by Greg Bear
The office door opened a crack. A plump man with thick black hair and beard and critical dark green eyes watched them suspiciously through the crack, then smiled and stepped into the hall. He quietly closed the door behind him.
“Christopher Dicken, this is Madhouse Honcho number five, or maybe number four, Vassili Presky,” Turner said.
“Proud to meet you,” Presky said, but did not offer his hand.
“Likewise,” Dicken said.
“He happens not to be a computer geek,” Turner added.
Dicken and Presky stared at him with quizzical half-smiles. “Pardon?” Presky said.
“Press-key,” Turner explained, astounded by their density.
“We will pardon Dr. Turner,” Presky said with a pained expression.
“We're at step two of the initiation,” Turner said. “On our way to the party. Vassili is Speaker to Animals. He runs the zoo and does research, as well.”
Presky smiled. “You want it, we have it. Mammals, marsupials, monotremes, birds, reptiles, worms, insects, arachnids, crustaceans, planaria, nematodes, protists, fungi, even a horticultural center.” He snapped his fingers and opened his door again. “I forgot, this is formal. Let me get my coat.”
He emerged wearing a gray tweed jacket with worn cuffs.
The labs spun out like spokes from a hub. Turner and Presky led Dicken through broad double glass doors, then navigated in quicktime a maze of corridors, guiding him toward the center of Sandia Pathogenics. Dicken's ears throbbed with the surge in air pressure as the doors hissed shut behind them.
All the buildings and connecting corridors were equipped with sprinklers and evacuation fans, emergency personnel showers—stainless steel–lined alcoves with multiple showerheads, decontamination rooms with remote manipulators, color-coded red-and-blue containment and isolation suits hanging behind plastic doors, and extensive collections of emergency medical supplies.
“Pathogenics is bug motel,” Presky said. Dicken was trying to place his accent: Russian, he thought, but modified by many years in the U.S. “Bugs come in, they do not go out.”
“Dr. Presky never gets our jingles right,” Turner said.
“I have no mind for trivia,” Presky agreed. Then, proudly, “Also, not watching TV all my life.”
A group of five men and three women awaited them in the lounge. As Dicken and his two escorts entered, the group lifted bottles of Bud Light in salute and gave him a rousing, “Hip, hip, hurrah!”
Dicken stopped in the doorway and rewarded them with a slow, awkward grin. “Don't scare me,” he admonished. “I'm a shy guy.”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” said a very young man with long blond hair and thick, almost white eyebrows. He wore a well-tailored gray suit that took a stylish drape on his substantial frame, and Dicken pegged him as the dandy. The others dressed as if they wanted covering and nothing more.
The dandy whistled a short tune, held out a strong, square-fingered hand, crossed two fingers, shook the hand in the air before Dicken could grip it, then backed away, bowing obsequiously.
“The secret handshake, unfortunately,” Turner said, lips pressed together in disapproval.
“It symbolizes lies and deceit and no contact with the outside world,” the dandy explained.
“That's not funny,” said a tall, black-haired woman with a distinct stoop and a pleasant, homely face with beautiful blue eyes. “He's Tommy Powers, and I'm Maggie Flynn. We're Irish, and that's the extent of what we share. Let me introduce you to the rest.”
They passed him a bottle of beer. Dicken made his greetings all around. Nobody shook hands. This close to the center, it was apparent people avoided direct contact as much as possible. Dicken wondered how much their love lives had suffered.
Thirty minutes into the party, Turner took Dicken aside, using the pretext of swapping the half-consumed Bud for a bottle of Heineken. “Now, Dr. Dicken,” he said. “It's official. How do you like our players?”
“They know their stuff,” Dicken said.
Presky approached, bottle of Becks lifted in salute. “Time to meet the master, gentlemen?”
Dicken felt his back stiffen. “All right,” he said.
The group fell silent as Turner opened a side door leading off the lounge and marked by a large red square at eye level. Dicken and Presky followed him down another corridor of offices, innocuous in itself but apparently rich in symbolism.
“The rest back there don't usually get this far,” Turner said. He walked slowly beside Dicken, allowing for his pace. “It's tough recruiting for the inner circle,” he admitted. “Takes a certain mindset. Curiosity and brilliance, mixed with an absolute lack of scruples.”
“I still have scruples,” Dicken said.
“I had heard as much,” Turner said, dead serious and a little critical. “Frankly, I don't know why in hell you're here.” He grinned wolfishly. “But then, you have connections and a certain reputation. Maybe they balance out.”
Presky tried for an ironic smile. They came to a broad steel door. Turner ceremoniously removed a plastic tag from his pocket and let it dangle from the end of a red lanyard imprinted with Sandia in white letters. “Never tell the townies you work here,” he advised.
He lifted his arms. Dicken lowered his head, and Turner slung the lanyard around his neck, then backed off. “Looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” Dicken said.
“Let's make sure you're in the system before we enter.”
“And if I'm not?”
“If lucky,” Presky said, “you are hit by Tazer before they use bullets.”
Turner showed him how to press his palm against a glass pad and stare into a retinal scanner. “It knows you,” Turner said. “Better still, it likes you.”
“Thank god,” Dicken said.
“Security is god here,” Turner said. “The atomic age was a firecracker compared with what's on the other side of that door.” The door opened. “Welcome to ground zero. Dr. Jurie is looking forward to meeting you.”
5
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Gianelli swept through the waiting room of his office, accompanied by Laura Bloch, his chief of staff. His face was red and he looked just as Mitch had once described him: on the edge of a heart attack, with a big, friendly expression topped by shrewd eyes.
Kaye stood up beside the long wrought iron-and-marble coffee table that held center position in the lobby. Even though she was alone, she felt like a card being forced from a deck.
“They're wrangling,” Laura Bloch told Gianelli in an undertone. “The director is late.”
“Perfect,” Gianelli said. He looked at a clock on the wall. It was eleven. “Where's my star witness?” He gave Kaye a lopsided smile, his expression combining both sympathy and doubt. She knew she did not look prepared. She did not feel prepared. Gianelli sneezed and walked into his office. A young male Secret Service agent closed the door and stood guard beside it, hands folded in front of him, eyes unreadable behind smoked glasses.
Kaye let out her breath.
The maple-and-glass door opened almost immediately and the senator poked his head out.
“Dr. Rafelson,” he called, and crooked his finger.
The office beyond was stacked with newspapers, magazines, and two antiquated desktop computers perched on three desks. The huge desk nearest the window was covered with law books and leftover boxes of Chinese food.
The agent closed the door behind Kaye. The air was close and mustily cool. Laura Bloch, in her forties, small and plump, with intense, bulging black eyes and a halo of frizzy black hair, stood and handed papers from a briefcase to Gianelli.
“Pardon our mess,” he said.
“He says that to everyone,” Bloch said. Her smile was at once friendly and alarming; her expression reminded Kaye of a pug or a Boston terrier, and she could not seem to look directly at anyone.
“This has been my home away from home the last few days. I eat, drink, and sleep here.” Gianelli offered
his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Kaye shook the hand lightly. He let her determine the strength and duration of the grip.
“This is Laura Bloch. She's my right hand . . . and my left hand.”
“We've met,” Bloch said, and smiled. Kaye shook Laura's hand; it was soft and dry. Laura seemed to stare at Kaye's forehead and her nose. Suddenly, irrationally, Kaye liked and trusted her.
Gianelli she was not so sure about. He had moved up awfully fast in the last few years. Kaye had become suspicious of politicians who prospered in bad times.
“How's Mitch?” he asked.
“We haven't spoken for a few weeks,” Kaye said.
“I like Mitch,” Gianelli said with an undulating shrug of his shoulders, apropos of nothing. He sat behind his desk, stared over the crusted boxes, and frowned. “I hated to hear about what happened. Awful times. How's Marge?”
Kaye could tell he did not really give a damn about Marge Cross, not at the moment. He was mentally preparing for the committee meeting.
“She sends her regards,” Kaye said.
“Good of her,” Gianelli said.
Kaye looked up at a framed portrait to the right of the big desk. “We were sorry to hear of Representative Wickham's death,” she said.
“Shook up everything,” Gianelli murmured, appraising her. “Gave me the boost I needed, however, and here I am. I am a whelp, and many kind folks in this building are bound and determined to teach me humility.”
He leaned forward, earnest now and fully focused. “Is it true?”
Kaye knew what he meant. She nodded.
“Based on what data sets?”
“Americol pharmacy tracking reports. Drop-in data collection systems in two thousand area hospitals servicing epidemiology contracts with Americol.” Kaye swallowed nervously.
Gianelli nodded, his eyes shifting somewhat spookily over her shoulder as he thought this through. “Any government sources?” he asked.
“RSVP Plus, Air Force LEADER 21, CDC Virocol, NIH Population Health Monitor.”
“But no sources exclusive to Emergency Action.”
“No, though we suspect they listen in on some of our proprietary tracking systems.”
“How many will there be?” Gianelli asked.
“Tens of thousands,” Kaye said. “Maybe more.”
“Jesus, Homer, and Jethro Christ,” Gianelli said, and leaned back, his tall chair creaking on old steel springs. As if to calm himself, he raised his arms and folded his hands behind his head. “How's your daughter?”
“She's in a camp in Arizona,” Kaye said.
“Good old Charlie Chase and his wonderful state of Arizona. But how is she, Dr. Rafelson?”
“Healthy. She's found friends.”
Gianelli shook his head. Kaye could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. “It could be a rough meeting,” he said. “Laura, let's give Dr. Rafelson a quick tour of the subcommittee's players.”
“I was briefed in Baltimore,” Kaye said.
“Nobody knows ‘em better than we do, right, Laura?”
“Nobody,” Laura Bloch said.
“Laura's daughter, Annie, died at Joseph Goldberger,” the senator said.
“I'm sorry,” Kaye said, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
Bloch patted Kaye's arm and set her face in grim reserve. “She was a sweet kid,” she said. “A little dreamy.” She drew herself up. “You are about to testify before a baboon, two cobras, a goose, a certified bull ape, and a spotted leopard.”
“Senator Percy is the baboon,” Gianelli said. “Jakes and Corcoran are the cobras, lying low in the grass. They hate being on this committee, however, and I doubt they'll ask you anything.”
“Senator Thomasen is chairperson. She's the goose,” Bloch said. “She likes to think she's keeping the other animals in order, but she has no fixed opinions herself. Senator Chase claims to be on our side—”
“He's the bull ape,” Gianelli said.
“But we don't know how he'll vote, push comes to shove,” Bloch finished.
Gianelli glanced at his watch. “I'm going to bring you in first. Laura tells me the director is still stuck in traffic.”
“Twenty minutes away,” Bloch said.
“She's working hard to get the directorship of EMAC legislated into a Cabinet-level position, giving her sole budgetary control. The director is our leopard.” Gianelli scratched his upper lip with a forefinger. “We expect you to help us counter her suggestions, which are bound to be nasty beyond belief.”
“All right,” Kaye said.
“Mark Augustine will be there,” Bloch said. “Any problem with that?” she asked Kaye.
“No,” Kaye said.
“You two get along?”
“We disagreed,” said Kaye, “but we worked together.”
Bloch made a fleeting face of dubiety.
“We'll take our chances,” Gianelli said with a snuffle.
“You should never take chances,” Bloch advised, producing another handkerchief from her purse.
“I always take chances,” Gianelli said. “That's why I'm here.” He blew his nose. “Goddamned allergies,” he added, and watched Kaye's reaction. “Washington is full of snotty noses.”
“No problem,” Kaye said. “I'm a mommy.”
“Good,” Bloch said. “We need a pro.”
6
NEW MEXICO
Dr. Jurie's office was small and crammed with boxes, as if he had arrived only a few days before. Jurie pushed back his old Aeron chair as Dicken and Turner entered.
The shelves around the office were lightly populated with a few battered college texts, favorites for quick reference, and binders filled with what Dicken assumed were scientific papers. He counted seven metal lab stools in the small room, arranged in a cramped half-circle around the desk. The desk supported a flat top computer with two panels popped up, displaying results from two experiments.
“Acclimatizing, Dr. Dicken?” Jurie asked. “Altitude treating you well?”
“Doing fine, thank you,” Dicken said. Turner and Presky assumed relaxed hunched positions on their stools.
Jurie motioned for Dicken to sit in a second old Aeron, on the other side of the desk. He had to push past a stack of boxes to fit into the chair, which bent his leg painfully. Once he sat, he wondered if he would be able to get up again.
Jurie wore brown oxfords, wool slacks, a dark blue shirt with a broad collar, and a sleeveless, cream-colored knit sweater, all clean but rumpled. At fifty-five, his features were still youthfully handsome, his body lean. He had the kind of face that would have fit well right above the collar of an Arrow shirt in a magazine ad. Had he smoked a pipe, Dicken would have thought him a cliché scientist. His body was too small, however, to complete the Oppenheimer effect. Dicken guessed his height at barely five feet three inches.
“I've invited more of our research group heads to join us. I apologize for showing you off, Dr. Dicken.” Jurie reached over to send the flat top into sleep mode, then rotated in his chair, back and forth.
A woman's head poked through the door and pushed a fist in to rap on the inside wall.
“Ah,” Jurie said. “Dee Dee. Dr. Blakemore. Always prompt.”
“To a fault,” the woman said. In her late thirties, comfortably rotund, with long mousy hair and a self-assured expression, she pushed through the door and sat with some difficulty on a stool. In the next few minutes, four others joined them in the room, but remained standing.
“Thank you all for coming,” Jurie started the meeting. “We are all here to greet Dr. Dicken.”
Two of the men had entered holding cans of beer, apparently cadged from the party. Dicken noted that one—Dr. Orlin Miller, formerly of Western Washington University—still favored Bud Light over Heineken.
“We're a relaxed group,” Jurie said. “Somewhat informal.” He never smiled, and as he spoke, he made small, unexpected hesitations between words. “What we're essentially inter
ested in, here at Pathogenics, is how diseases use us as genetic libraries and reservoirs. Also, how we've adapted to these inroads and learned to use the diseases. It doesn't really matter whether viruses are rogue genes from inside us, or outside invaders—the result is the same, a constant battle for advantage and control. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, right?”
Dicken could not disagree.
“I've listened to all the media babble about virus children, and frankly I don't give a damn whether they're the products of disease or evolution. Evolution is a disease, for all I know. What I want to learn is how viruses can recombine and kill us.
“Not coincidentally, if we learn how that works, we have a pretty important weapon for both national defense and offense. This is the age of gene and germ, and whatever subtle little perversions we can think of, our enemies can also think of. Which is a pretty good reason to keep Sandia Pathogenics funded and running at fool steam, which we all will benefit from.”
“Amen,” said Turner.
I heard “fool steam,” Dicken thought, and looked around the room. Did anybody else? Fool steam ahead.
“Dr. Presky, shall we show Dr. Dicken our zoo?” Jurie asked.
7
NEAR LUBBOCK, TEXAS
Mitch had lost everything important, but once again he had dirt and bone chips and pottery. He was back in the field, carrying a small spade and a kit full of brushes. Starting from scratch was an archaeologist's definition of workaday life, and he was definitely starting from scratch, all over again.
Around him, a neat square hole in the earth had been sculpted into many terraces on which sat fragments of flint, the crushed remains of what might have once been a wicker basket, a rough oval of shards from a small pot, and the thing that had absorbed his attention all day: an engraved shell.
The sun had set several hours ago and he was working by the light of a Coleman lantern. Down in the hole, all colors had long since turned to gray and brown. Brown was the color he knew best. Beige, gray, black, brown. The brown dust in his nose made everything smell like dry earth. A brown, neutral smell.