The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  “Well, I’d better get back to work,” he said as he turned toward the door.

  She wanted to ask him to stay with her a while, but her interface signaled that the President was calling, so she followed him out. He and Hannah went left toward his office; Lendra went right. She told Jay-Edgar to put the President through as she walked into her office and took a seat beside Dr. Poole.

  The news reports vanished. In their place, Jay-Edgar projected a hologram of President Angelica Hope, the pompous Dr. Chandrika Jaidev by her side. The Secretary of Health and Human Services sat stiffly, wearing the ghost of a smile tainted by the dark circles under her eyes. She tapped her gold interface with a finger, manually disconnecting from some data flow—a showoff move. The President sat with her elbows on her desk, emphasizing her muscular shoulders. She looked out at them calmly, her face only a little pinched and pale.

  “Madam President,” Lendra said.

  “Lendra, Dr. Poole,” President Hope replied. “Have you got any more information about these Susquehanna Sally cells?”

  “Not much, ma’am,” Lendra replied. “We know that the London cell was a manufacturing base, as was the Jakarta cell. We believe there are one or two more. Almost certainly one is in the United States. Another might be in Brazil or China.”

  “And how are the efforts at a cure coming along?”

  Lendra glanced over at Dr. Poole, who answered for her: “We’re still working on a number of possibilities. Quark has been most helpful at coordinating the efforts now that Devereaux is in a coma. The CDC and Johns Hopkins have taken the lead, using samples Jeremiah Jones provided to Devereaux earlier. I’m sure Dr. Jaidev knows more about our progress than I do.”

  President Hope nodded toward Dr. Jaidev, who smirked and sat up a tiny bit straighter. “I’ve given the President my report. But progress has slowed since Devereaux fell ill. I can think of one way to speed up a cure.”

  Lendra’s mouth went dry. She sat back in her chair, stunned. “Are you asking me to infect Jeremiah with new strains of the virus?”

  Dr. Poole gasped.

  “We must consider every strategy that can possibly save us,” Dr. Jaidev replied, “no matter how painful.”

  President Hope held up her hands. “I couldn’t ask you to re-infect Jeremiah at this time. I still find it hard to believe he voluntarily exposed himself to eighteen variants of the virus. To endure that much agony for us,” President Hope spread her hands and shook her head slowly, “well, I honor him for that sacrifice.”

  “Still . . .” Dr. Jaidev said.

  Lendra felt her heart pounding.

  Dr. Poole shook her head and said, “Any further exposure might kill Jeremiah. He’s not invincible. And as his doctor, I cannot condone such action.”

  “Don’t you think that’s his decision?” Dr. Jaidev asked.

  “We both know that if the President asks, he’ll agree to it,” Dr. Poole said. “But we still have a long way to go in analyzing the samples he’s already provided. There’s no reason to expose him further.” Her eyes jumped between Lendra and the holo-projection. “At least not yet.”

  Lendra looked the President in the eye and said, “He’s currently assisting us in tracking down these terrorists. Running analyses, looking for patterns that might help identify their locations. He’s the best we have. I’d hate to lose his skills.”

  “Why can’t he do both?” Dr. Jaidev asked. “We need all the data we can get on the way this virus works.”

  “Do you know how hard it is to concentrate when you’re in unbearable agony?” Dr. Poole said. “When all you can think about is the torture your body is enduring?”

  “If I could help by doing what he did, I would. But my blood isn’t—”

  “I could make it work,” Dr. Poole interrupted. “I could give you a transfusion of Jeremiah’s blood. Then you’d be able to help exactly as he did. You’d be in excruciating pain, but we could infect you with the virus, see how you react to it and use those results in our efforts to find a cure. Would you like me to ask Jeremiah for a liter of blood?”

  Dr. Jaidev sent a glare of hatred through the holo-projection, forcing Lendra to bite her lip to avoid laughing.

  “As I said,” President Hope smiled briefly, “for now I’m asking nothing. I’m merely suggesting that we might be forced into such an alternative if the death toll keeps increasing and we’re unable to come up with a solution.”

  “What about using genetic surgery,” Lendra suggested, “to create more Escala?”

  “That has been discussed,” President Hope acknowledged.

  “Of course it would be impossible to save more than a few thousand people,” Dr. Poole pointed out. “Most of us wouldn’t be good candidates for the surgery. But some could certainly be saved.”

  “Have you been tested, Madam President?” Lendra asked. “To see if you could benefit from the surgery?”

  “The President’s medical condition is classified,” Dr. Jaidev answered, her face scrunched up in a fierce frown, her plump cheeks darkening.

  “We’ve decided to make genetic surgery a strategy of last resort,” the President offered. “Any other ideas?”

  “We do have one,” Lendra said. “It’s rather far-fetched, but . . . we discussed the possibility of transferring Devereaux’s mind to a computer.”

  “You mean like the transfer of that rat’s mind from Mars to Earth?” Dr. Jaidev asked.

  “Except that we wouldn’t be transferring the mind into another human,” Lendra clarified. “We’d simply be transferring it to an organic computer inside a robot so that he’d have the ability to act and we’d have continued access to his ideas. Later—if his body recovers—we could transfer his mind back into his brain. Or if his body succumbs to the virus, we might be able to transfer him into another human brain, from a clone, for example—though the risks are quite high.”

  “Is that legal?” President Hope asked. “Is it ethical?”

  “It can’t be done,” Dr. Jaidev said. “There’s too much degradation of memory during thought transfer. The last time it was attempted . . .”

  President Hope held up her hand and Dr. Jaidev went silent.

  Lendra answered the President: “We don’t know about the legality because to my knowledge it’s never been done before—at least not successfully—though an argument could be made that it’s legal for national security reasons. After all, Devereaux has made significantly more progress than anybody else with the virus. Without him, we probably won’t find a cure for months, perhaps years. And I doubt we’re going to have that kind of time. With respect to the morality of it, that’s a question that could be debated for years.”

  She turned to Dr. Poole, who addressed Dr. Jaidev: “As for the likelihood of success, well, I wouldn’t put it at greater than twenty percent unless we have the assistance of the Escala on Mars. As you know, they’ve put a great deal more time into researching this area. If we combine their results with the data we’ve received from Cambridge, it might boost the odds of success to around fifty percent.”

  “Can we check with them now?” President Hope asked.

  “Certainly,” Lendra answered, “but there’s a long delay between transmissions.”

  President Hope lowered her head, closed her eyes and massaged her temples for a few seconds. “That’s right. I forgot how long it takes for a message to get there. Fifteen minutes, is it?”

  “Sixteen at the moment. Plus another sixteen minutes for the return message to arrive,” Lendra added. Perhaps it would be best if you put together a vid asking for their assistance. We can broadcast that when we contact them.”

  President Hope looked at her watch. “How long to make all this happen?”

  “A couple of days, at least,” Lendra said. “They may not even be willing to help us. They’ll only cooperate if they believe doing so is in
Devereaux’s best interest. I happen to believe that’s the case. But will they think so?”

  “I’m sure they’ll help,” the President said. “Their fondness for Devereaux will make them want to ensure his survival. Let me know what they have to say. Prepare as if it’s a go. I’ll give you the final word after checking with my people.”

  As the holo-projection faded to nothing, Lendra and Dr. Poole began to laugh. Even Jay-Edgar chuckled.

  “Did you see the look on Dr. Jaidev’s face?” Dr. Poole said. “I thought she was going to have a heart attack.”

  Lendra smiled. “That was fantastic. Is what you told her true? Could you use Jeremiah’s blood on her to obtain testing samples?”

  Dr. Poole shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’d be willing to try. That arrogant bitch is only concerned with political fallout.”

  “Well, we’d better contact Mars at once, see if they’re willing to help us. Without Devereaux, I’m afraid we’ve got very little chance of beating this thing.”

  She suddenly remembered Sophie in the infirmary and felt guilty for feeling happy for a moment. She had no right to be anything other than miserable.

  “Don’t worry,” Dr. Poole said, as if reading her mind. “She’ll be fine. I’m monitoring her continuously. And Dr. Hassan is brilliant.”

  But Lendra flashed on Devereaux, who had also been monitored all the time, and who had nevertheless succumbed to the virus. If Sophie died, how could she go on?

  Chapter 16

  Aspen stood next to Addam atop Dunadan’s knoll. Dusk brought a blue tint to the brownish Martian sky. Through the dusty haze, the setting sun appeared as a small, pale sphere. Its sharp angle made the distant graveyard markers shine brightly—twenty-eight pinpoints of light. She was glad for Addam’s company.

  Dr. Wellon had made a number of genetic modifications after Aspen collapsed in the lab. For some reason, that made her angry. Why? Was she just tired of other people fixing her? She conceded that the headaches had gone away, but they might have stopped anyway.

  Opening her powerscope, she focused on the approaching Chinese spaceship, letting the scope’s computer do the vector calculations to determine the craft’s orbital ETA. The ship looked huge through the powerscope. Its charged Las-cannon glowed—a yellow light near the nose that spun with the vessel.

  Her nightmares hadn’t gone away. She still dreamed that a landing party of Chinese soldiers, bigger than the Elite Ops, bigger than the Escala, would penetrate into the caves below, Las-weapons and particle beam cannons obliterating everyone inside, limbs flying, the complex crashing down on them while she tried to reach them, never getting close enough to help.

  Quekri refused to build Las-weapons to defend the colony, while Bilson naively maintained that the miners could protect everyone, so Aspen had ordered the cadets to construct a hidden cave in case the Chinese crew’s intentions were hostile. If we can’t fight, she thought, we’ll hide until we can. Quekri’s son Krall, seeing what appeared to be an exciting adventure, had volunteered himself, Poon and Oggie to assist in the project. They were now digging a cave at the end of the deepest tunnel that would hide the cadets and a few Escala. They couldn’t try to hide everyone because the Chinese knew they were here, but if only a few people went missing, the Chinese might not notice.

  She hadn’t seen Benn and Phan for days. The two cadets spent almost all their time with the Escala teens, working on the hidey-hole, returning to their quarters only at night. Aspen suspected they wouldn’t even do that if not for the fact that Shiloh and Kammilee were sleeping with them.

  “Two days to orbit,” Aspen said.

  “Unless they decide to come straight in,” Addam replied. Quekri had given him responsibility for the approaching ship, asked him to search for transmissions and other clues about its intentions. So far, the vessel had been completely silent except for the telemetry it broadcast back to Earth. Aspen found that silence chilling. It was the kind of ploy someone like Curtik would use to maximize terror in his victims. But for some reason, it didn’t appear to be working with the Escala, nor with her fellow cadets. Was she the only one who saw danger in its stealthy approach?

  “Course changes?” Addam asked.

  “None,” she replied. “What do you think about its silence?”

  “Could be any number of things,” Addam responded. “Transmitter troubles, a drone scientific vessel not programmed to answer hails, a military mission . . .”

  “So,” Aspen lowered the powerscope and stared at Addam, “they could be soldiers.”

  “Of course.”

  “How come nobody acknowledges that?”

  “They’ve been fixated on this Devereaux thing,” Addam said. “I thought you would be too, what with your experiments on the rats.”

  Aspen handed the powerscope to Addam and reached for the sensor-cleaning kit. “Quekri and Zeriphi and Dr. Wellon are handling the conversations with Earth, determining whether we should assist them. What do you think about transferring Devereaux’s mind to a computer?”

  Addam shrugged inside his Mars suit. “It seems logical to preserve his life, his abilities. Why throw that away just because the shell of his body is failing? If his mind can be saved, why not do it?”

  “Because it’s more complicated than transferring a rat’s mind. It’s even more complicated than transferring an ordinary human’s mind. This is Devereaux, after all. And if we save him, we might at the same time be condemning him to some sort of limbo. We don’t even know if the mind transfer will work. There are indications that Guffie’s mind isn’t completely restored. And although we’d be transferring Devereaux’s mind to a computer inside a robot, rather than to another person’s brain, there might be memory degradation or neural-pattern dispersal problems. What if we get just part of him?”

  “It’s still better than dying.”

  Aspen shook her head as she started cleaning the sensor array. “I’m not sure. Especially not with someone like Devereaux. His mind is his most important feature, and it’s hugely influenced by its connection with his body. It’s one thing to transfer a rat’s mind to another rat, but the complexity of the human body is exponentially harder because our mind-body connection is so much more symbiotic. What happens when that connection is broken? Is he still the same person?”

  “Well, at least you don’t have to make the decision.”

  “But that’s the thing,” Aspen countered. “I should be in on the decision-making. I lead the cadets up here. And I probably know as much about this stuff as Dr. Wellon and Zeriphi and Keelar. It’s all I’ve been doing for the past few weeks.”

  “If they decide to go ahead with it, they’ll use you. I know they often think of us as just kids but they’re smart enough to know we have areas of expertise they don’t. Look at me with that approaching ship. Once I pointed out to Quekri my education in rocketry and missile systems, she put me in charge of it.”

  “I just . . .” Aspen sighed. “Sometimes I feel truly useless. With everything happening on Earth, I feel like I ought to be part of that somehow. I haven’t heard from Zora in forever, not since she lost her implant.”

  “Yeah, Curtik doesn’t contact us much anymore either.”

  “He called you yesterday to tell you he was getting a new hand.”

  “True,” Addam conceded. “But before that, he hadn’t contacted us in about a week. I think he’s moving on with his life, just like we should be. That’s why you should let Benn have the genetic surgery to become Escala.”

  “Is that why you followed me out here?”

  “Benn asked me to talk to you. He said Dr. Wellon won’t operate without your permission. Neither will Keelar.”

  “What if we want to go back to Earth some day?” Aspen asked. “What will Benn do then? He wouldn’t be able to survive very long if he becomes Escala.”

  “He already said he intends
to stay here. Kammilee agrees with him. They don’t want to go back even if we can. She and Benn have talked about starting a family, moving over to the Escala side of the caves. In fact . . .”

  Aspen paused in her cleaning, waiting for Addam to continue. She closed her eyes for a moment. When he remained silent she said, “They’re children. They have no business—”

  “We’re not children anymore. We may not be adults yet, but we’re not children either. We’re something in the middle. And even though you’re technically in charge, your authority only stretches so far. This isn’t the Moon anymore. You can’t tell us how to run our personal lives.”

  Aspen fought a surge of rage. She was grateful for the Mars suit, which hid her emotions, though she suspected Addam knew he’d angered her. Every decision she’d made had been with the cadets’ best interests in mind. She’d acted as peacemaker and arbiter countless times. On difficult occasions she’d asked herself what Zora would do and tried to emulate her. And now her people were abandoning her. She kept her voice even: “Do Phan and Shiloh feel the same way?”

  “You’ve done a great job,” Addam said. “We all agree on that. But we’re on Mars now. There’s no going back. This is our future. We need to join the Escala. If we become Escala, some day we might be able to survive outside without our suits.”

  “The Escala need suits too. The atmospheric pressure here is less than one percent what it is on Earth, and the air is almost entirely made up of carbon dioxide—not to mention the radiation exposure. No, that’s unlikely ever to happen.”

  “Sometimes I feel like taking off my suit and just walking around like we did on Earth. I sort of remember that. Don’t you?”

  Aspen’s implant beeped. Quekri, always polite, letting her know that a message was coming through: “We’ve nearly reached a decision on Devereaux. Please come to the main cavern when you’ve completed cleaning the sensor array.”