

  Suddenly without warning, PAM opened fire.

  Gasping, Scott felt the deck shake like it had been beaten with a sledgehammer. It happened again—then again. Sparks and molten metal raced overhead, spattering against the corridor walls. Unremitting, PAM’s brute force attack savagely blew chunks of metal off the rapidly disintegrating shield.

  Scott looked up, shocked to see the blast shield deforming—and moving—inching its way toward them. Her pulse ratcheted up a notch, her eyes widened. There was no time for discussion, no time to consult manuals, and no one to ask. In a matter of seconds, the molten blast shield would buckle. Her reaction was instinctual and she’d always trusted her instincts. Scott slammed her hand down hard on Gonzo’s helmet, knocking him clear of her line of fire. He crumpled to the floor as she jerked forward and hit the ignition switch. Low-level flames erupted from both barrels. Holding the flamethrower tightly in both hands, she squeezed the trigger—gently. The weapon lurched backward as the slack in the mount was taken up. Spewing horizontal geysers of fire down the passageway, the weapon shook violently against the single point of restraint.

  Flames leapt in all directions, incinerating everything in sight.

  Scott felt the raw power she’d unleashed as the deck The End of the Beginning shuddered beneath her. A howling wind of exhaust gasses filled the corridor. Blocking the torrent of intense heat, the shield glowed a dull red.

  Shoving hard against the butt end of the flamethrower, Gonzo strained with all his strength to counter the reverse thrust created by the expanding gasses. And then it happened. He felt the restraining lag bolt giving way, the front end of the flamethrower rising. “No! God, nooooooooo!” he screamed frantically, the veins on his forehead bulging. Gulping for breath, his face now purple, he felt an adrenaline rush kick in. Suddenly, if only for a few seconds, he had the strength of ten men.

  Hunting with astonishing assurance, Scott instinctively sensed PAM’s every action. In the midst of the terror and chaos, ignoring the mounting restraint failure, she concentrated on the blast shield walking toward them. Then as quickly as the attack started, it was finished. PAM backed off, the blast shield stood still.

  Scott shut down and Gonzo collapsed quivering alongside her. Immediately, she pulled him to safety away from the smoking shield. Sweat poured off his forehead; his breathing—short and shallow. Within minutes, his quivering stopped, his hands steadied. His eyes opened, making contact with Scott’s.

  She smiled admiringly at him. “I don’t know how you did it, but you did it.”

  Gonzo shrugged. His breathing remained rapid but the color had returned to his face. “I am pretty amazing.” He spoke softly, punctuating his comment with a wink.

  “You look all right to me now,” she quipped, rolling her eyes. “Sit tight.”

  Scott stood slowly, lifted an Aqua-Lung sized tank filled with water from his EVA pack, and returned to the glowing blast shield. Lighting an oxygen-fed torch, she heaved it over the smoking shield toward the bend in the corridor. She backed her weapon out of the gun port and surveyed the passageway. Looking through her night visor, she saw rising green tendrils of heat radiating from every surface. Her eyes carefully considered each hazard stretching off into the distance. The turret-mounted laser was a smoldering mass and every flush mounted camera lay wasted, smoke convulsing out of each lens port. Handmade hell, Scott thought. She gently caressed her lethal weapon. The flamethrower wasn’t smart, graceful, or elegant, but it was effective for the task at hand.

  “All clear,” Gonzo heard over his headset. H
e stood slowly and began moving toward her. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion through a dream, engulfed by a cloud of smoke.

  Turning, Scott advanced a few cautious steps and loosened the blast shield from the wall. With increasing confidence, she brought Gonzo’s water nozzle to bear on the red-hot shield. Steam boiled off the metal in a torrid frenzy, filling the smoky corridor with a cloud of mist. After hosing down the deck, Scott turned to Gonzo and tried to look into his eyes. She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, let alone his eyes. “You ready?” she asked. Her voice sounded weary but determined.

  “I’m as ready as I’m gonna be,” he admitted reluctantly.

  Wiping the moisture from her visor, she saw only steam at first, then Gonzo’s silhouette slowly emerged from the dark background.

  The scene was an eerie one as they advanced through the solid wall of steam to the yellow airlock.

  Raising her torch to the ceiling, Scott played the light over the maze of access entrances overhead. Methodically, she considered every opening: the air vents, service access-ways, power conduits, and storage chambers. Scott studied the map, hoping they wouldn’t need these alternate routes. Freedom's core was a maze of small and large passageways, each leading somewhere—the trick was knowing where.

  Once Scott had her bearings, they entered the open airlock and pinned both doors shut. She didn’t smile. Her impression was one of desolation and darkness. With the airlock door secure, they advanced behind the blast shield toward the yellow power plant.

  Beyond the airlock, the steam cloud cleared, revealing the closed hatchway entrance to the power plant. Freedom had separate power plants on each face for redundancy. Two plants could fail and Freedom would continue operating at full capacity, never skipping a beat.

  Scott pressed the open button.

  Nothing, the hatch didn’t budge. No surprise.

  Spinning the hatch flywheel, Scott slid the door out of the way. “Ready,” she huffed, gasping for breath.

  Gonzo pinned the hatch open.

  Surveying every detail, using a handheld mirror as a periscope, Scott cautiously peered into the reactor control room. She saw a large cylindrical reactor vessel in the corner connected through steam lines to a turbine positioned across the room. The focal point of the room was near the reactor, a control panel lined with row after row of gauges and one red T-handle shift lever marked emergency scram (shutdown). As expected, defensive armament bristled over, under, and alongside the reactor control console. PAM protected the reactor scram switch like it was Fort Knox. “Guarded like a bank vault,” she quipped in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “The SCRAM?”

  Scott shook her head. “Running the gauntlet is suicide.” Her tone meant no discussion. No way they could approach the control console without getting killed, so they wouldn’t try. Scott handed Gonzo the mirror. He eyed the room layout, focusing on the high-pressure steam lines.

  “Pasha was right.” His jaw muscles tightened as he spoke into his helmet mike. “This equipment won’t react very well to—uh—our traditional methods.”

  “No explosives. No weapons,” Scott agreed. Festooned with grenades, Scott and Gonzo took off their shoulder straps and secured them outside the hatch. Scott reached inside her EVA backpack and grabbed a small cutting torch. “We go for the jugular.” She meant the steam lines.

  Gonzo nodded agreement. He knew what to do. Rubbing his hand over the deep gouges in the dilapidated shield, Gonzo tensed. “I hope this plate holds up.”

  “It should,” she said tentatively. “These lasers aren’t so powerful.” She paused, then spoke with increased confidence after recalling something Pasha said. “Freedom's designers couldn’t risk damaging the reactor cooling system.”

  “Hope you’re right.” Gonzo’s tone was sincere.

  Scott followed close on his heels as they moved across the open space in the center of the room. PAM’s electrical discharge and laser weapons were concentrated in the forward two corners of the room, near the reactor control panel and turbine. Only one path was available to the steam lines, a straight line which cut across the open space in the center of the room, a firing range of sorts. They couldn’t go through the walls, across the ceiling, or underneath the floor because the room was completely sealed like a miniature containment vessel. The good news was that the high-pressure steam pipes were not as well protected as the scram switch or turbine. The bad news was PAM covered open space in the center of the room with cross fire.

  Scott’s eyes darted about the room, her breathing rapid. “Keep moving,” she gasped. Suddenly, the shield shook violently as if it were beaten by a hammer. PAM orchestrated the laser fire like a symphony conductor. Sparks darted overhead in every direction.

  Kneeling by the steam lines, Scott lit the cutting torch and scorched a rectangular pattern down a foot-long section of pipe. There was barely enough room for the two of them crouching behind the shield.

  Temperature sensors for the high-pressure steam lines were redundant four times over. If two out of four sensors detected temperatures outside a predefined margin of safety, the reactor would automatically scram, coming to an orderly shutdown. Trouble was the high-pressure steam pipes were double-walled and the sensors were sandwiched between the inside and outside pipes.

  With her chest heaving like a bellows, Scott struggled to steady her hands and cut out the rectangular-shaped piece of pipe. Inside the cutout she saw glass fiber cables attached by pairs to separate connectors. Without hesitation, she opened her cleaning kit with her gloved hands. Twisting four optical connectors free, she cleaned them with alcohol, blew the ends dry with a pressurized can of air, and plugged them into a small metal box. Quickly, she thumbed the test button. The small metal box flashed ready. “Looks good.”

  Gonzo looked down at her handiwork, giving it a onceover. His response was immediate. “Should work. Shoot!” Scott pressed a switch on the small box sending a bright pulse of light down each fiber to the reactor control system at the other end. The idea was to simulate a catastrophic failure, trick the reactor control system into invoking an automatic scram.

  It worked. PAM’s attack broke off. The electrical power to the lasers collapsed without delay. Emergency lights began to dim and slowly faded away. The reactor room was absolutely pitch-black. No emergency lighting—nothing.

  Scott and Gonzo lowered their low-light visors. The room shone through the darkness as ghostly shades of green.

  Turning toward Scott, Gonzo said, “You looked a hell of a lot better with black hair.” He watched the temperature of her face rise, turning a bright green.

  “A long hot shower is something I can only dream about.” Glancing at Gonzo’s face, she recoiled in shock. Her tone was unfathomable but the expression on her face was not. “You look like the grim reaper.” She studied him carefully. Through the low-light visor, Gonzo’s face looked like a glowing green skull with hollow black eye sockets.

  “It’s this job, Scotty,” Gonzo replied. “You know the feeling—bad day at the office.”

  Suddenly, Scott felt a sick feeling in her stomach. She’d completely lost track of time. Near panic, she checked her watch, then breathed a sigh of relief. Plenty of time. In less than two hours, the black box would detonate if it was not reset. “Better backtrack. The black box beckons.”

  Gonzo agreed. “That’s one job we don’t want to forget.” She balled her hand into a fist and bounced it off his helmet. “Roger that, SAESO. One down, three to go.”

  The Black Face, 12/26/2014, 0806 Zulu, 1:06 A.M. Mountain

  Standard Time

  The Infirmary,

  Freedom's Core

  Mac felt like he was listening to the war over the radio. With the yellow face shut down and the black powerplant about to scram, everything was going better than they had any right to expect. Mac intently watched four gauges mounted on the infirmary wall; three of them read normal, one flashed scram.

  Sitting up, loosely strapped to hi
s bed, he monitored Scott and Gonzo’s conversation. He could hear their conversations over the EVA intercom but they didn’t say much. Mac felt tense, afraid for his friends. Listening to the action, powerless to help them, was worse than being there.

  “Steady,” he heard Gonzo say. “Connections look good. Shoot!”

  “Mark.” Scott sounded weary.

  Immediately, Klaxons began to sound, rattling the quiet which was the infirmary. Mac was relieved now to see two gauges flashing scram.

  The Spawning, 1212612014, 0808 Zulu, 1:08 a.m. Mountain

  Standard Time

  The Control Room,

  Freedom's Core

  Although PAM sensed an imminent threat, she was incapable of panic or fear. If a third power plant failed, she’d lose her transmitter and forfeit control of the armada. This clear and present threat drove PAM into a frenzy of reproductive activity.

  Almost immediately, she entered a high-level subroutine optimized for reproductive survival.

  do until done

  if [threat = TRUE]

  then eliminate_threat

  if [eliminate_threat = PASS]

  then done

  if [eliminate_threat = FAIL]

  then make_child

  if [eliminate_threat = IMMINENT]

  then send_child

  done

  Translated, the routine operated as follows:

  If threatened, PAM eliminated the threat. If eliminating the threat failed, she gave birth to a child, a nearly identical copy of herself. If the threat became imminent, then she’d send copies of her child into other computers on the Department of Defense network.