The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Curtik smiled. “Good idea. Let’s give it a shot.”

  Cho spoke slowly and forcefully: “You will not harm me.”

  “What do you think, Zora?” Curtik said. “Should we see if we can? We have to find out sometime, unless we want to be slaves forever.”

  Zora pursed her lips in that way she had when she was mulling over a difficult problem. Poole turned to Rendela and said, “You have to tell her not to do it. You need Cho to complete your mission.”

  Rendela stared at Poole for a moment, smiled and turned back to the monitors.

  Benn said, “Do it.”

  “Don’t do it, Zora,” Poole begged, unable to stop the words from bubbling out of her mouth even though she knew Zora couldn’t hear them. “You’ll ruin yourself. Please.”

  Zora said, “Okay. But he’s the last one for now. We have to save the others in case we need them. Hostages are good leverage.”

  “Whoo hoo!” Curtik whooped. “Come on, Choey. Let’s see how you do.”

  “Is this necessary?” Quekri said.

  As Curtik glared at her, Quark took a step forward. Poole could see that even the cadets were intimidated by his bulk. Their eyes widened. Zora held up a hand and beckoned Quekri over. When Quekri bent her head to Zora’s level, Poole strained to listen over the hum of the air recycler, but again Zora spoke too softly for the sensors to pick up her words. After perhaps a minute, Quekri nodded, her face scrunched up in anger, her fists clenched at her sides. Zora looked over at Curtik and said, “Go.”

  “This is crazy,” Cho yelled.

  Phan grabbed his arm as Curtik sealed the outer doors of the airlock and repressurized it.

  “Your conditioning prohibits any action that will harm me,” Cho said as Addam grabbed his other arm. Phan looked pale, but Addam, with his QuikHeal bandage feeding him a high dosage of anesthetics, looked unconcerned.

  “You can’t do this,” Cho said. “Ask Dr. Poole. She’ll tell you. You cannot do this.”

  When the light above the doors turned green, Curtik opened the inner doors again. Addam and Phan walked Cho to the airlock, escorting him to the outside doors of the airlock. Phan wobbled a little as he walked but he held tightly to Cho’s arm.

  “You won’t be able to open the outer doors,” Cho said, shaking his head. “Look at you.” He glared at Phan. “You can barely walk.”

  “This feels weird,” Curtik said. “Like I’m going to puke. But also like I’m going to explode with happiness.”

  “Yeah,” Aspen paled even more than usual, as if near to fainting.

  Addam and Phan left Cho at the outer doors and backed out of the airlift, their Las-rifles pointed at him, while everyone in the hangar stared. Poole felt an almost irresistible urge to scream at the utter insanity of it. She wished she were still connected to her interface so she could talk to Zora—convince her that this was madness—or at least understand how the cadets were able to force themselves past the loyalty barrier.

  Curtik closed the inner doors, took a couple of deep breaths and put his hand up to the button that would open the outer doors. Cho stared at him, arms crossed over his chest, chin up, daring Curtik to open the doors. Was Cho that brave or did he believe that Curtik wouldn’t do it?

  Long seconds passed. No one moved. Poole realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled.

  Zora said, “Curtik.”

  Poole wanted to believe that she meant for Curtik to stop, but he stabbed the button, the outer doors opened and Zora did nothing. Along with the air, Cho was swept out onto the lunar surface. He tripped over the dead man and fell, his glasses coming off, struggled to his feet and began walking away from the doors. Poor brave man. Where was he going? He made it about thirty feet before collapsing. Poole, fighting back the bile in her throat, saw that the cadets all looked like they were going to be sick. More than half of them vomited, including Zora. Addam and Curtik took it the best but they were also the only two wearing QuikHeal bandages.

  “Oh, Zora,” Poole said. “What have you done?” She glanced at the screen to see Eli’s reaction. He stared at the scene, his face twisted. Was that because of the stroke or did he actually feel some guilt?

  The cadets seemed to have forgotten their prisoners. The Escala shook their heads and looked away but made no move to attack. Most of the tourists and workers were shaking or sitting on the floor. The soldiers stood still, their eyes locked on the body, visible through the plas-glass doors. After a few seconds, several of them started to move toward the cadets.

  Zora, coming out of her trance, said, “Don’t even think about committing suicide.”

  The children re-trained their weapons on their hostages.

  “If we can do that,” Zora said, “to a man we were conditioned to protect, imagine what we can do to you, who we’ve been encouraged to kill. Any resistance will be met with extreme violence. I don’t want that. You don’t want that. You behave and we’ll behave. Otherwise, you’ll be asked to join the Admiral.” She smiled. “This is the only warning you get, so be good, okay?”

  Curtik finally closed the outer doors. He began to laugh, a bubbling-up-from-within kind of laughter that spilled over into something approaching hysteria. A few of the children joined in—Addam, Aspen, Phan. The rest still looked stunned. Benn giggled too, while Rendela merely shook her head in silence. Then Benn pointed at Poole and said, “Hey, you up for nexties?”

  Poole shivered.

  “Benn,” Rendela said. “Don’t terrorize the doctor. We may need her.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jeremiah studied the flickering torch on the wall of his stone dungeon—but something kept tugging him away. He fought it for a long time, but eventually surrendered to its urgent call. He awoke to a screeching alarm that jangled his nerves. Shutting it off with a voice command, he glanced about the room. Empty.

  The air recycler hummed and the faint antiseptic odor of the hospital wrinkled his nose. He suppressed the urge to sneeze, knowing the torture it would cause. Nurse Manuella, if she’d made her usual early-morning visit, had not disturbed him.

  He pressed the call icon. When no one appeared after a few minutes, he pressed it again—still no response. Raising the lights, he disconnected the rehab massagers and prepared himself for the agony of movement. He sat up, sweat breaking out across his forehead, and lifted his legs from the machines. His shoulders felt like they were embedded with knives, stabbing him with every movement; his knees produced a sharp pain that came in waves. Sliding his legs over the edge of the bed, he stood.

  But even in the Moon’s lower gravity the agony nearly overwhelmed him. He cried out. Somehow he remained standing. If he fell, he’d never get back to his feet. Clenching his teeth, hobbling on broken legs, Jeremiah made it to the desk and settled into the chair, then touched the doctors’ intercom. Again nothing. What was going on out there? Had Admiral Cho instituted martial law?

  No, it had to be the cadets: Curtik and his friends. He’d killed Marschenko, and Poole had been afraid of him—of all the children, actually. They must have taken over the settlement, cut off all communications.

  Would they come for him?

  Jeremiah looked through the desk for a weapon. Nothing—not even a Las-knife. Getting into the wall cabinet meant he would have to get to his feet again. Using the back of the chair and the desk top, he managed to prop himself up long enough to open the door and pull out a dozen QuikHeal bandages before the pain forced him to sit.

  He waited a few seconds for the near-blackness to recede. His head pounded and tears filled his eyes. Unwrapping two QuikHeal bandages, he slapped them on his legs, setting the anesthetic release to maximum. When no relief came, he remembered Devereaux telling him that the Susquehanna Virus’ attack on his immune system impeded his ability to absorb anesthetics. Well, if they wouldn’t work for him, could he somehow use them as a weapon?


  Jeremiah removed the anesthetic packets from eight of the bandages and added them to the delivery systems in the other two. He adjusted the settings to maximum. Now each bandage, when attached to the skin, would deliver a massive dose of anesthetic, enough to instantaneously render a person unconscious. Not much of a weapon, especially against the cadets, but better than nothing.

  As he resealed the bandages, he heard footsteps outside and turned the chair toward the door, grabbing a bandage in each hand and dropping them to his sides. He’d only get one chance and he’d have to wait for an assailant to get close enough to touch, but better to go down fighting.

  When a huge shadow filled the door, he relaxed.

  “It’s me,” Quark said in his deep rumble before entering the room—a great hairy beast with a grim expression. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the QuikHeal bandages in Jeremiah’s hands.

  “The cadets?” Jeremiah said.

  Quark nodded. “They killed Admiral Cho and threatened us.” Quark went to the closet and retrieved Jeremiah’s bag. “They’ve got the Moon under control. But I think they might let us go. I think they believe we’re kindred spirits.”

  Jeremiah said nothing to dispel Quark’s belief, no matter how naïve it sounded. Instead, he let Quark help him to a wheelchair. “I’ll take you to LB2,” Quark said.

  “What about Devereaux?”

  “He’s in the lab working on the Susquehanna Virus. Zora’s letting us take you and your son. Dr. Wellon might be able to help you and Damon.”

  “Who is Zora?”

  “The cadets’ leader.”

  “What about a boy named Curtik?” Jeremiah asked, the rage, almost forgotten until now, rising again—the almost uncontrollable urge to kill Marschenko’s murderer.

  “He’s with Zora,” Quark said. “I don’t think she trusts him, but she uses him for her dirty work.”

  Jeremiah clutched the QuikHeal bandages he’d modified. Paltry weapons though they were, they comforted him. “I’d like to meet him some day. When I’m better. For now, let’s find Damon.”

  “They’re bringing him to LB2,” Quark said, rolling Jeremiah out the door. “We’ll meet them there.”

  The main hangar was quiet. Eerie. Only six cadets in sight: three boys and three girls patrolled the place. They stared at Jeremiah and Quark as the wheelchair rolled through, but made no move to stop them. As they took the railcar to LB2, Quark told Jeremiah that everyone was locked up or confined to quarters. Zora had promised they wouldn’t be harmed if they followed her orders. For a moment Jeremiah flashed on Kyler, the spunky little girl whom he had come to think of as a friend. Was she frightened? He wanted to comfort her. He wanted his son to be like her instead of some deranged maniac who didn’t even know his own name. No. It wasn’t Joshie’s fault—Damon’s fault. He was just a little boy who’d been forced to grow up too quickly.

  Quekri met them at the tunnel entrance to LB2. She said, “Damon’s with Wellon. Krall, Oggie and Poon are helping, making sure he doesn’t attack her while she’s examining him.”

  She led the way to the infirmary, past the common room and the mess hall, through the labs. The Escala continued their work, pausing to nod at him before returning to their tasks. Jeremiah was surprised at the normality of their behavior—as if they didn’t care that the cadets had taken over. Something must have shown in his face, for Quekri said, “We couldn’t interfere.”

  “They have Las-rifles,” Quark added defensively, “and they’re trained warriors. We only want to go to Mars.”

  “Not your fault,” Jeremiah said. “Getting yourselves killed won’t help anyone.”

  When they reached the infirmary, the three boys who had stopped Jeremiah on his first visit clustered around Damon and Dr. Wellon, holding Damon’s arms and legs as he flailed about despite being strapped to a gurney.

  Damon growled and spat at the boys but they restrained him as Dr. Wellon administered an injection. Gradually his movements weakened and the boys looked at each other, eyebrows raised, their arms still locked around his.

  “It’s okay,” Dr. Wellon said. “You can ease up.”

  “That’s it?” Jeremiah said. “It’s that easy to get him under control?”

  “Not quite,” Dr. Wellon said as she turned to face him. “Dr. Poole avoided giving him sedatives and painkillers for a good reason. They don’t eliminate the aggression. He still wants to kill us. And the drugs accelerate his parasympathetic nervous system and trigger a reaction in his nano-processors that ages his cellular structure geometrically. Plus, the sedatives and painkillers make his cells mutate more quickly—a kind of cancer. It’s already spread throughout his body.”

  Jeremiah felt himself growing angry but he kept his voice calm. “Why are you giving him an injection?”

  “I need him cooperative during my examination. And I don’t think it can hurt him much more. His body has already deteriorated about as much as it can.”

  Jeremiah wheeled himself over and the boys parted to let him through. “Joshie,” he said, “it’s going to be okay. I’m here. Your dad’s here.” He reached out and grabbed his son’s limp hand.

  “Damon,” the cadet said as he pulled his hand free. “My name is Damon.” He stared at Jeremiah, hatred in his eyes.

  “Damon, then,” Jeremiah said as he held back the fear and sadness. “We’re going to figure out how to help you.”

  A noise at the doorway caused them all to turn. A beautiful girl stood there. She looked about eighteen, with an angelic face surrounded by a halo of golden hair. When she smiled, showing off perfect white teeth, her brown eyes twinkled in the light. The Escala teens straightened; Krall ran a hand through his hair.

  “Hello, Zora,” Quekri said. “What can we do for you?”

  Zora stepped into the room. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to take over LB2. I just wanted to check on Damon, see if you’d found anything. And I brought Dr. Poole’s records along. Thought they might help.” She held out a data cube that Dr. Wellon took. She looked at Jeremiah and said, “You must be Damon’s father. I’m one of the people who rescued you from SPR8. I’m sorry about your friend, Jack Marschenko. But Curtik has always been . . . hasty.”

  “Meaning what?” Jeremiah said. “That you would have killed him more slowly?”

  Zora wagged her finger at him, an endearing gesture that nonetheless left him cold. “I’ve downloaded Dr. Poole’s file on you, Mr. Jones. I know a great deal about you—who you’ve killed and why. You’re a bad man. And I’m a bad girl.”

  “Zora?” Damon said.

  Zora slid past the three Escala teens, who eased away, staring at her with rapturous gazes. Ignoring them, she approached Jeremiah, smelling like a dandelion—an oddly sweet yet somewhat spicy aroma, unlike the Escala boys, who emitted a distinctly musky, almost metallic odor. Jeremiah found himself tensing, reaching for the QuikHeal bandages by his legs. Her eyes caught the movement, but she just shook her head slightly and grabbed Damon’s hand. She said, “I’m here, Damon. How are you?” She caressed his cheek. “You doing all right?”

  At Zora’s touch, Damon relaxed. The malevolence left his eyes and he smiled at her. “I don’t like it here, Zora.”

  “I know you don’t,” Zora said.

  “Can we leave?”

  Zora shook her head. “Got a job to do. I can’t leave yet. Do you want to go back to Earth with your dad?”

  Jeremiah looked at Damon and smiled but Damon shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

  Dr. Wellon said, “Do you remember your parents at all, Damon?”

  “I remember Mom a little,” Damon said.

  “What about your dad?”

  “He was gone a lot.”

  “Off killing people,” Zora said with a nonchalant wave of her hand, “to make the world a better place.”

  Jeremiah’s face burned with shame.


  “My head hurts,” Damon said. He began to cry, then reached up to his scarred face with his free hand and clawed at it again.

  “Damon!” Zora said.

  Damon dropped his hand and Zora latched onto it. On his face, furrows of red appeared and almost immediately began to heal.

  “You have to stop doing that,” Zora said.

  “I’ll try, Zora,” Damon said.

  “Not good enough. You have to remember—no more scratching.”

  “But it feels right.”

  “I know,” Zora said. She released Damon’s hands and ruffled his dark hair. Then she turned her back on him and made for the door. When she reached it, she looked at Jeremiah and said, “Mr. Jones, I’d like to speak with you outside. Alone. If it’s too painful, I can wheel you out there.”

  “Not necessary,” Jeremiah said, grunting as he wheeled himself toward the door. Part of him wanted to stay with Damon, but he’d seen the calming effect Zora had on his son and wanted to keep on her good side. He had trouble reading this girl. How strong was the programming that had turned her into a killer?

  When the door closed behind him, Zora said, “Why does Curtik want to kill you?”

  “Curtik?” Jeremiah shrugged, wincing at the pain. “I don’t know him.”

  “He seems to know you,” Zora said. “In his clumsy way, he tried to manipulate me into letting him kill you. Why would he do that if he didn’t know you?”

  Jeremiah let the rage fill him. It diminished ever so slightly the pain in his broken bones, the needle-like stabbing in every joint. “I heard he wants to kill everyone. And he killed Marschenko for no reason.”

  Zora shook her head. “There’s more to it than that. You work for Eli.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Whatever.” Zora lifted her hands. “The point is, we’re Eli’s agents too. But he never said anything to me about you. Do you think he would have given separate instructions to Curtik to kill you? And if so, why?”

  “I don’t know,” Jeremiah said. Though Eli had to know that Jeremiah would be tempted to pay him back for the pain he’d caused—not just Joshua’s kidnapping but Catherine’s death and even Julianna’s.