The Orbital had watched. The Orbital had learned. It knew of the primitive-yet-effective technology the humans had developed to protect themselves from infection. Drawing on the knowledge of a vastly superior technology, the Orbital had prepared a way to defeat this protection.
The last neutrophil sensed that its fellow microbes had succeeded. It underwent the final portion of the preprogrammed dance. It slid into the microscopic hole and began to swell, bloating until it pushed against the sides.
Air stopped flowing out of the glove.
That final neutrophil hardened, then died, fulfilling its role as nothing more than a plug in a hole so tiny it would take an electron microscope to see it, if anyone ever looked.
And no one ever would.
IT’S ABOUT CANTRELL
Clarence needed a shower. At least he was out of that suit. Built-in air conditioner or not, when he wore it, he sweated like a wh.o.r.e in church — probably less from any heat and more because of what waited just outside of the thin material.
He sat in the small control center that looked down through the clear roofs of the three science modules. The console in front of him and the walls on either side were packed with computers, monitors and communication equipment — neat, tidy, s.p.a.ce-conscious military design. The built-in microphone in front of him let him speak to people in the modules; speakers in the console let him hear them talk.
Through the control center’s gla.s.s, he saw Margaret and Tim working away. They’d pulled Candice Walker’s scalp down over her face. The inside-out flesh looked bone-white, smeared with tacky blood. Tim was cutting into her skull with a handheld saw.
Clarence had been in the BSL-4 suit for about two hours, total, and had been counting the minutes until he could get out of it. He didn’t know how Margaret and Feely managed it so well; the two of them would probably be in their suits for another eight to ten hours, at least. They had both opted for devices that allowed them to urinate and defecate while still in the suit.
You told her she’s not a soldier. You can barely keep your suit on for ninety minutes but she can p.i.s.s and s.h.i.+t inside of hers for twenty-four hours straight if she has to.
Not that Clarence hadn’t faced his own fair share of awful conditions. In Iraq, his unit had been pinned down. Waiting for support, he and his buddy, Louis Oakley, had hidden behind rocks, suffering 120-degree heat while dreading that the next bullet would hit home. Lou-Lou took a round to the head. He died instantly. Clarence had lain there for the better part of a day, unable to move away from the corpse, willing his body to press closer to the ground. Louis had looked on, unblinking.
Clarence shook his head, came back to the moment. No time to get lost in those memories.
He finished up the notes from his interview with Cantrell. Margaret preferred her information summarized, the most-important stuff bullet-pointed right up top. If she needed info beyond that summary, she would ask.
At times, being in a relations.h.i.+p with a woman who was clearly much, much smarter than he was felt a little intimidating. In their day-to-day life it hadn’t been noticeable — she was a woman, he was a man, things worked out. But when it came to talking politics, finances, history, or — G.o.d forbid — science, the gap in their IQs became clear. At least he knew more about football than she did. Or, at least that’s what she let him believe. He was never really sure about that one.
Clarence turned on the microphone. “Margo, is now still a good time?”
She and Tim stopped what they were doing, looked up. Margaret nodded.
Tim had a s.h.i.+t-eating grin on his face. “Suit’s a little stuffy, eh, fella? You want me to go to the kitchen and fetch you a nice gla.s.s of lemonade to cool you off?”
Clarence ground his teeth in embarra.s.sment.
“Or some talc.u.m powder,” Tim said. “Maybe your bottom is damp?”
Margaret reached out, slapped Tim lightly on the shoulder. He stopped talking, but the grin didn’t go away. Was he actually posturing, trying to impress Margaret? At a time like this, the guy was. .h.i.tting on her?
Just hope we never step into the ring, you little runt. We’ll find out who’s the better man.
“Margo,” Clarence said, “verbal or send it to your HUD?”
She tapped her visor. “HUD. Tim’s as well.”
Clarence did as he was asked.
Both Tim and Margaret read through the info playing on the inside of their visors.
“Fancy,” Tim said. “It’s like Cliff’s Notes for Holy s.h.i.+t the World Is Going to End Theater. Bullet points? Please, Agent Otto, don’t spend any time going into actual detail.”
“Tim, cut it out,” Margaret said, still reading. “This is how I want my data. Clarence knows what I like.”
That line shut Tim up. He glared up at the control booth. Clarence knew Margaret hadn’t meant anything s.e.xual by the reference, but he couldn’t help but give Tim a little nod that said, Awww yeah, I know what she likes, and you never will.
Margaret tapped the air, shutting off the report.
“The bleach thing is interesting,” she said. “Is anyone checking their suits for holes or malfunctions?”
“I asked Captain Yasaka if someone could test them,” Clarence said. “She’s going to have the nonquarantined divers run a pressurized rate of fall test as soon as they can, probably first thing tomorrow morning. The divers pressurize the suit and watch the gauges, see if there is a loss greater than expected. In other words, fill it with air and see if it leaks.”
