by Scott Sigler
The one with the head bandage raised his hand.
Orin pulled a cellulose testing kit out of the bag slung over his shoulder, handed it over. Orin knew he wasn’t human anymore, but he could still appreciate the irony that he was one of the sailors testing people to see if they were infected.
His turn was coming soon enough. He’d managed to dodge his last test, when he’d already realized God had chosen him. Orin had pretended to fall, jabbed the end of his testing stick into a sleeping man. It worked: his test administrator had been distracted, had been counting down names on the list, looking for the next testee. If it had been business as usual aboard the Brashear, the administrator would have been eyes-on, carefully watching the results. But it wasn’t business as usual; God had seen to it to place hundreds of extra men onboard, many severely wounded, creating confusion, making people lose focus.
Still, Orin knew that he probably wouldn’t be able to fake his way through the next test. They, the humans, they would find out about him, and they would try to kill him. That test was scheduled in two hours.
In thirty minutes, his shift in the suit was up.
That would give him ninety minutes to touch as many people as he could, to spread the gift that he’d been given.
Then, maybe, he could answer that burning, churning need in his chest.
He could finally kill.
TESTY-TESTY
The final airlock cycled. Clarence stepped out first, took in a large area hemmed in by the now-familiar white walls. In front of him were two rows of high-ceilinged, ten-by-ten glass cells stretching to the back of the room.
A man stood in each of the two closest cells: a black man on the left, a white man on the right, both wearing gray hospital gowns. They were just there to be observed, but that didn’t make it any less of a prison. Both men seemed fit and healthy, arms lined with lean muscle.
Each cell had a small steel desk, a steel chair beneath it, and a plastic-covered mattress that lay on top of a stainless steel bed. A tablet computer sat on each desk — the divers’ entertainment and reading material, perhaps. Other than that there was nothing, save for a steel toilet that looked to be a raised hole without plumbing.
In a third cell, behind that of the white man, Clarence saw an Asian man lying motionless on the bed. Medical equipment surrounded him, a technological monster clutching at him with wires and sensors, looking inside him through tubes up his nose and IVs in his arms.
Through their clear cell walls, the two standing men watched Clarence, Margaret and Tim. The men looked afraid. They watched. They waited.
To Clarence’s right, past the line of glass cages, was an open space ringed with gleaming steel tables, clamps, saws, robotic arms… various equipment to prepare material brought up from the lake bottom, he assumed. The reason for the prep area was clear: to receive material from yet another airlock, this one the biggest he had ever seen. It was the width of a two-car garage. Nozzles and vents lined the ceiling; everything in this room here could be sprayed down, disinfected in a rainstorm of bleach.
Margaret walked to the aisle that ran between the two rows of cells. The cell doors opened onto that aisle — if they would ever be opened, that was. Clarence knew those men might very well die in those cells. A flat-panel monitor was mounted at the left side of each cell door. On those monitors, Clarence saw the familiar spikes of an EKG, various other numbers revealing the physical state of the men inside.
How much did these men know? Did they truly understand why they were being held?
“They look okay,” Clarence said.
“They do,” Tim said. “They’re tested every three hours, all negatives so far. The rest of the ship is tested every six hours. Including me. And, now, both of you.”
He pointed to the cell with the prone man. “That fellow, on the other hand, is unfortunately brain-dead. Ensign Eric Edmund. Couldn’t exactly call him okay.”
Margaret stepped into the aisle between cells. “Was Edmund also a diver?”
“No,” Tim said. “Injured in the battle. He’s a gift from Captain Yasaka, in case I need a living subject for my yeast experimentation.”
Clarence felt his anger flare up. He spun to face Tim.
“Experiment? Brain-dead or not, that’s a serviceman in there, not a gift.”
Tim didn’t bother to hide a look of contempt. “Agent Otto, Ensign Edmund isn’t coming back. If he wasn’t in that cell, he’d have already been put in the incinerator along with the other dead bodies. Machines are the only thing keeping him alive.”
“Alive for your research,” Clarence said. “Which you already told us was a failure.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “How about you use that oversized melon of yours for something other than a hat rack? We have no idea what we’ll need. If we have to experiment, it’s Edmund or some other sailor, maybe one who’s not brain-dead.”
“What’s the matter, Feely? Don’t have the balls to experiment on yourself?”
Feely shrugged. “I didn’t enlist, big fella. If you’re dumb enough to sign your life over to Uncle Sam, then Uncle Sam gets to decide what happens to you.”
Clarence moved closer, stared down at the smaller man. “I was dumb enough to enlist, you asshole.”
He’d assumed his size would intimidate Feely, that his position with the DST might make Tim rethink his opinion of servicemen — but Tim just smiled an arrogant smile.
“You were a soldier? And here I was thinking you had a particle physics degree in your pants — maybe you’re just glad to see me.”
“Enough,” Margaret said, her words loud enough to rattle the speakers in Clarence’s helmet. He turned, looked at her, and felt instantly foolish — this was no time to let someone like Feely get a rise out of him.
Margaret glared at them both. “If you two want to have a pissing contest, save it for later. Doctor Feely, if it weren’t for Agent Otto, you wouldn’t be here. I didn’t save the world all by myself, you know. Give him the respect he deserves.”
Clarence had a brief moment to feel justified, to feel that Margaret was backing him up, before she turned her anger on him.
“And you, Clarence, wake up — before this is over, we might have to do far worse things than experiment on a man who’s already gone. Now, if the two of you are done posturing, can we get to work?”
Clarence’s anger shifted instantly into embarrassment. He nodded.
“Sorry,” Tim said. “From now on, I’ll be sugar and spice and everything nice.”
Feely was still being a smart-ass, but Clarence thought he heard a hint of sincerity in there.
Margaret reached out, tapped at the left-hand cell’s panel. “They’ve been in here for” — she tapped again — “thirty-eight hours.”
“Correct,” Tim said. “Your notes described an incubation period of between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before infected victims start to show symptoms. So if we’re lucky, these men are in there another two days, just to be sure.”
The black diver spoke. “I find your definition of luck somewhat wanting, Doctor Feely.”
The white diver rested his forehead against the inside of his cell wall. “Oh, man… two more days?”
Tim walked back to the airlock door and opened a cabinet mounted just to its left. He pulled out two cellulose test boxes, then returned to the black diver’s cell.
“Master Diver Kevin Cantrell, meet Doctor Montoya and Agent Otto,” Tim said. “How about you show them our fun little drama called it puts the lotion in the basket.”
Tim placed the box in a small, rotating airlock mounted in the clear door, then moved his hands in midair. It took Clarence a second to remember Tim was using his suit’s HUD to control things. The airlock turned. Cantrell opened the white box, pulled out the foil envelope inside.
He stared at it like it was a living thing, something pretending to be still until it was ready to bite.
“Your title is wrong,” Cantrell said. “I prefer The Merchant of Venice
.”
“Venice,” Tim said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Margaret answered. “It’s Shakespeare — If you prick us, do we not bleed?”
Cantrell glanced at her, then at the testing unit, then looked at her again, stared hard.
“Lady, are you… are you here to kill me?”
A direct question, but it didn’t make sense. Clarence noticed a slight gleam on Cantrell’s forehead. He was perspiring a little… did he have a fever?
Margaret answered in a calm, measured voice. “Mister Cantrell, why do you think I want to kill you?”
Clarence understood: she thought Cantrell might be showing signs of paranoia, one of the main symptoms of infection.
Cantrell blinked rapidly, sniffed. He forced a smile, gestured to the walls around him.
“I’m a guinea pig, ma’am,” he said. “It’s a logical question.”
Before Margaret could ask another question, Cantrell removed the white plastic tube, pressed it against the tip of his right pointer finger. The yellow light started flashing immediately.
Clarence watched, tension pulling his body forward, making his hand itch to draw his weapon — a weapon he didn’t have. He felt naked. He needed to get a rig that would let him wear a holster over the suit. Was Cantrell’s light about to turn red? Was a piece of thick glass all that separated Margaret from one of the infected?
The flashing yellow slowed, then stopped and blinked out.
The green light turned on.
Clarence’s body relaxed slightly, a tight spring uncoiling halfway. Maybe these guys still had a chance.
Cantrell carried his test — box and envelope and all — to his toilet. He tossed everything down the open hole. Clarence heard a soft whump: an incinerator flaring to life.
The other diver slapped on the glass of his cell, making Margaret jump.
“Ma’am, you got to get me out of here,” he said to her. “We’re fine, the tests keep coming up negative, we’re fine.”
It took Tim only two steps to cross the aisle. He put the other box in the airlock, rotated it through.
“And this fine gentleman is Diego Clark,” Tim said. “Clark, how about you quit with the whining and make with the pricking?”
Clark looked at the test box like it was poisonous. He then looked up at the cluster of nozzles mounted in his cell’s high ceiling. Some of the nozzles were stainless steel, others were brass. The brass nozzles reminded Clarence of something, but he couldn’t place what. The stainless steel ones he recognized, as he’d seen them in the MargoMobile — they were for knockout gas, in case Tim and Margaret had to go in and work on a dangerous infection victim.
Clark slapped the glass again. “Let me out! We were just doing our jobs, we shouldn’t be locked up! This is horseshit! Where’s my CO? Where’s my lawyer?”
“Less talky-talky,” Tim said, “more testy-testy.”
Clark opened the box and removed the foil envelope, then threw the box down and stomped on it.
“When I get out of here, Feely,” he said, “I’m going to shove one of these straight up your ass.”
“As long as you buy me dinner first,” Tim said. “Now do the damn test.”
Clark again looked up to the ceiling, then shook his head.
“Ain’t gonna burn me,” he said.
Burn. That triggered Clarence’s memory. He again looked up at the cell ceiling, and understood why the brass nozzle seemed familiar: it looked like a flamethrower. Clark was right to be afraid — his cage could be instantly turned into a fire-filled oven that would burn him alive.
Tim sighed, clearly bored with the drama. He slowly raised a finger toward the flat-panel controls of Clark’s cell.
“You’re getting tested,” Tim said. “You can either be conscious for it, or I can knock you out and give it to you myself. Your choice.”
Clark instantly shook his head. Whatever Tim used as knockout gas, it clearly had unpleasant side effects. Clark tore the foil envelope open, took the time to use the alcohol swab — which Cantrell hadn’t bothered with, Clarence realized — then stabbed the end into his finger.
The yellow light flashed faster, then slowed.
Then, stopped.
The red light came on.
No one said a word. Clarence stared, stunned into thoughtlessness. The man had looked fine.
Cantrell broke the silence. “ ‘If you poison us,’ ” he said quietly, “ ‘do we not die?’ ”
Clark raised the testing kit to eye level, his wide stare locked on the steady, red light.
Margaret shook her head. “No,” she said. “No… we won.”
Tim finally reacted. He moved his hands in front of his face, accessing something on his HUD.
“Clark, Diego L., tested positive for cellulose,” he said. “Administering anesthesia.”
He tapped the empty air. Something up above beeped. Clark looked up, eyes wide, body shaking.
“Don’t light me up, man,” he said, “don’t… light…”
He sagged to the floor. He didn’t move.
RUNNING DRUGS
“Hey, Jefe Cooper.”
José spoke quietly, but Cooper heard the words loud and clear. He tried to ignore them. He was sleeping, after all.
“Hey, Jefe Cooper.”
Cooper lifted his head, opened his eyes. Smiling José was kneeling next to the bed. He was close, almost leaning over Cooper, but the tiny half-stateroom didn’t leave much of an option; it was already too cramped for just one person, let alone a second.
José offered a steaming cup of coffee. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said, as if it was a lucky coincidence.
“I am now,” Cooper said. “And I don’t want to be. I haven’t slept all night, man. Is everything okay?”
José shrugged. “Probably. But… can I show you something?”
Cooper flopped his face back into the pillow. “Does it involve me getting up?”
José laughed, but it seemed forced. “Why, is there something of mine you want to see while you’re lying in bed?”
“Good point. Aren’t you supposed to be on the bridge?”
“I am,” José said. “But I think this is really important.”
Cooper sat up quickly. “Is Jeff…”
His voice trailed off. He was about to ask if Jeff had the helm, but the loud snoring from the other side of a thin wall told him Jeff was out cold. When they’d bought the Mary Ellen, Jeff had built a wall dividing the ten-by-ten captain’s stateroom into two equal five-by-ten rooms. He’d put in another door, even installed a second sink so they would each have one. Partners, fifty-fifty all the way, as they’d been since childhood. While it gave Cooper the luxury of a small amount of privacy, it also meant he heard everything that went on in Jeff’s stateroom. What Jeff did more than anything else in there was snore. Loudly.
Cooper took the cup of coffee. “You left the bridge unattended. This better be fucking important, dude.”
José nodded quickly, placatingly. “Yes, Jefe Cooper, I know. Maybe it’s nothing. Come up to the bridge, okay? And… and don’t wake up Jefe Jeff, yet, okay?”
“Why?”
José shrugged. “I need the money from this job. If I don’t get it, my family will get kicked out of our house.”
That meant the problem had something to do with Stanton. Jeff seemed one more incident away from insisting on turning back, killing the contract and dumping Stanton and Bo Pan back on shore. José needed the money — so did Cooper, so did Jeff.
“Okay,” Cooper said. “But you do know how ridiculous Jefe Jeff sounds, right?”
José smiled, shrugged. He slid out of the stateroom and into the corridor.
Cooper took a sip of the coffee, set the mug on his half-desk. He stood, slid his feet into his shoes. He was already dressed — in bad weather, you had to be ready to move quick.
He left the stateroom, stopped in front of his best friend’s door. It felt wrong to not wake Jeff up, involve him
in this, but Jeff just wasn’t thinking clearly. Cooper would handle it. If it turned out to be anything important, he’d wake Jeff right away.
Cooper headed up. José was waiting for him on the Mary Ellen’s small bridge. Cooper stepped inside, shut the door behind him. The bridge had only a little more room than his stateroom; on the Mary Ellen, everything was nice and cozy.
“Okay, what’s this about?”
“Jefe Stanton’s robot ship,” José said. “Something you need to see from when it launched.”
He turned to the sonar unit and started to call up a recording.
“You woke me up to show me sonar of the customer’s ROV?”
“UUV,” José corrected.
“Right, UUV, whatever.”
Jose finished loading the recording. He played it. Cooper leaned in to look at the sonar readout, and as he did, he grew angry.
The Platypus was ten feet long, not quite two feet wide at its widest point, a long, thick eel of a machine with flippers at the end and the sides. It was artificial — metal and carbon fiber, materials that bounced back sonar loud and strong. The image on the sonar recording didn’t look artificial at all.
“Goddamit, José, that’s a sonar signature from a fucking fish. This is what I get for letting an illegal Filipino play with expensive equipment.”
“Putang ina mo,” José said.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you have pretty eyes, Jefe Cooper.”
“I’m quite certain that’s not what it means,” Cooper said. “Just because you don’t know how to work the equipment doesn’t mean you can insult me.”
“And calling me an illegal isn’t an insult? I’m an undocumented worker.”
José paused the playback. His finger reached out, rested below the screen’s time readout. Cooper saw it, made the connection — the recording was from the time of that morning’s launch.
Cooper leaned in. “What the hell?”
“This is when the Platypus was right next to the boat,” Jose said. “Watch as it starts to move away…”
He hit “play.” The sonar signal faded, then vanished. Cooper looked at the time readout: only ten seconds had passed.