The Killing Jar (18 page)

CPI-700, NEW YORK

AUGUST 10, 2232

Silas scanned his hand and waited for the click of the door lock. “The others got the tour this afternoon.”

Maggie shrugged and entered the room, stopping inside the door when she saw the lab. “What is this?” She wrapped her hands around the crossed shoulder strap of her bag. She still wore the white shirt and pants provided after cleaning.

The sound of her screams still haunted him. He pushed the memory from his mind.

“Our research facility. We’ve been collecting parasitic insects for three decades.”

“And I’m supposed to find them and kill them?” Her features twisted as if he’d offered her a job as an exterminator.

“Well, yes, but it’s not that easy. What do you know already?”

“Nothing.”

Silas didn’t want to ask her, didn’t want to say the name, but he had to know. He couldn’t wait any longer. “What did Alex say when he commed you that day?”

Maggie snapped her gaze to him and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do. The day before you disappeared, he commed you. You talked for six minutes. I need to know what he said.”

“You’re the one with spy software on all the comms. You tell me.” She started moving around the room, her fingers skimming the surfaces of machines, tables, and exam equipment.

“He disabled it somehow. I need to know if he told you about all this, if you told anyone else about what goes on here.” It would be a security breach of the most epic proportions. He’d been able to keep it hidden, to operate with the assumption Alex hadn’t compromised the entire program. But he needed to know, to be sure.

“No, he didn’t tell me anything. Don’t bring him up again.”

“Maggie—”

She turned and stood in front of him, so close he could feel her breath against his chest. “You don’t get to talk about him. Ever.”

She might as well have pulled his heart from his chest and smashed it on the floor. He was going to have to learn to live with her hatred. He could keep her safe, help her adjust to this new life, give her everything she needed, but Maggie would never have anything but hate for him.

So he had to focus on the job.

He plucked one of the many jars from the display and handed it to her. “There are four types. This is the Echo, it modifies speech patterns in its host.”

“How?” When she asked, it was with intrigue, her eyes calculating as they examined the specimen.

“The antennas compromise the speech area of the brain. We thought it was a physical adjustment, since it’s always found in the throat. Figured it must be affecting the larynx, but it’s neural.”

“Creepy,” she said, though she obviously didn’t think so.

Silas saw his first glimmer of hope in that moment. He’d done these tours dozens of times, explained to countless teens the dark truth of the world. Over and over again, they had fussed, screamed, too shaken to maintain any kind of decorum. One had even fainted.

Not Maggie. She took the news in stride, her mind thinking through the data as if it were just another problem in need of a solution.

Silas knew she was the right one.

He pulled the jar from her grip and handed her the next. “
Visus obstructus
, the Gleam,” he told her as she looked at the bug’s flat body and six spindle legs.

“It sits in the eye,” she said.

Silas nodded. “Like a contact, but at the back. It interferes with the optic nerve and alters what the host perceives.”

“Can you tell, when you look at the host? Can you see there’s something in the eye?” She looked up at him for the answer, curious.

“We haven’t developed an accurate test yet. It’s not as if we can go around asking to examine people for parasitic bugs that might be in their eye.”

“Good point.” Maggie squinted into the fluid-filled jar to get a better look. “What’s this mark?”

Damn she was good.

“They both have it. This triangle with the three lines. What is that?” she continued, her eyes never leaving the container.

“We’re not really sure, but they all seem to have it.”

“You don’t know much, do you?”

“Not nearly as much as we’d like,” he admitted as he found the next specimen. “This one’s the Yield. It compromises motor abilities, fine and gross.”

Maggie’s eyes took in the largest bug, almost three inches long. With eight legs, a pair of kite-shaped wings and an iridescent shimmer, the Yield was by far the most impressive.

“Do they know? Can the host tell their body isn’t responding to them anymore?”

“There’s no way to know. It crawls in the ear and wraps the legs around the medulla at the base of the neck. At some point, it terminates the host by severing the spinal cord.”

“The host dies.”

“Yes, we’ve never known anyone with the Yield to survive. There have been reports of the bugs controlling the host after they’ve died. Not for long, just a few minutes, while the cells are still responsive.”

“So this one is the worst.” She set the jar back on the table.

“Many would tell you that it is.”

“And what do you say?” Silas didn’t miss the importance of that question, the first time she’d asked him his opinion on anything, big or small, since he’d recruited her a few days ago. The bugs might just be new ground for the both of them.

Silas found one of the few jars with the fourth specimen. “I would say this one is the worst.”

“Why?”

“This one is the Slight.”

“Okay…” She lifted the jar to see the smallest bug, the one with a three pointed crown, bulbous black body and a long tail with hooks on the end. Its flesh looked not unlike that of a leech.

“The Slight settles in the space between the medulla and cerebellum. It causes difficulty controlling emotions, insomnia, and eventually the host will stop breathing.”

“How is that worse that the Yield?”

Silas sighed. God he wanted to tell her, to get it off his chest. But he couldn’t. He was just starting to win her over, if only a little. Instead, he offered the clinical answer, “The Slight modifies the memories of the host. As far as we can tell, it eats the connections between nerve cells. It literally steals your memories.”

“Still, it doesn’t always kill the host right?”

“No. It usually terminates the host, but not always. Only one survived.” Silas couldn’t tell her, couldn’t utter those words.

He was the worst kind of coward.

“Oh,” she said with a quiet voice as she set the jar back on the table. They spent several minutes in considerate silence. Silas knew it was a profound quantity of information, and the recruits, even Maggie, would need time to absorb it all. If time was what she needed, then time was what she would get. He wanted nothing more in the world than to keep her safe, to give her the opportunity to be happy.

Minutes later, her considerate mind finished processing the mountain of information he’d thrown at her. But there were still things she wanted to know. “How many?” she asked, as he knew she would.

Too inquisitive for her own damn good.

Silas tried to fight back his grief so he could answer her. “One hundred and fourteen.”

“Infected or dead?”

Why couldn’t she take it easy on him?

He didn’t want to think about all the times he’d failed. “Infected. Fifty four dead.” It came out as more of a whisper. Then he added the part that really killed him. “That we know of.”

“No wonder you don’t want the world to know.”

She stared at the display, the shelf upon shelf of bugs in gold fluid before she straightened her shoulders and asked, “How am I supposed to kill them?”

“We don’t know.”

She spun and glared at him. “Is this a joke? You have dozens of dead ones and you don’t know how to kill them?” Her brows furrowed as her demeanor quickly shifted from intrigue to anger.

“These were found with the host. In the brief period after the host dies but the bug is still alive, they can be captured, but the capture kills them. We don’t know how to keep them alive, even study them.”

“But you have so many.”

Silas picked up the nearest jar, an Echo, and showed her. “The fluid keeps them in this condition. It’s nitrogen-based fluid. We don’t know why it works.” He picked at the sticky tape seal and pulled it off. With a twist, he removed the screw-on cap and set the jar back onto the table.

Exposed to air, the bug cracked like a piece of wood in a fire despite the fluid. The cracks spread until a web of them covered the entire specimen. In an instant, the bug disintegrated, its remains nothing but a fine sand that drifted to the bottom of the jar.

Maggie bent over and looked at the place where the bug had once been.

“I thought you said this was going to be hard. Looks like they’re pretty easy to kill.”

“Outside a host, yes. They are exceptionally fragile. Inside a host, there’s nothing we’ve found that will kill the bug while allowing the host to live. The only method we’ve been able to use is an extraction.”

“And what does that involve?”

“Usually a clamp. Or a pair of forceps.”

Maggie’s lip curled as she fully processed what that meant.

“Trust me, it’s much worse than it sounds.” Silas had performed dozens of extractions, but it was an experience he was quick to avoid. Each one had scarred him.

When she continued to stare, lost in thought and probably horror, he told her exactly what he wanted. “I need you to figure out how to keep the bugs alive, and then figure out how to kill them.”

LRF-RB-C

AUGUST 11, 2232

Michael sat at the conference table in the Robotics lab for his usual quarterly meeting. With his background in astrobiology, he had interest in many of the departments, though Robotics certainly wasn’t one of them.

Astrobotanicals had unique discoveries now and then. A corn that could grow in a sandy loam was one of his favorites. Aeronautics would always have some new fuel or design they were working on. Planetary systems would show him potential homeworlds, which at least gave him a little hope for the human race.

But Michael didn’t do his job because it interested him. He did it because it needed to get done.

Robotics had nothing more than page after page of data report from their fleet of probes. Since the Scholar Committee put an end to their ambitions of creating a social robot fifty years ago, they had little left.

Michael felt kind of bad for them. Then again, they were all committed to their positions. No Scholar would ever complain. That was a quick path to losing funding.

Either way, it didn’t make for a fun meeting. The three robotics technicians—or robotechs as they called themselves—along with the Robotics Lead, Abigail, and Michael himself sat at the large table with a holoprojector in the middle. Charts and graphs rolled by, updates on their work with robotic probes on inter-system planets, planetary research probes, and a whole host of other projects he couldn’t get excited about.

He worked to keep his eyes open and focused on the display, if only to avoid looking at his own tablet and checking his ecomms. He refused to look at the exposed bit of Abigail’s leg mere inches to his right.

Michael squinted at the projection intent to let it keep his attention. His eyes wide, straining, he saw it.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the hovering line in the spreadsheet.

Dr. Fobbs answered. “Starla 5. She was redirected after a change in coordinates from Planetary Systems.”

Michael had never heard such a thing. “Why was there a change in coordinates?”

The robotech flipped through the files on his tablet to find his notes before looking up again. “Oh, a woman from Planetary Systems came to my office to request the change. She mentioned there had been a technical error on their end. We sent Astra 3 to the new coordinates. The data should start streaming in the next eighteen hours.”

“What kind of cost is associated with sending out the probe?” Abigail put together the financial reports, but ultimately, he was responsible for maintaining the budget of the 200 trillion vale facility.

“Mistakes happen,” Abigail said quietly, so only he could hear.

“Approximately 4.5 million vales, Director. We’ve left her in that sector so if there’s a need to revisit the original destination, the cost can be recouped.”

How the Robotics team could continue to speak about machines as if they were people would never sit right with him.

Michael sat through the rest of the dismal presentation, though the probe stuck to his thoughts like a germ.

Once finished, Michael and Abigail retreated the corridor when he said, “Let’s go talk to Planetary Systems. I want to know what happened with that probe. Did you get me access to the autopsy files yet?” His patience was wearing thin.

Abigail’s mouth turned down as she said, “No, not yet.”

Michael figured as much. He started toward Planetary Systems.

“I’m sure it was just an error. Not everyone is as perfect as you.” He felt the warmth of her hand creep down his back and settle on his cheek before squeezing it playfully.

“Not here.” As a member of the upper echelons of the class, Michael was awarded certain liberties. He was free of the body suit requirements. He could make a recommendation as to his future wife and mother to his children. Most of all, he could live an alternative lifestyle without the ostracizing of the Scholar Committee. He only had to keep it private.

Outside his apartment, he and Abigail had a purely professional relationship. Part of his job was to instill confidence in his subordinates. If they thought him distracted, he would quickly lose their support. It would be chaos.

Abigail knew that.

Intent to leave her behind, Michael continued on. Dozens of Craftsmen filled the halls, their steps quick as they worked to keep the LRF running smoothly. Most thought such a facility operated on the advancements of the Scholars, but Michael understood the importance of the support staff. Without them, LRF would fall into ruin almost instantly.

As he passed each one, he nodded, offered a brief smile, but he was in no mood to get into conversations today.

At the door to the Planetary Systems wing, Michael held his hand to the scanner. As he waited for the chip to register and allow him entry, he felt Abigail’s hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t need you for this,” he said without looking at her.

“It’s my job,” she replied plainly, always so quick to throw it in his face.

The door spun away to reveal the same branching hallway as every other wing in the LRF, two offices to the right, two on the left, and the central conference area straight ahead. Michael stepped into the wing, unsure of where to go or who he wanted to see.

Then Dr. Hill stepped out his office, his feet quick until he saw them and stopped short.

“Director Filmore, Ms. Perch. I hadn’t expected you for another six weeks.” Dr. Hill smiled warmly at them both.

“We had a few questions about a probe. Can you gather your team in the conference room?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, Director. Dr. Niemeyer is quite busy at the moment, but I believe Dr. Perkins and I can answer your questions. Her office is right this way.” Dr. Hill continued on in the direction he’d been headed in the first place.

“Aida? Director Filmore is here to ask after the probe.” Michael heard Dr. Hill’s voice ahead of him as they walked into a cramped office. It was a perfectly adequate work space for a single Scholar, but barely fit the four of them. Dr. Hill moved around the desk to stand beside Dr. Perkins and Abigail was relegated to remain in the doorway.

Dr. Perkins, a bronze-skinned beauty with black hair in a tight bun stared up at him with a tense jaw. She was not pleased to see him.

“I would prefer to speak to the director in private,” she said with her eyes on Abigail.

“Ms. Perch won’t be a problem,” Dr. Hill replied.

It made Michael’s blood boil. Why was this new Scholar sticking up for her? Did he know her? Had they been speaking, getting close when he wasn’t looking?

All manner of jealous thoughts burst to the surface before he could quiet them.

Dr. Perkins sighed and looked at her hands for a moment.

“There was an error with the coordinates that were sent to Robotics,” she explained without being asked. “By the time we realized, a probe had been sent to the original destination. Dr. Fobbs sent out an additional probe to the correct location.” Dr. Perkins held her hand out to show the spinning scarlet planet and mile-long list of data that accompanied it.

“This is your most recent find?” Michael asked. With their last meeting cancelled, he knew little about the current state of research in Planetary Systems.

Dr. Hill was the one to answer. “This is Perkins-196, one of the most promising exoplanets we’ve had in quite a while. We expect the probe data to arrive midday tomorrow. It’s been quite an exciting time for us.”

“If this planet is such a find for you, how were the wrong coordinates sent to Robotics? This department has never made such an error before. If you are struggling without Dr. Parr, we can push forward the search for his replacement.” Dr. Jackson Parr had been one of their best. He wasn’t all that surprised to find they weren’t doing well without him.

“I don’t think there will be a need for that. We’ve selected Dr. Perkins as our Lead until such a time as you see fit to replace her.”

Abigail piped up from the doorway, her arms crossed elegantly across her chest. “Sounds like you have it handled then.” She stood straight and gave him an expectant look, waiting for him to leave with her.

But Michael wasn’t done yet. “If errors like these continue, then I won’t have much choice.” He didn’t relish the idea of demoting a Scholar, but he wasn’t about to stand by while inferior quality work continued. At some point, he had to trim the fat.

The Dr.’s Perkins and Hill, exchanged a long look before Dr. Hill answered, “The error lies with Dr. Parr. Aida was simply responsible for correcting that error.”

Michael was tired of hearing him speak. “I’m sure it is easy to place blame with the dead, but I assure you, no one will believe Dr. Parr to be capable of such a mistake. He produced two decades of impeccable data.”

At last, Dr. Hill let Dr. Perkins explain. “This time, he made a mistake. It was the last thing he did before he died, so we can’t hope to understand why.” Her eyes misted over at the memory.

“We have a meeting with Life Support Systems in ten. We need to be going,” Abigail said from the doorway.

“He was working on this planet when he died?” Michael asked, the pieces starting to fit.

“I gave him the report—” Dr. Perkins started.

“Aida delivered her report to Dr. Parr. He congratulated her on a job well done and sent the specs to Robotics. We assume his error was due to whatever it was that resulted in his death. Were they able to determine cause of death?”

Michael didn’t miss the exchange between Abigail and Dr. Hill, her eyes filled with piercing hate, and his innocent, curious. He had no idea what was going on.

“No, not that I’m aware of. Thank you for your time. I’ll see you both at our next bimonthly.” Abigail let him pass through the doorway before following him down the hallway and into the main corridor.

“See? Errors happen sometimes.” She rubbed the palm of her hand across his shoulder. “Let’s go home for a few minutes.”

“What about Life Support?” he asked, hoping there was a way out of it. He wasn’t in the mood.

“I’ll reschedule it. Come on.” Her smile lit up the corridor.

His heart sped up at the thought of having some time alone in his apartment. Behind closed doors, they could be open with each other again. They could stop pretending this was just business.

They walked down the corridor in silence, anticipating the much-needed company of the other. There was one thing still bothering him. “I need you get me access to the digital autopsy files.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”