Текст книги "The Eden Plague"
Автор книги: David VanDyke
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-29-
Elise looked at her watch, dimly visible in the glow of the hangar’s Exit sign. She glanced for the dozenth time at David Markis. His rejuvenated body had settled in at its optimum physical age, and now he looked for all the world as if he was Daniel’s brother instead of his father. He shook his head at her, shrugged as if he knew what she was thinking.
Pacing up and down, she exchanged quiet greetings with Larry and the dozen others that were still with them. She knew many of the Bunker group had simply flown to Buenos Aires on their own passports. Before he died, Vinny had confirmed that those were not on any watch lists, had not been connected with the fugitives. The rest, who might be taken into custody, were here waiting in a small airfield near Tucson, ready for David to fly them south to safety and freedom.
A half hour later the elder Markis finally spoke up. “We can’t stay much longer. It’s almost dawn, and someone is going to notice us stealing this plane and call the authorities. And we don’t want to have to sneak across the border in daylight. I doubt the Air Force is going to respect Mexican sovereignty if they decide to shoot us down. We have to go.”
Everyone was looking at her. As if I can decide this, she thought. But I am his wife. They want my blessing. They want me to let him go, to absolve them of responsibility. Well, all right. They may still make it. Two highly trained men by themselves might be able to slip across the borders. These people here – civilians, women and children – I can’t risk their freedom for one man.
Even if he is my husband, my heart, my life.
She nodded to David. “You’re right. Come on, let’s go.”
Immediately David Markis clapped his hands. “All right, you heard the lady, load up.” The stairs were already down on the twin-engine turboprop and the people took their places quietly. Elise sat down in the frontmost passenger cabin seat. She ran her hand over the fabric of the cushion next to her, wishing things were different. Wishing he was there.
Larry hit the button that opened the hangar, then ran to shut the fuselage door and take the copilot position. Engines whined to life and David taxied out onto the ramp, turning eastward toward the downwind end of the runway.
As the plane swung through one hundred eighty degrees she heard an exhalation and an exclamation from the cockpit.
“What is it?” she heard David say. “Are we blown?” He pushed the throttles forward and the engines picked up speed.
“I don’t know,” replied Larry. “It’s just one vehicle. No lights. Slow down, man. The Feds wouldn’t come in like this. They’d be all guns blazing and shit. It has to be them!”
David throttled back, but did not brake the plane. The aircraft and the SUV approached each other on opposite courses, the truck speeding down the runway much faster than the turboprop, heading directly toward it.
At the last second it slewed sideways and two men bailed out, waving frantically. David Markis slammed the throttles back to idle, feathered the props and hit the brakes as wild cheering broke out among the passengers.
Elise couldn’t hold back the tears as Spooky and Daniel climbed aboard. Her husband threw himself into her arms and held on as if he’d never let her go. And he won’t, not if I have anything to say about it, she resolved.
As the plane ran down the runway she saw the SUV flash its lights twice in goodbye, then turn and race away across the dusty desert landscape just turning pink in the light of dawn. Goodbye, Skull, she thought. I don’t like you, but right now I love you. I hope I get to thank you sometime.
-Epilogue-
Interstellar space, 1.6 light years from Earth, velocity .17C.
The organisms on the Meme scout ship were known by their functions. Thus, Commander was awakened earliest, and was the first to begin processing many thousands of planetary revolutions-worth of stored data from the target world. Some time later, two other organisms joined it in consciousness, to digest with Commander. They were designated Biologist and Executive.
It was two full revolutions more before they felt the need to confer. The Meme were meticulous beings, and they examined the data in detail, scanning from the moment their Lightbearer probe had deposited the Adversary Worm onto the target world thousands of cycles ago, until the moment of anomaly.
Commander was first to speak, as was proper. “Biologist. Explain the existence of these sentients. Why did the Adversary Worm not corrupt them sufficiently to reduce them to animals?”
“I cannot explain at this time, Commander. We must continue to process the stored data, and analyze. Perhaps the data will yet relate their fall.”
“Noted. Continue.”
A half a revolution later the Commander spoke again. “I am processing data from circa timepoint minus 3000. The sentients formed large collectives, developed symbolic communication, built permanent structures, and made organized war upon each other. They grow more numerous.”
Biologist replied, “I do not yet have sufficient data to form a conjecture. The Watcher probe is limited in its ability to sample at its orbital distance, and it is only transmitting Level One data.”
“Why do we not have Level Two data? Was the Level Two worm not deployed?”
“Unknown. Each perihelion brings more detail. I will continue to process.”
Executive also waited, and listened, and processed.
While the subordinates were by nature creatures of logic and of very even temperament, Commander was by design less so, having been given more flexibility and motivation to address threats, anomalies and irritations. Thus it was only another revolution, a mere moment to the deep-thinking beings, before Commander spoke again, hardly able to contain itself. By the standards of its race, it was agitated. Its protoplasmic body, huge with age and genetic knowledge, shook within its containment tank.
“I am processing data from circa timepoint minus one hundred. The sentients have developed control of basic electrical forces including electromagnetic communications, internal combustion, and atmospheric flight. The level Two worm must have failed.”
This time it was Executive that responded. “I have been digesting the data as well. I have begun constructing courses of action using the resources at hand.”
“Those resources are very limited. This is a Survey craft, not a Destroyer.”
Executive and Biologist exchanged fleeting thoughts of concern, or perhaps amusement. Commander was sometimes given to redundant statements of well-known fact. The two remained indulgent.
Biologist responded, “Let us continue to digest data. Approximately one hundred target-revolutions will bring us to data-timepoint zero. Then we will have maximum information and can formulate strategy.”
“We must formulate an effective strategy to reduce them to animals. The Race must not Blend with fully sentient beings, or we shall lose who we are. Yet they must be clever enough to be trained to serve. We must prepare Level Two phages for deployment.”
But it was only a fraction of a revolution later that Commander, after processing data from only some fifty cycles ago, exclaimed, “They have harnessed atomic forces for weaponry and research!”
“Yes. Adjusting projections and strategies. These sentients have grown dangerous.” Executive mused momentarily that it itself was now beginning to make obvious and pointless restatements of known fact.
“Artificial orbiting objects! Interplanetary probes! Nuclear weapons numbering thousands! Digital computing devices! Biological informatics and life-code engineering! We must prepare Level Three phages!”
“Calm yourself, Commander,” soothed Biologist. “We have now processed the record until target-data timepoint zero. They are still primitive. Even now, Executive is developing strategies. I am digesting data from our Watcher. And even better, I have an ever-growing store of information from the sentients themselves, broadcast by electromagnetic carrier waves into space.”
“But we are still at least twelve revolutions from arrival. In that time, who knows what capabilities they will have developed? Remember Species 447? It consumed thousands of revolutions of time and untold racial resources to reduce them to animals. I do not wish to be brought before the Assembly for failure to subdue this species.”
Executive interjected, “Let us continue to study and plan. It appears by my preliminary trend analysis that these sentients may still reduce themselves to animals of their own volition between timepoint zero and our arrival. If not, we will assist them to do so. And we have yet to gain access to the more recent Watcher Probe logs. Their records end some 4000 cycles ago.” For unknown reasons.
“I agree with Executive, Commander. Let us apply our best efforts and we may yet avoid censure.”
Commander released the Meme equivalent of a long sigh. “Accord. I will compose a lightspeed communication burst to the Destroyer, detailing the situation and requesting advice, along with all of our data. We should receive an answer in approximately five revolutions. Biologist, what is the designation of this new sentient?”
“Commander, designation is Human, Species 666.”
End of The Eden Plague.
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Reaper’s Run Excerpt
Book 1 of the Plague Wars Series
“Cap’n,” the 40mm gunner abruptly broke in from above, “something’s up.”
Muzik and Repeth turned to look in the direction the private pointed. Around a corner two blocks away came a procession of hundreds of people, perhaps thousands, yelling something and waving signs with anti-government, anti-martial-law slogans. Some pumped fists, and some carried sticks with no signs attached. More kept coming toward them, and some outliers, mostly young men, jumped on cars or kicked over garbage cans.
All the uniforms nearby, whether military or cops, nervously checked their weapons, and moved instinctively out of the mob’s path. “Everyone keep calm,” Captain Muzik called to his troops in a ringing voice. “As long as they are peaceful, do not fire.”
“They don’t look peaceful, sir,” Repeth said as several youths smashed a parked car’s windshield.
“I’m not going to shoot people for a little property damage, Corporal,” Muzik said in a cold voice. “You’d better get inside the Humvee. Lock the doors.”
It stuck in her craw to have to be protected, but she knew he was right. With her legs the way they were, and no weapon, there wasn’t much she could do. She wasn’t sure she could shoot American civilians anyway, unless they were trying to kill someone.
They’re just scared, she told herself. Like me.
“Get on the radio,” Muzik said to her when she had climbed in. “The CEOI is right there with callsigns and frequencies. Tell Battalion what’s happening and we need riot control squads.”
“Roger,” Repeth responded flatly, reaching for the radio handset.
“What?” Captain Muzik shot her an annoyed glance.
“Yes, sir, I got it.” But what’s got him? she wondered.
Repeth saw Muzik shut the armored door and move to the other side of the vehicle, putting it between himself and the mob that had overturned a pick-up truck and now chanted rhythmically, “Kill-the-cops. Kill-the-cops.”
Uh-oh. She tried to reach the next higher headquarters on the frequency listed, but all she could hear was chaos on the nets. She got a brief response, she thought, before someone else stepped on her transmission.
She popped the door on the safer side open enough to yell, “I can’t reach anyone, and it sounds like there are riots breaking out all over. Battalion is swamped.”
“Crap,” Muzik responded, then said louder, “Dammit!” The mob had turned toward them. He drew his sidearm. “Lock the vehicle!”
Repeth immediately did so, checking all the doors and looking up at the private standing in the 40mm cupola. “Better unbuckle, kid. You don’t want to be lashed into position if they roll this vehicle.”
“Hell with that,” he muttered, sweat streaming down his bone-white face. “Hell with that!” he repeated, and without orders, opened fire with his grenade launcher.
“Shit!” Repeth yelled as the weapon’s loud stuttering filled the compartment. “Cease fire, cease fire,” she ordered, hammering with her fist on the man’s leg. He paid no attention, but continued to rake the mob with 40mm grenades.
The first shells did not detonate. Launcher grenades require approximately thirty meters of flight before arming, and the soldier was firing at people closer than that. The heavy cylinders slammed into people, breaking bones and knocking them down, but none exploded.
At first.
Then one lucky shot missed hitting anything or anyone, striking the street sixty meters away, right in the center of the crowd. To Repeth’s surprise, it burst into a cloud of white mist, and the rioters nearby coughed and covered their mouths and noses, eyes and sinuses streaming.
Tear gas. Thank God. I thought he was firing explosive rounds. Other grenades popped, and soon the entire area filled with acrid fumes. Her eyes stung, and she grabbed a protective mask on the seat next to her, putting it on in well under the requisite nine seconds.
It did not matter that the shots were not lethal. Like a living being with one angry mind, the mob gave an inarticulate scream and turned from rioting to killing rage.
Men surrounded the Humvee, and climbed up to beat the struggling, screaming soldier on his perch behind the grenade launcher. Blood spattered into the interior. Repeth could see sticks, rocks and even a machete chopping, chopping.
Grabbing the gunner’s assault rifle racked below, she aimed and fired upward, shooting for arms and legs, trying to drive the mob off the soldier before they killed him. Only when his severed head fell into the interior did she stop. They couldn’t get past his harnessed body to reach her, and the three or four she shot deterred the others for a moment.
Instead she felt the Humvee rocking as the mob sought to overturn it, but the squat, heavy vehicle resisted their efforts at first. If they got coordinated and all on one side, though, they would succeed.
End of Reaper’s Run excerpt.
