by J.B. Cameron
~3~
Trace brings me to the secure labs on the fiftieth floor. People rush past me in a blur of white lab coats, panicked and jostling for access to the elevators and stairways.
I feel horrible about the chaos I caused. I can only pray that nobody gets hurt.
Trace barely even notices them as we march to the doors at the end of the hall. My eyes flicker from face to face as the scared throng race by. Judging by our unbroken pace, I guess that his target isn't among them.
We reach the locked door to the Order's virology lab. I have no clearance to pass the fingerprint scanner. Fortunately, the evacuation means there's a steady stream of people escaping the room. We simply wait for the next person to leave and slip in before the door closes.
In the lab's uproar, nobody even notices our presence. Technicians race to secure a collection of samples into an airtight, reinforced metal vault. The din of their excited shouts almost drowns out the warble of the evacuation alarm.
A hermetically sealed chamber passes into an adjoining lab rigged with contamination sensors. Through the window, a solitary figure in a bio-containment suit packs away the most virulent diseases.
That's him, Trace thinks.
Who is he? I ask.
Doctor Martin Leeds. The most dangerous man in this building.
Trace spurs us onward. We grab a spare suit next to the door and slip it on as we enter the decontamination airlock. As the door closes with a hiss behind us, a light above the opposite portal bathes the small room in red. A digital readout on the wall silently counts down from ten. Before it reaches three, we're fully suited up.
I study the short figure through the unbreakable glass door into the lab. Him? Dangerous?
A vaporized jet of toxic chemicals washes over my body.
You heard the president's aide on his conference call earlier? New Way learned of their plans some time ago. Doctor Leeds is working on a weaponized virus that could kill millions. They intend to release it in the old quarters of the city. The president wants to wipe out New Way, and he's willing to sacrifice over thirty million people to do it.
A fan kicks in, venting the gas into a dedicated air duct by the floor.
That's insane! I cry. There's no way he would do that!
He'd do that and a lot more. To protect their global empire, the Order would sacrifice billions, Trace admits.
What proof do you have?
Lights pulsate as microwave bursts cleanse the outer skin of the protective suit of any remaining microscopic contaminants.
Several divisions of the army are conducting quarantine exercises outside the city at this moment. After the virus is released, they'll march in to contain the impoverished neighborhoods. Millions will die, including New Way supporters. When it's done, Travis will blame us for the attack and end up painting himself as the hero who saved the entire city.
When the light finally turns green and the inner door swings open, our graphene shell is sterile at an atomic level.
Trace takes us in without another word. I can barely think straight after that bombshell he just dropped on me.
"Doctor Leeds."
The bespectacled figure turns to face us in his protective suit. His puzzled face blinks behind his visor.
"Who are you? This is a secure area. How did you get in here?" His eyes flash to the panic button on the wall.
"Don't bother trying to call security. I'd break your arm before you even got near it."
"What do you want?"
"Everything you have on OEBOV/01," Trace replies. "All of your digital records and backups, your samples – everything."
"The virus is much too deadly. I couldn't possibly–"
"I'm aware of how deadly your virus is, doctor. That's why I mean to put an end to it."
The constant wail of the evacuation alarm suddenly falls silent. The ringing in my ears persists for a little longer.
The virologist considers me anxiously. His eyes dart to the window for any indication of rescue. Though his staff populates the outer chamber, no one notices the precarious situation developing within.
"It's your choice. Either log into the terminal with your own two hands, or I log in for you, after breaking a few of your fingers for your password. Decide quickly."
The threat is all the encouragement he needs. Leeds turns to the keyboard and enters his credentials at the network prompt.
"Now delete the files," Trace demands.
Grudgingly, he types a command on the screen. A window opens with a list of his saved records. In milliseconds, years of hard work vanish from existence, file by file.
"Purge the backups too."
"Please! Why are you doing this?"
Trace says nothing. Leeds finds the answer he requires written on my face.
Leeds sighs at the monitor, realizing that the last chance of recovering his data will be lost for good. He casts another distressed glance through the glass, but the cavalry still haven't arrived.
"Today, doctor..." Trace urges.
With a few more keystrokes, the blueprint for the deadly disease fades forever into the digital ether. Leeds hunches over the blank screen, defeated.
"Now give me the virus," Trace orders him.
The scientist doesn't even try to protest. He sullenly fetches a stoppered vial from a nearby tray and hands it over.
Trace smirks, hefts the glass phial in my gloved hand, and pitches it against the wall. The fragile glass shatters into splinters, but doesn't trigger the contamination sensors. As he surmised, the vial was empty.
The doctor, already alarmed by his actions, now shrinks from his anger. Trace grabs him by his suit, threatening to rip it open, despite needing nothing less than a bullet to puncture the durable fabric.
"Not smart!" he snarls, jerking him by the collar. "Where's the damn virus? And I mean all of it!"
Fear renders the doctor speechless. He dangles from my hands like a puppet, his mouth hanging open. His only meaningful response comes from a surreptitious glance towards a metal cabinet locked with a keypad. Trace follows his eyes and grins in understanding.
"Open it up!"
Trace angrily tosses the doctor across the room. The man cries out in pain as he brutally slams into the safe. Upon recovering, his fingers tap-dance over the numeric keys without further deception.
How are you planning to destroy the virus? I wonder.
Maybe I shouldn't. It would be fitting to use it against these bastards, don't you think?
You wouldn't! All these people–
Relax, chancellor. Trace chuckles. I'm just kidding. Despite how much the Order makes us out to be monsters, we don't take lives unless it's necessary. We're not like them.
Coming from someone threatening my wife and daughter minutes ago, you'll understand if I'm not impressed.
The doctor opens the safe with a beep of the mechanical lock. He throws open the door and steps aside. The shelves inside are full of black canisters, each containing a special cocktail of horrible death. The sight makes me ill.
What about him? Is his death necessary?
I can't destroy the work and leave its creator, Trace responds sadly. Leaving his mind at the whim of the Order puts everyone at risk.
Maybe he can come with us, I suggest.
I can't take the chance that he might end up back here. I don't like it any more than you do, chancellor, but this is for the best. Perhaps one day, after we overthrow the Order, the world may be ready for men like him. Until then, I have my orders.
"Which one is it?" Trace asks the doctor.
Leeds quickly studies the labels, before grabbing one from among the collection. "Here," he answers as he places it in my hands. "OEBOV/01."
Trace unscrews the lid. Inside are a dozen stoppered vials, arranged in two stacks of six cylindrical ring trays. Trace removes one of the vials for a closer inspection.
"Be careful with that," Leeds warns.
A muffled pounding on the window catches our
attention. Lannister is standing outside with a contingent of security guards, armed to the teeth. He taps on the glass with the butt of his gun and motions for me to exit peacefully. The "or else" is implicit.
I guess he finally figured out that the bomb threat came from his phone, Trace observes.
How'd he find us so fast?
The security badge he gave you must have a tracking chip installed.
What do we do now? I ask.
Feel like fighting your way through them?
Not really.
Trace faces the doctor again. The scientist grins smugly at us.
"Yeah," Trace says. "Me neither."
Trace pops the lid off the vial and chucks it at the doctor. Colorless mucus stains his visor. Leeds gapes at the mess in horror.
Instantly, flashing red lights bathe the room, while an automated voice announces, "CONTAMINATION BREACH. EXECUTING CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL."
I catch sight of Lannister and his men out of the corner of my eye, while Trace tosses the container and races for the closing door. The protective glass muffles the guards' panicked shouts. The only wailing we hear comes from the scientist frantically trying to wipe his prized plague from his outfit.
We make it through the door with barely a second to spare. Its airtight seal cuts off the doctor mid-scream.
A moment later, a brilliant flare of white-hot flames engulfs the lab behind us, incinerating all matter in an instant. Flames expand to scorch every square inch of the chamber. When it's finally over, there's nothing identifiable remaining in the blackened, smoking rubble.
"Let's get the hell out of here," Trace suggests.
The red light comes on over the door. The computer starts its decontamination countdown. This time, we're not sticking around for the shower and the light show.
The graphene suit is tougher than steel. It protects my body as Trace kicks through the ventilation duct, rips it from the wall, and yanks the wires powering the fan. Two swift kicks snaps off a blade, leaving a gap into which we can squeeze. I just hope the vent doesn't end with a fifty-story drop.
The countdown reaches six...
We peel my body from the suit as the countdown ticks indifferently towards our deadline. There's no time for niceties. We undress in a flurry of kicking feet and waving hands.
Two...
Trace rips the badge from my clothes and tosses it as we dive for the vent. My hands and feet propel us into the blackness.
One...
We scramble elbow over elbow across the cold metal surface, snaking deeper into the unknown.
Zero...
A metal dragon suddenly hisses at my heels. We crawl faster. The poison storm has begun. Without the fan blowing it into the vent, most of it should linger in the airlock.
Trace holds my breath, just in case.
My fingers lose touch with the floor ahead. The vent branches vertically in the darkness. Trace grabs the edge and pulls us closer for a peek.
There's a light below us, a couple of floors down. A rising heat suggests that it probably leads to an incinerator.
There should be a maintenance room down there, I offer.
Good. We can use that. Just let me orient myself for the climb down.
He pulls us forward, angling my body across the shaft and dropping my feet into the hole. He throws a glance back at the airlock. The gas is no longer pumping into the room. Most of it now settles upon the floor in an unhealthy haze.
We begin our descent, while the microwave pulses delay our pursuers further.
I can't go back, can I? I realize.
Would you want to? Trace asks, surprised. Now that you know what the Order are capable of? Would you still want to work for them?
I say nothing. I think of my family. Though I'm loathe to put them in harm's way, I realize they'll never be safe as long as they live under the Order's purview.
Don't worry. I'll call Clara as soon as we're outside the Citadel, Trace says. She'll get them to safety.
Thank you, I reply. For a terrorist, you're not what I expected at all, Trace.
"It's David," he smiles as he shimmies us closer to freedom. "You're not what I expected either, chancellor. I'm looking forward to shaking your hand."