The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

“Jack, please,” Dr. Poole said. “Control yourself. Mr. Jones, I spoke with Elias Leach about you. He indicated that you are a man of your word. If you say you won’t try to break your son out of here, I’ll trust you.” She looked at Jeremiah, her eyebrows arched in a question.

  Jeremiah said, “I promise I won’t try to rescue him today.”

  Dr. Poole laughed as she clapped her hands. “Excellent! No promises about tomorrow. I expected nothing less. Are you ready?”

  Jeremiah’s chest tightened and he realized he still didn’t know what he was going to say to Joshua. His mouth went dry. Nevertheless he nodded, and Dr. Poole led him out the door. Marschenko followed.

  She grabbed Jeremiah’s arm as they walked. The smell of jasmine became more pronounced. After a few seconds she said, “I must warn you, he doesn’t look like a little boy any longer. And he’s often irrational except for when he plans violence.”

  Jeremiah caught the slight catch in her voice, detected the sorrow there. “Isn’t that what you intended?”

  “Not at all. Not everyone reacts the same way to the genetic surgery, the nano-implants and the hormonal treatments. Remember, there were early problems with the Mars Project Escala before they conquered their rage, before you so heroically rescued them.”

  “Devereaux saved the Escala.”

  “And you saved Devereaux so he could save them,” Dr. Poole said.

  They came to a junction in the tunnel and she steered him to the left. His muscles quivered with tension as he strained not to hammer his fist into her smug face. He felt like she should be able to perceive his anger. Yet her touch on his arm was light. Did she know how much hate he carried for her?

  “Usually,” she continued, “problems surface early on. That’s what happened with the Escala. But sometimes months or even years later the body devolves, rejecting the transplants. Your son devolved in this way. We don’t know why and we haven’t found a solution.”

  He detected an almost unnoticeable hesitation in her voice, an infinitesimal increase in the pressure she exerted on his arm. “What’s the long-term prognosis?”

  “It varies with each individual.”

  “Is it fatal?”

  Dr. Poole released his arm but held his gaze for a moment, then dropped her eyes as they came to a door, behind which an animal grunted loudly.

  “How . . . long . . . does he have?”

  She shrugged. “He answers to the name Damon now.” Then she touched a control panel and the plas-glass door became transparent. She stepped aside.

  Inside the padded room a young man sat on a cot staring at them. He had long dark hair, the first beginnings of a beard and a horribly scarred face, as if he’d clawed it over and over with his fingernails. He wore a T-shirt and tight pants. Bare feet. Muscular, though not overly developed like the Elite Ops. For a few seconds he and Jeremiah watched each other. Then he leapt off the cot and charged them with a howl of fury, slamming into the door with such force that Jeremiah cringed. The caged man growled, an animal sound of menace, making Jeremiah’s hair stand on end.

  For a fleeting moment, Jeremiah wanted the violent young man not to be his son. He immediately felt ashamed of that reaction. Studying the kid’s eyes, he noticed something familiar about them and realized that he saw them in the mirror every morning. The young man’s haunted hazel eyes looked out through the plas-glass door, beyond the three visitors, probably past the Moon itself. What had once been Joshua was gone. This creature looked nothing like the boy who’d been taken. He was a soldier now—an insane animal warrior.

  Jeremiah felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

  “You see why you can’t take Damon home with you. Even if we wanted to release him, he’s far too dangerous. And he’d only try to kill you. He has no memory of his family—no love left in him at all. So I’m afraid you came all this way for nothing.”

  There was truth in that statement: no hesitation, no tremor, no bluster. Jeremiah said, “I can take him to doctors. Somehow we can find a cure. At least calm him down.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Poole said. “I only promised to show him to you. We can never let Damon go.”

  Jeremiah looked at the tortured young man in the cell—the son they’d taken away. Poor Joshie. Poor Catherine. He said, “Can I show him a picture of his mother?”

  “He won’t recognize her,” Dr. Poole said with a wave of the hand, “but go ahead.”

  Jeremiah opened his wallet and took out an old-fashioned photo of Catherine. He held it up to the door. The young man snarled and threw himself forward again. Jeremiah stood his ground, kept the picture up. The young man threw himself against the door over and over, ramming his shoulder into the plas-glass. After a minute or so he stopped, began pacing like an animal, then moved toward the door, reached out through the small slot that allowed food trays to be passed inside and snatched the picture from Jeremiah’s hand. He bared his teeth as he growled again. He stared at the woman in the picture. Something came into his eyes—recognition, maybe—and his face softened a little. The violent young man—Jeremiah found it hard to think of him as Joshua—backed up to the cot, staring at the photograph. He sat with his legs curled up beneath him, rocking gently, and a quiet hum emanated from him. Jeremiah recognized the tune: an obscure old song Catherine had often sung: Children’s Moon.

  Whatever Jeremiah had to do, whoever he had to kill, he was going to get his son out of here.

  Marschenko leaned forward, peered through the door and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. Will you look at that? He knows her.”

  Dr. Poole shook her head. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible.” A lack of conviction in her voice: had she known Joshua would recognize the picture? She raised her voice: “Damon, who is that woman?”

  The young man glanced briefly at Dr. Poole and then returned his attention to the photograph. He brought the picture up to his face and rubbed it on his cheek, all the while humming quietly.

  Jeremiah said, “I think there’s more of my son left inside that young man than you know.”

  “One retained memory does not make him salvageable,” Dr. Poole replied.

  “Salvageable!” Jeremiah turned to face the doctor. “You talk like he’s a piece of garbage.”

  Dr. Poole lifted her hands as Marschenko stepped in front of her, his Las-rifle coming up to point at Jeremiah’s chest. “I apologize. I meant no offense, Mr. Jones. But what you must understand is that Damon is nothing more than a killing machine. He can’t be reasoned with.”

  Again that bitter truth echoed in her voice. And yet . . . Jeremiah said, “You also thought he wouldn’t react to a picture of his mother.”

  “True,” Dr. Poole conceded. “And I don’t claim to know every possible permutation of his condition. I admit his recognition of Catherine is surprising. Some latent memory perhaps.” Dr. Poole shook her head and sighed. “But if you think he can be gentled, you’re mistaken.”

  The hesitation in her words could have been doubt or deception. Jeremiah returned to the door, bent down to the opening and called out softly, “Joshua. Joshie.”

  The young man looked up at him.

  “I’m your father, Joshie. Remember me? Daddy?”

  The young man’s right eye twitched. He dropped the picture, closed his eyes and clawed at his face, gouging out furrows in the skin. Several drops of blood fell on the photograph.

  “Damon, no!” Dr. Poole said.

  The young man whimpered, opened his eyes. As he looked at Dr. Poole, the blood on his face began to darken, coagulating into a scab.

  “Whoa,” Marschenko said. “Look at that. He’s already healing.”

  “He scratches himself often,” Dr. Poole said, “so his body has adapted to heal that particular injury quickly.”

  “I’d like to go into the room with him,” Jeremiah said.

  “He�
�ll react violently.”

  “Maybe. But I might be able to get through to him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Poole said. “It’s my responsibility. My decision. And I believe it’s too dangerous.”

  A sudden fury overcame Jeremiah. His whole body shook. Nothing would stop him now. Calm down, he told himself. Think it through. “Tell me something, Doctor,” he said, “why did you get involved in this program?”

  Dr. Poole frowned. “My specialty is the physiological dynamic of the psychology of trans-genetic species, particularly human-animal hybrids like you and your son.”

  “So an interaction between me and my son would hold some interest for you.”

  Dr. Poole smiled. “Oh, you’re good.”

  “I would think you could learn a great deal from studying how we relate to each other, whether he has any residual recognition beneath the physiological and psychological changes you’ve created in him, not to mention how I react to his behavior.”

  Dr. Poole clapped her hands again. “Bravo! Well done, Mr. Jones. You’ve sufficiently piqued my curiosity. As long as you agree to be wired, I’ll let you into his cell. But I can’t guarantee your safety—not at all.”

  Jeremiah nodded.

  “Let me just get a neural transmitter for you. I’ll be right back.”

  As Dr. Poole retreated down the tunnel, Marschenko looked at Jeremiah, the barest hint of a smile visible, and said, “You’re under constant surveillance, Jones. We’ve got a dozen Elite Ops here. And even if you somehow broke your son out and made it back to LB1, you’d still have to get through the military quarters, where two squads are on rotating shifts every six hours. Not to mention that we’d have plenty of time to arrange a reception on Earth for your return. You’ve got no chance to rescue him. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Jeremiah said with relief. Marschenko was giving Jeremiah as much information as he’d been able to accumulate since he arrived. It wasn’t much. And the odds against Jeremiah were tremendous. But he would find a way.

  Dr. Poole returned within a minute. She attached the neural transmitter to the back of his neck and nodded to Marschenko to open the door.

  When the lock clicked open, the young man looked up at them. He slid the picture of Catherine under his pillow and got to his feet. As Jeremiah stepped into the room, the lock clicked back into place. Jeremiah stayed loose, preparing himself for an attack. He noted the rank odor of the unwashed boy, the dimensions of the ten-by-ten padded cell, the tensing muscles of the young man in front of him. The rage still sang inside Jeremiah’s mind, but he knew he couldn’t strike his son. He hoped he wouldn’t have to. Holding his hands out in front of him, he tried to calm the boy.

  “It’s okay, Joshie,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

  The young man went completely still for a second, then leapt at him.

  Jeremiah dropped to the floor and the young man’s momentum carried him into the padded wall. Jeremiah turned and saw Joshua latch onto the padding halfway up to the ceiling. He stayed there, as if stuck, and stared at Jeremiah, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration or confusion. Jeremiah stood, his hands outspread in a non-threatening gesture.

  “Joshie,” Jeremiah tried again. “I’m your father. I’m Daddy. I taught you how to ride your bike. Remember?”

  Joshua launched himself off the wall, his fists aimed at Jeremiah’s head. As Jeremiah ducked, the young man kicked him in the stomach. A classic diversionary tactic, Jeremiah realized. Doubled over, he backed into a corner. Tears wrapped his eyes as he struggled to understand how his son could hate him this much.

  “My God, what have they done to you, Joshie?” Jeremiah pleaded. “Don’t you remember anything? That jungle gym in the park with the bright colors? And afterwards we used to go get hot fudge sundaes?”

  Joshua crouched in the far corner, glaring at Jeremiah, his right eye twitching again. Once more the boy closed his eyes and dug his fingernails into his face. Then he cried out. Jeremiah’s breath caught in his throat. If he could, he’d give his life to save this poor boy.

  Taking a step forward, his hands out in front of him to signal peace and calmness, Jeremiah said, “It’s okay, Joshie.” His stomach twisted, on the verge of upheaval. He couldn’t have imagined a nightmare this awful. “It’s going to be all right. We’re going to help you.”

  Joshua tensed and Jeremiah knew he was about to attack again.

  “Remember the garden we planted every spring?” Jeremiah asked, hoping he could somehow get through, hoping his son wasn’t lost forever behind a curtain of insensate hatred. “If nothing else, Joshua, remember this. I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  The young man flung himself at Jeremiah, unleashing a barrage of punches, hitting Jeremiah in the head and stomach. Jeremiah covered himself as best he could, refusing to fight back, deflecting only the occasional blow. Thinking he might vomit, he took the pain. He deserved it. The boy kept hitting him. He closed his eyes, dropped to the floor and folded himself into a fetal position. Hands and feet struck him—every blow a reminder of his failure. Maybe if he just let the boy attack until he tired himself out . . . maybe then he’d listen to his father. Jeremiah feared he might lose consciousness. If he did, would his son kill him? He wasn’t sure he cared.

  Then it stopped.

  Jeremiah heard the sizzle of a Las-rifle, saw the blue light of a stun pulse as the boy fell. Behind him, the towering figure of Jack Marschenko stood, Las-rifle pointed at Jeremiah’s chest. At the doorway, Dr. Poole looked at Marschenko, her brow knotted in confusion.

  “Jack?” Dr. Poole said. “What was that?”

  Marschenko, out of concern for Jeremiah’s life, had just blown his cover.

  He lowered his Las-rifle. “I don’t know why I did that. I want you dead, you son of a bitch. Why would I save your stinkin’ life?” He turned to Dr. Poole. “Why, Doc? Why’d I do it?”

  “I don’t know, Jack,” Dr. Poole said. “We’ll discuss that later.” She turned to Jeremiah. “You can see why I didn’t want to let you into his cell. Are you okay?”

  Jeremiah struggled to his feet. “I heal quickly. You know that.”

  “Still, it must hurt. He hit you hard.”

  “And often,” Marschenko added.

  Just shut up, Jack, Jeremiah thought as he reached up and touched the swelling around his left eye. You might have saved it already. Don’t overdo it.

  Jeremiah’s head ached but it was nothing compared to the nausea and depression of utter loss. He found it difficult to breathe, like his body was shutting down on him.

  Dr. Poole said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones.”

  “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Why don’t you give up and go home?” Marschenko said. “Do us all a favor and kill yourself.”

  “Jack,” Dr. Poole said, “I’ll see you in my quarters. As for you, Mr. Jones,” she went quiet for a second, an unfocused stare indicating that she was using her interface, “Talbert and Alamein will escort you back to the military area.”

  Chapter Five

  Dr. Taditha Poole stared at the data from the neurotransmitter she’d attached to Jeremiah’s neck, trying to focus. But she couldn’t concentrate. For some reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about Jack Marschenko. She wanted him badly. The notion of love at first sight struck her as ludicrous. How could she be so enamored of him? Maybe because the big Elite Ops trooper was so clearly in cahoots with Jones. A couple of nice guys: Jones only wanted his son back. She wished she could help, tell him that Damon wasn’t his son, that it was in fact Curtik, the head of the male cadets.

  She touched up her makeup and raised the hem of her black skirt above the knee with a hyper-static adjustment. She checked the time. Marschenko would be here any minute. Around him, she no longer despised the Moon, no longer felt anxious at how long she’d been up here. How did he
feel about her? Might he reciprocate her feelings?

  When he arrived, she gestured to the chair in front of her desk. “Well, now,” she said. “Let’s talk about why you saved Jones.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, Doc.” Marschenko fidgeted in his seat. “I don’t know why I did it.”

  “You obviously like fair play. Could it be that you didn’t want Damon to kill him when he refused to fight back?”

  “That sounds about right. But I hate the pseudos. All the Elite Ops do.”

  Poole smiled as she got to her feet and sashayed around her desk to her sofa. She plopped down on it and patted the cushion next to her. “Come,” she said.

  Marschenko complied, a mountain of hot muscle sitting beside her. A brief frisson touched her as his eyes traveled slowly down her body. He said, “Yes, Doc?”

  “You have a history with Jeremiah apart from simply taking his son. You want to tell me about it?”

  Marschenko took his eyes off her, looked at the far wall. “It’s a personal matter.”

  Poole smiled. “You’re not as angry with Jeremiah as you would have us believe. All your talk—it’s a little over the top. You’ve made an arrangement with him.”

  Marschenko’s eyes returned to her. He leaned back against the cushion, folded his arms in front of his chest and said, “How much do you know about my disappearance last year?”

  “Only that you were incommunicado for several days and that the disciplinary board issued a ruling of ‘no fault,’ meaning you were not punished for leaving.”

  Marschenko nodded. “It’s classified. No one up top wanted the truth out. And the truth is that Jones captured me, locked me in a basement and held me there while he searched for his son. I told him nothing and eventually he let me go.”

  “So is he your enemy or your friend?”

  Marschenko looked up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling.

  “Don’t worry,” Poole said. “It’s temporarily disabled.”

  “Honest to God, Doc, I don’t know what to think of Jones. He coulda killed me.”