Miriya mimicked Seloy’s pose. “I’m not a traitor—no matter what you or anyone in this camp thinks. Different paths, Seloy. But to the same end: equal rights.”
“Equal rights?” Seloy threw her head back and laughed. “Is that what you think we’re after?”
“What are you after?” Miriya asked.
Seloy took her time in responding. “Miriya, I inserted you into Zor’s fortress so that you could hunt and kill the Human you had deemed your equal in combat. The Human you later married. That marriage, and your life since, has somehow neutralized the influence of the Imperative. But the bond between Quadrano warriors is not so easily overcome. You know this, or you wouldn’t be here now.”
“Even so, you owe me an explanation. I won’t honor my obligation blindly.”
Seloy considered it, then turned and headed for the doorway. “Come, let me show you.”
Ignoring the gazes and comments they received—admiring, suspicious, disdainful—Seloy led Miriya on a winding route through the camp, then down along a narrow switchback path that ended at the river. A short stretch up-stream was a drainage shaded by exceedingly tall trees, under which stood a dozen or more Stingers.
“You should have seen what we were forced to abandon at our facility in the south,” Seloy said. “Even you would have been proud of our achievements.”
Miriya had seen photos of the base Anatole Leonard had raided, and in fact she had been impressed, though she kept this to herself.
“At the start of the uprisings, our male comrades preferred to operate in groups of twenty or thirty,” Seloy said.
“But maximized mobility came at a price: no attempt was made at coordinating strikes or planning a unified campaign. The Scavengers changed that. Not only did we provide mecha, we armed the males with a new tactic.”
“Terror,” Miriya said.
Seloy smiled at her friend’s disapproving tone. “For a while that was enough to placate our craving for vengeance. But no longer. Now we want nothing less than victory—the death of the Human race.” She paused. “Are you aware that the Flower of Life has taken root on Earth?”
“I didn’t know.”
“But you know what that means, Miriya: the Invid will come. Perhaps not for twenty years. But they will come. And what will the Humans do? They will attempt to sue for peace, just as they plan to do with the Masters.”
“It is their way.”
“But, ask yourself, is it the Masters’ way? Or have you forgotten what they bade us do on Optera and Garuda and Singken? Consider, Miriya, what will happen when the Humans appear in Fantomaspace with their hands extended in peace. Think of it. They will be atomized. And what if the Masters arrive here first? How would you rather they find us—marooned and enslaved to a Micronian species, or marooned and victorious, the masters of all we survey?”
Miriya glanced at the Stingers. “It will take more than these to assure victory. Even with ten times as many—”
Seloy was shaking her head. “We now have something more powerful than Stingers. These are merely the delivery systems.”
Miriya’s face fell. “Nuclear weapons?”
“Even more devastating than those. A disease, Miriya.”
Seloy was pleased to see that she had finally shocked her friend into speechlessness. “One of our Human allies—a native Amazonian—led us to a laboratory not far from here, where, in the years before Dolza’s Rain, researchers were investigating a strain of virus that had begun to attack monkeys and some Human residents of the jungle. The indigines had known about the disease for a long time, and had their own name for it: ‘the Madness.’ Infected monkeys or Humans would become violent before they died. There were many stories of hunters or prospectors who had been attacked and killed by crazed monkeys. Two years ago, the researchers died of the virus they were investigating, but their solar-powered facility continued to function and the virus lived on, nurtured by the nutrient cultures the scientists had fashioned. Removed from those cultures, the virus expires rapidly. But when it finds a suitable live host, it thrives and spreads itself through the air to infect others.”
Miriya grasped for words. “If the life span is short, how can Stingers deliver it? Won’t the virus perish before it can find live hosts?”
From a nacelle in the leg of the nearest mecha, Seloy extracted an alloy carrying case, which she set on the Stinger’s foot and opened. Inside were perhaps tens of thousands of black objects smaller than pinheads.
“Microbots,” Seloy said. “Protoculture shuttles, actually—the essence of Female Power Armor’s self-maintenance systems. But Xan—one of the women I’m eager for you to meet—has discovered a way to modify them to act as vectors for the virus. In place of Protoculture, they now carry the virus, immersed in a drop of the sustaining culture. And they have been tasked for independent flight, Miriya.” Seloy touched her nose. “They embed themselves in the nasal passages and throats of their targets.”
Miriya stared at Seloy, aghast.
“They’re Imperatived, Miriya. Once the Stinger launches them from its missile tubes, they have ten minutes to embed themselves and deliver their payloads. But even if only one in ten thousand succeeds, that one can multiply and disperse itself from Human to Human—by breath, by touch, by sneeze, by kiss.”
Miriya shook her head in agitation. “It will never work.”
“Oh, but it already has. We experimented with the process in Mexico and elsewhere. And only days ago we lured the RDF to a camp in Venezuela and deployed a virus-laden cloud in their midst. Some troops were undoubtedly infected, and by now they have carried the disease back to Cavern City.”
“Seloy, there are twenty thousand civilians in Cavern—Humans and Zentraedi!”
Seloy grinned. “Have no fear. We Zentraedi are immune to the disease.”
Miriya regarded the near-microscopic shuttles in silence, then said, “You haven’t explained why you summoned me here.”
Seloy’s slanted eyes narrowed perceptibly. “We’ve asked representatives of all the male bands to attend a meeting here. To each, we will distribute tasked shuttles and a Stinger, with instructions to deploy the virus in their respective territories. The disease, the madness, will spread itself around the world before a vaccine can be developed, and hundreds of thousands will die.”
Miriya was steel-eyed. “What is my part in this?”
Seloy locked gazes with her. “I know that the RDF and the Army of the Southern Cross are closing on this camp. I am hopeful that the plan can be executed before they find us, but there is no guarantee. Your part in this is easy, Miriya Parina: I want you to remove Hirano to safety before anything untoward can happen.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Cavern City became one of the first cities to suffer in the violence that succeeded the Southern Cross’s abandonment of the Southlands for Monument City. Petty dictators rose to prominence, private armies sprang up, and previously allied city-states began to wage war with one another. A few cities found themselves taken over by gangs of well-armed marauders. In Cavern’s case, the gang was the Red Snakes, which for years had been terrorizing the northern Southlands. I was living in New Dublin when I learned that Raphael Mendoza had died in a drive-by shooting perpetrated by the Red Snakes. Rho [Mynalo] and I had urged Raphael to leave, but he considered Cavern, even in the worst of times, his home. When Rho and I divorced, he applied for a position on the factory satellite, and opted to remain aboard when Anatole Leonard ordered the satellite removed from the Solar system.
from the afterward of the Third Edition of Lea Carson’s The Art of Compromise
Max and Wolfe were assisting medevac teams at the site of the monorail crash when an officer from Mayor Carson’s office showed up to rush them over to City Hall. It was three o’clock in the morning when they arrived, but already seated in the briefing room were Carson and two of her aides, Raphael Mendoza and Rho Mynalo, along with Cavern City’s media secretary, Catherine Wolfe, and Dr. Lo
pez, from the RDF base hospital.
“The driver of the monorail died,” Lopez was reporting, “but several people have attested to her erratic behavior prior to the crash. I’m certain an autopsy will reveal the presence of the virus.”
“How many fatalities?” the mayor wanted to know.
“Forty-six confirmed,” Mendoza told her.
Carson turned back to Lopez. “And these other incidents?”
“A man armed with a Wolverine opened fire on a restaurant in Lookout Valley. Seventeen dead, including the gunman, fourteen wounded. In addition, there have been three suicides in the past seven hours.”
The dreadlocked Mendoza took over. “Emergency rooms at City Hospital and the base hospital are already filled to capacity. Special isolation wards have been set up for victims of the disease—as opposed to victims of the behavior the virus provokes. All police units and fire companies are mobilized, and the Sector Guard is on full alert.”
“It’s like someone pulled a string and unraveled the whole city. And it’s my fault for not listening to Dr. Lopez.” Carson looked at him once more. “How many cases of the virus have you verified?”
“Seventeen, including the suicides. But let me clear up one point before we continue: the virus doesn’t induce psychoses. Rather, its effect is neurotoxic. It attacks areas of the brain that manage aggression, depriving those infected access to any of the inhibitory devices normally employed in forestalling the commission of acts of violence to oneself or to others. The quick onset and brief duration of the early stage are indications of the potency of the virus itself. Typically, within hours, nerve damage is so complete that the victim becomes comatose and dies.”
“And you’re certain this disease was carried in by the Wolfe Pack?”
Lopez glanced at Wolfe and Max. “The members of Captain Wolfe’s team were obviously unwitting carriers of the virus as a result of their contact with the infected crew of the skyjacked plane and perhaps via direct exposure to a particle cloud emitted by a malcontent weapon. However, we don’t know at this time if they were the sole carriers.”
Carson scratched at her mop of strawberry-blond hair. “You’re saying that someone other than the Wolfe Pack could have introduced this virus into the city?”
“It’s possible. We don’t understand the mechanism of contagion—though it seems to operate much like influenza—nor have we identified the vector, the actual carrier. There is some speculation that the disease is initially transmitted by a tick or a mite, though I think researchers are being misled by the symptoms—the rash, the irritated nasal mucosa, et cetera.”
“The Stinger we found didn’t launch ticks, Doctor,” Wolfe said. “Besides, we brought the exposed tank in under wraps. So how could the virus get loose?”
Lopez shook his head. “It’s likely more than one of you were infected. But as to why some succumbed to the virus while others didn’t, I can’t say. I should also mention here that there have been no cases reported among Cavern’s Zentraedi population.”
“Meaning what?” Carson asked suspiciously.
Lopez shrugged. “Meaning only that. The Zentraedi appear to be immune to the virus.”
“Rho,” Carson said, turning to her director of information, “I want corroboration on that.”
The Zentraedi inclined his head in a bow. Max nodded hello from across the table; he and Mynalo had mutual Zentraedi friends in Monument City.
“A team from the Center for Disease Control is on the way,” Mendoza told everyone. “In the meantime we’ve been instructed to seal the city. No one leaves, no one enters.”
“That’s going to turn this place into a pressure cooker,” Wolfe said, loud enough to be heard over a flurry of separate conversations. “And what happens when our food supplies run out?”
Carson called for silence. “We can have food trucked in by Disease Emergency Teams. Our biohazard suits will rendezvous with their biohazard suits.” She looked at Lopez. “How reliable is the test for this virus?”
“It’s reliable only insofar as our being able to single out the infected. We have no test for determining non-infected carriers.”
“Does it make any sense to get everyone moved into shelters?”
Lopez shook his head. “One unidentified carrier could infect everyone in the population.”
Carson slammed her hand on the table. “Something has to be done to protect people from catching this thing.”
“We could use one of the hospitals as a quarantine area,” Mendoza suggested.
“And if that hospital should fill up?” Lopez said.
“Then we’ll use the base hospital as well.”
“Why not use the Grand Cannon?” Max said. “It’s roomy enough, and it would be relatively easy to isolate.”
“The CDC team might want to headquarter itself there,” Mendoza said.
Carson was nodding. “Find out if they do. Meanwhile, we’d better start thinking about food and fuel rationing, sanitation, and whatever else comes to mind.” She looked at Wolfe. “Captain, the RDF will be in charge of policing the shelters and the food distribution points.”
Wolfe stared at her in stunned incredulity. “That should be the responsibility of the Sector Guard! Unless you plan on using them to protect Cavern from surprise attacks from the malcontents.”
“God forbid the Wolfe Pack should miss out on any action,” Catherine Wolfe said, more to herself.
Wolfe shot her a look, then cut his eyes to Carson. “This entire scenario—from the skyjacking to our raid on the camp—was calculated. Plainly, the malcontents are launching a new offensive. I strongly recommend that we requisition reinforcements from Monument and—”
“I’ve already been in touch with Monument,” Carson interrupted, “and they’ve deferred to the Army of the Southern Cross.” She allowed everyone a moment to think about it. “Senator Moran and Field Marshal Leonard have apparently demonstrated to the satisfaction of the UEG that this virus threatens not just Cavern City but the whole of the Southlands.”
More concessions, Max told himself.
“And assuming you’re correct about a malcontent offensive,” Carson continued, “the Army of the Southern Cross has every right to be involved.”
“How will it work?” Wolfe asked angrily. “Who’ll be in command of whom?”
“As I said, the RDF will be in charge of distribution of food and essentials within the city. The Army of the Southern Cross will establish a defensive perimeter to safeguard the city against incursions by malcontents or anyone else.”
Max could scarcely control himself. “Leonard shouldn’t be trusted. Everyone at this table knows he’s been looking for an excuse to annex the Venezuela Sector. Now you’re giving him a chance to do just that!”
“Lie still or this is never going to work,” Lazlo Zand cautioned Dana Sterling.
Still, the unruly five-year-old fought the professor’s efforts to fasten an electrode-studded monitor band around her head. “I don’t wanna lie still!”
“You don’t wanna lie still,” Zand parroted. “You won’t be happy until you’ve ruined the experim—the movie.”
Dana kicked her legs and twisted her head about, nearly undoing the stays that secured her thin wrists to the arms of the chair. “Aunt Jean didn’t say we were going to watch movies. She said I had to talk to you.” She screwed up her face and made her lips flap. “More stupid, boring talk.”
Zand showed her a death’s head grin and spoke through gritted teeth. “That’s why we’re watching movies. So there won’t be any boring talk.”
“Stupid, boring talk. And I don’t wanna watch.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Zand nearly screamed. “You don’t like movies?!”
The expression on his face and sudden infernal tone of his voice actually gave her pause. “Not these kind,” she answered weakly.
Not five feet in front of her, on a large flatscreen, flying saucers were attacking a city of monumental buildings. Befor
e that—literally seconds before that—floating war machines with snakelike heads had been launching death rays at the machines of a rival army. And immediately following the saucers ran scenes of outsize monster robots marching across a ruined landscape, firing weapons at every living thing in sight.
The whole of Zand’s ten-minute, continuous-loop film was comprised of nothing but outtakes from pre-War science-fiction films, along with video footage shot during the Global Civil War and on those few occasions when Humans and Zentraedi had gone at it on Earth: on Macross Island, elsewhere in the South Pacific, in the skies over the Ontario Quadrant. Khyron’s cruiser figured in one scene; even Miriya Parina and Max Sterling showed up briefly.
How could their little hybrid urchin not enjoy it? Zand screamed to himself in the same voice Dana’s shenanigans had invoked.
The Grants had dropped her off at the Monument City’s Robotech Research Center for a therapeutic session, and Zand had been only too happy to oblige. She’d been sullen, withdrawn, hypomanic, and hostile to the Grants’ wimp of a son, Bowie. They didn’t know what to do with her; they were at their wits’ end. Miriya had suggested in her message that they contact Zand if they needed help, and, after all, Zand himself had volunteered …
Had there been any word from Mom? Zand had asked the lovely, honey-brown Jean Grant. No, none. And what about Dad, any word from him? None that she could speak of; Sterling was in the Southlands on official RDF business. And what about that precious trio, Rico, Konda, and Bron, where were they? Still on the factory satellite.
Zand wondered if Grant had seen him salivate on realizing that he had Dana to himself, without fear of intrusion by any of her would-be guardians.
He’d had the movie prepared for some time, sitting in a vault in his office, awaiting its premiere. Zand’s earlier experiments had established that Dana’s brain-wave activity and body chemistry underwent changes when she was subjected to or confronted with violent stimuli. And those same changes were evident when Dana was interacting with her fellow aliens, as opposed to Humans. Blood drawn during those periods showed a marked increase in as-yet-unidentified hormones and enzymes, linked, Zand was certain, to the Zentraedi part of her biophysical makeup. So, all he had to do was activate that part, draw out as much blood as possible without unduly endangering the child, and quickly transfuse that hormone-laden blood into himself.
The Zentraedi Rebellion Page 33