Mount Dragon (61 page)

“Nye” de Vaca called out.

He turned.

“Who's your friend?”

“Just a boy I knew once,” he said.

“What's his name?”

“Jonathan.”

“Jonathan who?”

“Jonathan Nye.” He turned and hurried away. She watched him shuffle off, talking excitedly. Soon he had disappeared around a point of lava and into the night.

De Vaca waited several minutes until she was sure he had gone. Then she dismounted and moved slowly toward Carson. He was still unconscious. She felt his pulse: weak and rapid, definitely shocky. Gingerly, she examined the shattered forearm. It was leaking blood, but only slightly. Loosening the tourniquet, she was relieved to see that the severed artery had sealed. Now she had to get him out before gangrene set in.

Carson's eyes fluttered open.

“Guy!” she said urgently.

The eyes turned, focusing on her slowly.

“Can you stand?”

Whether or not he had heard, she couldn't be sure. She grabbed him under the arms and tried to pull him up. He struggled feebly, then fell back into the sand. Pouring some water into her hands, she splashed it gently on his face.

“Get up,” she ordered.

Carson struggled to his knees, fell back on his good elbow, struggled up again, grabbed Muerto's stirrup and pulled himself slowly to his feet. De Vaca helped him clamber onto the horse's back, careful to keep his damaged arm from being jostled. Carson swayed, cradled his arm, blinked several times. Then he began to topple forward. De Vaca grabbed his chest, steadying him. She was going to have to tie him in place.

Nye had a cotton lead rope fixed to one side of the saddle. Uncoiling it, de Vaca tied the rope around Carson's chest, leaning him over the saddle horn, wrapping his left arm around the horn and tying it securely in place. As she worked, she realized, with almost complete detachment, that she was shirtless. But it was dark, and she had nothing to cover herself with. Somehow it seemed very, very unimportant.

She began leading Muerto by the reins, walking directly toward the North Star.

They reached the line camp at dawn: an old adobe house with a tin roof, hidden among a cluster of cottonwood trees. Off to one side was a barn, a windmill and watertank, and a set of weathered corrals. A fresh breeze was cranking the windmill. A horse in the corral whinnied, then a dog began barking at their approach. Soon a young man, wearing red long johns and a cowboy hat, was standing in the doorway, his mouth open as he stared at this topless woman, covered with blood, leading a magnificent paint horse with a man tied into its saddle.

Scopes stared at Levine, a mingled look of horror and disbelief on his face. At last he stepped away from the table, walked to a narrow panel in a nearby wall, and pressed a button. The panel slid up noiselessly, revealing a small wet bar and sink.

“Don't rinse your hands,” Levine said quietly. “You'll send the virus down the drain.”

Scopes hesitated. “You're right,” he replied. Moistening a hand towel, he dabbed at his palms and picked out a few slivers of glass, then dried his hands carefully. Stepping away from the bar, he returned to the sofa and sat down. His movements seemed odd, hesitant, as if walking had become a suddenly unfamiliar act.

Levine glanced over from the far end of the sofa. “I think you'd better tell me what you know about X-FLU II,” he said quietly.

Scopes smoothed back his cowlick with an automatic gesture. “We actually know very little. I believe that only one human has been exposed to it. There's an incubation period of perhaps twenty-four to sixty hours, followed by almost instantaneous death through cerebral edema.”

“Is there a cure?”

“No.”

“Vaccine?”

“No.”

“Infectiousness?”

“Similar to the common cold. Perhaps even more so.”

Levine glanced down again at his cut hand. The blood was beginning to congeal around the broken shards of the ampule. There was no question they both had been infected.

“Any hope?” he asked at last.

“None,” Scopes replied.

There was a long silence.

“I'm sorry,” Scopes said finally, in a tone so low it was almost a whisper. “I'm so sorry, Charles. There was a time when I would never have thought to do that. I—” He stopped. “I guess I've just grown too used to winning.”

Levine stood up and cleaned his hand with the towel. “There isn't time for recriminations. The pressing question is how we can prevent the virus in this room from destroying mankind.”

Scopes was silent.

“Brent?”

Scopes did not respond. Levine leaned toward him.

“Brent?” he asked quietly. “What is it?”

“I don't know,” Scopes replied at last. “I guess I'm afraid of dying.”

Levine looked at him. “So am I,” he said at last. “But fear is a luxury we can't afford right now. We're wasting precious minutes. We must figure out a way to…well, to sterilize the area. Completely. Do you understand?”

Scopes nodded, looking away.

Levine grasped his shoulder, shook him gently. “You've got to be with me on this, Brent, or it won't work. This is your building. You're going to have to do what's necessary to make sure this virus stops with us.”

For a long moment, Scopes continued to look away. Then he turned toward Levine. “This room has a pressure seal, and is supplied with its own private air system,” he said, collecting himself. “The walls have been reinforced against terrorist attacks: fire, explosion, gas. That will make our job easier.”

A tone sounded, and then, the face of Spencer Fairley appeared on the giant screen before them. “Sir, Jenkins from marketing is insisting on speaking with you,” the face said. “Apparently, the hospital consortium has abruptly canceled plans to begin transfusing PurBlood tomorrow morning. He wants to know what pressure you'll be bringing to bear on their administrations.”

Scopes looked at Levine, his eyebrows raised. “Et tu, Brute? It appears friend Carson delivered his message after all.” He turned back to the image on the screen. “I'm not going to bring any pressure to bear. Tell Jenkins that the PurBlood release should be rolled back, pending further testing. There may be adverse long-term effects of which we weren't aware.” He typed a series of commands. “I'm sending a Mount Dragon data file to GeneDyne Manchester. It's incomplete, but it may show evidence of contamination in the PurBlood manufacturing process. Please follow up, make sure they examine it carefully.” He sighed heavily.

“Spencer, I want you to run a diagnostic on the Octagon's containment system. Make sure the seals are all in place and functioning normally.”

Fairley nodded, then moved away from the screen. In a few moments, he returned.

“The system is fully operational,” he said. “Atmospheric regulators and all monitoring devices are showing normal readings.”

“Good,” Scopes said. “Now listen carefully. I want you to instruct Endicott to unseal the perimeter around the headquarters building, and to restore all communication with the remote sites. I will be broadcasting a message to headquarters employees. I want you to send a message to General Roger Harrington at the Pentagon, Ring E, Level Three, Section Seventeen, over a clear channel. Tell him that I am withdrawing the offer and that there will be no further negotiations.”

“Very well,” Fairley said. He paused, then looked more intently at the monitor. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked.

“No,” said Scopes. “Something terrible has happened. I need your absolute cooperation.”

Fairley nodded.

“There has been an accident inside the Octagon,” Scopes said. “A virus known as X-FLU II has been released into the air supply. Both Dr. Levine and I have been infected. This virus is one-hundred-percent fatal. There is no hope of recovery.”

Fairley's face betrayed nothing.

“We cannot allow this virus to escape. Therefore, the Octagon must be sterilized.”

Fairley nodded again. “I understand, sir,” he said.

“I doubt you do. Dr. Levine and I are carrying the virus. It is multiplying in our bodies as we speak. You must, therefore, directly supervise our deaths.”

“Sir! How can I possibly—”

“Shut up and listen. If you don't follow my instructions, billions will die. Including yourself.”

Fairley fell silent.

“I want you to scramble two helicopters,” Scopes said. “You're to send one to GeneDyne Manchester, where it will pick up ten two-liter canisters of VXV-twelve.” He did a quick calculation. “The volume of this room is approximately thirty-two thousand cubic feet. So we'll also need at least sixteen thousand cc's of liquid 1,2 cyanophosphatol 6,6,6, trimethyloxylated mercuro-hexachloride. The second chopper can obtain the necessary supply from our Norfolk facility. It must be shipped in sealed glass beakers.”

Fairley looked up from a computer screen at his side. “Cyanophosphatol?”

“It's a biological poison. A very, very effective biological poison. It will kill anything alive in this room. Although it's stored in liquid form, it has a low vapor point and will rapidly evaporate, filling the room with a sterilizing gas.”

“Won't it kill—?”

“Spencer, we'll already be dead. That's the point of the VXV canisters.”

Fairley licked his lips. “Mr. Scopes.” He swallowed. “You can't ask me to…” His voice dropped away.

Scopes looked at Fairley's image on the immense screen. Beads of sweat had sprung up around the corners of his mouth, and his iron-gray hair, normally smoothly coiffed, was coming loose.

“Spencer, I've never needed your loyalty more than I do now,” Scopes continued quietly. “You must understand that I'm already a dead man. The greatest favor you can do for me now is not to let me die by X-FLU II. There's no time to waste.”

“Yes, sir,” Fairley said, averting his eyes.

“You're to have everything here within two hours. Let me know when both helicopters are safely on the pad.” Scopes punched a key, and the screen went black.

There was a heavy silence in the room. Then Scopes turned toward Levine. “Do you believe in life after death?” he asked.

Levine shook his head. “In Judaism, we believe it's what we do in this life that matters. We achieve immortality through living a righteous life, and worshipping God. The children we leave behind are our immortality.”

“But you have no children, Charles.”

“I had always hoped to. I've tried to do good in other ways, not always with success.”

Scopes was silent. “I used to despise people who needed to believe in an afterlife,” he went on at last. “I thought it was a weakness. Now that the moment of reckoning is here, I wish I had spent more time convincing myself.” He looked down. “It would be nice to have some hope.”

Levine closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. Then he opened them suddenly. “Cypherspace,” he said simply.

“What do you mean?”

“You've programmed other people from your past into the program. Why not program yourself? That way, you—or a part of you—could live on, perhaps even dispensing your wit and wisdom to all who cared to converse with you.”

Scopes laughed harshly. “I'm not that attractive a person, I'm afraid. As you well know.”

“Perhaps. But you're certainly the most interesting.”

Scopes nodded. “Thank you for that.” He paused. “It's an intriguing idea.”

“We have two hours to kill.”

Scopes smiled wanly. “All right, Charles. Why not? There's one condition, however. You must put yourself into the program, as well. I'm not going back to Monhegan Island alone.”

Levine shook his head. “I'm no programmer, especially of something as complex as this.”

“That's not a problem. I've written a character-generating algorithm. It uses various AI subroutines that ask questions, engage the user in brief conversations, do a few psychological tests. Then it creates a character and inserts it into the cypherspace world. I wrote it as a tool to help me people the island more efficiently, but it could work just as well for us.”