Dark Biology

by Bonnie Doran

  She faced him, floating in the microgravity. “I was raised Catholic, and my parents still attend church, but I don’t follow any belief system. I participate in some of the Mayan dances and festivals that have been part of the Mayan religion for centuries, but they’re cultural as far as I’m concerned.” She leaned forward with a mischievous grin and whispered, “We’ve never repudiated human sacrifice, you know.”

  Dan recoiled in mock horror. “I hope you aren’t going to renew that practice here.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I never understood why the Mayan religion required killing innocent victims, including turkeys.”

  Dan paused a moment. “The Christian faith also required human sacrifice. But only one.”

  Maria frowned.

  The three of them reached the dining table. The others were already “seated,” their legs wrapped around the chairs. Joe and Jasper banged the table and chanted, “Food, food, food.” Shorty was tearing into his meal. Frank stared at the wall, his food untouched.

  Leonid glanced up from the microwave. “Roast beef for the men, chicken for the ladies.” He distributed hot packets.

  Dan opened his, forking the meat carefully so the gravy wouldn’t escape. Mashed potatoes followed, an excellent choice on the station. The paste stayed on the fork. Chocolate pudding for dessert. They cleared the table for the odd game of catch-the-water, one of the ways to relax after a twelve-hour workday and a game only possible in weightlessness. As orange-sized spheres of water floated above the table, the astronauts took turns batting them back and forth with straws, occasionally sucking them up. Sometimes the spheres got past their defenses, and the giant drop splatted someone’s face.

  “Third time in a row,” Jasper sputtered as he wiped his eyes with a sleeve. “Anybody got a towel?” Dan grinned at Jasper’s forlorn expression.

  They floated off to bed. Dan dragged himself into his bag, bone tired and aching all over.

  48

  “I” Plus Twenty-five Days

  Hildi rubbed stinging eyes as she bagged another failure, destined to be jettisoned along with the rest of the trash. Days wasted that the world couldn’t afford.

  Scientists were working around the clock to find the genetic denominator for immunity. They’d had no luck, and neither had she.

  Alan at the CDC had reported the virus was continuing its march across the United States. He feared it would spread to undeveloped countries where medication for secondary infection didn’t exist. He hadn’t used the word pandemic, but the unspoken assumption thickened the air. It preyed on Hildi’s mind.

  She thought she’d discovered a new approach but now had to mark it as unsuccessful. Weightlessness didn’t seem to help.

  Frank floated to the clear screen of the lab. “Anything I can do?” He still hadn’t displayed any flu symptoms. She’d withdrawn a sample of his blood along with everyone else’s and compared it to her own, but the key element eluded her.

  She was out of options and ideas. “I’m going back to square one and hope I missed something.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Hildi banged her hand on the counter, anchoring herself so she wouldn’t fly across the room. The self-inflicted pain wrenched her thoughts back from the brink of frustration. “I’ve tried everything in the book and written a few new chapters myself.” Sudden inspiration buoyed her hopes. “Maybe the microscope slides were contaminated,” she thought out loud, weighing the possibilities on her mind’s scale. “Maybe…” She slapped her forehead hard enough to lose her grip on the table. “Duh.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been using the remains of what I gathered from the—uh—accident.”

  “You can say fight.” Frank’s face radiated guilt. No time to deal with his hangdog attitude now. She gulped. Would any of them have time?

  Hildi slipped her hands into the bulky gloves of the glove box. So many hours wasted because she hadn’t thought of the obvious problem. “The sample must have been contaminated by something on this station. Even with the environment we maintain, something got into the virus.”

  Frank quirked an eyebrow. “You’re looking for dust on a bug?”

  “Yes. I’m going to see if I can salvage enough of the original sample from the vial.”

  She grasped the plastic bag containing the vial and removed it from the box. Her latex gloves offered thin protection but at least would keep further contamination at bay. She’d taken all her samples from the droplets clinging to the wall of the bag because the vial was empty. She held it to the light. Still empty. Her hopes disintegrated like ashes. She extracted the vial from the bag and dropped it into the centrifuge. The machine whirred. “Pray. This is our last hope. If I can get a decent enough sample from the vial—”

  “You can work with it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Frank glanced around the room. “Where’s Maria?”

  “Sleeping. Doctor’s—my—orders. She’s running a fever but thankfully nothing else.” Yet.

  Coughs and moans bounced off the station walls. Dan also slept, the sickest among them, now suffering with pneumonia in spite of drugs. She checked on him a little more often than necessary, tensing with his every labored breath. Everyone else dragged themselves through the corridors, performing their duties with sluggishness but doing them anyway. Stubborn astronaut can-do.

  Hildi turned off the machine, pulled out the vial, and stared at the bottom. “It worked.”

  Frank leaned in. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Trust me, it’s there. I’ve worked with smaller samples.” She held her breath as she returned the vial to the box, reinserted her hands, and manipulated a micropipette. After extracting a droplet of liquid, Hildi transferred it to an Eppendorf. The tiny tube would be home to the virus for several days as she added chemicals to break down the DNA. “Got it.” Hildi secured the Eppendorf and removed her hands then somersaulted with a good imitation of Jasper’s enthusiasm. The movement relieved a few kinks in her back.

  “Hey, you sure you’re ready for that kind of acrobatics?” Frank’s sudden grin was contagious—about as contagious as the virus. Fatigue rimmed his eyes.

  Maria floated over, rubbing her face. “I heard your whoop. You made progress?”

  “Got a fresh sample. The one we were working might have been contaminated.” Her weary bones complained they weren’t happy with the task of starting from scratch.

  Frank glanced at them and made his apologies. “My turn in the sack.” He pulled himself out of the lab.

  “Want me to set up the thermocycler?” Maria floated toward the glove box, already focused on the task.

  “I’ll do it, but thanks.”

  Maria glared at Hildi, hands on hips. “Get some food and some sleep.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’re no use if you’re asleep on your feet. I am ordering you out.” Maria’s lilting voice had none of her usual humor as she shook her finger. “Do not try to pull rank.”

  Maria was right. Hildi hated to admit it, but she was about to keel over.

  Hildi heated an enchilada in the microwave, applied liberal amounts of hot sauce, and grabbed a fork.

  Joe floated over. He looked like he’d been up all night. “Got the vaccine?”

  “Not yet.” Hildi smiled in spite of fatigue. “But I have an uncontaminated sample now.”

  “Well, it’s progress.” He left.

  Hildi toyed with her food, chiding herself. Chet would never have made such a stupid mistake, although he’d made plenty of them lately. Where was he now?

  49

  Chet squinted as the late morning sun mocked him through a high barred window. He sighed, folding another origami crane. It must be his hundredth since he arrived at Wormwood Scrubs Prison eons ago. At least the governor—the prison administrator—had allowed him his hobby. Origami distracted him from pine-scented disinfectant competing with stale cigarette smoke and sweat. Time crawled like a caterpillar on barbiturates
when you awaited extradition, conviction, and sentencing.

  Chet had already decided to plead guilty when he faced a judge back in the States. Why make the lengthy trial even longer? The US took none too kindly to individuals unleashing deadly viruses on her population. Chet didn’t care much for terrorists either, but now he was one of them.

  Footsteps in the corridor interrupted his dark thoughts.

  “You have a visitor.” The guard yawned as he opened the cell’s door.

  The Church of England prison chaplain strode in, wearing the usual clerical collar. Chet smiled. The priest had been his only comfort in this stink hole.

  “Adjusting to life in the Scrubs?” Father Kirk shook Chet’s hand as the guard locked them in.

  Chet grimaced. “Not exactly how I wanted to spend my summer vacation.” He glanced at the sterile room—bed, sink, toilet, table. Level 4 had more personality. He gestured to the one chair in the room. “Would you like to sit? I don’t have any tea…“

  The chaplain chuckled as he lowered himself to the chair. “I assure you, I’m fine, thank you.” Middle aged, he kept fit but bore the ravaged face of a life of drugs and imprisonment. Chet had marveled at the man’s story of his transformation.

  Father Kirk glanced at the Bible lying open on the table. “Read any good books lately?”

  Chet plopped onto the thin-mattressed bunk and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Psalms and Romans mostly.”

  The clergyman nodded. “Any thoughts?”

  “David’s raw emotions. I can relate to that, at least.”

  “Read the Gospel of John. We can talk later after you’ve absorbed the truths there.” Father Kirk glanced at the origami scattered on the bed. “I didn’t know you did origami.”

  “Keeps me from going stir-crazy. These are cranes, a traditional form. Did you know that if you fold one thousand cranes, you get your wish?”

  A slight smile curled the chaplain’s lips. “And what do you wish for?”

  To get out of here. Chet huffed a breath. “A speedy execution—uh, extradition—and trial. I hate waiting around for the lawyers to get their act together.”

  Father Kirk nodded. “The legal wheels grind slowly. Your government will hasten the process, no doubt, but these things take time. England has cause to try you as well but will honor their extradition agreement with the United States.”

  “The whole world wants to try me.” Chet shook his head.

  “But you gave your sister information to help develop the vaccine.”

  He shrugged. “I thought maybe it would play well with the judges. Lessen my guilt. Something. But it won’t make any difference, will it?” His words tasted bitter.

  “I think it will.”

  Chet cupped his chin in his hand. “I’ve done a lot of thinking lately.”

  “I know you have.” The chaplain smiled.

  “I’d like to do something constructive with my time. I’ll never be released from prison, but maybe I could help the inmates somehow. One problem—90 percent of them scare me to death.”

  “I see your point.” Father Kirk gazed at the ceiling. Was he praying or trying to keep a look of distaste from his face? Chet wouldn’t blame him for the latter.

  The chaplain met Chet’s gaze. “You know, this prison holds over nine hundred inmates.”

  “Yeah.” Where was the guy going with this?

  “They all need spiritual help.” A smile quirked Father Kirk’s mouth. “Some more than others.”

  “I guess you have your work cut out for you.”

  “I do.” Father Kirk scraped his chair across the concrete floor and leaned closer. “I could use an assistant.”

  “Me?” Chet shook his head. “I’m a vaccinologist, not a pastor. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  The clergyman smiled. “I’ve had my eye on you ever since you showed up here. Most of these guys either scream their innocence or boast about their crimes. You don’t. I believe your remorse is genuine.”

  Yeah, but it hasn’t done me any favors. Chet huffed out a breath. “Remorse isn’t enough for the authorities. They’ll never allow me to work with you. They don’t trust me, and I don’t blame them.”

  “I can vouch for you. We’ll leave it in the governor’s hands and God’s.” The clergyman shifted in his seat. “Governor Edwards is a big supporter of inmate education. He may even let you attend seminary classes online.”

  “I certainly have plenty of time to kill.” Chet glanced at the heap of origami cranes overflowing his bunk.

  “Who knows where God might lead? You might end up wearing one of these.” Father Kirk fingered his clerical collar.

  Chet stared at him. How could he possibly follow in his father’s footsteps, at least his better ones? Forgiveness still battled with residual anger. But the Hound of Heaven had pursued Chet like a beagle after an exhausted fox. He’d run out of denials and excuses for doing what he suspected God wanted him to do. His stomach wrenched at the thought.

  Chet’s mind whirled. So much had happened in just a few days. The arrest. The surreal drive through the streets of London. The incarceration. The discovery of a speck of faith inside him about the size of a virus. And now this guy expected him to affect others with this faith? He closed his eyes. “I’d like to try. But I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

  The chaplain smiled. “Well, as I said, the legal wheels turn slowly.”

  “OK.” Chet frowned at his own response, the words feeling strange. He didn’t know if he had it in him. Maybe God would put it in him.

  “Excellent. I’ll speak to the governor.” Father Kirk paused as the usual sounds of buzzers and men’s raised voices crescendoed several decibels. He glanced at the paper cranes again and cocked his head. “How long have you been doing origami?”

  “Years. I teach at workshops sometimes.”

  “Can you teach the inmates?”

  Chet snorted. “Teach them? They’d laugh their heads off. Then kill me.”

  “Some of them knit.”

  Chet’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t imagine murderers knitting tea cozies.”

  Father Kirk chuckled. “These men will jump at anything to keep their hands and their minds busy.”

  “I suppose so.” Chet scratched his head, hoping he hadn’t picked up lice in this place. Why should he even consider teaching his fellow prisoners? Did he have a death wish? “Do you really think the governor would let me?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

  Whiffs of institutional food drifted into the room. Chet wrinkled his nose. The guard sauntered back to the cell and unlocked the door, boredom drooping his eyes.

  Father Kirk stood and shook Chet’s hand again. As the chaplain stepped out of the cell, Chet blurted, “But what can I possibly say to these guys?”

  “Tell them”—Father Kirk paused for a moment—“tell them, as a fellow beggar, where they can find bread.”

  Chet’s blood started a slow boil. The minister’s remark was the same inane phrase his father had used countless times. He had no desire to become a Bible-thumping preacher like his father to a bunch of foul-mouthed, hardened criminals.

  Never.

  The door clanged shut.

  50

  “I” Plus Thirty Days

  Hildi grinned as she announced a breakthrough. Cheers rebounded off the walls. She and Maria were all smiles, but they wanted sleep more than the accolades. The bags under their eyes needed saddlebags of their own.

  Hildi acknowledged the praise and turned to the station commander. “We found a single nucleotide polymorphism that accounted for influenza resistance.”

  “Could you put that in English?” Joe scratched his head.

  She laughed. “We found the gene.”

  Joe grinned. “Ladies, I’d tip my hat if I was wearing one.”

  Hildi and Maria curtsied, or at least tried to, and burst into giggles.

  “I’ll get Mission Control.” Joe whooped as he s
ped to the control room. The others followed.

  “Houston, this is ISS.”

  “This is Houston.”

  Joe handed the mic to Hildi. “You tell ’em.”

  “This is Hildi. We found the key to the vaccine.”

  Applause in Mission Control drowned out any response from CAPCOM.

  “Roger.” A smile flavored CAPCOM Pete’s response. “A few million people around the world will be glad to hear that. Congrats.”

  “It wasn’t just me. Maria and I worked together. And my brother gave us invaluable information. Without his help, even with the advantages of weightlessness, we never could have developed it.”

  “Acknowledged, ISS.”

  Hildi keyed the mic. “Houston, I need to relay my findings to CDC Director Alan Hunt as quickly as possible.”

  CAPCOM paused, apparently consulting the communications officer. “Roger. We’re setting it up now.” Mission Control made the connection within a few minutes.

  Hildi slowed her racing words. “Director, we used a thermocycler to conduct polymerase chain reaction. MX1 showed an SNP at marker 75. The people with immunity had thymine at that location whereas the others had a cytosine.”

  “Thymine, huh?” Hunt’s words tumbled together as if he couldn’t wait to relay the news to the staff. “We didn’t get to that level in our PCR work. Maybe your microgravity made a difference after all. Good job, Hildi.”

  “Sir, without Chet’s preliminary work on this, we never could have discovered the crucial nucleotide so quickly. He deserves the credit.”

  ****

  Frank strangled the snarky words on his tongue. Was Hildi actually sticking up for her brother? Her arrogant, belittling brother?

  Director Hunt clipped his words. “I don’t share your confidence that your brother was such a big help. I’ll review the research with the rest of the staff once we receive your e-mail with all the details. Again, thanks for your work. We’ll discuss this later after we get through the crisis.”