The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Colonel Truman and the Attorney General strode to the scanner.

  Oh, Dear Lord, Sister Ezekiel thought. Doug is Devereaux! He doesn’t look anything like the man—black rather than Devereaux’s white, and far too young. Still, he is tall and lean.

  While everyone in the room waited, a buzz of whispers emanating from the homeless men as well as the soldiers, Weiss and the colonel examined the screen. Touching the display, Weiss read for a moment before turning to Sister Ezekiel. “I’m afraid, Sister, that your man is a fugitive.”

  Sister Ezekiel’s stomach grew queasy as she looked at Doug, who looked nauseated himself. When she spoke, her voice had a slight tremor. “Douglas is Walt Devereaux?”

  Weiss shook his head. “No, but he is a fugitive. Escaped from a minimum-security facility while serving time on a possession charge. Had just over a month remaining in his sentence.”

  “You must be mistaken,” Sister Ezekiel said. But when she turned to Doug, he dropped his head and refused to meet her eyes. “Douglas.”

  “Sorry, Sister.”

  “Why, Douglas?”

  “I couldn’t take bein’ penned up like that. I had to get out.”

  “So little time left to serve.” Sister Ezekiel shook her head slowly.

  “Take him outside,” Weiss said to a pair of soldiers. “Put him in the Porta-cell. Keep a guard on him.”

  The homeless men muttered among themselves, shifting their feet and staring at Doug as he looked back at them sadly. No doubt many of them had known of his status. Sister Ezekiel knew the men opened up to each other more than they did to her. She found it difficult to relax around them. But everybody liked Doug. He treated them all fairly and with respect.

  “What’s going to happen to him now?” Sister Ezekiel asked as the soldiers led Doug away.

  Weiss shrugged. “That’s really not up to me to say, Sister. It’s a matter for the local authorities.”

  “But you’re the Attorney General. I need Douglas here. He’s a great help.”

  “I’m sorry, Sister. The law is clear.”

  “Well, can’t you put a detention collar on him? Restrict him to the shelter? I’ll vouch for him, make sure he doesn’t leave.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Weiss said. “In the meantime, Colonel, let’s get the rest of these men through the scanner, starting with—what did you call him, the chocolate beast?”

  “Cookie Monster, Sir.” Colonel Truman stepped over to Cookie Monster, who stared at the machine, a faint tremor running through him. “It’s okay,” the colonel said. “I promise it won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing. In fact, the doctor can come with you.”

  Dr. Mary smiled gratefully at the colonel. She patted Cookie Monster’s hand, then led him to the DS-9000. After she got him settled under the arch, she took one step back and held her arm straight out so Cookie Monster could continue to hold her hand.

  “That’s fine,” Colonel Truman said. “Very good. We’ll still be able to get a reading, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” the technician answered.

  For a third time the scanner ran through its program, the blue light over the arch moving across from left to right. Sister Ezekiel caught the sudden tension in the room. The only sound came from the DS-9000 itself—a high whining hum and a series of clicks. The homeless men, the soldiers, Dr. Mary and Weiss: everybody waited quietly for the scanner to complete its task.

  Cookie Monster shook as the scanner worked. When the machine finally beeped, men resumed conversations with each other and the familiar buzz of low talking returned.

  “You may step out,” the technician said.

  Dr. Mary tugged on Cookie Monster’s hand and he practically leapt out from under the archway. He hugged Dr. Mary, his eyes squeezed shut, a grimace on his face.

  Major Sims, Colonel Truman and Weiss all huddled around the screen.

  “What do you make of this, Hayes?” Colonel Truman asked.

  The technician edged into the pile and stared at the monitor. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Looks like a B-F-S-T of point-eight-nine. And there are strange double helixes here and here and here.” He indicated three spots on the monitor.

  “And that means?” the colonel asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Hayes answered, “but I think it means he might not be human. Well, he’s human, obviously, but his genetic code is different.”

  Dr. Mary said, “What does that mean exactly? Can you dumb it down for us?”

  Sister Ezekiel looked at her, wondering why she would ask such a question. Dr. Mary obviously knew about such things. She was the brightest woman Sister Ezekiel had ever met.

  “I’ll try, ma’am,” Hayes said. “I’m not an expert on this. But the Brin-Wright F statistic—or BFST—quantifies the amount of genetic difference between two groups of people. It runs from zero to one. The higher the number, the more likely you’re dealing with a new species. Anything over one and you’re talking a different species. We’re using Devereaux’s DNA profile as our base. So if we find him, we’ll come up with a zero reading. And the helix graph will come up with an identical curve, here.” He pointed to a spot on the monitor.

  “Okay,” the colonel said.

  “A BFST of point-eight-nine is unheard of,” Major Sims interjected.

  “That’s right,” Hayes agreed. “The greatest variation ever found between two human groups is point-seven-three. He blows that away.”

  “And look at this,” Major Sims said. “His brainwave activity is extremely high. He’s very intelligent.”

  “Cookie Monster?” Henry said, his eyes wide.

  “No question about it,” Major Sims said.

  Dr. Mary led Cookie Monster to Sister Ezekiel and handed him over. Then she made her way to the scanner and wedged herself between the colonel and Weiss, who stepped aside to admit her to their circle.

  “So,” Weiss said. “This proves Cookie Monster is a pseudo.”

  “Not necessarily,” Hayes said. “The aberration in the readings could suggest some other kind of DNA manipulation, or possibly just heavy drug use with some serious chemicals.”

  “What about the brainwave activity?” Weiss asked.

  Major Sims pointed to another screen. “It only proves he’s extremely intelligent. But there are no aberrations in the graph to imply genetic enhancement.”

  “What do you think, Doctor?” Colonel Truman asked.

  Dr. Mary shrugged. “As I recall, the pseudos from the Mars Project came in at point-nine-four. A point-eight-nine clearly puts Cookie Monster outside that group. It means he might not be a pseudo at all. As Mr. Hayes here said, it might just be high drug usage with designer chemicals. God only knows how many men here are going to pull a high number because of that factor. As for the brainwave pattern, I’ve seen scans higher than this, but you’re right. He’s smart.”

  “Perhaps he’s a Gaian,” Sister Ezekiel interjected.

  “A Gaian?” Colonel Truman asked.

  Sister Ezekiel smiled. “Mother Earth worshipers. People who believe we should become one with nature. It’s been rumored that some of them have attempted scientific procedures to make themselves one with the plants and animals.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with them,” Colonel Truman said. “Are there many in the area?”

  “I don’t know,” Sister Ezekiel replied. “But we get many different kinds of worshippers here. We don’t ask for religious affiliation.”

  Weiss said, “Any Gaians attempting to alter their DNA would be acting illegally unless they’re registered. Unregulated DNA manipulation is very dangerous. That’s why we passed the DNA Integrity Act. You’d better lock up Cookie Monster too, Colonel, while we check the rest of the men.”

  Sister Ezekiel pointed at the men standing around the lobby. “A lot of these men were heav
y drug users at one point. Many were sentenced to prison. But with the jails so full, they’ve been released on parole. Are you now planning to re-arrest them?”

  “No, Sister,” Weiss replied. “Fugitives like Doug, pseudos like Cookie Monster, and Devereaux. That’s all.”

  “You haven’t proven that Cookie Monster’s a pseudo,” Dr. Mary said in a loud voice, “yet you’re calling him one. You think you can do anything you want, don’t you.”

  “Certainly not,” Weiss answered. “I’m bound by the law, as we all are.”

  “Then perhaps you should arrest Sister Ezekiel,” Dr. Mary said. “She’s been harboring a fugitive. Maybe, just to be on the safe side, you should lock us all up. We’re obviously a threat.”

  “All right, Doctor,” Weiss said. “That will be enough.”

  “Are we breaking the law if we don’t agree with the government’s position on absolutely every issue? Is that why you harass and intimidate us?”

  “Doctor,” Sister Ezekiel said, “I think we should give Mr. Weiss the benefit of the doubt. He’s just doing his job.”

  Weiss laughed, but his cheeks burned with anger. “Thank you, Sister. You know, some people trust me completely.”

  “Not me,” Dr. Mary muttered.

  “Look, people,” Weiss spoke up so everyone in the room could hear him: “I don’t like doing this, believe me. I know you resent me. You think I’m against you. And if I were in your shoes I might feel the same way. But I’m not. I’ve been charged with looking at the big picture, with making the hard decisions. I don’t want to be a tough guy. I don’t get joy from locking people up. But to keep our society moving forward, to keep some semblance of order, a certain amount of dirty work has to get done.”

  Weiss paused, looking his audience over. “You have a president,” he continued, “who can’t get along with Congress and who refuses to acknowledge the mess this country is in. And I will not allow it to remain a mess. My mission is to restore civil order, reduce crime, make the streets safe for every American. And I’ll do whatever I must to see that those goals are achieved. I will not allow this country to become a lawless wasteland.”

  Dr. Mary leaned over to Sister Ezekiel and whispered, “There aren’t even any cameras around. He must really believe this crap.”

  Chapter Seven

  After breakfasting in pointed silence, Lendra stowed her bag in the back of the van, then slumped into the front passenger seat and stared straight ahead as Jeremiah exited the hotel’s secure ramp and returned to the freeway. He passed three tractor-trailers caravanning west over the bumpy road and reflexively checked his scanner. But he knew the trucks were legitimate.

  “Did you get your interface working?” Jeremiah asked.

  Long seconds passed before Lendra said, “Finally. Took most of the night.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended you, but I can’t afford any distractions. Any messages from Eli?”

  Lendra yawned as she shook her head. “Nothing new.”

  “If you want to sleep for a while,” Jeremiah pointed to the bench seat with his thumb, “it’s pretty comfortable back there.”

  “I’m fine.” Lendra turned away, stared out the side window, showing him the back of her head. After a time she said, “Maybe I’ll close my eyes for a bit.” She reclined the seat and shifted restlessly a few times before finally turning to face him. Bringing her legs up off the floor, she tucked her hands beneath her cheek and closed her eyes like a storybook angel. In minutes, she appeared to be asleep.

  For the next hour Jeremiah drove in near-silence. He knew he ought to focus on the mission, but his mind kept drifting to Joshua. Was he in a shallow grave somewhere? Sold into slavery?

  A low tone emanated from the dashboard. The scanner. Jeremiah’s neck hairs rose. He checked the energy signature and saw that it was the same one he’d detected the day before, now behind them nearly a mile. Their pursuer must have driven past them during the night, then re-locked onto Jeremiah’s signal this morning.

  Instinctively Jeremiah blinked three times, centering himself in his dungeon, preparing himself for battle. He increased power to the shield. Should he wait for the enemy to make the first move? If Lendra weren’t here he’d attack. Up ahead another van moved slowly in the right lane. He checked his scanner as he passed it; seven people stared out the windows at him. Their own little group. Jeremiah accelerated past them. As far ahead as he could see, the road was clear.

  Crossing the Mississippi River into Minnesota, Jeremiah noted the river bluffs covered with trees. The Minnesota side looked wild: no buildings visible from the freeway. The Wisconsin border boasted extensive commercial development. And the river itself contained hundreds of boats—tugs and barges mostly, with a few large passenger vessels sprinkled among them.

  An electric pulse hit the van.

  The vehicle stuttered, then jumped forward, the alarm sounding. In less than two seconds Jeremiah activated the auxiliary battery, deactivated the alarm and sent full power to the variable shield. Another pulse hit the van; this time the shield dispersed it.

  “Looks like we fight,” Jeremiah said.

  Lendra sat up quickly. “Huh? What’s happening?” she asked. “Where are we?”

  “Ah, you’re awake. Good. We’re in Minnesota.”

  “Are we under attack?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Lendra’s hands clenched the armrest tightly and her body tensed.

  “Hold on.” Jeremiah stomped on the accelerator, bringing the van up to ninety. When he reached the next exit he sped up the ramp. Lendra grabbed the handle on the door and clung to it, her jaw rigid, as Jeremiah approached the stop sign. He slowed just enough to make the turn, then jerked the wheel, careening the van around the corner onto a county road. Speeding through the countryside, he looked for a good place to wait. When he spotted a side road, he took it, stopping the van near a small stand of trees.

  “I’ll call Eli,” Lendra said.

  “Fine,” Jeremiah said. “Wait here.” He slipped his hands into the gloves of his camos, then dropped the hood over his head and activated the sensors. Lendra gasped as he essentially disappeared—his old camos giving off only faint swirls of movement to betray his position. Jeremiah ducked into the back of the van, grabbed an ear bud/microphone, checked the frequency, and inserted it into his left ear. “Channel 8.76,” he said.

  “Wait!” Lendra said.

  Jeremiah grabbed a small bag from behind the bench seat, deactivated the shield and threw the bag out of the van. Then he reactivated the shield and stepped outside himself. As he passed through the barrier of the shield, an electric tingle made his hair stand on end. He picked up the bag and ran for the trees, dropping to his knees and assembling the Las-rifle he’d packed. Snapping the power cartridge in place, he set the power level to medium. The thirty-inch weapon felt good in his hands, its eight-pound weight comforting. That meant he had a full cartridge. He double-checked the indicator to make certain the chemicals inside had activated completely. Slowly he swept in a circle, checking for anything that moved. Back along the road a motorcycle came into view and veered into a field several hundred yards away, its rider low in the saddle.

  Jeremiah glanced at his hand-held scanner to verify that he had the right target before firing. It showed the recognizable electronic signature of their pursuer. As the motorcyclist disappeared behind a small grove of trees, Jeremiah fired a purple pulse. Too late. The shot missed, striking an oak. Fortunately the area must have seen a lot of rain recently, for the tree did not burst into flame. Jeremiah checked his scanner, saw the target stop somewhere beyond the trees. He altered it to scan for a bio-signature and located a human reading several hundred yards away.

  He figured the enemy would wait, hoping to make him nervous, jumpy. A good plan normally. But Jeremiah had long ago learned to block out such emotions.

 
The ear bud crackled, then Lendra’s voice came through clearly: “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay there,” he ordered. “I’ll be back shortly. Keep the doors locked, the shield up. You’ll be fine.”

  Jeremiah checked his scanner again. Now it read only Lendra’s bio-signature. The guy must have activated a scatterer. Jeremiah grabbed four stun grenades from the bag and placed them inside his pockets, then ran to the drainage ditch and turned in the direction the motorcycle had gone. He experienced a strange exhilaration, a joy in movement that he hadn’t felt in a long time, as if his body was finally freed to do what it had been meant for. If he hadn’t seen his Brin-Wright F Statistic after his genetic enhancement surgery, he’d believe he was like the Escala: part human, part animal. When he reached the county road he stopped, listened for a few seconds, then took off again, across the road and into the drainage ditch on the other side. The grove hiding their pursuer lay up ahead.

  Jeremiah followed the ditch, parallel to the county road. As he neared the grove, he slowed, placing his feet carefully, looking and listening for anything that sounded out of place. A single crow cawed off in the distance, and about a hundred yards away down a dirt road, an old shed stood. A fresh tire track ran down the center of the road.

  His finger on the trigger, Jeremiah ran for the shed. Its door stood ajar, the inside hidden in darkness. He reached the corner of the building, then sidled to the doorway. Hesitating only a second, he kicked the door open and tossed a stun grenade inside. A second after it exploded, he rushed inside. Empty.

  Around back he found the man’s motorcycle: hydrogen-cell powered, whisper quiet. The modifications made to it were extensive, including an array of communications equipment, scanners and a brand new scatterer.

  As he turned away, he heard the sizzle of a Las-weapon, echoed almost immediately by a hiss as it struck a shield. The van. Another sizzle and hiss followed. Then another.

  Lendra spoke in his ear, her voice high and strained: “Someone’s shooting at the van. I think he’s hiding behind a tree. Can’t see him. What should I do?”