The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  “They see him as a threat—as they do us.”

  “But why?”

  Quekri signaled for Doug to move to the side of the room. She spoke in a low voice. “How much do you know about the Mars Project?”

  “Just that you were gonna establish a colony on Mars. And that because of the hostile conditions, you were gonna undergo genetic modification.”

  “That was necessary for survival, due to the higher cosmic radiation on Mars. If we wanted to go—and we all did—we had to alter our DNA. Most of us have no regrets. But the genetic surgeons did not understand the full scope of the changes. And none of us understood the risk of sterility. Or about the rage.”

  When Doug wrinkled his brow in confusion, Quekri added, “Side effects of the transgenic process. The rage developed slowly and didn’t hit all of us equally. At the time, we were confined to the Mayo Clinic. And when funding for the Mars Project dried up, problems started. Fourteen of our people became delusional, uncontrollably angry. They attacked various officials they perceived had wronged us.”

  “I never heard about that.”

  “It never made the news,” Quekri said. Doug followed her glance to a projection, which showed the Elite Ops moving again, carrying a body with them through the forest. In their midst, the man they’d been chasing walked with a limp. How did the extra person get there?

  “Can you get a better view of that body?” Quekri asked.

  “In a few seconds,” one of the technicians said.

  Quekri turned back to Doug. “We, the less affected, lost the ability to reason with the fourteen. We couldn’t prevent their attacks.”

  “And that’s when the Elite Ops came into the picture?”

  Quekri nodded. “At first, they only went after the fourteen. The rest of us were tested and cleared but we remained at the Mayo Clinic. The Elite Ops were stationed outside…to provide security. They began to harass us. When we protested, the security measures against us tightened.”

  “There,” the technician said, manipulating a projection until two faces appeared. Doug recognized neither but Quekri clearly knew one of them.

  “Julianna,” Quekri said. She looked at Doug. “You know her as Dr. Mary.”

  “That’s Dr. Mary?”

  “Yes. She’s been helping us protect Devereaux.”

  “Is she dead?”

  Quekri shrugged. “I think so. The man must be the one she told us about—the one she said would come for Devereaux, the one she was hoping would help.”

  “Is Dr. Mary…Julianna one of the Escala too?”

  Quekri said, “No, she’s just a Devereauxnian. A reformed killer. A trusted friend. They’re beyond our help now. Julianna,” she said as she stared at the holo-projection, “I remember you.”

  Quekri and the three technicians bowed their heads. Doug did the same. When he looked up, he saw that the two faces had vanished; the technicians manipulated the projections again to continue tracking the Elite Ops’ progress. Doug waited a few moments before asking: “What about the Mayo Clinic? The Elite Ops?”

  Quekri looked at him. “Oh, yes. Well, it didn’t take long before certain high-ranking officials decided we constituted a threat. Even though we’d been tested and retested, they were convinced we would continue to regress, as they called it. They believed we would grow more violent. We knew they would only tolerate us for so long. The final confrontation was inevitable.” Quekri sighed. “The Elite Ops tracked down the fourteen violent ones and killed thirteen of them. But they took heavy losses. And one of the fourteen managed to escape.”

  “Cookie Monster,” Doug said.

  “Quark,” Quekri confirmed with something like pride. “How did you guess?”

  “He’s got a darkness about him,” Doug said. “An edge of anger or brutality just beneath the surface. I saw it in prison a lot—tough guys tryin’ not to give in to the rage.”

  “I don’t know how he defeated the anger. We thought he was gone forever. His self-control, his will, must be phenomenal. But now he blames himself for the deaths of the others. I think that’s why he stays at the shelter, away from us. I doubt he can be truly happy anymore.”

  Doug shook his head. “He seemed kinda happy around Rock Man—at least some of the time.”

  “Rock Man?”

  “Just an old mute back at the shelter. Gives people rocks. Gave me this polished agate.” Doug pulled a small stone out of his pocket—almost perfectly round, with banded layers of red and brown.

  “That’s nice,” Quekri said.

  “Yeah,” Doug rubbed the agate for a few seconds, then put it back in his pocket. “So what happened next?”

  “The Elite Ops came after us. We anticipated such a move, of course. But we didn’t think they would be homicidal. We believed they just wanted to isolate us from each other. Lock us away where we couldn’t harm anyone. And I still think that was all they intended. But whether due to some miscommunication or malfunction or just some prejudiced idiot, a few shots were fired. Two of our people died immediately.

  “We fought back then. We didn’t have the weaponry they had, or the training. But the Elite Ops were new too. They’d only recently been wired into their armor. They were still getting used to being part machine. Even so, they would have destroyed us if not for Devereaux.”

  “Devereaux?”

  “He was one of the pioneers of transgenic modification. He empathized with us and approved our aspirations. In fact, he was the first to warn us that we would eventually be perceived as a threat.”

  “But how did he help you?”

  “At the time of the attack, he was monitoring us heavily. He predicted when the assault would begin. Shortly after the attack started, he hacked into the Elite Ops’ communications network and sent out signals that disrupted many of their non-combat functions. Because of the safeguards built into their systems, he couldn’t shut down their shields or weapons, but he could give them double or triple vision, and he targeted their inner ears so they lost their balance. He attacked their motor coordination skills and bodily functions. Then he directed us to this forgotten underground facility, where he knew we could hide—at least temporarily.”

  “Unbelievable,” Doug said. He felt something like a thrill at this revelation, for it fit precisely with the image he had of Devereaux.

  Quekri said, “We think Devereaux’s involvement in our escape is one of the reasons the government hates him so much.”

  The technician who had spoken gestured to Quekri and pointed to another projection. He said, “More bad news.”

  “What is it?” Quekri asked.

  “Watch,” the technician said. “I’ll replay it.”

  The projection showed the statue, “Emerging Man,” and several homeless men standing near it. Doug knew they often panhandled there. As they cowered away from something outside the camera’s view, two Elite Ops troopers entered the projection. They stopped in front of the statue and fired their weapons at it. In a thunderous blast, the top of the statue blew apart. Shards of rock flew everywhere. All that remained was the abstract part that emerged from the earth, barely recognizable as the statue’s legs.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Colonel Truman had to admit that the Elite Ops were effective. In two separate attacks, the two troopers out front had defended the shelter, the soldiers and the journalists outside—who recorded every second of the battles. Yet, despite the amazing coordination of their assaults, the speed and power with which they moved, Truman saw cracks. They were a little too reliant on input from their fellow troopers. They had to analyze too much data at any given moment. A few good men with particle beam cannons could inflict a lot of damage by acting separately.

  Even against the reservists they hadn’t been completely successful. The shelter, though still standing, had sustained several direct hits, mainly to the front of the b
uilding, collapsing part of the roof, sending debris flying in all directions and turning the lobby into an obstacle course of concrete and steel that his soldiers were now clearing. Thanks to the efforts of Sister Ezekiel, all the civilians made it to the basement before the rocket-propelled grenades struck.

  Through the smoke, Truman saw a group of homeless men running toward the shelter. When they saw the Elite Ops, they yelled and shrieked, then made a wide circle around the troopers. Eventually, they reached the ruined door, where they began babbling about explosions and the statue.

  Sister Ezekiel, Lendra by her side, emerged from the kitchen and said, “Calm down, men. Now what’s all this about the statue?”

  One of the homeless men stepped forward, bleeding from a cut under his eye. He said, “These two giant robots, Sister—like the ones out front—they come up the street and they stop in front a the statue and they fire some sorta weapons at it and the whole top a the goddam—sorry, Sister—the whole top a the statue blows apart in a gazillion pieces and a piece a the statue hits me in the face and I start bleedin’. And then they looks at me and I runs away as fast as I can and I grabs Freddy and some a these other guys here and we runs as fast as we can here.”

  Sister Ezekiel turned nearly as white as her habit. Truman strode forward and grabbed her arm. “Are you okay, Sister?”

  Lendra took the nun’s other arm. Together, they managed to steer her to a chair. Truman unscrewed his flask and handed it to her. She drank without protest, a bit of color returning to her cheeks.

  “Stupid, senseless violence,” she said. “Ignorant fools.”

  Truman said nothing but privately agreed with her. Such a waste. These Elite Ops had so far murdered thirty-two relatively harmless fugitives and blown up a reknowned work of art. A proud day. And the pseudos weren’t much better—attacking the shelter yesterday, putting all those children at risk.

  Lendra said, “I’ve been researching the statue, Sister, and I’ve discovered that the Escala revere it. They believe it points to the future of humanity. They see in it what Devereaux saw all those years ago—promise and possibility.”

  “The future of humanity,” Truman snorted. “As far as I’m concerned, these Escala and Elite Ops can both go to hell.”

  At that moment, Major Payne walked through the ruined doorway, Jones behind him, limping slightly. Only a trace of the rotting flesh odor flowed in with them. Following Jones were two more Elite Ops troopers, Las-rifles in their hands. One wore a gold cross affixed to his left breast, an oddity that seemed ironic given the circumstances. Congealed blood showed on Jones’ clothing but his face betrayed no sign of pain—no emotion at all.

  Bringing up the rear, another Elite Ops trooper carried a body. Even though the lobby was crowded, men moved out of the way for the Elite Ops. The men lined the walls, trying to get as far away as possible. The last trooper dropped the body to the floor. It landed with a thud, making Truman wince. It was a woman—clearly dead. An odor of burnt flesh and torched electronics emanated from her.

  Sister Ezekiel swayed slightly in her chair and Truman reached out a hand to steady her. Looking at Jeremiah, Lendra stepped forward, stopping only after Jones shook his head.

  Carlton the observer, wearing his sunglasses again, stepped out of Sister Ezekiel’s office, Gray Weiss trailing him. He stared at Jones, who ignored him. Instead Jones stared at the dead woman, pain evident on his face, his eyes glistening. Carlton asked, “How did it go out there, Major?”

  “No problems, sir. But all we found were these two. This one,” the major indicated Jones, “may be a pseudo. The woman was enhanced.”

  “Jeremiah, a pseudo?” Weiss said.

  “He’s at least been enhanced. Speed, strength, endurance. Very dangerous.”

  Sister Ezekiel used Truman’s hand to pull herself to her feet and marched over to Carlton. She said, “Why did your men blow up the statue?”

  “Icons of false ideologies promote blasphemous thoughts,” Carlton said.

  Weiss said, “Who’s the woman?”

  Major Payne looked at Carlton before replying. “No ID on her,” he said. “She’s wearing a scatterer, so we didn’t pick up her enhancements until we turned it off. She’s no innocent.”

  Truman saw Lendra glance at Jones, who didn’t notice her. He kept his eyes on the dead woman, his body quivering ever so slightly. He seemed to be fighting the urge to go to her. Lendra said, “Her name is Julianna Wentworth. She was masquerading as Dr. Mary.”

  “Dr. Mary?” Sister Ezekiel grabbed Truman’s arm. When the homeless men began to grumble, shifting their feet and glancing at the Elite Ops troopers, Sister Ezekiel let go of Truman and took a step toward Major Payne. “You killed my doctor?”

  Now the homeless men moved forward en masse, closing in on Major Payne. He and the other Elite Ops troopers touched buttons on their arms and once again that poisonous, noxious odor filled the room. The homeless men shrank back. Truman fought the revulsion in his stomach. He knew it was just a chemical reaction in his brain. But when he looked down he realized he was crouching. Slowly, almost against his will, he forced himself to stand erect. Weiss too fought off the effects of the gas. Jones seemed untroubled by it. He simply continued to stare at the dead woman as if nothing else in the world existed, as if his sadness had no room to spare for fear.

  After a few minutes, the Elite Ops pressed more buttons and the odor began to dissipate. Once again, the unreasoning fear melted away. The homeless men seemed to have been cowed, however, for they stayed by the walls, as far away from the Elite Ops as they could get.

  Weiss shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and stepped forward. He looked down at the body and said, “So that’s Julianna Wentworth. Interesting. I want a verification scan run on her, Colonel.”

  “Who is Julianna Wentworth?” Truman asked.

  Weiss ignored him. “As for you, Miss Riley, you seem to know a lot more about what’s going on than I would have suspected. Perhaps we should have a talk. Come with me. You too, Colonel.”

  Truman signaled for Captain Baynes to scan the woman’s body, then followed Weiss and Lendra to Sister Ezekiel’s office, which Weiss had commandeered. Behind him, Carlton and Major Payne moved forward. They stepped into the office too, Major Payne blocking the doorway with his bulk, his large helmet presenting a blank screen.

  Weiss held up his hand. “I don’t think we’ll need you or the Major here, RC.”

  Neither man spoke; neither showed any inclination to leave. Truman looked at Weiss, wondering what he should do. The Attorney General just shrugged and straightened his tie. “Very well,” he said, “we all have our responsibilities.” He turned to Lendra. “What are yours, Miss Riley?”

  Lendra spoke in a soft voice that trembled slightly. “I’m here with Jeremiah on behalf of President Hope.”

  “Who is working through CINTEP and Elias Leach,” Weiss said. “I wonder why.”

  Lendra stared back at him, her jaw rippling slightly, her back stiff.

  “I know Jeremiah is his best ghost. But who are you, a field agent in training?”

  “No,” Lendra’s voice gained power but the tremor remained. “I’m here to assist Jeremiah, relay messages to CINTEP and provide information as needed.”

  “How did you know Julianna Wentworth?”

  “She used to work for CINTEP. I met her for the first time yesterday. Jeremiah introduced us.”

  “She was Jeremiah’s ex-partner, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  Weiss rubbed his chin. “Did you know they were enhanced?”

  “All CINTEP’s field operatives have been enhanced,” Lendra said.

  “Approval must be granted for all non-medical enhancements. And they must be registered in the national database. I don’t remember seeing Jeremiah’s name in the database.”

  “If you have any questions abo
ut it, you can call Eli.”

  “No doubt he told you Jeremiah was legal, but we’ll have to verify that. All requests for genetic alteration must go through the Genetics Enforcement Agency, which is part of the Justice Department. Not even the President can authorize such a procedure without clearing it through my office.”

  Carlton said, “How many enhancements does he have? His readings put him at the upper limit of the human spectrum.”

  “What about you, Mr. Carlton?” Lendra said. Truman noticed that the tremor was now gone from her voice. She spoke clearly, her voice carrying beyond the confines of the room. “You’ve got the same implants as your Elite Ops troopers.”

  Carlton turned his head toward her, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. Major Payne stayed motionless, like some robot waiting to be called into action.

  “Is that true?” Weiss asked.

  As Carlton continued to stare at Lendra, she said, “You shouldn’t have kept records of the procedures. Records can be compromised.”

  Carlton said, “That is top secret. Ordered by the President. The only way to monitor the Elite Ops is to be connected to them. With their instantaneous communicative abilities, it’s the only way to insure that oversight can be brought to the project.”

  Weiss narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

  “It means, there could be problems discovering the truth of what happened after a particular incident if I were not linked. For example, I was able to see everything that happened during Jones’ capture through these.” He removed his sunglasses and showed them to Weiss, then put them back on.

  “Just as I’m linked to them, they’re linked to me. Everything they see or hear, I have the ability to see and hear. And vice versa. However, I have the option of terminating the link at my end so they can’t observe me. They don’t have that luxury.”

  “So you’re one of them?”

  “No, Gray. I could have been. But I’m a simple businessman. And I’m far too busy to get caught up in all this. Plus,” Carlton patted Major Payne on the shoulder, the master bragging about his dog, “these men are all huge. They work out constantly. Even though their power packs assist with their movements, they carry a lot of weight around with them. Like you, I’m too old for that.”