If the ladies liked it, Tim liked it — a simple philosophy that opened up a world of possibilities.
Could he land Margaret? Why the fuck not? He felt on top of the world, he felt like a king. He’d isolated the hydra’s catalyst-producing gene sequence and inserted it into his fast-growing yeast, which was now happily diving away. It remained to be seen, however, if the modified yeast actually produced the catalyst, and if that catalyst actually worked.
From everything he’d seen so far, it would. Which meant — Tim Feely might very well have just saved the world.
And if that don’t get you laid, nothing will.
Tim entered the briefing room. Margaret was sitting in one of the room’s ten theater-style chairs. Clarence stood off a bit to the side. He’d lost the suit coat, thank God. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. A T-shirt that was too tight, in Tim’s opinion. Well, maybe Margaret was tired of all those muscles. Fuck but that Clarence dude was put together, though.
Margaret saw Tim enter, raised her glass of wine. “Doctor Feely. I found the liquor cabinet and helped myself. You don’t mind?”
He gave her his best seductive smile. “Don’t mind at all.”
Clarence saw the smile. He scowled.
Tim dialed the smile back a few notches, from leering to slightly-more-than-friendly.
Margaret gestured to the room, clearly hoping to change the subject. “This theater is really something.”
Tim could imagine how the room took newbies by surprise. In addition to cushy seats that faced a ten-foot screen, there was a fridge full of beer, plenty of snacks, and a liquor cabinet packed with the best liquid treats a boy could buy.
“Don’t forget there was a full staff here for years,” he said. “Uncle Sam wanted his pet scientists to be happy.”
Clarence let out a snort. “Yeah. And the people who actually do the work of running the ship? What do they think of your little private theater?”
Tim waggled his pointer finger side to side. “Please to no-no-no,” he said. “The entire science module is off-limits to the rank and file. I doubt people who hot-bunk would appreciate we brainiacs living in the lap of luxury.”
“Right,” Clarence said. “That doesn’t bother you at all?”
Tim walked past Clarence to the liquor cabinet. The half-empty bottle of Adderall was right on top. Correction, half-fulclass="underline" Tim was an optimist, after all. He opened the cabinet and pulled out the bottle of Oban 2000.
“Clarence,” Tim said as he poured a glass, “it’s not my fault other people didn’t get a doctorate.”
“No, I suppose it’s not,” Clarence said. “Just like it’s not your fault that you get to live in freedom.”
This guy had to have an American flag tattooed somewhere on his body.
Margaret waved a hand. “Boys, don’t rain on my parade with your political differences, okay? If Tim’s yeast culture takes off, we may very well have this thing beat. I’m in the mood to enjoy my break, because soon we have to get back to work.”
Tim nodded. “I agree. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
Margaret shook her head. “I’m talking about tonight, Doctor Feely. As soon as we watch the diver enter the Los Angeles, we’ll get back at it.”
Tim had a moment to hope she was joking. The look in her eyes said she wasn’t.
“Ah,” he said. “I see.”
Good thing he had enough stimulants to go around. Better living through chemistry.
He sat in the chair next to Margaret, feeling Clarence’s stare on the back of his neck as he did. Tim sipped his Oban.
The image on the big screen showed a cone of dimly lit water, featureless save for an occasional bit of flotsam that glowed like a tiny star in the diver’s light, then gone as the camera passed it by. Numbers played out at the bottom of the screen, showing the descending depth: eight hundred feet and counting. Another hundred feet or so, and that light would play off the wreck of the Los Angeles.
Up until the shit hit the fan, Tim had spent most of his time in this very room, watching downloaded movies and TV shows, playing video games, just generally dicking around and wasting taxpayer money. What else had there been to do? Sure, he’d worked on his yeast, trying to engineer a genome that would successfully produce a little-understood cellulase. Trying, and failing; he’d had no crawlers, no samples, nothing to go on but a mass spec analysis that clearly wasn’t 100 percent accurate. He’d collected a six-figure paycheck, come up with bullshit to put on his weekly reports and generally kicked back and lived the good life of a government employee flying under the radar.
Now, however, he had something he could use: an actual cellulase, and plenty of it. On the one hand, it made him furious to see how close he’d been to getting it right. On the other, if the new line of Saccharomyces feely succeeded, his work could make the human race immune to a disease that made the black plague look like postnasal drip.
Tim raised his glass toward Margaret. She frowned, but begrudgingly reached out her wineglass and clinked in a quiet toast.
Like him, she had showered. Her black hair hung heavy and damp, but she looked fantastic. When she’d arrived, she’d been drowning in a bizarre notion of self-pity. Well, no more — her eyes blazed with intelligence, with life, and a persistent smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. She looked good even inside a BSL-4 suit; outside of one, she looked fantastic.
Tim could see more than a few lost weekends with that one. As long as Captain Yasaka didn’t find out, of course. It was always a good rule of thumb not to incur the jealousy of a woman with keys to the weapons locker.
“I should make popcorn,” Tim said. “You guys want popcorn?”
Neither Margaret nor Clarence responded. Their attention stayed fixed on the screen.
The number at the bottom of the screen ticked up to 850.
“The diver will be there soon,” Tim said. “We’ll get a look at this debacle.”
“It’s not the diver,” Clarence said. “This is from a camera mounted on the nose of a Blackfish 12, the navy’s high-end UUV. The ’Fish is going down ahead of the diver to get a fresh rad reading.”
Tim drained his glass. He thought about asking Clarence to fetch him a refill, but he wasn’t really in the mood to get his ass kicked. He started to stand.
Margaret put a hand on his arm. “Doctor Feely, you’re not getting another drink, are you?”
Tim stopped halfway out of his chair. “Uh, the thought had crossed my mind.”
She shook her head. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. We go back into the lab in a little bit.”
Tim sighed, sat down and watched the screen. The Blackfish’s lights played against a far-off, ghostly image. Finally, the submarine.
His hand tightened on his empty glass. The submarine… Walker, immune…
“Wait a minute,” he said. “We think Walker was immune, right?”
Margaret nodded.
“So then why did she sabotage the sub’s engines? Why did she cripple it if she wasn’t a psycho?”
“The answer is simple,” Clarence said. “Maybe not for someone with a doctorate, but simple enough for a veteran.”
Tim turned to look at Clarence, saw the man’s self-confident smirk.
“Do tell, Agent Otto,” Tim said. “Edify me with your worldly wisdom.”
“The disease wants to spread, it always wants to spread,” Clarence said. “If the captain was one of the Converted, he’d head for the nearest major port so he could spread his infected crew among a dense population.”
Margaret’s eyebrows rose. “Chicago. They were heading for Chicago. Candice stopped them.”
Clarence nodded. “Lieutenant Walker knew her duty. She knew what she had to do to protect the country.”
Tim huffed. Clarence was right, obviously, which Tim found annoying.
Patriotism could drive people to sacrifice themselves. That, too, was damn annoying, because it flew in the face of survival of the fittest. Stupid people could be convinced to die for the greater good. The greater good was always someone who would live on because of — and long after — that sacrifice. Soldiers die, generals retire.
On the screen, the wrongly angled sail of the Los Angeles loomed into view. Lights played off more flotsam. Tim knew a lot of that detritus was composed of sailor bits, bodies either torn apart by the torpedo strike or picked at by scavengers.
The number 688 glowed a bright white.
The PA system clicked on: a too-loud, mechanical voice that broke the moment’s magic.
“Doctor Feely, line one for Captain Yasaka. Doctor Feely, line one for Captain Yasaka.”
Tim glanced at the wet-haired Margaret Montoya, felt like he’d been caught at something — did Yasaka know he was ogling his fellow scientist? He stood and strode to a phone mounted on the wall. He lifted the handset, as always marveling a little at the archaic cord that ran from it to the wall unit.
He pushed the number “1.”
“This is Doctor Feely.”
“This is the captain.” Yasaka’s voice. Not the voice that on some nights said take me, or on extraspecial nights said please, Daddy. This was her command voice.
“Captain, how can I be of service?”
“Are you with Doctor Montoya?”
“I am.”
“A petty officer just killed two of my crew,” the captain said. “He tested positive, as did two other men who were bunking near him. We have a total of three positives.”
Tim’s body went ice cold.
“Three… positives?”
“So far,” Yasaka said. “Security will deliver these men to cells in your lab. I suspect they won’t be the last.”