by A. G. Riddle
Desmond hitched the Airstream trailer to his truck and towed it to the tiny site he had rented. Then he shaved, cleaned himself up, and stocked up at a local grocery store.
As soon as his computer was set up on the trailer’s dining table, he connected to the internet and began chatting. Luckily the RV park offered telephone service as part of its base services, and there were a number of local AOL dial-in numbers available. Within the hour, he had three job interviews at promising web startups.
The next morning, he worried a bit about his appearance. He was about to turn nineteen and had worked outdoors most of his life. The wind and sun on his face had aged him some, but not enough: he still looked like a teenager. He was also built like an NFL linebacker, not a computer hacker. He expected to look totally out of place, and to possibly get rejected on sight.
To compensate, he bought a dark suit, a white button-up dress shirt, and a tie. The clerk at Macy’s tied it for him. He even bought a pair of dress shoes, which felt weird to him after a life spent in steel-toed boots. Shaved, showered, shampooed, and dressed in the crisp suit, he thought he looked like a roughneck dressed up for prom. He was still nervous.
He was also worried about his programming skills. He had been playing with all sorts of scripting languages on his free GeoCities page and a few other web hosts, but he wasn’t completely sure what languages the startups would use.
His concerns about his appearance vanished at the first interview. They barely looked at him. Everyone was wearing T-shirts and Teva sandals.
In a cramped conference room, the company’s CTO, Neil Ellison, slapped down a few sheets of paper with a programming problem on it. It was in PERL, a language he knew.
“If you don’t know PERL, you can leave now.”
Desmond picked up the pencil and began scribbling.
“Find me when you’re done.”
Desmond didn’t look up. Fifteen minutes later, he approached Ellison.
“Problem?”
“I’m finished.”
The man glanced at the page, started to discard it, then saw something that made him study it closer.
Another programmer peeked over his shoulder. “It’s wrong,” he said dismissively.
“No,” Ellison said. “It’s a better solution than ours.”
Ellison looked up.
“What did you say your name was?”
The next two interviews proceeded in a similar manner. Only the programming languages changed. Desmond solved problems in PHP, Javascript, and Python. At the end of the day, he had three job offers in writing. His first choice was an offer from a promising startup called xTV, but he needed help: he didn’t understand half of what was in the contract.
He asked around about a good lawyer, and later that day, he was sitting in the office of Wallace Sinclair, Attorney at Law. The office was nice, which made Desmond worry about the man’s rates.
The biggest disappointment with all the job offers was that he wouldn’t automatically get stock in the company when he signed on. Instead, the companies had something called a vesting schedule: he would get the stock over time, as he stayed with the startup. And it wasn’t even stock outright; he was granted options, which were contracts to purchase the stock at a set price.
“How does that do me any good?” Desmond asked.
“If the stock goes up, it does you a great deal of good,” Wallace said. “Think about it. If you have an option to purchase the stock at one dollar and the stock is trading for fifteen dollars, your option is worth fourteen dollars per share.”
Desmond understood that.
“Best of all, you don’t have to pay tax on options when they’re granted, assuming the strike price is near the stock value. They’re worthless until the stock goes up and you exercise them.”
There was more to the contract: a non-disclosure and a non-compete. Wallace walked him through it all.
“Sometimes we see clawback provisions or a buy-sell agreement,” he said. “You don’t have that here. This contract looks pretty good. I’d sign it.”
Desmond thanked the man, and asked him to send him a bill. He wrote out his address at the RV park.
Wallace studied the address and said, “Forget it, Desmond. Just keep me in mind if you start a company or have more substantial legal work.”
Desmond liked that. It meant the lawyer recognized his potential, was willing to bet that Desmond would one day be a bigger fish.
He called xTV back that night and said he could start the next day if they provided more stock and a lower salary. He wanted just enough to live on. They agreed.
Desmond found startup life to his liking. It was strangely similar to working on the rigs: long hours, deadlines, stressed-out people keyed up on coffee and energy drinks, and wild parties at regular intervals. But where his and Orville’s release had taken place in honky-tonk bars, strip clubs, and casinos, the startup parties were thrown at swanky restaurants and hotel ballrooms. Desmond couldn’t imagine the cost. It was perhaps the only thing that worried him about the company.
He wasn’t the only one concerned. The guys in finance were constantly obsessing about their burn rate—the amount of money the company spent every month. The CEO, however, seemed completely unconcerned.
At a hotel ballroom on a Friday night, their visionary founder stood before his employees and guests and announced that xTV had just registered its one millionth user.
Cheers went up.
He paced the stage, microphone in hand.
“We’re democratizing TV. With the video cameras we provide, our users can capture what viewers really want to see: real life. And they can upload that footage directly to the xTV website, where they earn money from it.”
The screen behind him began playing a montage of clips, all muted.
“We’ve got a farmer in South Dakota giving people a look at what that harsh life is like. A teen mom in Atlanta struggling to make ends meet. An artist in Brooklyn selling his paintings in the subway and coffee shops. A singer in Seattle. A fishing competition in Alabama. A drag strip in North Carolina. A firefighter in Chicago.
“This is real life. These are the stories we crave.
“As faster internet speeds become available, more viewers will flock to xTV and our groundbreaking content. Mark my words: one day, cable will be gone. So will satellite. You’ll walk into Circuit City and you’ll buy a TV that’s internet-ready. And you’ll be browsing xTV every night to see what’s on.
“In a few years, we’ll be bigger than Viacom and TimeWarner combined. We are the future of TV. We enable real people to tell their stories. That is our mission.”
Desmond believed every word he said. They all did. Cheers went up again. The champagne flowed, and everyone seemed to be drunk except Desmond.
A few months later, Desmond was invited to a Halloween party one of the programmers was throwing. He was tempted not to go, but the truth was he wanted to do something besides work and sleep for a change. He’d been told that there would be some people from work there, but that it would mostly be college students and recent graduates, like the host.
He considered two options. One, not dressing up; and two, going all out. Both had risks. He took the middle road. He donned the black suit he’d purchased for the job interview and only worn once, and bought a five-dollar dark-haired wig. At OfficeMax, he purchased a plastic ID badge holder with a metal clip. On a sheet of printer paper, he wrote “FBI,” and below it, “FOX MULDER, SPECIAL AGENT.” It looked pretty homemade, but it would get the job done.
The party was at a three-bedroom ’70s ranch home in Palo Alto that four programmers rented. The owners hadn’t done a ton of updates, and the place still had a Brady Bunch vibe: thick, worn carpet—which was orange—modern architecture, an open plan layout with a vaulted ceiling, and large windows and sliding doors that led out to a pool that hadn’t been cleaned since Marcia’s graduation party.
Desmond was glad he had dressed up. Everyone was decked out.
The partygoers hadn’t spent a fortune on their ensembles, but it was clear that they had put a lot of time and effort into them. Star Wars and Star Trek characters were well represented. Three sets of Princess Leia buns bobbed around the room. Two Darth Vaders stalked around, looming over small groups silently, their shiny outfits made mostly of black plastic trash bags. There were half a dozen Luke Skywalkers. Data and Worf from Star Trek: The Next Generation scored three outfits each. A lone Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge was drinking a Michelob Light. His visor was a modified hairband, and he was telling a girl that she might as well take her top off, he could see through her clothes with his visor anyway. When he brought the bottle to his lips, she tipped it up and walked away, mumbling, “Bet you didn’t see that coming.”
At the island in the kitchen, a pale white kid wearing a bald cap and a red Star Trek: The Next Generation uniform stood by the blender, overseeing the contents being poured in. When the top went on the device, he pointed and said, “Engage.” He tugged at the bottom of his tunic, turned, and nearly shouted, “You have the bridge, Number One.”
It wasn’t clear whom he was talking to.
One of the Darth Vaders called for a girl dressed as Marge Simpson to grab him a beer.
“I thought you were driving?” she said.
He grew still and made his voice deeper. “I am altering the deal. Pray I don’t alter it any further.”
Several drinking games were going on. Loud music played (Green Day at the moment). Lines for both the home’s bathrooms spilled down one hall.
Desmond was rather relieved to see no other Agent Fox Mulders, though there was one Scully. Her outfit was pretty good: a black pantsuit and a white button-up shirt with the collar laid over the lapels of the jacket. She’d printed her ID on a computer; it even had her own picture on it next to the large blue FBI letters. The red wig was the right color. She was about five foot six, slender, with dark brown eyebrows and fair skin. Her eyes were a little large for her face; Desmond found that attractive.
She was standing with a group of five people, holding a red Solo cup she wasn’t paying much attention to, when one of the Luke Skywalkers approached her. A Darth Vader was his wingman.
The guy’s voice was nasal, rehearsed.
“Excuse me, am I to understand that you’re a female body inspector?”
Scully smiled but didn’t laugh.
“Nice try. Come back when you’ve got better material, Padawan.”
Skywalker glanced at Vader. “The Force is strong with this one.”
That did make Desmond laugh. Poor guy.
The two faded back into the crowd, leaving Scully staring directly at Desmond.
He had spent countless hours in bars, witnessed maybe ten thousand guys hit on girls. In that time, he had learned two things. One, if you see a girl you’re interested in, don’t hesitate. The moment you make eye contact, just go over there. Waiting hurts the cause. And two, pickup lines are useless. A woman is either interested or not; they pretty much know instantly. They don’t pick a guy based on the pickup line. Confidence is the universal attractor, and nothing says confidence like not having a pickup line.
He never broke eye contact as he walked over.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“I’m Fox Mulder.”
She extended her hand. It felt absolutely tiny in his.
“Dana Scully.” Her face was stoic; Desmond thought it was a pretty good imitation of the character. She was definitely game for the role-playing.
“I know why you’re here.”
“Do you?”
“You’ve been sent to debunk my work.”
“What can I say, Mulder? I’m a woman of science.”
“So you don’t want to believe?”
“With science, what I want is irrelevant. Proof of a hypothesis is all that matters.”
She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. He could see her dark brown hair under the wig.
“What’s your current case?” she asked.
He sighed theatrically. “Tough one. There’ve been reports of an aberrant human in the Palo Alto area.”
“Aberrant?”
“An anomaly, Scully. A woman who doesn’t conform to any of the known norms of the human species. Paranormal intelligence and attractiveness. Extreme wittiness. We could be looking at genetic engineering. Possible extraterrestrial involvement.”
She finally broke character, smiled and laughed quickly, then returned to a straight face. “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.”
“I’ve recently confirmed the evidence.”
One of her friends, who was dressed like Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction, grabbed her by the arm. “Hey, there you are. Let’s go.” The girl was very drunk.
“Yeah, just a minute,” Scully said quickly.
“No, come on! Paul and Ross have already left. Come on.” She was dragging her now.
Scully turned. “Sorry. Duty calls.” A coy smile spread across her lips. “Good luck with your case.”
She glanced back at him one last time before her friend dragged her out the front door.
In the kitchen, Desmond waited for the blender to stop mixing up a fresh pitcher of margaritas, then asked the host, “Who was the girl dressed as Scully?”
He concentrated on his pour. “Scully? That’s… Oh yeah. Peyton Shaw.”
Desmond opened his eyes and stared at Peyton, who was still holding Hannah’s head in her lap.
A smile spread across his face. “Hi, Scully.”
Peyton’s eyes instantly locked on to his. To Desmond’s surprise, he saw shock, then what he thought was fear. A sad, remorseful smile crossed her lips.
“What?”
“How much do you remember?” she asked.
“We met in Palo Alto. At a Halloween party.”
She nodded slowly but said nothing.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head.
“Hey,” he said. “What happened between us?”
Before she could answer, Avery shouted from the pilot’s seat. “Look alive back there. And put your headsets on.”
Desmond’s eyes grew wide when he saw the scene beyond the helicopter’s windshield.
Chapter 64
Avery pulled back on the helicopter’s stick, flying above the smoke that spread out beyond Mombasa. A minute later Peyton got their first glimpse of the carnage.
Mombasa was Kenya’s second largest city and the largest port in East Africa. At the center of the sprawling metropolis lay Mombasa Island, which was connected by causeways to three peninsulas from the Kenyan mainland. Right now those causeways were packed with cars and people trying to escape the island. From above, they looked like ants marching over a bridge, fleeing the chaos.
The Changamwe Oil Refinery, which lay at the back of the island, just before one of the bridges to the mainland, was ablaze, belching smoke into the air. Its tanks and pipes would give the fire an almost endless source of fuel.
The fires were not the only problem. A dozen large cargo ships lay scuttled at the mouth of the bay, their rectangular metal cargo containers spilled into the water, the mountain of steel forming an impassable barrier.
“They’ve sealed the port,” Avery called over the headsets. “Could have been the Kenyans as an act of containment.”
“Or another nation,” Desmond said. “To protect themselves.” He peered out the window, his eyes narrowing. “They bombed the airport’s runway too.”
Peyton stared in awe at the city. From their vantage point, she could see one of the hospitals. A crowd was massed outside, hundreds of people trying to get in. Bodies lay in the streets, dying, trampled.
Mombasa was her worst nightmare: an uncontrolled outbreak in a major city, millions of people at the mercy of a pathogen with no cure and no treatment, all of them left to suffer and die. Peyton had dedicated her life to ensuring this very scene never became a reality. She had flown to Kenya
to stop this. Yet now it was happening. She had failed. They—Conner McClain—had beaten her.
If this was happening in Mombasa, she wondered what Nairobi was like. What America was like.
In that moment, she set aside her fears about her own safety—and Hannah’s.
She needed a place to start, needed to know how long she’d been in captivity, how long the virus had been loose.
“What day is it?” she asked.
“Monday,” Avery replied.
That came as a shock. Peyton had flown to Nairobi the previous Sunday, a full week ago.
“What’s the status of the outbreak in Kenya?” she asked urgently.
“I don’t know,” Avery said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Peyton didn’t even try to hide her skepticism.
“Again, we were under a comms blackout. Any information about the outbreak was tightly guarded. People on that ship have families too. I’ve only heard rumors.”
“Such as?” Peyton was almost certain she was lying—or at best, keeping information from them.
“Such as, there are two hundred thousand dead in Kenya from the Mandera strain. Another half a million around the world have died from the precursor flu virus.”
Precursor. So what McClain had told her was true: the flu strain that Elliott had been tracking was the precursor for the Mandera virus; it mutated into the deadly hemorrhagic fever that had killed the two Americans, including Lucas Turner. Some part of her had hoped McClain was bluffing, posturing, to scare her. She almost didn’t want to know the answer to her next question.
“How many are infected?”
Avery was hesitant. “Hard to say. I’ve heard three billion. Maybe more.”
Peyton’s head swam. She swallowed. For a long moment she thought she might throw up, or even pass out. Three billion people infected. It was an unimaginable catastrophe. If what happened in Mandera occurred around the world, human civilization wouldn’t recover for decades, possibly centuries. In fact, she had no idea what the world would look like after that. At the rate the virus was spreading, she wondered: Would there be only a few million survivors? A few thousand?