Plague Planet (The Wandering Engineer)

by Hechtl, Chris

  “You can't do that!” Mr. Morton, the director of air traffic said pointedly.

  “You want an aircraft to fly through the contamination? Everyone will be infected,” she snarled. “When they land they'll spread it like wildfire. Right now we've got a slim chance of containing this. Don't frack with me, get it done,” she snarled.

  The usual affable Morton gaped at her like a fish. She held her glare and then turned on Oman. The governor gulped, double chin bobbing. He was pale, very pale. He blotted at sweat on his face and then took his jacket off. She could see the sweat stains on his white shirt. The fat slob should have lost some weight like she'd told him she thought angrily. “Do, do it Morton. Do it now,” the governor finally said.

  “But...”

  “He said do it!” Richards snarled, turning on the air director and then back to the others. “Go, get a phone, get it started now. Any aircraft anywhere near the contagion have them land at Hazard, they've been contaminated.”

  “Shit,” Morton cursed, grabbing his hat and coat and hustling out.

  “I'm glad you brought him and the others Oman, but we don't have a lot of time for fooling around,” Richards ground out, all business. “We need to establish a quarantine around the area and keep the infected inside. If any are still alive. If they get out it'll spread the disease faster than we can control. That is if it's not airborne.”

  “Is it?” the governor asked, fully panicked.

  “From what little we have to go on yes. I'm still trying to get a handle on it. From the location I've deduced that it has something to do with the sleepers.”

  “The sleepers?” Deli Osiris the governor's chief of staff asked. He unlike the others was a professional person. He did an excellent job not only managing his boss, but also the various directors. He had no political ambitions of his own, preferring to be the power behind the throne.

  “That's my current hypothesis,” Helen sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It fits. The location is dead on. Hazard hasn't had any sign though so I'm keeping it tentative now,” she said.

  She'd gotten reports from Hazard. She was still getting reports, and near hysterical calls from the hospital staff there. The sheriff and Commissioner had already called in, both were working to cordon off the capital.

  “Hodges has put quarantine protocols into place, or at least he's trying to. From what I understand the Sheriff has deputized just about all the able bodied he can find to shut down the roads between Rubicon and Hazard city.”

  “Then it's contained?”

  “Not if someone was infected and left in a different direction,” Ted Zane replied patiently. Helen and most of the other staffers glared at him for a moment. He shrugged. “And if someone is infected and they get to the check point they could infect the people there.”

  “I know,” Helen sighed. “The problem is we don't have any idea on how fast this is spreading, what it's incubation period is, it's vector...” she shook her head in frustration. “I can't ask people to go in to their knowing they would die. They'd get very little back to us if they did. It's not worth it,” she said.

  “It might be if we can get some useful information out of the sacrifice,” Osiris said quietly. Nurse Marlone gasped, as did a few others. He shrugged, eyes cold. He looked at Helen.

  “I'll think about it,” she admitted, biting her lip. They turned to stare at her now. She turned to them. “For the greater good. We've got to see to the greater good. Sacrifice the few if it will save the many.”

  “Think fast. We don't have time,” Osiris replied. He'd already gone from treating the possibility of the outbreak as real to fully believing into it.

  “Quarantine for now. We need our best virologists on this,” Helen said, turning to Ted. Ted nodded. He'd already gotten a report that La Plaz was enroute. Ivanov as well. Salt and the Daniels of course were a problem.

  “I um, I need to check on Rosanne and the kids,” Oman said, picking his jacket up. “Do you need anything else from me?” he asked.

  “Reinforce lock down. Get the trains stopped. Highways, everything,” Helen said firmly. “We'll need to work on a supply method. Method of treatment. I'll get you a list.” She glanced at Deli. The chief of staff nodded.

  “But food, the economy...” Quertz the Veraxin director of travel clacked his mandibles in annoyance. She looked at him.

  “Food and the economy matter little to the dead Director Quertz,” Malcolm O'Reilly said softly. Slowly the Veraxin bobbed a nod. His upper arms and true arms showed first level agreement.

  “Get on that. Governor, I suggest you put martial law into place. Strict lock down of all communities, starting with any within a hundred kilometers and then moving out from there. That includes Sin City. You need to ready that for each of the major cities including Landing. We're going to have to figure something out soon.”

  “Um, please do,” The governor said, bobbing a nod. He left, most of his staff followed.

  “Wanna bet he'll be on the first air car out of here?” Malcolm asked snidely. “To his retreat?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. Everyone knew the Governor had several retreats, one on a private island in the southern gulf.

  “I hope not,” Helen said, hands covering her eyes. After a moment she shifted to the hands just covering her mouth.

  “It might help. Get him out of the way. He's not helping,” Malcolm said.

  “That's enough,” Helen said, shooting a reproving look his way. It wasn't that she didn't privately agree with him, it was just that they didn't need talk like that right now. “We need to focus. Someone look up every airborne contagion. Start with those effecting humans and Veraxins. Coughing is a symptom, right now the only one we've got to go off of.”

  “Which covers just about everything,” Malcolm sighed, turning to the wall of medical texts.

  “Something is better than nothing,” Helen said. She turned to head nurse Marlone. “Get surgical masks into all staff hands now. Gloves, everyone washes their hands hourly. After touching a patient definitely. Use the special soaps the surgeons use. Get more from the warehouses if you need it. Get the maintenance staff to disinfect all doorknobs and any place people touch. Do that at least every few hours. Get the details handled.”

  The older woman bobbed a nod and jotted the order out on a memo pad. Then she looked up. “Is that all?”

  “Quarantine the sick. Anyone who comes in coughing gets full quarantine treatment. For now that's it.”

  “All right,” the nurse said, making a second note and then she left.

  “It's not enough,” Malcolm said, not looking up from the tomb he was reading. She winced and nodded.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Irons made his way through the annex trying to locate Helen Richards. A group of men and women passed him in a huff, moving to the nearest exit. Irons turned to ask a question but a staffer turned and spread his hands out, sternly shaking his head no. The man at the center looked a little like the governor in profile. He was holding a jacket over his shoulder and was urgently talking to someone on his off side to Irons though. When his overweight boss had moved on the staffer turned and hurried to catch up.

  “What was that about?” Irons asked.

  “I'm not certain, but one of them may have been someone important,” Sprite responded. “Governor Oman from the profile.”

  “Hopefully not Richards,” Irons replied. He didn't want to have come all this way for nothing.

  He returned to his search. He was redirected several times, each time erroneously to the wrong office or part of the building. Finally Sprite had enough material in his wanderings to make a map of the building. Irons however had had enough, he marched back to the front entrance of the building and the reception desk.

  “Can I help you?” the elderly Veraxin and her human partner asked. Both looked haggard. There was a line, Irons bypassed it. “You'll have to start at the back of the line though,” the other woman said, eyes snapping in annoyance.

&nb
sp; “No, I'll help myself,” Irons said, reaching over the desk to the intercom.

  “Hey! You can't touch that!” the Veraxin said as he hit the transmit button. “This is Admiral Irons. Director Richards I am in reception and we need to talk ASAP. Get your ass down here or send someone to direct me. Over.” He said and put the intercom microphone down.

  “You...” the old woman sputtered, staring at him.

  “Sorry, but sometimes when you face a Gordian knot the only way through is to cut it like Alexander did,” Irons replied with a shrug. He turned. Everyone was staring at him, some were gaping, others were looking furious. He didn't care. He scanned them rapidly, all were clean.

  “You are all clean, no sign of infection. The endemic is in Rubicon, not here as of yet. Go about your business people,” he said sternly, turning away from them. His eyes found the guard who had been stationed by the door.

  The fat slob of a security guard nearby reached for his weapon. Irons pointed his right arm up and then waggled his index finger back and forth. “Don't,” he growled as the man stared at him, eyes wide. “Just don't. Get on your radio if you've got one. Find me Richards, we don't have time. I'm the only chance you've got,” he growled, full command voice.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Helen looked up when the speaker squawked and the strange stern voice cut through her chatter. Finally her eyes widened as she recognized the voice. “Find Irons!” she said turning to Ted. “He's at reception! Get him here stat!” she said urging him out. Ted turned and trotted out.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Bane finished his latest prey and turned, watching the people around him fleeing. He'd taken the job on a whim, it was simple since the target was in town. Hell, he'd been in the same bar as the contractor. The contractor had pointed over his shoulder to the fool and then handed him a bag of credits. The rest he would get when the deed was done he'd been told.

  The prey had pissed himself in his terror. Fortunately he'd taken it outside, which made it easier for his babies to do their work. The authorities got rather snippy if his babies tore apart a building. But the deed was done and yet the people were terrorized by something, not even looking at the kill. He sensed it wasn't about him which was strange. They were terrified of something else. His enhanced senses picked up snippets of conversation, something about nanites and a pandemic. Fools, he thought.

  Then he turned to see someone pointing towards Hazard. Odd, he thought. A moment ago he had thought they feared his nanites, and rightly so. But now... “They opened a container of sleepers and a bomb went off. It's spreading man! Spreading!” a hysterical woman said, waving her arms frantically as her husband tried to catch her arms. He slapped her on the face and then stormed inside. After a moment he came out with their valuables and thrust them at her and told her to load the wagon.

  “Odd,” Bane said. He twisted, feeling his old chitin creak. He was ancient, blue from his age as much as the genetic engineering he'd undergone to remake himself into the ultimate killer. The sheep called him Ole Blue, he let them think that, there was pleasure in their not even knowing his true name. He'd lost count of the tens of thousands he'd killed over the centuries. The number was stored in his implants somewhere but he rarely gloated over the figure, he preferred to replay the last moments of life of his victims. That he treasured. It was what kept him going, kept him moving when time should have robbed him of life long ago. Well that and the nanites throughout his body keeping him fit and alive. He alone on this retched mud ball was immune to whatever had befallen the sheep.

  Could it be nanites? He wondered. It would be fun to watch the sheep scrabble to save themselves. But not as much fun since he'd not been the one to cause such misery.

  He turned in a swirl of his duster. He had a payment to collect. Spirits of space help the fool if he wasn't there to deliver it.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Irons came in to the meeting behind the tall doctor Ted Zane. Zane had glasses and thinning hair despite being in his early thirties. He'd spotted Irons immediately by the uniform and waved him on. The two men hadn't exchanged a single word as they moved out.

  The room was big, a council room, part training room, part board room. On one wall behind the head of the table was a broken vid screen, on the opposite wall was a painting. One long wall had a line of windows, the wall where the door was had rows of lightly stained bookcases.

  “This is slightly organized chaos, with a flavor of desperation and panic,” Sprite commented doing her own observations. Papers and books were strewn all over the desk, empty chairs and floor. Sticky coffee cups were scattered in front of people. One nurse was hastily blotting up a spill on some papers.

  Irons eyed the group, he wasn't sure which was Richards. He didn't have a lot to go off of, and the group in the back of the room were in a tight knot talking animatedly about distribution of quarantine masks and gloves. He turned away, he needed a moment of prep time anyway.

  “You aren't that wrong Commander. We'll be lucky if we pull this off,” Irons replied quietly as he nodded to the people in the room. Most ignored him since he wasn't wearing a medical smock. He sized up the room and spotted the screen behind the head of the table that would do.

  When they came in most of the people were so wrapped up in their own projects they ignored them. Ted headed to the knot at the back, patting Irons on the shoulder in passing. Irons turned as someone in the outer office closed the door behind him. He turned and dumped out all his pockets full of chips. The sound of Velcro ripping made a few people look up in confusion.

  A woman nearby opened her mouth to object but he ignored her. His hands flashed as if on their own. He plugged some of the devices into a cluster and then went over to an ancient LCD screen. It was broken, cracked diagonally from left to right with a big cobweb near the center. It had sustained quite an impact but for some reason it remained in place, most likely because the thing had been built into the wall. Irons put his right hand onto the web and Proteus went to work.

  His free left hand punched through the brittle and most likely ancient wood wall. He tore the pieces of paneling away until he had enough clearance and then studied the contents within. He found the wires he wanted and pulled them out. Fortunately someone had been smart, the optical lines had plenty of slack and were standard universal cables. He manually directed a group of nanites in his left arm to splice the wires into the computer cluster and then let the thing drop to hang there in the wall.

  Behind him the room had grown silent. He turned to see all eyes on him. He turned back as the screen changed. The crack visibly healed itself. A woman gasped, unsure of what she was seeing. Another guy did a double take, rubbing his eyes and then staring gape mouthed. It would have been humorous if the situation wasn't so serious. After a moment the screen blinked on with a self-test, and then Sprite was there looking out at them.

  “Room, Lieutenant Commander Sprite, class four point one smart AI. Sprite room. My name is Irons, Fleet Admiral of the Federation navy. I'm your one shot at surviving the next week. Now that introductions are over, let's get to work people.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen you and I are up against a horror weapon of the Xeno war. This was unfortunately a common trick during the Xeno war, the Xeno's would create or scavenge a pod, stuff its contents with a nanite package, or a pathogen bundle, and then drop it where someone would find it. Which happened here.”

  He turned and picked up an ancient mono microscope from the nearby shelf. It was easily twenty kilograms of pig iron, steel, and primitive glass. He set it down and picked up other items and put them down in a pile as he talked.

  “Commander,” he said, turning to Sprite.

  “Here is a list of known pathogens the Xeno's typically used in cases like this,” Sprite replied, picking up where he left off as he placed his right hand onto the pile. His right hand turned silver making the group gasp. Sprite's image looked down to him over his shoulder. She shook her head slightly and then cont
inued.

  “The pathogens are all weaponized, all rendered incredibly lethal, but also protean. Most likely they have some sort of carrier bug that will spew them out at will.”

  “They are designed to kill off all organic life on the planet, starting with intelligent life. It will go down from there, right down to plants and single celled organisms. The Xeno’s were thorough.”

  “Is this like that planet nearby? Um... the one between Proxima and Avalon,” Doctor Zane asked, holding a hand up.

  “No, and please don't interrupt,” Sprite replied. Zane dropped his hand sheepishly. Then his eyes caught the dissolving materials on the desk and he gasped, involuntarily stepping back in fear.

  Sprite's avatar eyes cut briefly to the admiral and then back to the room. “What the admiral is demonstrating are gobblers. Nanites programmed to dissolve anything and everything. In this case he's also using the nanites to make... ah yes. A communications device as well as an air mask,” Sprite replied, noting the command lines.

  Irons nodded, hand flexing as he finished. When he withdrew it a small satellite radio transceiver and a full face filtration mask was now there where the microscope and other selected bits had once been. The woman nearby fainted.

  There was a moment of consternation from the group, then the woman's nearest neighbors began fanning her and checking her pulse. Someone opened a window.

  Irons sighed, shaking his head. Sprite put a karat over the head of a fifty year old brunette woman. She looked a little frazzled he noted, but she was in control of her emotions. He tossed her the mask to her.

  She caught the mask and then examined it with interest. It was light years beyond the simple cloth masks they had. “Thanks, but we'll need a lot more of these,” she said, setting it down on the desk in front of her.