Pandemic Page 30

He could finally kill.

TESTY-TESTY

The final airlock cycled. Clarence stepped out first, took in a large area hemmed in by the now-familiar white walls. In front of him were two rows of high-ceilinged, ten-by-ten gla.s.s cells stretching to the back of the room.

A man stood in each of the two closest cells: a black man on the left, a white man on the right, both wearing gray hospital gowns. They were just there to be observed, but that didn’t make it any less of a prison. Both men seemed fit and healthy, arms lined with lean muscle.

Each cell had a small steel desk, a steel chair beneath it, and a plastic-covered mattress that lay on top of a stainless steel bed. A tablet computer sat on each desk — the divers’ entertainment and reading material, perhaps. Other than that there was nothing, save for a steel toilet that looked to be a raised hole without plumbing.

In a third cell, behind that of the white man, Clarence saw an Asian man lying motionless on the bed. Medical equipment surrounded him, a technological monster clutching at him with wires and sensors, looking inside him through tubes up his nose and IVs in his arms.

Through their clear cell walls, the two standing men watched Clarence, Margaret and Tim. The men looked afraid. They watched. They waited.

To Clarence’s right, past the line of gla.s.s cages, was an open s.p.a.ce ringed with gleaming steel tables, clamps, saws, robotic arms … various equipment to prepare material brought up from the lake bottom, he a.s.sumed. The reason for the prep area was clear: to receive material from yet another airlock, this one the biggest he had ever seen. It was the width of a two-car garage. Nozzles and vents lined the ceiling; everything in this room here could be sprayed down, disinfected in a rainstorm of bleach.

Margaret walked to the aisle that ran between the two rows of cells. The cell doors opened onto that aisle — if they would ever be opened, that was. Clarence knew those men might very well die in those cells. A flat-panel monitor was mounted at the left side of each cell door. On those monitors, Clarence saw the familiar spikes of an EKG, various other numbers revealing the physical state of the men inside.

How much did these men know? Did they truly understand why they were being held?

“They look okay,” Clarence said.

“They do,” Tim said. “They’re tested every three hours, all negatives so far. The rest of the ship is tested every six hours. Including me. And, now, both of you.”

He pointed to the cell with the p.r.o.ne man. “That fellow, on the other hand, is unfortunately brain-dead. Ensign Eric Edmund. Couldn’t exactly call him okay.”

Margaret stepped into the aisle between cells. “Was Edmund also a diver?”

“No,” Tim said. “Injured in the battle. He’s a gift from Captain Yasaka, in case I need a living subject for my yeast experimentation.”

Clarence felt his anger flare up. He spun to face Tim.

“Experiment? Brain-dead or not, that’s a serviceman in there, not a gift.”

Tim didn’t bother to hide a look of contempt. “Agent Otto, Ensign Edmund isn’t coming back. If he wasn’t in that cell, he’d have already been put in the incinerator along with the other dead bodies. Machines are the only thing keeping him alive.”

“Alive for your research,” Clarence said. “Which you already told us was a failure.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “How about you use that oversized melon of yours for something other than a hat rack? We have no idea what we’ll need. If we have to experiment, it’s Edmund or some other sailor, maybe one who’s not brain-dead.”

“What’s the matter, Feely? Don’t have the b.a.l.l.s to experiment on yourself?”

Feely shrugged. “I didn’t enlist, big fella. If you’re dumb enough to sign your life over to Uncle Sam, then Uncle Sam gets to decide what happens to you.”

Clarence moved closer, stared down at the smaller man. “I was dumb enough to enlist, you a.s.shole.”

He’d a.s.sumed his size would intimidate Feely, that his position with the DST might make Tim rethink his opinion of servicemen — but Tim just smiled an arrogant smile.

“You were a soldier? And here I was thinking you had a particle physics degree in your pants — maybe you’re just glad to see me.”

“Enough,” Margaret said, her words loud enough to rattle the speakers in Clarence’s helmet. He turned, looked at her, and felt instantly foolish — this was no time to let someone like Feely get a rise out of him.

Margaret glared at them both. “If you two want to have a p.i.s.sing contest, save it for later. Doctor Feely, if it weren’t for Agent Otto, you wouldn’t be here. I didn’t save the world all by myself, you know. Give him the respect he deserves.”

Clarence had a brief moment to feel justified, to feel that Margaret was backing him up, before she turned her anger on him.

“And you, Clarence, wake up — before this is over, we might have to do far worse things than experiment on a man who’s already gone. Now, if the two of you are done posturing, can we get to work?”

Clarence’s anger shifted instantly into embarra.s.sment. He nodded.

“Sorry,” Tim said. “From now on, I’ll be sugar and spice and everything nice.”

Feely was still being a smart-a.s.s, but Clarence thought he heard a hint of sincerity in there.

Margaret reached out, tapped at the left-hand cell’s panel. “They’ve been in here for” — she tapped again — “thirty-eight hours.”