Devereaux held up his hand and the cameras pulled back, the sound diminishing, generalizing to the buzz of dozens of people chatting in one large space. A few seconds later Devereaux strode away, slowly and somewhat stiffly in the lower gravity of the Moon. Zora, Quark and the Escala followed him out of the hangar. Two cadets wheeled the beds away. Those left behind mingled among themselves, occasionally glancing up at something in the ceiling Elias couldn’t see—Earth, he realized, would be visible through the plas-glass window in the roof. Elias saw no one carrying a weapon. Jeremiah had vanished as well. He must have slipped away before the camera panned out.
“Well?” President Hope asked.
“Well what, Madam President?” Elias said.
“This is your mess.” The President glared at him, red blotches on her cheeks, her lips a thin harsh line. “Any suggestions? Any ideas?”
Elias shrugged. “Some idiot is going to fire a Las-cannon or a rocket at them. That’s a given. We have to find a way to stop it.”
“Yes,” President Hope waved her hand impatiently, “but how?”
General Horowitz said, “Giving up that Las-cannon to the U.N. was suicide.”
“Not necessarily,” Elias said. “You need to call an immediate meeting of the U.N. Security Council, get everyone on board with the idea that the Las-cannon must be used to thwart any aggressive action taken against the Moon. Sell them on the cure for the virus. Offer them whatever you have to—just get them manning the Las-cannon.”
President Hope said, “We’re already negotiating that with China and Russia.”
“There’s no time for negotiations,” Elias said. “Concede whatever they want. Just get that Las-cannon operational.”
President Hope nodded toward the general. “That’s what we thought as well. I just wanted confirmation from you, because you’re part of it.” She pointed at Elias. “They want you.”
“Who wants me?”
“Everyone.” She turned for the door, the general behind her. “We’ll let you know which country wins the sweepstakes, which country gets to prosecute you for your crimes and imprison you for the rest of your life.”
A trial at The Hague?
The door slammed shut. The lock buzzed. Son of a bitch! He might be locked up for the remainder of his days. On the other hand, a trial at The Hague would allow him to explain why it had been necessary to act as he had. He could attack the fools in China and India who continued their march to war. He could show the world the idiocy of its leaders. And if some fool did attack the Moon, that would only bolster his arguments. He might still be able to win.
Chapter Twenty-Six
As she stepped into the main hangar, waiting for yet another analysis of the cadets’ nanobots, Taditha Poole noted that the place was alive with cadets, tourists, workers, soldiers and Elite Ops troopers—all savoring their last few moments of tranquility. Zora claimed the attack would come soon. There was even a pool to predict which nation would strike first. Poole had selected Argentina as the most likely of those nations remaining when her turn came. She almost laughed: how ludicrous to bet on which nation would be the first to try to kill you.
Rendela walked beside her, a Las-rifle in her hands. Zora’s lieutenant seemingly watched everyone and no one, her eyes shifting from person to person while her face showed no expression. On the far wall streamed a news feed from Earth describing the ongoing crisis. A dozen people sat in front of the screen while twice that many stood behind them, shuffling their feet back and forth, their attention shifting from the screen to the view of Earth through the plas-glass roof window, to the military desk where Wee Willie and Crazy Vigg monitored the nations below, and back to the screen.
She saw no Escala.
They’d been finalizing the Pilgrim’s preparations for hours, loading it even as they continued fine-tuning the electrical and life-support systems. Zora had asked a few cadets to assist them, speeding up the process. No one could blame them. Why stay for a possibly fatal attack when a means of escape, however dicey, existed?
But the Pilgrim would only be taking the Escala and Devereaux. Those left behind faced a high probability of death. At least it was likely to be quick and painless.
The scanner completed its analysis of data and Poole checked the results, then transmitted the data to Rendela’s implant.
After a moment, Rendela said, “It looks like we’re almost better.”
“Not quite,” Poole replied. “Actually, if you examine the neuro-nano configuration, you’ll see that the destabilization has only been halted. Although the new nanobots have already begun to repair the devolutionary damage, you’ve got a long way to go to be cured. However, your emotional states are far better than before the nanobots were implanted.”
Rendela smiled. “The mind is an amazing thing. Just knowing we have these new nanobots inside us is enough to make us feel . . . healed.”
“The doctors did a fabulous job,” Poole said.
“What about our sexuality?” Rendela said.
“I’m scanning that aspect now.”
“Is it true that our devolution was caused by the same nanobots that created the rage?”
“Probably, though Doctors Nakamura and Srinlangshiran would know better than I. All I know for certain is that unless we make some changes, full puberty will hit hard. It might even be fatal.”
“Why? It’s just sex.”
“It’s more than that. The nanotech inside you altered your normal development, accelerating physical and intellectual growth while stunting emotional conceptualization and internalization. Your brains were rewired. We can’t just let your sex drive out all at once. That will overwhelm you. I fear many of you would commit suicide. The intensity of desire could also erupt into murderous violence once you begin to lust after each other—some of you may retreat into that comfortable homicidal violence rather than deal with unrequited passion or jealousy.”
“You’d probably be the first one we killed,” Rendela said. She spoke almost without emotion, as if simply stating a fact.
“I didn’t know the full extent of what I was doing,” Poole said. “I realize that sounds lame, but I didn’t know you’d been programmed to die. I thought we could fix you after you accomplished your mission, after you stopped these endless wars on Earth. I’m sorry.”
Rendela shrugged.
When the last scan was completed, Poole transmitted the data to Rendela’s implant. “As you can see,” she said, “we’ll have to ramp up your sexual drives gradually once we eliminate the corrosive nanobots from your systems. We will fix you. I promise.”
“Of course you will,” Rendela said with just a hint of sarcasm. “I sent a summary to Zora. She wishes to see us now.”
“I know you’ve been lied to a lot. I’ve lied to you a lot. But this time I promise I’m not.”
“Time will tell.”
“What about visiting the graveyard? Zora promised me I could.”
Rendela nodded. “We need your advice first. Please.”
As Poole walked, she noted how the dynamic on the Moon had changed the past few days. Orders were no longer given; requests were made, options given. One no longer had to eat at a specific time or gather in a specific place. The run of the entire settlement—except for Lunar Base 2, where the Escala were transferring their possessions to the Pilgrim, and the hospital, where Curtik and Kyler still fought for life—was available. Yet for all the friendliness and light-hearted banter, and despite the fact that few of the cadets were armed anymore, everyone knew the cadets were in charge.
A dozen Escala lined the tunnel to Cho’s office. Rendela led Poole past them and into the crowded office. Several Escala stood by the open door. Zora stood behind Cho’s desk. Beside her, Jeremiah sat in the admiral’s chair, while Devereaux stood with Quekri, Quark and Dr. Wellon off to the side. The blond Escala Zeriphi held Celestia
facing Jeremiah. Poole felt a sudden connection to the young mother, who caught her eye and smiled. The child seemed fascinated by Jeremiah’s visage: pale, gaunt, lined with pain. Finally Zeriphi pulled the baby back, looked down at Jeremiah and said, “Jeremiah, I remember you.” The traditional goodbye of the Escala.
Poole’s stomach fluttered. “Are the Escala leaving already?” she asked.
“Soon,” Zora said.
“The Pilgrim’s ready?”
Quekri shrugged. “As close as we can get it. We can make any final adjustments during the flight.”
Zora said, “Military installation activity around the world has increased dramatically. Jeremiah and Devereaux predict an attack within the next few hours, although we’re not certain what form it will take—whether it will be rockets or a Las-cannon. If it’s a Las-cannon, the Pilgrim needs to be gone. And if it’s a rocket, we don’t know if the U.N. will be willing or able to stop it.”
“And even if it killed only some of us,” Quekri added, “we don’t have many people to spare. We need everyone on Mars.”
Poole looked at Devereaux. “And you’re going with them?”
Everyone turned to face Devereaux, who glanced at the baby in Zeriphi’s arms. The child sucked her thumb, her free hand wrapped around her black curly hair. She stared into her mother’s eyes with an intensity and focus that gave Poole a fleeting moment of jealousy.
“I’ve decided to stay on the Moon a while longer,” Devereaux said.
A collective gasp came from the Escala at the door, who passed the word down the hallway. Quekri, Dr. Wellon and Zeriphi looked stunned, Zora elated. Only Quark and Jeremiah showed no expression. Poole wondered if Devereaux had already told them or if they had figured it out. Of all the Escala, Quark knew Devereaux best. And Jeremiah could make his face show only what he chose.
“We’ve already packed your things,” Dr. Wellon said. “All your equipment, your personal files.”
“There are too many problems that need to be resolved here,” Devereaux said. “And I am an old man. Losing me would not be a tragedy.”
Quekri shook her head. “You’re the one person humanity can’t afford to lose.”
“You’re only seventy-three,” Zeriphi protested.
“I feel much older,” Devereaux said as he leaned over and patted the baby’s head. The child stared at him. Her eyes, exceptionally wide and bright, flickered with intelligence. “I liked Doug,” Devereaux said, apropos of nothing, “but I wouldn’t call him a handsome man. Yet Celestia here is the cutest baby I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” Zeriphi said.
“And her IP is extremely high.”
Poole glanced again at the baby. They’d already done an Intelligence Potential test? She was only a few months old.
“Take good care of her.” Devereaux lifted his hand away and stepped back. “She might become . . . anything she wants. No need to offload my things. They can make the trip with you.”
“So you’re coming to Mars later?” Quekri said, her voice rising with hope.
Devereaux nodded. “I hope so. I would love to see it. The sooner you build the necessary infrastructure, the sooner I can visit. Perhaps in a few years.”
Quekri pursed her lips, said nothing. She looked at Quark, who had maintained silence throughout. He stood like a statue, a great behemoth. He smiled at Quekri.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Quekri said to him.
“What?” Dr. Wellon asked.
“Quark intends to stay behind with Devereaux,” Quekri said.
“You don’t need me,” Quark said.
“The hell I don’t.”
Quark sighed. “I’ll follow along with Devereaux.”
“How will you survive without the radiation lights?”
Quark gestured toward the ceiling. “I’ll simply stand out there, on the surface of the Moon. Plenty of radiation there.”
“So you’ve got it all figured out.” Quekri pointed a finger at him. “We agreed. I’m in command now that Zod is dead. You’re bound to my orders.”
Quark bowed his head. “I am.”
“And you think I’ll just let you stay?”
“It’s the logical decision.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
Quark shrugged. “When I knew for certain Devereaux was staying behind.”
Quekri shook her head, flinging her hands in a gesture of disgust. “Men!”
A giggle escaped from Poole. How delightful that men, no matter how constructed, presented the same problems to women they always had . . . and apparently always would. She caught a glimpse of Quekri’s thunderous face and bit the inside of her cheeks until the urge to laugh was replaced by pain.
Devereaux cleared his throat. “I have a favor to ask of you, Quekri.”
“Something equally delightful, I’m sure,” Quekri answered.
“I’d like you to take some of the cadets along.”
“Cadets?”
Devereaux nodded. “They’re the only people of their kind. To lose them all would be unthinkable. And they’ll stand a much better chance of surviving on Mars with their nanotech systems than ordinary humans.”
“They would be subject to my authority.”
Zora said, “That would be made clear to them.”
“So you’re in on it too,” Quekri said.
“We discussed preserving our subspecies, or whatever it’s called, yes.”
“Who would we bring with us? And how many?”
Zora turned to Poole. “That’s why I asked for Dr. Poole. Do you have any recommendations, Doctor, as to who would be best prepared for such a journey? Four, maybe six people.”
Poole took a deep breath, blew it out slowly as she perused the files in her interface. “Well,” she said, “the best candidates would be you, Rendela, Wee Willie and Addam.”
“I can’t go,” Zora said. “Neither can Wee Willie or Rendela. Who’s next on the list?”
“That gets more questionable,” Poole answered. “Aspen is a possibility. So is Benn, but only because he and Addam are in the same tong. Shiloh also might do reasonably well with the Escala. But then you would probably have to let Phan go as well.”
Zora nodded. “We’d need one more girl to balance it out. Who?”
Poole studied the psych-profiles as they played down her visual cortex. There wasn’t a lot to distinguish one from the next. Most of the girls and boys fell within the bell curve—just your average super-intelligent, super warriors. “Maybe Indee,” she finally offered. “Or Kammilee.”
“I think Kammilee,” Zora said. “I’m sending for them now. I’d like you to observe—make certain we’ve got the right people.”
She gestured for Poole and Rendela to follow her and led them to the main hangar, where Addam, Benn, Phan, Aspen, Shiloh and Kammilee waited. Zora must have notified them by implant, for they were discussing the trip in excited voices as Poole approached.
“Are you all okay with this?” Poole asked them.
Six heads nodded. Six implants sent data to her interface consistent with her analysis.
Aspen said, “We promised Zora we’d obey Quekri.”
Poole touched Aspen’s shoulder. “I’m concerned that because of your close ties to Zora, you’ll feel homesick.”
“We’ll still be able to communicate by implant—tapping into the comm system of the Pilgrim. And we’ll be fine as long as we stay in the graphene-aluminum room they’ve designed to protect us from radiation. We’ll meet again some day.”
Zora said, “I hope so, if we survive.”
“You’ll make it, Zora,” Aspen said. “I know you will.”
“You’d better get ready,” Zora said. “Say your goodbyes. The ship will be leaving as soon as you’re packed.”
“Good luck to you
all,” Poole said. She looked at Zora. “I sense no major problems with any of them.”
“Good,” Zora said. “You can visit Jack Marschenko’s grave now, though I don’t know why you want to. It’s not him anymore.”
“Humans need closure,” Poole said, “and I wasn’t allowed to attend his funeral.”
* * *
Poole donned a spacesuit and stepped through the airlock doors onto the surface of the Moon. Several hundred meters away she saw the Pilgrim standing erect, a huge gray ship with a tube connecting it to the tunnel below. Footprints formed a path to a small crater off to the left, which served as the graveyard. As she walked, she looked up at Earth—the giant blue and white disc hovering in the star-speckled darkness of space and felt an oddly hollow thumping in her chest. She wished Jack Marschenko could see the beauty of that sight. She wished she could take him back with her some day.
Poole stopped at the edge of the crater and looked down at the capsules that made up the graveyard. Blue, yellow, red and green: each about a foot tall and several inches in diameter: they stood upright on the lonely barren land, like tulips in the spring. And the top few inches of each capsule contained an image of its occupant. From here, Poole couldn’t ascertain which capsule contained Jack Marschenko’s remains. She stepped down into the shallow crater and shuffled forward, noting the otherworld stillness of the place. With no atmosphere, the spot was undisturbed by wind or rain. It felt like sacred space, as if the souls of the dead could reside here forever.
She noticed the capsules for Admiral Cho and Sorokin—the big worker who’d been the first to die. And there, near the top of a red capsule, was Damon’s smiling face: from a time before his devolution. Next to him was a blue capsule with an image of Jack Marschenko’s face. He looked back at her with the beginnings of a smile, as if he’d just noticed her.
The Susquehanna Virus Box Set Page 73