The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  “You were right, Shiloh,” he said. “This is unbelievable.”

  Together, the two of them drifted out of the room.

  The hours became a blur after that. Poole, Hackett and his team saw cadet after cadet, each of them in varying stages of anxiety attacks. They were eager to experience the drug-induced pleasure and impatient to the verge of violence until the euphoramine kicked in. Each had a frightening reaction to the injections: some spasmed; some became angry; Benn actually fired his Las-rifle at van Wyck. Fortunately, the stun setting saved the South African’s life. Dr. Lee took him to his quarters after that. Of all the cadets, only Zora, Rendela and Aspen stayed away.

  The last cadet to arrive was Wee Willie. When he stepped into the room, Poole held her breath. Hackett glanced down at Wee Willie’s Las-rifle and trembled. Once again, Garcia slid in front of him, putting herself in the line of fire. This time, Hackett nudged her aside. He said, “If you want to kill me, kill me. But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “It’s okay, Doc,” Wee Willie said, his expression bland, his body relaxed. “I know it wasn’t your fault. In fact, why don’t you give me the injection?”

  Hackett looked at Poole, his eyes wide, mouth open.

  Wee Willie nodded reassuringly. “I just wanna see what all the fuss is about.” He held up a hand to stop Poole from approaching him and sidled over to Hackett. Garcia stared at him but backed away.

  “Are you sure?” Hackett asked.

  “Positive.” Wee Willie looked at the far wall as if afraid to watch the injection. He waited while Hackett selected a hypo pad. Poole couldn’t help but imagine Wee Willie twisting around and breaking Hackett’s neck or firing his Las-rifle into Hackett’s face, but Wee Willie just stood motionless.

  As Hackett administered the hypo pad, his hands shook so badly he missed Wee Willie’s hand, placing the pad on the cadet’s wrist. Wee Willie smiled encouragingly. For a moment it looked like he wouldn’t have a reaction to the euphoramine. He blinked repeatedly as his jaw snapped open and closed. After maybe half a minute the tension in his face eased.

  “Good,” Wee Willie said. He smiled—a crazy, lopsided smile that Poole suspected was only partly due to the euphoric. “No hard feelings, Doc?” Wee Willie held out his hand and Hackett reached out tentatively. Grabbing his hand, Wee Willie shook it while Hackett winced.

  Wee Willie let go. “It’s gonna be fine, Doc. We’re all in this together.” He turned and walked out the door.

  Poole realized her heart was racing: breaths rapid, hands clenched into fists, sweat trickling down her sides. Her coverall suddenly felt cold from the moisture.

  “I thought he was going to kill me,” Hackett said. “Did you see his eyes?”

  Poole nodded, slowed her breathing. Garcia grabbed Hackett’s arm. As Poole slumped into a chair the room began to blur. Why was she crying? Exhaustion? Relief? She reached for a tissue and wiped the tears away. “He didn’t seem nervous,” she said. “I wonder why he—”

  Hackett clutched his chest. His face turned purple—mouth opening in a rictus of agony as he fought for air, making choking noises, lurching toward Poole. Garcia reached for him but missed. He toppled as Poole struggled out of her chair. It took ages for him to hit the floor.

  Garcia screamed, while Nakamura and Srinlangshiran rushed forward to help. They turned Hackett’s rigid body onto its back and tore the top of his coverall open. His eyes stared blankly past them.

  “No, no, no,” Garcia said as she dropped to her knees beside Hackett. She grabbed his hand while Poole did chest compressions and Nakamura hooked Hackett up to the AutoLife machine. Within seconds, Srinlangshiran activated the heart/lung functions and Poole was able to stop her work. She sat back on her heels as Hackett’s face turned a grayish white.

  The AutoLife machine whirred as it pumped blood and oxygen through Hackett’s body but even though Hackett’s chest rose and fell, Poole could tell it wasn’t enough. The brainwave activity monitor showed nothing. All the AutoLife machine was doing was keeping his organs fresh.

  Using her interface, Poole contacted Zora and told her that Hackett was dead.

  “Are you sure?” Zora asked.

  “Wee Willie gave him some sort of poison. He’s got zero brain function.”

  “He never had any brains. So how can you be sure he’s dead?”

  “Zora,” Poole said.

  “I gave Wee Willie permission,” Zora said. “It was Hack’emup who sabotaged our nanobots.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “It was either Hack’emup or you. Should I kill you too, just to be sure?” She disconnected without waiting for a reply. Poole shivered. While treating these cadets, she’d almost convinced herself that everything was going to be fine. But Hackett’s death served as a reminder that they wouldn’t be safe until . . . when? Maybe not until all the cadets were dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  While President Angelica Hope enlisted Jay-Edgar’s help in connecting with a group of the world’s leaders via holo-projection, Elias Leach moved out of range of the holo-camera. He noted that China had been excluded as he activated his PlusPhone’s sound filter so he could speak with Dr. Hassan.

  “I’m telling you,” he said, “my skin still itches.”

  “But it’s better than it was, right?” Dr. Hassan replied.

  “A little, maybe.”

  “And it will keep getting better if you just don’t think about it. It’s not unusual to have itching for a few days after implantation. Your body is still adapting to the ’bots. But we ran all the tests and your body will not reject them. This is just your well-known Frankenstein complex triggering your imagination. I can prescribe neo-dopamine to alleviate your anxiety. You’ll be fine. Try to relax.”

  “Relax!” Elias disconnected and deactivated the sound filter so he could listen to the mostly pompous asses discussing what to do about the problem on the Moon.

  The Russian President, Piotr Navrakov, said, “Russia will never yield to threats.” The metallic voice of the translator sounded oddly calm contrasted with the redness of his face. It didn’t synchronize with his lips, making the holo-projection look like some ancient movie that had been poorly dubbed into English. “We will not disband our government. We have been freely elected. And we will not walk away because of the threats of a few terrorists on the Moon.” He turned to stare directly at President Hope. “Everyone knows your country created this mess. One of your agents is responsible.”

  The French President chimed in next, wearing a scarf in compliance with her Islamic beliefs. “France will not disband our government. We’ve sent these infidels on the Moon a dozen messages, warning them that any attack on France will be met with overpowering force and reminding them that any dispute they have with Earth is with you.”

  President Hope nodded to Jay-Edgar, who overrode the audio circuits and allowed her to speak next: “Blame is not important right now. Staying out of it isn’t an option. These children see the whole Earth as their enemy. And I didn’t endorse the idea of dismantling our governments. I merely pointed out that Zora and her cadets had demanded it. I’m sure none of us intends to comply with that demand. What we have to figure out is how we’re going to stop them before their next attack. We don’t know where they’ll strike. Frankly, given their personalities and your warning to them, France might be the next target they choose.”

  The Great Pomposity, as Elias thought of Brazil’s President, came next: “If there was any justice in the world, they would hit the United States. Frankly, the world would be better off without your bullying and ubiquitous cultural presence. Perhaps if we attacked you as well, those Moon children would accept that we mean them no harm and back off.”

  Jay-Edgar gave President Hope the audio again: “Fighting among ourselves is what they want. We have to unite against this threat, not claw each other to death.
These children will engage any and all of us. They haven’t discriminated between friend and foe to date and there’s no reason to believe they will in the future. We must band together for the sake of our planet and work toward a unified goal—defeating our common enemy.”

  England’s Prime Minister, Gwendolyn Pryce-Jones said: “I agree. We must move beyond our fractured past.”

  “But America caused these deaths,” the Italian Idiot said. “You are responsible for them as much as if you pulled the trigger. Someone in your country created these warrior children.”

  “It was irresponsible,” the Arrogant Argentinian added. “More importantly, it was the wrong goal. We all know the world’s falling apart. Look at what Brazil has done to its rain forest.” Brazil’s Great Pomposity turned red and began stabbing at the audio icon but the Arrogant Argentinian ignored him. “Look at the terrorism birthed by the Middle East. Look at the pollution caused by the growth of Asia.”

  “Let’s stay on course,” India’s Prime Minister said, beating the Great Pomposity to the icon. “We don’t need another discussion about how we’re destroying the world and how we need to prepare the planet for our children’s children. China has attacked us. Now the Moon has attacked us. We need help, not more Devereauxnian platitudes.”

  “It’s not off point,” Pryce-Jones said. She’d become more a Devereauxnian each passing year. Three people to her left in the holo-projection, Brazil’s President Penela was yelling silently as he stabbed at the audio icon. Elias laughed softly. “It’s a vital discussion essential to the viability of our planet’s ecosystem, which we have not stewarded properly. And one of the reasons is the competitive nature of our governments toward each other. Grasping what we can before anyone else can seize it. Perhaps this threat can bring us together.”

  “Russia’s needs are Russia’s needs,” Navrakov said. He glanced sideways at Brazil’s Great Pomposity, the trace of a smirk on his face. A few other participants moved their hands over their audio icons, prepared to stab downward and keep the Brazilian from the audio as long as possible. A game they’d played before whenever one of their number became severely agitated. “They cannot be sacrificed for an uncertain future. I applaud the goal of cooperation but not at the expense of my people. We lost thousands in those attacks. Someone must pay.”

  India’s Prime Minister said, “No one has suffered more than India. China’s claims that a rogue military cell attacked us are not credible. We launched a counter strike, of course, but we need a global response to that aggression.”

  “Please,” President Hope said. “Even though China may have preemptively attacked you, we have a more immediate global problem.”

  “If you will not help us, we will not help you.” India’s screen went blank.

  Elias pushed his chair another three inches away from the holo-camera. He wondered if all his planning had been for naught. Would the nations of Earth learn to work together? They had to. Some day, when Earth was stronger, safer, more secure, history would thank him. And yet, he had a dread feeling that something awful was about to happen. Too many uncertainties lay before him. His anxiety had been building since Zora took over the Moon and began doing unpredictable things. She had an agenda he couldn’t discern. And she was overdue for an attack.

  Brazil’s Great Pomposity finally hit the audio, his face red with anger. Elias engaged his sound filter to silence the coming rant. Shaking his head, his eye landed briefly on the Elite Ops trooper beside the door. Elias felt an itch between his shoulder blades. He grabbed a pen and used that to scratch himself.

  Activating his PlusPhone, he tried once again to reach Zora. This time, instead of a refusal to answer, he was routed to a prerecorded message: “Hi, this is Zora. Sorry, we’re busy taking over the Moon right now but please know that your call is important to us. We’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve finished plotting your destruction. Thanks for calling and have a super day!”

  Elias laughed. This Zora was quite the comedienne. He’d never anticipated someone other than the blunt and brutal Curtik would be leading the cadets. A stupid mistake. The possibilities a subtle leader like Zora offered were intriguing. But they were also moot. The cadets would soon be destroyed—either by Earth or their programming. Despite Lendra’s failure to activate the self-destruct virus, they would still devolve. It would just take a little longer.

  He noticed that Brazil’s Great Pomposity had finally relinquished the audio and tuned back in to the conversation.

  “. . . That’s why America must attack first,” Navrakov said. “We will stand in support. When they destroy your missiles and deplete the Las-cannon’s reserves, we will launch our few remaining missiles.”

  “How courageous of you,” President Hope said. “As usual, everyone seems content to let America lead. Of course we’ll do so. As if we haven’t done it enough over the past two centuries. But we need support. We don’t have enough rockets to break through their defenses, even assuming the power reserves on the remaining Las-cannon are as depleted as projections show.”

  President Hope kept control of the audio and turned to General Horowitz, who said, “That’s why any attack would require the use of multiple rockets—as many as we can fire—to confuse the enemy, giving the few missiles with the range to reach the Moon the opportunity to slip past the defensive curtain of the Las-cannon.”

  Australia’s Prime Minister, Cynthia Howard—a poor man’s Angelica Hope: not as blond or as good looking, but still attractive—said, “Even if we managed to succeed, you’re asking us to destroy the one outpost we’ve created in our attempt to leave this planet. If we can’t create something as neutral as the Moon without destroying it, where are we as a species?”

  The Nigerian Nincompoop said, “The Moon is a threat to us all. If we have to destroy that outpost to survive, that’s what we’ll do. We must kill these terrorists. We must band together. Only an iron hand can prevent future attacks on our governments. We must become that hand.”

  “No,” France’s President said. “That’s exactly the wrong approach. The iron hand is what got us into this mess in the first place. We must lift the downtrodden, educate the masses, provide the means for everyone to reach the level of progress we First World countries have reached.”

  “There isn’t enough.” England’s Pryce-Jones got the audio again. “We all know it. Devereaux made it clear. We continue to replay the tragedy of the commons, depleting commonly held resources, plundering shared wealth because, as common users, there is no mechanism in place to prevent over-reaching by any individual user. Everyone takes from the ocean because no nation owns the ocean. Everyone pollutes the air and water, perhaps only minimally, for the sake of economic gain. Everyone says, ‘If I don’t take what I want, someone else will and it won’t be available for me.’”

  Pryce-Jones spoke with a familiar passion. Elias wondered if the nations that were using the universal translator could tell she was on a favorite topic.

  “Our ethnocentrism,” Pryce-Jones continued, “has sown the seeds of our destruction. Every decision that emphasizes individual ahead of community, community ahead of nation, nation ahead of world, diminishes us.”

  “Earth is not a zero-sum game,” the Nigerian Nincompoop said. “There are plenty of resources to go around.”

  Pryce-Jones shook her head. “Cooperative regression is the only solution to our problems.”

  A direct quote from Devereaux, Elias recalled, and a sage bit of advice, but useless given the reality of the world’s desires.

  The Nigerian Nincompoop buzzed in again. “If you want to take less, take less. We won’t stop you. But don’t ask us to settle for less than you have. You built your civilizations on the backs of Africans. It’s our turn.”

  General Horowitz stepped away from the camera’s range and sidled over to Elias. “It’s going well,” he said quietly.

  “It’s a disaster,”
Elias replied.

  “Not at all. Of course we’re shouldering a lot of the blame. But at least they’re talking. Discussing a common problem and slowly marching toward a solution. I think we’re on the way.”

  Jay-Edgar stood up and waved at President Hope. “Incoming call,” he whispered loudly. “Zora.”

  “Bring her in,” President Hope said.

  Zora’s image popped up on the far wall. “Greetings, Earthlings,” she said with a broad smile. “Take me to your leader.”

  “I’m talking about Eli,” Zora clarified. “Elias Leach, for those of you who don’t know. He’s the one who set all this in motion, creating us to attack Earth so that you all would unite against us.”

  Elias felt a thunk in the pit of his stomach as Zora’s words settled. This was the attack he hadn’t seen coming—the overdue, brilliant assault: a wedge to drive the leading countries of the world apart. She was outing him.

  “He’s the one to thank for the destruction we’ve rained down on you,” Zora continued. “Is he there, President Hope?”

  President Hope pushed her audio icon without results.

  “Just nod if he is,” Zora continued. “I’ll keep control of the board for the moment. Otherwise we’ll have to put up with that annoying three-second delay. Eli, come out, come out, wherever you are. Come and stand next to the President so the world’s leaders can get a good look at you.”

  President Hope nodded to Elias. He stood, keeping his face calm, his jaw relaxed. His knees shook a little as he walked to her side. All his years as a puppet master vanished as he stepped into camera range—a tiny man—a child beside the majestic President Hope. He could almost see the cartoons in the leading papers, the caricatures of him that would inevitably appear. The midget with the idée fixe that killed millions. He could feel the hostility through the projections.