The Lethal Agent (The Extraction Files Book 2) (35 page)

CHICAGO INSTITUTE OF PROPULSION ENGINEERING, CHICAGO, NORTH AMERICA

SEPTEMBER 15, 2232

Virgil scratched at the nagging itch on his neck. Beakers of their newest fuels sat in a row across his desktop, ranging from clear and colorless to opaque and dark as tar. Ten in total. He was mere days away from revealing his latest mixture to the Scholar Committee for approval.

Forty years of work, all to improve the range of interstellar vehicles.

He would test it one more time, he decided. Nothing more than an uncharacteristic moment of doubt. He was about to make history, after all.

Virgil poured the third, fourth, and ninth beakers together to create a vibrant crimson sample. He poured his mixture into a flask and stoppered it. Before he left, he put the entire contents of the last beaker into a large test tube and tucked it into his pocket.

Chicago had been his residence for the duration of his career at the Chicago Institute of Propulsion Engineering, but there were still parts of the city he had never seen. He couldn’t decide why he thought to travel downtown through several blocks of quaint houses rather than take his pod that day.

In the light of afternoon, Craftsmen were on their way home, most in their uniforms. Coveralls for industry workers. Scrubs for those lucky enough to work in a Scholar facility. None gave him a second look despite the flask of red liquid he held out before him.

The sunny sky grew shadowed with high-rise complexes and research facilities as he walked through the center of the city. Scholars replaced Craftsmen. Then, his tablet beeped.

Virgil set his flask on the ground in the middle of the sidewalk. He pulled the tablet from his body-suit pocket and saw the comm request. “Rathbone,” he answered.

“Virgil, where are you?”

“Who is this?”

“What? It’s Daniels. Where are you? Did you leave the grounds?”

Virgil looked around and recognized the glass panels of the building on the far corner of the block. “I’m at the Aon.”

“You didn’t sign out. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” He ended the comm and collected his flask before someone knocked it over. The flask held forty years of his life’s work.

The tablet beeped again, several times in fact, but he kept walking, never finding what he was looking for.

Virgil still hadn’t found it when he saw the dome reaching into the sky. A concrete wall stood ten feet high, but above that, the dome stretched upward. It was invisible throughout the city, its panels programmed to show a bright-blue sky with passing clouds. Up close, the pixels were less uniform. He could see the falseness of the illusion.

Only two blocks down from the nearest dome access point, Virgil sat against the concrete wall and wondered what he was doing there. Where was he trying to go? He couldn’t remember.

An annoying beep sounded over and over again.

Virgil checked his pockets for clues. Maybe something would tell him what he was doing all the way out here.

But Virgil only found a test tube of liquid like a dark coffee. It must have been an ingredient he’d forgotten.

He uncorked the test tube and added the dark liquid to the red one. The explosion was lightning fast and hotter than a star. It filled his body with shards of glass, burned his skin, and eviscerated his organs in a thousandth of a second. More than that, it took out a hundred foot section of the concrete wall on either side of where his body previously sat.

Had he survived the initial explosion, he would only have lived a few seconds more as the dome creaked, then crashed to the ground.

CPI-RQ-01

SEPTEMBER 16, 2232

Dasia rubbed her hands across her face in hopes of a little boost in energy. Her eyes burned from a full night without sleep, but they had several hours to go before they were done.

“You okay?” Osip asked, his hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She was determined to stay with him. Jane had gone to sleep hours ago. Dasia wouldn’t leave Osip to manage this mess on his own. “How many more?”

“Looks like fifteen. I’ll check again.”

Part of the reason they couldn’t seem to reach the end was the continuation of the casualties. Each hour, Scholars died, sometimes as many as ten at a time.

Dasia and Osip worked to put them into the chart. Terrible as it was, as more of them became available, a pattern emerged.

It was only with the deaths of so many that they were able to make real progress with the matrix.

“Who’s next?”

“Dr. Virgil Rathbone. Chicago Institute of Propulsion Engineering.”

“Known associates?”

Dasia didn’t turn around, but she knew on his tablet Osip researched the victim in the Scholar server and found a list of his professional associates. Once found, he relayed the information so she could enter it into the chart.

“So, what do you think? Interstellar?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

They had come up with a series of categories and color-coded the chart accordingly: Planetary research. Interstellar travel. Colonies. Parasitic research. Population preservation. Unknown.

So far, there were only a handful of names in the Unknown category.

Otherwise, each and every one of them fit into a category, more than eighty percent directly or indirectly related to the planet.

By 0930, Dasia leaned back in Osip’s chair and admired their work. More than four times larger and dramatically more in depth than it had been before, the chart was a vision of their hard work. And, with a momentary lull in casualties, it was possible to consider they had finally come to the end.

“Think it’s time?” Osip asked.

She nodded. “Send it.”

As their chart made its virtual trek to Dr. Arrenstein’s tablet, they took the more conventional elevator. Osip let her lean her head on his shoulder as they waited to arrive on the third floor.

Dr. Arrenstein’s door stood open, and inside his office, he sat at his desk chair with his forehead pressed to the desktop.

“Dr. A?” Osip said quietly.

Dasia wondered if he might be sleeping until he shot up in a flash. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Well, we figured it out.”

“What? Figured what out?”

“The bugs. We know what they’ve been doing. And we can tell you who they’ll attack next.”

Dr. Arrenstein looked at Osip for a long while, then at Dasia, then back to Osip, waiting for one of them to break into a laugh and admit it was all a terrible joke.

But it wasn’t.

With the heel of his hand, Dr. Arrenstein rubbed his sleep-caked eyes. “By all means, then.”

Osip strode forward and set the chart to hover above the desk. He tapped Dr. Aida Perkins in the center. “Here, Theo’s sister. She’s researching the planet 196,” he began.

“I know all that.”

Osip changed the view so Dr. Arrenstein would have the best angle. “These here in blue are somehow connected to her planet. Whether through colonies, interstellar travel, shuttle operations—you name it, they’ve been involved.”

Dr. Arrenstein sat forward. “And the rest?”

“The ones in yellow are involved in some sort of research related to parasites or brains. This one invented a metal shield for the brain to protect from outside contamination. This one studied a South American snail with mind-controlling caterpillars.”

“Shit.”

“And these in green, those did some kind of research that would preserve the population. Several of them were working on a cure for anth.”

Dr. Arrenstein glanced at Dasia, though he looked away a moment later.

“So what’s your theory? Spell it out for me.”

Osip turned and waited for Dasia to explain it. She swallowed and stepped forward. Had she not been so utterly exhausted, she would have been nervous, but given her current state, she simply told him. “They’re protecting their planet. They’ve systematically eliminated anyone who could contribute to humans finding and colonizing their planet.”

Dr. Arrenstein stared at her like she’d admitted to killing all those people on her own.

“The very first one, Dr. Grant Lilliwood, worked in propulsions for interstellar vehicles. When he was killed, they worked for thirty years to replicate his interstellar fuel that would send people between solar systems.”

Dr. Arrenstein nodded, slowly at first, then faster. “It makes sense.”

“There’s more,” she told him.

“Do I want to know?”

“We know what caused the mass-casualty event.”

He stared at her and blinked a few times.

“The first deaths were reported at 1720 on the thirteenth. We searched for anything related to the planet that occurred at that time or just before. We found this.”

Dasia pulled up the ecomm from where she’d saved it at the bottom of the screen.

TO: DR. AIDA PERKINS (PS), DR. SAL PERKINS (PC), DR. ROGER ELKINS (CP)

FROM: DR. MICHAEL FILMORE, LRF DIRECTOR

MSG: COLONY APPROVAL GRANTED. PLANET PERKINS-196. COMMENCE SELECTION AND PREPARTION.

When Dr. Arrenstein failed to respond, she filled in the rest for him. “There was already a colony ship twenty years out from the region. Dr. Elkins gave them the planet coordinates and sent the ship there. He was added to the casualty list an hour later.”

“And Dr. Sal Perkins, too,” Osip chimed in.

“Yes, him, too. Considering the actions they’ve taken to keep humans from the planet, we’ve assembled this list of possible targets.”

Dasia pulled up the third screen. On it, the names and places were listed in order of importance:

DR. AUDRA HOLTZ.

DR. MICHAEL FILMORE.

DR. CALVIN HILL.

DR. MAGGIE KAUFMAN.

DR. KEITH DANIELS.

DR. INDRA MASRY.

DR. JEREMY RAMOS.

DR. SILAS ARRENSTEIN.

NEW YORK – CPI FACILITY

MIAMI – IPV TERMINAL

TOKYO – ICVM (COLONY SHIP MANUFACTURING)

STOCKHOLM – CGRS (CENTER FOR GENETIC RESEARCH AND STORAGE)

Dr. Arrenstein pushed out of his chair and stood inches from the list. The glow from the holograph illuminated his tired features. After a long moment, he simply said, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Like he’d suddenly doubled his weight, Dr. Arrenstein sank into his chair so hard it made a crude cracking sound. He pushed Osip’s tablet aside and centered his own, making several rapid, desperate motions.

Dasia stood frozen, unsure of what was happening. Did he believe her? Did he question their process? Was he angry she had included CPI recruits on the list of possible hosts? Was he upset that he himself was on the list? Or that he was the last one? Without any real feedback, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Whose theory is this?” Dr. Arrenstein asked without looking up.

Before she could argue, Osip said, “It was all her, Dr. A. Fucking brilliant, isn’t she?” He turned back and winked at her.

“You have ten minutes to get a bag packed and meet me at the garage.”

“But, where are we going?”

Dr. Arrenstein didn’t look up. “To the moon.”