The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Soon the pursuit would begin: Elite Ops troopers, radar detection, local law enforcement.

  The lights came on. A tunnel appeared before him. A few paces ahead, a small electric cart waited. Elias took a seat and reached for the package next to the steering column. While the car drove itself down the tunnel, Elias opened the package and put the neo-skin mask on. It was a perfect match for Manyara Harris’ face. He also put on a pair of gloves.

  The Elite Ops trooper would be on his way to the basement. Reinforcements would be called, converging on this location. Elias felt exposed. Jay-Edgar’s calculations about how much time he would have might no longer be accurate, given the increased number of troopers in the area protecting the President. He expected a yell or a shot with every breath.

  After what seemed a long time, the car reached the end of the tunnel, where another tiny elevator stood waiting. Elias ducked inside. The elevator rose to the roof of an old office building, where an MX8 personal jet sat under a temporary shelter. Elias glanced at the CINTEP building he’d called home for so long, ducked under the shelter, climbed into the jet and donned the shabby dress that Manyara had placed in a granny bag just inside the door. He pulled out a gray wig and secured it atop his head with a grungy scarf. Finally he made certain that the Las-pistol and the scatterer in the bottom of the bag were both fully charged before stepping into the cockpit.

  A series of commands set the autopilot that would fly the MX8 and initiate the auto-destruct sequence. Next he removed the partial skeleton from its stasis container; the bones—from a dead homeless man of a similar age and with the same measurements as Elias—had been sterilized, then infused with samples of his DNA. The only problem was the recent addition of nanobots to his bloodstream. Would the absence of nanobots in the wreckage alert his pursuers to the fact that he’d not been aboard at the time of the explosion? He had to hope not—nothing he could do about it now. He compressed the stasis container and put it into his granny bag.

  His last task before leaving was to ensure that the people looking for him believed he was onboard. He switched on the electronic biochemical radiator that Jay-Edgar had installed last year. A brilliant idea: the radiator would emit a human signature to any scanner—a false positive that would convince his pursuers he was aboard.

  Slinging the granny bag over his shoulder, Elias activated the scatterer and stepped out of the plane. He checked the time: ten minutes. Another glance at the CINTEP building: he still saw no one. Was the pursuit coming?

  Elias crouched below the three-foot-high safety wall that bordered the roof and scurried toward the fire escape on hands and knees, reaching it in less than thirty seconds. He doubted he would have been able to make this escape unaided had he not been injected with the nanobots. His formerly fragile body would not have been able to move quickly enough. The MX8 hummed as its engines ignited. Without looking back, Elias slid down the chute, clutching his dress to his legs.

  When he reached the alley behind the warehouse, he straightened the dress and looked around: empty. Walking slowly, he affected the limp and slouch of Manyara Harris; he tried to remember every detail of the way she moved. His nerves screamed at him to go faster but he knew that would only draw attention. He had to hope that the scatterer would deflect any scanners directed his way.

  As he reached the sidewalk, the MX8, having reached full power, took off. From street level it sounded like an old fashioned automobile as it accelerated away. Elias joined his fellow pedestrians and lifted his head to follow the jet’s progress. The MX8 arced upward.

  After a moment, he continued on his way. His heart raced. How many years had it been since he’d walked down a busy sidewalk? Again he felt an itch behind his right eye. He longed to scratch his cheeks but was afraid to do so with the mask on.

  As he walked, he found himself avoiding eye contact, even though he knew no one could recognize him. He was probably the most hated man on the planet right now, so if someone by chance figured out who he was, he’d have to start shooting. He clutched the Las-pistol at the bottom of his bag, forcing himself to move slowly, stay in character. He had to be Manyara Harris, cleaning woman, not Elias Leach, enemy of the people.

  He bent over slightly, limped a little—but not too much, as Manyara had coached him, because he didn’t want anyone to offer him assistance. And it was working. The pedestrians mostly ignored him as they hurried on by. Occasionally one would glance up at the MX8. The sidewalk, though busy, wasn’t as crowded as it was during rush hour.

  Elias craned his neck and twisted his head to watch the jet shrink as it flew farther away. Would the charges detonate before the Elite Ops fired upon it?

  “Watch where you’re goin’, lady!” a heavyset man warned as Elias bumped into him.

  “Sorry,” Elias spoke in a high-pitched voice, his sweaty fingers tightening on the grip of the Las-pistol in his bag.

  “These are brand new shoes,” the man said. “Cost me nine hundred dollars.” He stared hard at Elias, eyebrows drawn together in suspicion, nose wrinkling in disgust.

  Anger and fear flooded Elias. Why was this nutcase talking about his shoes? And they weren’t new. Scuffmarks were visible. Heart racing, Elias sidestepped the man. He wanted to kill the bastard. I’m a little old lady, you crazy son of a bitch!

  Continuing on, Elias made a conscious effort to relax his grip on his weapon. With his peripheral vision he saw the vanishing MX8 blow apart in a fiery explosion. The pedestrians stopped, oohing and aahing, asking each other if they’d seen that, exclaiming at how dangerous Washington was becoming before continuing on their way. Elias noted that the heavyset man was still watching him and lowered his head. He walked east.

  The moron followed him. Perfect! I’m going to have to kill this bastard to get away. He tried to blend in with the foot traffic. Limping along, his eyes constantly sweeping the area for police officers or Elite Ops troopers, he focused on keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact. His breaths came in rapid gulps. How was he going to dispatch this insane idiot without drawing attention to himself?

  He glanced back. The man was still behind him, his intense glare focused on Elias as he maintained pace. Halfway down the next block Elias spotted an alley. He stopped a few paces inside its entrance and leaned against a building wall, waiting for the big man to approach. Heart racing, stomach churning, throat dry, palms sweating: he gripped the Las-pistol and adjusted the setting to medium.

  He contemplated what he’d lost—CINTEP—the organization he’d built from nothing twenty years before. Would it survive? Perhaps under the leadership of Lendra?

  Hopefully the President would recommend Lendra as CINTEP’s new director. That way the President would get a woman she could theoretically control, one who would exercise influence for years to come, right in line with President Hope’s oft-stated desire to be more than just a short-term thinker. And Elias might get an ally who could help him in the future, who could bring him back to power once President Hope’s tenure was up.

  The man suddenly appeared at the alley entrance. He stopped there, glaring at Elias. For a moment neither moved. Elias gripped the Las-pistol tightly. The man raised his arm and pointed at Elias. “God sees you,” he said. “You can’t hide. He will find you and smite you with his righteous wrath. Blasphemer! God sees everything.”

  A couple hurried past on the sidewalk, trying to ignore the man as he directed his anger at Elias.

  Come here, Elias thought. Step a little closer.

  “Only the righteous shall be saved,” the man said. “Those like you will burn in eternal hellfire.” He turned and walked away.

  Elias took a couple of deep breaths. He’d almost fired.

  He waited a moment until he was sure he’d regained his composure, then continued on to the hideout—a basement apartment he owned through a complicated series of cutouts. Before he went inside, he gazed at the smoky sky, inhaled deeply t
he acrid particles that polluted the air. The Las-cannon strikes at dozens of locations across the country—not to mention the many strikes on top-secret military facilities around the planet—had brought an ashy dustiness to the atmosphere. Already meteorologists were predicting that worldwide temperatures would average ten degrees below normal for the next year. Elias wouldn’t feel that difference, however. He would experience the world only vicariously, buried underground, hidden away in a cell.

  He checked to make sure no one was watching as he entered the apartment building. He made his way down the stairs to his new apartment, accessing it with his thumbprint. The door opened to reveal little more than a cement-lined room—thirty by twenty feet—adjoining a sumptuous bathroom with a whirlpool bath/shower and a red cedar sauna. A dampening field protected the space; it would display an image of an empty apartment to any scanner. Along the far wall hung a series of screens. He wondered if news of his escape had made it to the media yet.

  His chair, positioned in the middle of the room, slowly spun around. He scrambled to grab the Las-pistol in his bag as Manyara Harris came into view.

  “Well,” she said, “not such a big man now.”

  “What the hell?” Elias said. “How did you . . . Get out of my chair.”

  Manyara laughed as she climbed to her feet and made her way over. “You make that dress look awful.”

  “It’s not me,” Elias answered. “It’s the dress.”

  Manyara cackled. “Took a long time to find something perfect for you.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Elias couldn’t help but smile.

  “Welcome to your new home.”

  Manyara stood a few feet away, studying him, her eyes alive with humor and intelligence, and just a trace of sympathy. “Look much better than I remember,” she finally added.

  “Nanobots,” Elias replied. “I had another stroke a while back.”

  “That’s not it.” Manyara grinned. “You look good when you look like me.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Jay-Edgar sent me a message. Figured you could use a little help.”

  “I was scared out of my mind,” Elias admitted as he removed the scarf and wig. “I’m such an idiot. Almost panicked and killed some nutcase out there.”

  Manyara stepped in close and pulled the mask free. Holding it up, she said, “You’re a brilliant man. Almost as smart as me.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Elias said.

  Manyara smiled. “Perhaps not. But you got away from them. I bet not even your Jeremiah Jones could have done that.” She removed her hand and gestured at his dress. “Why don’t you take a shower? I’ve got to go soon. If I don’t show up to clean your office . . .”

  “Why don’t you shower with me?” Elias asked as he traced her cheek with the back of his hand.

  Manyara slapped his hand away. “Stop it. You’re a dirty old man.”

  “I think it’s the nanobots.” Elias shivered. “That reminds me. Dr. Hassan was going to get me some neo-dopamine for my anxiety. I’ll need that as soon as you can get me some.”

  “It might take a few days.” Manyara pointed toward the bathroom. “Go. Shower. Now.”

  Elias shut off the scatterer, took off his dress and handed it to Manyara. As he stripped out of his coveralls, he wiggled his bottom at her. She just laughed. “Sorry, hon,” she said. “I’ve got to go. I left some food in the oven.”

  Elias smelled it now—a blend of mild spices. But he wasn’t hungry.

  As she grabbed her bag and headed for the door, she called over her shoulder: “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  Elias still didn’t understand why she wouldn’t let him get her medical license reinstated. How long could she continue punishing herself for agreeing to euthanize his dying wife?

  He entered the sauna, which Manyara had warmed to a comfortable 130°F, and turned on the screen against the wall. As he suspected, a news story was already playing about his escape and death. General Horowitz told reporters that they’d underestimated his resourcefulness but that the jet he’d used had been sitting for so long that an electrical short had likely caused it to explode. Elias wasn’t fooled by the report. He knew they’d still be looking for him.

  He switched off the news and let his body relax. But now that he was no longer tense, the urge to scratch increased, eventually driving him to the shower, where he stood under the cool water, refusing to scratch, focusing on anything besides the itching. After drying off and changing into fresh clothes, he made his way into the media center and slumped into his chair before the blank screens.

  The Chinese wouldn’t believe President Hope’s story. Would they attack the incoming LTVs or just let various allies do it for them?

  The itching intensified. Elias longed to be outside under whatever sky existed, no matter how polluted, walking through a park or along a beach while Jay-Edgar fed him data on Earth’s continuing crises, deciding his species’ fate, instead of sitting in the dark: an impotent rat in a cage of his own making.

  An unreasoning fear came over him: a nightmare scenario wherein he was implanted with nanobots that gradually turned him into something less than human, a machine afflicted by madness. The itch became almost unbearable. It’s just a phobia, he told himself, the Frankenstein complex. But panic soon overtook him. He gripped the armrests tightly, fighting the urge to scratch, struggling for breath, rocking back and forth. His fingers dug into the fabric of the chair as his forearms twitched, pulling at his hands. He gripped the chair harder, refusing to succumb to the intensifying impulses.

  He needed neo-dopamine.

  His head throbbed, itching in a cacophonous symphony of discordant torture. Although the only sound in the room was the hum of the electrical equipment, Elias heard a raucous jangling in his ears. He took deep breaths, half screaming, half moaning, sweat pouring down his forehead, causing him to itch even more. He refused to succumb to it. He suspected that even the slightest touch would compel him to claw at himself.

  He closed his eyes and shivered, taking deep breaths.

  After a time he was able to control himself. His breathing slowed; his pulse dropped. I can control my mind, he told himself. I don’t need neo-dopamine to keep the itch at bay. At least that bastard Eldridge Cunningham didn’t follow me here.

  “Who says I didn’t?”

  “You’re not real. I just need some neo-dopamine and you’ll vanish.”

  “Too bad you don’t have any.”

  The itch returned, more insistent than before. Reaching up, Elias scratched his cheek tentatively. God, that felt good! But the itch didn’t go away completely. Again he scratched himself, more heavily this time, drawing a rivulet of blood. He scratched more harshly, feeling for the nanobots he knew were under his skin. He caught one, or at least something gritty that he removed, squeezing it between thumb and forefinger. And for a moment he felt blessed relief. Then to his horror, the itch returned.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Taditha Poole rubbed her belly, hoping to quell the nausea, and stared at the screen in front of her, searching the northern sector of South America for oncoming missiles. Although she was glad to be heading home, she knew that the closer they came to Earth, the greater the danger became.

  Beside her, Lendra alternated between studying southern Africa and the devastating crater on the Moon. She leaned in and said, “It never occurred to me that I could be in love with two people at the same time. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Love never does,” Poole replied, her mind drifting back to Jack Marschenko and the precious few days they’d had together.

  Lendra turned to look back at Jeremiah, huddled with Devereaux, Zora and Quark, either discussing strategy or analyzing data in the back of the LTV while Curtik and Racine flew the ship. “Do you think he’ll ever love me again?”

  Poole shrugged.
She didn’t care. Lendra was a lesser version of Eli—a seeker after power. Poole suspected that the real reason she loved Jones was because she thought—at least on a subconscious level—that he could enhance her ability to take over CINTEP. And maybe that made her the perfect person for the job. But Poole was tired of the games and strategies. She just wanted to be left alone. No chance of that anymore. Given what she’d done to those kids on the Moon, she was going to be forced to continue working for CINTEP indefinitely.

  “Look,” Lendra pointed to an image of seven LTVs nearing the Moon. “The rescue ships are almost there.”

  “Shouldn’t you be focusing on southern Africa?” Poole said.

  “They’re not going to attack us,” Lendra said. “The Middle East is the primary threat.”

  “What about Angola and Zimbabwe?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m watching them. And you don’t have to watch South America at all.” Lendra reached over and changed the view on Poole’s screen, getting an enlarged image of the LTVs.

  The Brazilian vessel—green with a yellow diamond and a blue globe at the diamond’s center to represent the country’s flag—led the group of seven LTVs as they neared the Moon.

  “How many people do you think survived?” Lendra asked.

  “I’m sure Colonel Truman is fine,” Poole replied as she returned her screen to its view of northern South America. “You saw the overlay of the blast area against the bases. The farthest sections look virtually untouched—just a few cracks. Probably more than half the colony survived.”

  “But did he go to the farthest room or did he insist on being heroic and place himself in the area closest to the blast?”

  “I think we should worry about ourselves,” Poole said. “A lot of people want us dead.”

  From the cockpit, Curtik said, “Eyes peeled, people. We enter orbit in a few minutes.”

  Poole studied Curtik. He was a new person since he’d taken the helm of the LTV—no longer a child. Maybe that was because his life was at stake now too. Though as soon as Poole had the thought, she dismissed it. Curtik wouldn’t be concerned with his own safety. More likely he relished the idea of testing himself against whatever Earth threw at him.