The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Aspen turned to Addam, who said, “I got the message too. Let me help you.” He reached for a cloth and began wiping sensors in earnest.

  ***

  It took Aspen ten minutes to remove and stow her Mars suit, prepping it for the next trip to the surface by plugging the powerpack into the recharger and topping off the oxygen tanks. She felt uncomfortable unless the suit was ready for a quick exit. One never knew when a hasty retreat might be necessary. She forced Addam to prepare his suit for the next outdoor expedition as well, waiting for him to finish before making her way to the main cavern.

  When she got there, Aspen paused for a moment at the tunnel mouth, entranced by the cave’s rugged beauty. The Escala had completed the lighting display a few days ago, and the cavern now sparkled with rainbow colors. Multi-spectral spotlights emanated from behind boulders set at the four delineated compass points, arcing upwards to the vaulted red ceiling forty feet above their heads, sending out prisms of light that warmed the air and sparkled off the sides and roof of the cave. Vines clung to the walls, most of them fruit bearing: blueberry, raspberry and plumberry. The special hybrids gave off double the oxygen of their Earthly cousins and a fruity scent floated through the air. The cave felt cool, but the Escala, with their extra bulk, were always warm. They maintained every room a few degrees too chilly for Aspen’s taste. A dozen glow globes floated above as many tables, emitting a soft white light.

  As she started inside, she noticed that every Escala looked to be present, as well as all the cadets—nearly eighty people strong. For the most part they sat quietly, wearing frowns as they looked at Quekri, who stood before the central dining table, Krall seated in front of her. Dr. Wellon sat on Quekri’s right, her hand on Poon’s shoulder. It took Aspen a half-second to remember that Poon was Dr. Wellon’s son—the wild Poon nothing like his mother. And there was Keelar, the gray-haired Escala’s hand on her son Oggie’s shoulder. Another weird pairing—Keelar sensitive and thoughtful, Oggie impetuous and emotional. Zeriphi stood off to the side, shuffling slowly, her baby Celestia on her hip.

  Aspen had never before noticed what a female-centric society this was. No doubt it had to do with, at least in part, the large number of males who had been killed on Earth. Was that why her fellow cadets were so enamored of the Escala way? Did it remind them of their forgotten mothers, ripped from them in their early years? She herself could conjure only the ghost of a memory: a tall woman with fair skin and golden hair; she couldn’t remember her father at all.

  Addam guided her to the table where Benn and Kammilee, Phan and Shiloh sat. All four cadets glared at her as she took a seat. She’d expected the first three to be angry with her but apparently even Shiloh wanted concessions she could not give.

  Quekri nodded to Aspen. “Good. We’re all here. Let’s get started.”

  No miners present, Aspen thought. Interesting. So Quekri doesn’t include them in everything.

  “Devereaux,” Quekri said, “is likely to die soon. However, total mind transfer entails enormous risks and Devereaux never gave us a clear directive as to his wishes should he find himself in this situation.”

  “Excuse me,” Zeriphi said, “but we do know that Devereaux opposes extending life beyond its natural expectancy.”

  Murmurs filled the cave as the Escala considered this.

  “True,” Dr. Wellon conceded, “but this virus isn’t natural. And I think Devereaux would want to be revived so he can continue to work for a cure.”

  “He talked often about the corruption of immortality,” Zeriphi said.

  “What does that mean?” Addam asked.

  “It means,” Zeriphi replied, “that those who become immortal are much more likely to engage in depravity. Power corrupts. Life is power. Immortal life breeds boredom, which ultimately births cruelty.”

  More murmurs: which quieted down when Keelar cleared her throat loudly.

  “Devereaux,” she said, “is first and foremost a humanitarian. Everything he’s done has been with the purpose of aiding humanity. And this action, if taken, would not guarantee Devereaux immortality, nor would it preclude a later transfer either back into his own body, should it survive, or into another donor or cloned body for purposes of living out a natural life. As much as Devereaux has discussed the danger of power associated with eternal life, he has also by his actions demonstrated an unsurpassed devotion to his fellow creatures, an altruistic love that transcends our shoddy attempts to emulate it. And though many of you are not believers, there is also the issue of the soul. For those of us who still believe, we wonder what will happen to his soul.”

  Quekri said, “You’re right to question all that. As for the soul, I can’t speak to that, nor can any of us. Only God, if there is a God, knows the answer to what will happen. But if there is a soul, I would think it would move with the mind and consciousness of Devereaux rather than stay with his body—just as in death, the soul leaves the body to ascend to another plane of existence.”

  Murmurs arose among the gathered crowd. Quekri raised her hands until they quieted. “I know many of you feel strongly about this, one way or the other. But we cannot answer the religious question with any certainty, so I’m asking you not to take that into consideration for now. We are scientists. We must examine this issue through the scientific lens.”

  She looked at Aspen, raising an eyebrow. The other Escala turned to face her as well.

  They want my opinion, Aspen thought. She was at once flattered and angry: flattered that Quekri should value her ideas, angry that she hadn’t been consulted earlier. She said, “I know nothing about religion, so I’ll speak only to the science. The transfer of the majority of Devereaux’s mind would proceed relatively smoothly. The bulk of his personality would meld into the computer’s organic software. However, there might be some loss of detail, some loss of essential mental processes—the unique complexity that makes Devereaux’s mind so special. We also have to consider that the body plays an enormously important role in the development and functioning of the mind.”

  Paddon, an Escala technician who’d been wounded on Earth and still walked with a limp, spoke up in his soft voice. “Are you saying that without his body, the Devereaux we save might not be the Devereaux he used to be?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “So he might not have a soul?”

  The buzz of conversation grew louder.

  “Please,” Quekri said, and the room quieted once again. “Aspen wasn’t talking about a soul. Were you?”

  “No. I meant that his personality and his will might be different. You might call that a soul—I don’t know. But whether it’s the soul or something else, the point is, he might not be exactly the same. For example, he might not have a sex drive any longer, or hunger pangs.”

  Dr. Wellon said, “From a purely scientific standpoint, any personality discrepancy should be suppressible with sufficient willpower. And we all know that Devereaux has exceptional mental discipline. I’m not going to lie about the risks. Aspen is right. They’re huge. But I fear that if we don’t assist them, they may try to do this without us, and Devereaux might die . . . or worse.”

  Escala and cadets turned back to Aspen, looking for her counter-argument or assent. Even Quekri stared at her. Aspen felt an enormous pressure in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Her stomach fluttered, a churning knot. She’d never asked to lead the cadets. Why was Quekri pushing her? Whatever the colony ultimately decided, Quekri’s opinion would carry the most weight. So why ask her at all? Aspen couldn’t even unite her cadets. Finally she said, “What does Zora think? Has anyone checked with her?”

  “And what does Quark think?” Paddon asked.

  “And Jeremiah,” Krall contributed, shooting a glance at his mother. “What does Jeremiah Jones think?”

  “Quark,” Quekri answered, “believes we should save Devereaux’s mind. And he’s b
een closer to Devereaux than any of us.”

  “He’s also an atheist,” Keelar said.

  “True,” Quekri conceded. “As for Jeremiah Jones, I don’t believe he has been consulted. Apart from us, I don’t think anyone cares what he thinks. And Zora,” Quekri looked at Aspen, “well, she trusted you to make the hard decisions.”

  “I don’t think it’s a decision I can make for someone else,” Aspen said. “Bad things may result, whatever we decide.”

  More murmurs came from the Escala, while the cadets, except for Addam, glared at her. Aspen returned their stares, challenging them to come up with their own ideas if they didn’t like hers.

  Addam said, “Wait a minute. We’re not actually deciding whether the mind transfer takes place, are we?”

  “No,” Quekri answered. “The President of the United States will likely make the decision. No one else has the authority. Perhaps she doesn’t either, but certainly no one else can decide. And Devereaux is in her government’s custody.”

  Aspen said, “And if we refuse to give them our data?”

  “Dr. Wellon and I believe they’ll go ahead with it anyway,” Quekri answered, “which is one of the reasons I didn’t waste your time with discussion. They’re going to do what they want regardless of our concerns.”

  “Then why are we even having this meeting?”

  “First, to make everyone aware of what’s happening. Second, to ask that all our information on mind transfer be collected into a file we can transmit to Earth, so they’ll have the best chance of bringing Devereaux through the procedure unharmed. And third, to discuss the approaching vessel from China.”

  “Finally,” Aspen said. “I wondered if you were ever going to acknowledge its existence.”

  “I thought the ship would eventually contact us and that we’d have time to make a decision.”

  “We could have been building Las-weapons,” Aspen said.

  “We’re not soldiers,” Quekri said. “We don’t wish to fight with anyone. Mars is plenty big for another scientific expedition. And it’s an internationally recognized neutral zone. They have as much right to land on Mars as we did, or the miners.

  “Where are the miners?” Keelar asked. “Shouldn’t they be here for this meeting too?”

  More murmurs.

  “Please,” Quekri said, lifting her hands again until the room quieted once more. “They’re here for purely commercial reasons. Their goals are not our goals.

  “All they care about is ore,” Fazzerel, an older Escala with a thick, gray beard offered.

  “They steal our tools,” Garthod, the heavyset chief Escala engineer, said.

  “They don’t live here permanently,” Quekri added. “They rotate out every time a new ship picks up ore.”

  “Some of them,” Keelar said, “have done pretty well. Bilson, for example, has no major health problems.”

  “I’ve treated him half a dozen times already,” Dr. Wellon said. “Granted, for small medical issues, but he hasn’t been as healthy as you might think. And seven of them have died since they arrived. That’s not a great success rate.”

  Quekri said, “We’ll bring them in when necessary. For now we ought to get back to the Chinese ship. They’ve been sending telemetry back to Earth, so I hoped they were on a peaceful mission.”

  Aspen said, “What if they’ve come to attack us?”

  “Indeed. It seems like a long way to travel just to kill a few pseudos.” Quekri emphasized the hated term others used to describe the Escala, and for an instant Aspen saw a gleam of anger in her eyes. “But,” Quekri continued, “you’re right. We must consider that possibility. Quark reminded me that you are a valuable addition to this expedition. It would be foolish not to take advantage of your experience with battle strategy. And while it seems unlikely they’ve come to attack us, it wouldn’t be prudent to ignore the potential threat entirely. So I’m asking you and your cadets to help us design a weapons system that can be used should their intentions prove hostile.”

  “Cool,” Benn and Phan said at the same time.

  “I still think we should include the miners,” Keelar said.

  “You may tell them what we’ve decided after the meeting,” Quekri said.

  “They should have some input,” Keelar said.

  “I’ll entertain any suggestions they have later,” Quekri said. “Any thoughts on weapons?”

  “We should build a Las-cannon,” Shiloh said. “Or a particle beam cannon.”

  Kammilee sighed. “I’m with Keelar. We should include the miners. They have Las-weapons, and they’ve said they’re willing to defend us. Plus, if we build a Las-cannon or a particle beam cannon, we might provoke the Chinese.”

  “Kammilee’s right,” Keelar said. “We’re here to learn, not to kill, not to commit atrocities like the ones still being committed on Earth. Let the miners defend us.”

  A loud buzz sounded from the Escala. But Paddon spoke up: “Look what our pacifism bought us on Earth. The Elite Ops attacked us. They would have wiped us out if not for Jeremiah and Devereaux. I say we build whatever weapons we can. We don’t have to use them if it’s not necessary. If we wait, it might be too late to defend ourselves.”

  “Perhaps we can study the issue for a few days,” Fazzerel said. “Prepare our shuttle to intercept them in orbit and see what they’re thinking.”

  Garthod said, “The shuttle would take three days to charge and provision.”

  “We only have a few days,” Addam reminded them. “They’ll be in orbit in two days unless they make straight for the surface. My guess is that they’ll orbit a few times to verify potential landing sites and determine if we present any threat before they descend.”

  “We’ll build Las-rifles,” Aspen said. “The chem-fuel is nowhere near as complicated as it is for a Las-cannon. And a particle beam cannon is far too complicated. We can probably construct two Las-rifles a day. We could have six or maybe eight weapons ready by the time they land.”

  Quekri shrugged. “I hope it’s for nothing. I hope they’ve just had problems with their communications system.”

  Dr. Wellon said, “What about shields? Can we build a few before they get here? And if they’ve got shields, which seems likely, our Las-rifles won’t work against them.”

  Garthod said, “Shields are more complicated than Las-rifles. I doubt we’d have time to put together the materials we’d need to make an effective shield.”

  “Shields won’t save us,” Aspen said. “We’ll use a dampening field to keep the hideout cave safe from their scanners. But the cave will only hold a dozen of us at most. We’ll save that for Kammilee, Addam, Shiloh and a few Escala to help them build weapons—people like Garthod. The rest of us will use whatever weapons we can make or take from the colonists to defend the colony.”

  “I should help with defense,” Addam said. “Put Phan in the hidey-hole.”

  “I want to fight,” Phan said.

  “We can’t all fight,” Benn said. “Addam, you’re our best engineer. If it comes down to a fight, you’ll have to go into the cave with Kammilee and Shiloh to build Las-rifles and prepare a counter-attack. The rest of us will hold them off as long as we can. Perhaps we can bring down the main tunnel on top of them as they advance, propping up a few mini-caves with grav-suspensors.”

  “Multiple explosions!” Phan jumped to his feet, bopping his head up and down. “We’ve got tons of rock we can use as shrapnel.”

  Now Shiloh rose to her feet as well. “The ideal detonation,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement, “would produce dozens of shards per boulder. Properly directed, they’d form a lethal shower.”

  Kammilee stayed seated, shaking her head as she wrapped her arms around her stomach.

  Quekri nodded to Aspen. “I’ll leave the details to you. Tell us what you need. But remember, this is all just
precautionary. We won’t be the aggressors. All right, people. We’ve got a lot of work to do in the next few days. Let’s collect every bit of information we have on mind transfer. Whatever else we do, we must save Devereaux.”

  Chapter 17

  Inside the quarantine bubble, Jeremiah held Sophie against his chest, savoring the milk and talcum powder smell of her as she fidgeted. Perhaps the nurses’ preparations clued her in that her next painful treatment was due. He glanced out the window at Hannah and the two Elite Ops troopers watching and no doubt listening. Mustering up his courage, he began to sing Children’s Moon. He sang badly, his voice hoarse, his throat hurting, but Sophie appeared to enjoy the song. She quieted in his arms and grabbed his index finger in her tiny fist. When her eyes met his, he no longer cared if he looked silly. He was determined to do whatever it took to bring her through this illness, even though all he could do at the moment was comfort her.

  Before the song ended, Sophie drifted off to sleep. Jeremiah continued to shuffle around the room. Despite the painkillers, he still felt some discomfort with every movement except when he held Sophie; she seemed to derive as much pleasure from their sessions as he did. And Dr. Poole had told him that the more time he spent with Sophie, the better she progressed. So he treasured this time, even though he felt guilty when away from his desk.

  He’d reached an impasse in his search for the Sally cells, one that he doubted he could overcome by himself. He’d examined all the Intel CINTEP’s analysts had provided, all their summaries and estimates as to numbers of Sally cells and probable future targets. It all made sense when looked at chronologically—the gradual buildup of the organization into a global network—but Jeremiah sensed something off about it. The pattern felt too flawed, the locations of known attacks too well spaced. The whole thing lacked the randomness a computer would have brought to the opponents’ strategy. Why was Sally not using a computer to choose her targets?