He looked out at the audience, at the cameras picking up his visage, and again Curtik thought he looked sad.
“This isn’t about me. This isn’t about the Nobel committee. This isn’t just some fancy awards ceremony we get to watch and forget, proceeding with our lives as if none of it happened—none of it mattered. We matter. All of us. And we have to change now. All of us. If we don’t, we lose everything. And the efforts of people like Colonel Dez Truman will have been for naught.
“We can’t wait for future generations to fix our problems. We can’t cede our responsibilities to our children and grandchildren. Our world needs us now. This is our crisis of opportunity. Look around you. See your neighbor struggling and offer a helping hand. Hear the cries of the oppressed and speak out against tyranny. Witness the destruction of our trees and lakes and air, and demand an end to the incremental poisoning of our home.”
Devereaux’s eyes glistened with moisture and he reached up a handkerchief to wipe them. “Profit at the expense of our future is theft. Comfort at the expense of selflessness is gluttony. Rationalization at the expense of integrity is mendacity. We can do better. We must do better. Dare to make a difference. Dare to be great.”
Devereaux ended his speech to great applause, though he wept openly, as if he knew his words hadn’t gotten through. For a long moment the camera lingered on him, the tears coming freely as he looked out upon the audience. The image shifted to a commentator and Jeremiah turned off the screen. He sat quietly, staring at nothing.
“I heard you,” Curtik said, moved by Devereaux’s words despite his best efforts not to be.
“Did you?” Hannah asked. She clenched her jaw as if trying to control her emotions.
“Yes, but I don’t wanna change,” Curtik said. “I’m a warrior, and I’ll always be a warrior. It’s all I ever wanted to be.”
“It’s all you’ve known,” Jeremiah said as he spun around in his wheelchair, tears running down his cheeks as well. “How can you be so certain when you know so little?”
“I’m smarter than you.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Perhaps. I’m no genius. But I’m at least smart enough to know there are many things in this world I don’t understand.”
“How can he feel so strongly about humanity? Are they worth saving?”
“If Devereaux says they’re worth saving,” Jeremiah said, “they’re worth saving. He believes I’m worth saving and I’m one of the bad guys.”
“You?”
“I’ve done—” Jeremiah’s voice broke. He took a breath as if to collect himself. “I’ve done terrible things in my life, Joshua—sorry—Curtik. But he’s helping me move past that. And you can too. You don’t have to be the person they made you to be. You get to choose. You can be better than you are. We all can.”
Curtik felt something welling up inside, a rush of sadness and compassion that threatened to overwhelm him.
He went over to Jeremiah’s wheelchair and grasped the handles, then wheeled his father outside so he could look up at the mountains.
Chapter 1
Sally23 longed to stay in the warm pub, but she’d already received one message from Sally2 ordering her to return to base. Seated at her table, Reg and Murph, her fellow graduate students, continued their good-natured argument over what the limits of science ought to be. As if it mattered anymore. As if their lives would not end soon. She didn’t tell them that, however. They had to remain ignorant.
“I don’t think you appreciate just how significant this development is,” Murph said, “what this can do for the sick and dying.”
“I understand perfectly, you gormless sod,” Reg replied, a smile mitigating the insult as he gestured to the tablet between them on the table. “You’re talkin’ about playin’ God. These people are messin’ with things they shouldn’t be messin’ with.”
Sally23 glanced down at the tablet, next to the basket that had held their deep-fried mushrooms and chips. She slid Reg’s pint a few inches farther away from the tablet in case the argument heated up, as such arguments were wont to do. The tablet displayed a story about the upcoming transfer of a rat’s mind from an animal on Earth to one on Mars. Playing God: that’s what people did. She turned to look out the window at the smoke-laden sky. Here we are, a year after the Las-cannon attacks by the lunar terrorists, and the air still holds particles of toxic ash. That used to royally piss me off. Ah well, we won’t have to worry about it much longer.
She wondered what death would be like. Part of her wanted to end it all right now. She knew she wasn’t worthy of life. But then, nobody was. Worthless lives made her think of her father. Was he still alive? She glanced around the crowded pub, took in her fellow diners, all stretching their lunch breaks out a few more minutes, their self-indulgent conversations creating a din of blather.
There was a small part of her that still feared death. It lurked at the base of her consciousness, tamped down by a kind of indifference that came with sick understanding.
“Your ideas are antiquated, Reg,” Murph spoke slowly and carefully. “Mind transfer opens limitless possibilities. If you could just expand your horizons a little—perhaps you could benefit from a transfer yourself, so you could see it doesn’t change you. You’d still be the same frustrating you.”
“That’s insane,” Reg said. “No different? You’re talkin’ about transplantin’ a person’s soul into another ’uman bein’.”
“Who’s talking about a soul? I’m talkin’ about a mind. There’s no such thing as a soul. That’s an artificial construct created by man to appease a guilty conscience.”
Another text arrived on Sally23’s PlusPhone: where r u!!! She shook her head. Should she return to base and the rigid demands of Sally2 or just walk away and leave it all behind? Did they really need her? She’d already given them her life. Wasn’t that enough? Besides, the bitch annoyed the hell out of her—worse than her mother.
“Can you believe this divvy, Bluebell?” Reg said, pulling Sally23’s arm to get her attention. “Tell ’im ’e’s wrong. Tell ’im ’e’s goin’ to ’ell.”
“The only hell,” Murph said, “is the one we’ve created right here on Earth. Have you looked outside today?”
Reg kissed Sally23’s cheek. “Hey! Where’s your mind been lately? You’re so distracted. Tell ’im the destruction of the soul is murder.”
Sally23 shook her head. Though she sided with Murph, she couldn’t say that without hurting Reg’s feelings. And she couldn’t tell either of them the whole truth: that people were a pestilence upon this planet.
“Rats don’t have souls,” Murph said. He looked at Sally23. “Neither do people. You get that, don’t you, Crimson?”
“You prat,” Reg said. “Every ’uman bein’ has a soul. Even a barmpot like you.”
Sally23 stood, her eyes level with their Adam’s apples. “My name isn’t Bluebell or Crimson. And you’re talking about a life,” her voice whipped across them harshly. “Killing a rat is playing God. Experimenting on animals is playing God. It must all stop. And it will—soon enough.”
Reg and Murph stared back. “Sienna, please,” Reg said. “I just love your blue eyes, that’s all.”
“And I love your red hair,” Murph said. And what’s with all the Gaian talk? I thought you were done with that. I haven’t seen you at the Earth Guardian meetings for months.”
Because I got recruited by the Sallies and can no longer go back.
“Sienna,” Reg said. He reached for her arm. “Honey?”
Stupid, Sally23 thought, to get involved in their tired argument. She pulled away from Reg’s grip. “I’m running late for my tutoring session,” she lied. “Somebody’s got to teach our ignorant youth.” She thumbed the seam of her long coat over her sweater and jeans, and headed for the door. She probably ought to stop seeing Reg. Although she liked the comfort of his body, she also felt ashamed by h
er physical desires. Sex was so damn complicated. Was her mother’s frigidity a reaction to her father’s interest in young girls? Her mother still believed that her father never would have touched her inappropriately. And she blamed Sally23’s accusations for her husband’s decision to abandon them.
It had taken years to detach her feelings about sex from her father, and she probably would never be able to fully distance herself from the guilt. Yet the alternative—abstinence—held no appeal. She enjoyed sex. Did that make her worse than other people? Glancing at the salon across the street, she wondered if she should become a blond for her last few months on Earth.
Using her thumbprint to start her electric scooter, Sally23 merged into the congested traffic and rolled along Oxford Street, through London’s West End, toward her meeting with Sally2. Despite the darkness of the late afternoon, the signs along the street were unlit, the businesses complying with the energy rationing imposed by the government—at least Londoners were good at rationing. The mass of commuters on this scooter-only route caused Sally23 to snort her disgust. At a crossing, where the rumble of the underground vibrated up her legs, she heard Arabic coming from the rider stopped on her left, Russian from the rider on her right, both chatting inanely on their PlusPhones, unaware that they would soon be dead.
She reached the end of Oxford Street at Marble Arch, accelerating away from Little Riyadh onto Bayswater Road, and worked her way toward Holland Park. Though she’d been born in London and was used to crowds, they seemed worse now. Was that because of her indoctrination into the Sally Sisterhood? When she spotted her destination, she veered toward the side of the road, braking in front of Sally2’s temporary headquarters. The guy behind her honked as she cut in front of him; she ignored him and parked her scooter.
Peeling off her mask and goggles, Sally23 entered the building and nodded to Andre, the heavily muscled black man who ran the cell’s visible security force and followed Sally2’s orders with a zeal that led Sally23 to believe the two were lovers. Andre used to scare the hell out of her before she became one of the trusted and forfeited her life to the cause. He nodded back.
“Glory to Gaia,” Andre said in his rough bass voice.
“Glory to Gaia,” Sally23 echoed. You too, she thought. You’re an infestation just like the rest of them—the rest of us. We’re all a blight. We can only create perfection on this planet by purifying it of our murderous existence. Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, she shivered. Am I really ready to die? Does it matter? I’ve already committed to it. No stopping it now. I carry the virus.
She hung her coat on the rack, placing her backpack on the floor beneath it, then took a deep breath and used her palm print to open the metal door that provided the only access to the basement. As she descended the stairs, a man’s mellifluous voice floated up to her:
“What can you possibly hope to gain with this outrageous plan? No matter how many you manage to kill, you won’t be able to control it. You’ll die just like the rest of us.”
Sally23 reached the room—a laboratory with several machines running quietly and four Wallys working at tech stations. On a bench along the right wall, Sally17 and Sally8 sat together, whispering to each other. In the center of the room, Sally2—tall, dark and intimidating—stood facing the most beautiful man Sally23 had ever seen: brown curly hair and warm brown eyes, high cheekbones and a delicate nose atop full, sensual lips. He was secured to a metal chair, shirtless, his wrists and ankles bound tightly. Sally23 stopped in the entrance and stared at him, feeling an instantaneous connection as a tingly warmth spread up her torso. I want him. I want him to caress my body, cover me with kisses, take me on the bed, the couch, the floor.
“You’re late, Twenty-three,” Sally2 said.
Sally23 pulled her eyes away from the man, focused on Sally2. “Something about him looks slightly familiar, though I can’t place where I might have seen him before.”
“Take a seat,” Sally2 said. “You’ll have to catch up later.”
“That’s okay,” the man said. “I can fill her in. My name’s Trogan Brosk. I’m a CINTEP ghost.”
“CINTEP?” Sally23 said. She sat next to Sally8, a tall Nigerian with a regal face and a multi-colored wrap, and nodded to Sally17, an Asian girl with a button nose, short black hair and a beauty mark just to the left of her lips. “The Center for International Economic Policy?”
“Ah,” Brosk said, “you’ve done your homework.”
Sally2 held up her hand to stop Brosk from continuing. “Up until the Las-cannon attacks,” she said, “it was headed by a man named Elias Leach. Brosk worked for him as a field agent. His job was to seduce women. You can see that he was remarkably good at it.”
Indeed, yes. Take me, baby. You can seduce me anytime. Sally23’s eyes drifted from Brosk’s lean chest to his face. A tear formed in his right eye and trickled down his cheek. He returned her gaze, as if he felt a connection to her alone. His face suggested disappointment, made her feel guilty for what was being done to him, even for what she felt about him. She thought of Reg—pleasant Reg; ordinary Reg—and looked away.
Sally17 giggled. Her short skirt hitched up a little higher, showing her dark muscular legs. “So gorgeous.” She was the youngest of the trusted, having only recently taken over the 17 designation from a comrade who’d sacrificed herself releasing a new and extremely deadly batch of the Susquehanna Virus in Jakarta.
“I think I’m in love.” Sally8 sighed as she leaned back and crossed her long legs, her black jeans immaculate under her orange, yellow and red wrap.
Sally23 trembled as she returned her attention to Brosk, who gazed upon all three women. He sat calmly, no trace of fear marring the beauty of his flawless face. His dark brown eyes offered the promise of a gentle lover. His plump lips invited caresses and kisses. He batted his thick lashes, and another tingle shot through Sally23’s loins. She forced herself to watch Brosk only with her peripheral vision, as if he were the sun.
Meanwhile, Sally2, seemingly unaffected by his looks, began attaching a series of electrodes to his head. Sally2, in her late fifties or early sixties, carried herself with a kind of athletic arrogance—a product of her mental and physical enhancements. Yet she professed hatred for all muties. She seemed to hate everyone, herself most of all. But then, didn’t everyone in the organization? Sally23 often wondered why Sally2 didn’t volunteer for a dispersal mission herself, just to put an end to her miserable existence. Still, Sally2 was a critical component in the fight to save Earth. She was one of the Founding Three: one of the brains behind the Susquehanna Virus—though Sally23 knew almost as much about biochemistry as she did. And Sally23 knew a hell of a lot more about computers.
“You’re enhanced,” Brosk said to Sally2, his voice eminently calm and reasonable, deep and trustworthy, “and American, I think, though your accent is quite good. You almost sound British. Who are you? You remind me a little of this doctor I once knew—Leah Shafer—a genetic psychologist who did occasional work for CINTEP years ago and then just vanished one day. She helped me overcome a bout of fear a few years ago with advanced conditioning. Are you her?”
“No,” Sally2 said.
“I think maybe you are,” Brosk said. “You don’t look the same, but then you could have easily changed your appearance. Whoever you are, I can sense your pain. I can read it in the way you hold yourself, the way you move. Who betrayed you? Who is it you can’t forgive? A man, certainly. Your father? A lover? I’m sorry for what was done to you, and I forgive you for what you’re doing to me.”
Sally2 avoided eye contact with him. She clamped her jaw tightly as she pressed a hypo-pad to the back of his hand. Brosk looked at Sally23 again, at the Sallies beside her. “I forgive you too,” he said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “And I hope you forgive yourselves. You’re all so damaged.” Sally23 flushed. She suddenly recalled the vid-picture of her father that her mother kept on the sidebo
ard. Brosk, though he looked nothing like her father, somehow reminded her of that. She felt excited and ashamed at the same time.
“He’s probing for weaknesses,” Sally2 said. “Ignore him.”
“And you’re trying to bend me to your cause,” Brosk said, his voice quavering with sorrow. He studied Sally23, fixing her with the heat of his attention as if he’d determined that she was the weakest link. She spared him only brief glances. Even so, her breathing became shallow—almost panting. “Do you think it will work?” He appeared to be asking the question of Sally23. “Or is it just your way of feeling better about yourself?”
“This isn’t about you,” Sally2 answered him. “You’re a tool, pure and simple. I’m going to use you as others before me have.”
“I think you might have a touch of autism. Do you know if that’s the case?”
Sally2 flushed and a muscle in her jaw twitched. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and when she opened them, she was back in control.
Brosk said, “What’d you give me, anyway, some sort of poison? I can feel it working.”
“The Susquehanna Virus. And these,” Sally2 touched one of the electrodes on the man’s head, “are accelerating its dispersal through your body, into all your major organs. Heart, lungs, liver—even your brain.”
The Susquehanna Virus Box Set Page 84