Ode To Defiance Chapter 15

10

Condition Zebra

Not only strike while the iron is hot, but make it hot by striking.

—Oliver Cromwell

Over the next several weeks, the people on the

Chiron

spent much of their time greeting new arrivals. Everyone wanted, above all things, to meet Dash. Then Colin or Chance or Amanda would show them to their new quarters on the

Eos

before letting them rush into the whirlwind where they learned to use the new tools, wrangle the bots, study the CEREBRUM forecasts, and explore the potentialities of the CRISPIER.

Two of the last to arrive came from the American University in Beirut. Jubair el-Parani, a heavyset man with a defensive edge to his voice, introduced himself. Dash welcomed him with enthusiasm, rattling off a number of his research papers she had read. You could see Jubair’s smile grow more proud with every paper Dash mentioned.

Finally Jubair introduced his friend. “And this is Hilaal el-Mousa, my archenemy.”

Dash raised an eyebrow at this. Hilaal, a tall, graceful man with a warm smile and a twinkle in his eyes, explained. “Jubair and I competed in college.” He looked sideways at his friend. “In the end, he ran me out of town. I decided to join Doctors without Borders rather than have to compete with this one for grants and journal space for papers.”

Dash looked a little taken aback. “So

that

was what happened to you. I remember one paper you wrote.” She named an obscure article in an obscure journal. “It was exceptional in its clarity and incisiveness. I remember looking forward to great research in the future.” Her smile broadened. “I’m utterly delighted to have you here.”

Hilaal looked astonished she knew his work; Jubair looked just the littlest bit annoyed.

Chance took over hostess duties from Dash, and as she led them through the ship, the mood was still almost celebratory even though the crisis had ended almost a month earlier. They had cured Red Rubola in record time, and while outbreaks continued to occur, stockpiles of vaccine were rushed to the affected areas with the speed of a FedEx delivery.

But a party atmosphere had never quite taken hold. The advent of Red Rubola had demonstrated that the terrorist, whoever and wherever he was, had both the capacity and the determination to launch new plagues virtually at will. The second rubola plague had been twice as lethal as the first, and no one doubted either that there would be another one or that the next one would be even scarier.

However, in one quiet corner of the

Chiron

, in Dash’s personal quarters where she had gone after greeting the new arrivals, a quieter kind of happiness had arisen.

Dash had made the mistake of letting her cousin Astri get settled into Dash’s cabin while she was off with Jubair and Hilaal. By the time she got back, Astri had, as so often before, raided her closet.

So when Dash returned, she found Astri resplendently decked out in the Tory Burch Evalene Cold Shoulder dress with tassels Daniella had created for her for First Launch.

Astri took her eyes off her own reflection in the mirror, startled by Dash’s arrival. But instead of looking embarrassed or apologetic, she boldly arched her back and looked down her nose at the dress’s owner. She held out a limp hand with royal elegance. “Come, you may attend me.”

Dash started to frown, then broke into laughter. She pulled out her phone and held it up in the classic picture-taking stance. “Hold that pose.”

Her cousin Astri held that pose, then moved to another.

Dash observed between snapping photos, “You seem to have memorized every position used by professional fashion models to show off their clothes.”

Astri giggled. “Are they showing off the clothes or themselves?”

“Is there a difference?”

Astri switched positions once more. “In this case, we’re definitely trying to highlight the clothes. I’m not fashion model enough to be worth showing myself off.”

Dash put her phone down. “Nonsense. You are as beautiful as any model I have ever met.”

Astri laughed. “And just how many fashion models do you know?”

Dash decided against telling her about Gina, the only fashion model she actually knew, who was drop-dead gorgeous.

Astri looked back into the mirror and wriggled, watching the folds of the Tori Burch work of art shimmer. “It fits like a glove.”

Dash offered with gentle humor, “So glad I can be of service, working as a test model for your clothes.”

Astri twisted again for the mirror.

Dash had an idea. “You don’t happen to have any formal affairs coming up, do you? Any weddings, perhaps? You’re welcome to borrow the gown if so.”

Astri looked at her with amazed glee, then turned away. “Oh, thank you, Dyah, but I couldn’t. This has to be worth thousands of dollars.”

Dash decided it would be best not to tell her just how expensive it really was. “Nonsense. Let me know when you need it and I’ll ship it to you.”

Three days later, Astri had worked her way through Dash’s entire wardrobe, and Dash had initiated the rejuv therapy for Astri’s father. Dash was explaining the next steps in the process for her aunt, uncle, and cousin when her phone rang with ABBA’s

Take a Chance on Me

. “Chance. How can I help you?”

“We’ve had a little spat down here. It’s been taken care of for the moment, but you should probably come down.”

Dash closed her eyes. “Velma?”

Chance hesitated. “She’s not the one who started it.”

Dash found Chance’s defense of Velma amusing. The two had fought over everything down to the layout of equipment on a lab bench when Velma first arrived, but something had happened shortly after Dash introduced CEREBRUM. Now the two of them seemed inseparable, even on breaks and after work. Very interesting.

Dash turned to Astri. “Your father is all hooked up and resting comfortably on the Wenara Wana deck. You should go visit.” With that, she departed at a half-run.

Dash still couldn’t quite grasp the idea of Velma’s innocence. As she trotted down the passage, she tried to imagine a spat where Velma didn’t fill the role of starting it.

Cameron Ballard went through the metal detectors at the ferry dock to the GS

Prime

. He touched his chest nervously where he normally carried his shoulder holster under his suit. Before departing from San Francisco, he’d held his gun for a long time, trying to figure out a way to carry it, but in the end, he’d acknowledged he’d never get it through the metal detectors. It was all very annoying for the man upon whom the entirety of America now depended to thwart the next bioterror attack, or at least track down the culprit behind the first one.

He already knew who was responsible, of course, though he was uncertain how many accomplices she’d had. Once he got his hands on her, however, he was confident he could sweat her until she delivered on all the members of her conspiracy, all the people in the CDC who worked with her, and all the people on the BrainTrust who backed her.

The artistic theme here on the GS

Prime

grand promenade deck—the deck that had the gangways to adjacent ships that he needed to cross to get to the

Chiron

—was The Midas Touch. Everything that could be gold was gold, but in the GS

Prime

version of the story, Midas could turn the power to transform things into gold on and off at will. Hence the majority of the living things depicted on the rendered walls, and in the small parkland, were still alive…except for one unfortunate tree and an adjacent rose bush that had been turned into lustrously beautiful metal forever.

Cameron just shook his head. It was all crazy but unimportant compared to his mission.

Soon enough he reached the

Chiron

and started asking if anyone knew Velma Highwalker and where she might be. It turned out just about everyone knew Velma, and as he watched their reactions, he was fascinated by the intensity of the mixed emotions her name evoked.

Very smart, people acknowledged. A valuable member of the team, they admitted more reluctantly. Best to avoid crossing her path, they confessed with trepidation.

As Cameron hustled down to the Red Planet deck, he chewed on what he’d learned. Velma the terrorist was respected but not liked. No surprise there. He gingerly touched his eye where she’d clobbered him after taking him by surprise.

Unfortunately, even if they didn’t like the woman, if they thought she was an asset to the research team, they would not support him if he tried to drag her back to America in cuffs. He swallowed bile as he considered more tactful approaches.

The time he had spent trying to figure out how to retrieve the terrorist had left him more and more furious with the existence of the BrainTrust. As a practical matter, it was a simple extension of the United States. Well, OK, over half the people on board were foreigners, but the ships had been built with American money and organized by American companies, and the Board for the BrainTrust Consortium was heavily weighted with Americans. They had no business claiming to be Liberian-flagged cruise liners in international waters. An FBI agent with a warrant should be akin to a god here. Instead, he was powerless.

His only consolation was that he had some confidence that he could lure the hot-headed Ms. Highwalker into giving herself away in public.

So he trudged down to the shopping area of the Red Planet deck and stood not quite on tippy-toes to survey the area lined with biosafety cabinets. Moments later he spotted his target, arguing about something with another tallish, thin woman who was probably of Hispanic descent.

He strode up to them with confidence. “Ms. Highwalker. I’m so glad to have finally tracked you down.” He nodded to the other woman. “I’m Cameron Ballard with the FBI.” He held out his badge—farther out than he had in the past, having learned caution from his last encounter with a BrainTruster.

He had expected the other woman, who spoke like a native of Arizona, to acknowledge at least some respect for his badge. He pursed his lips as her expression darkened.

Then she smiled. “Chance Dixon. Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand.

While still holding his hand, she looked at Velma. “So this is the guy who tried to imprison you back in Atlanta?”

Velma scowled. “That’s the one.”

Ballard found himself wishing Chance would let go of his hand. Finally she did. He spoke to Chance as if hoping her judgment would support him. “We got off on the wrong foot. I was moving with desperate speed to catch the perpetrator of the bioterror attack on America.” He shrugged. “It’s no longer so urgent since the epidemic died out.”

Velma turned to Chance, also wishing for her support. “Notice that he thinks the epidemic just died out mysteriously. No vaccine involved.”

Chance gave Cameron a hard look. “So, all the incredibly long hours and hard work we did here had nothing to do with it?”

Ballard found himself getting warm around the collar. “I’m just telling you what the FDA concluded: the virus had a defect that caused it to mutate into a nonviable state.”

Ballard spotted Simon Bingham coming to join them out of the corner of his eye. Chance shouted to him. “Simon! Hey, this FBI guy says the FDA says the epidemic just died out because of a mutation.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Funny, that should be the CDC’s call. And I certainly never said that.”

Ballard frowned. “Technically, sir, you’re not with the CDC anymore.”

Simon ground out, “True enough.”

This attempt to have a useful conversation in public had somehow gone sideways. “Regardless, Ms. Highwalker is a person of interest in the case, and I must insist on an opportunity to speak to her about it.” His voice sounded strangled as he made his best offer. “Just a few questions over a cup of coffee in a café.” He barely had enough breath for the last word. “Please.”

Chance frowned. “In case you haven’t heard, the terrorists launched another plague in Iran since Velma here escaped your clutches. What was her motive for that?”

Ballard spent a moment being pleased that Chance at least understood Velma’s motive for attacking the United States. Still, “I don’t care about that, Ms. Dixon. The Blue Rubola plague is an American matter. I still need to talk with Ms. Highwalker here.”

Velma put her hands on her hips and jutted out her jaw. “Not in a million years, you moron.”

Ballard looked at Simon and Chance in bafflement. “How can you all not understand? The terrorist who unleashed this terrible epidemic had to have means, motive, and opportunity. America is so well sealed from the outside world that the opportunity is far better for American citizens than for anyone else, and no one has the means except scientists who specialize in genetically manipulating viruses. Taking all the scientists into custody was the fastest way we had of ensuring we had removed the guilty party from circulation.”

He pointed an accusatory finger at Velma. “And this one has a long record of conflict with our nation’s government. She’s a perfect fit for the profile.” His mind filled with righteous indignation and fury. “I really must speak with her.” He reached out and grabbed her wrist.

Velma twisted her arm to break his hold. With a shriek, she took a roundhouse swing at his face the same way she had the last time he’d encountered her.

But this time he was ready. He leaned back, and as she stepped forward for another swing, he blocked her.

At last things were going as he’d hoped. Now everyone could see she was a loose cannon. He thought with smug satisfaction of the vidcams capturing this moment as she lost control.

Alas, she followed up with a sharp jab to the chin which he failed to fully block. She didn’t quite break his jaw, but he had to shake off the dizziness. Since no one was doing anything to stop her or help him, he could see he would have to defend himself. He set himself for a counterattack.

Then Chance spoke with authoritative disapproval. “Velma. That is totally unacceptable. You know better.”

Velma glared at the woman whom Ballard now suspected was her supervisor. “OK, OK.”

Ballard relaxed.

Velma swept around in a graceful flying kick that smacked him in the temple.

He collapsed to his knees, staggering as he struggled to stay upright. He looked helplessly at Chance.

Chance nodded to Velma. “Excellent. See how much better that works? Just like I taught you.” She looked back at Ballard. “Discipline and practice, Velma. Discipline and practice.”

Velma scowled. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Happy now?”

Ballard looked one last time at the women, then his eyes lost focus and he thudded on his face, unconscious.

Dash arrived in time to see a man in a suit face-down on the deck with Chance kneeling over him. Four bots came in, lifted him, and carried him away, presumably to a hospital bed. “Is he going to be OK? Who is he, anyway?”

Velma answered one question. “He’s the FBI creep who tried to arrest me dirtside. He just tried to arrest me again.”

Chance answered the other question. “He may have a mild concussion, certainly nothing more. Velma pulled her punch.”

Velma scowled. “I gave him everything I had.”

Chance sighed. “I repeat. Discipline and practice.”

Dash, alarmed, added, “And care. You really don’t want to cause permanent injury.” Her alarm grew as Velma showed reluctance to agree.

She pulled out her phone. “Wolf, we need your services. Velma had an encounter with an FBI agent.” She listened to him, then asked Velma, “Is this Cameron Ballard?”

When Velma nodded, Dash spoke to Wolf. “Apparently so.” More conversation followed, and Dash rubbed her temples. “At the moment, you can’t really throw either of them in the brig. Mr. Ballard needs to stay here under medical observation until we can declare him fit for release.” She sighed. “And we still need Velma analyzing these viruses. We have to be as ready as possible for the next one.” She listened again. “I guess you’re right, it’s all under control for now. Take your time. Thank you, it would be good if you scheduled a meeting with Mediator Chibuzo.”

Dash had barely put her phone away when Chad, the leader of the semi-official Lab Rats, ran up to them. “Come quick! Trina’s really sick.”

Dash, Chance, and Velma followed him at a dead run to the medical suite where the bots had Trina wired like a piece of stereo equipment. All three donned facemasks as they entered.

They all examined the rash on Trina’s neck. Dash finished her assessment first. “See the core of purple?”

Velma drew the conclusion. “New.”

Chance followed up. “Moonsuits?”

Dash pondered the question. “In a moment.”

The bots had already loaded blood samples for molecular analysis. They left Trina’s bedside and went into a nearby lab to look at the preliminary results. The massed power of data centers all over the BrainTrust poured through the data, guided by Dark Alpha 43, to identify striking and unusual structures.

Something caught Dash’s eye, and she gasped. Before either of the other women could even ask what she’d seen, she was running full speed down the passageway.

In an earlier generation, dirtside buildings had been reliably equipped with glass cabinets that sat flush to the wall, containing either red axes or, with later more relevant technology, fire extinguishers. While these items supplied the occasional convenient prop in horror movies, the most interesting thing about them was just how uninteresting they were. These cabinets, which had given rise to the popular phrase, “In the event of emergency, break glass,” were in fact quite invisible to the casual passerby.

On ocean-going ships, similar needs were met with similar equipment. On a ship, however, such gear was more important because of the risk that a disaster could cause the loss of the entire vessel and everyone aboard. The BrainTrust isle ships had similar needs, though the technology was quite different. For example, out-of-control fires were much less likely simply because a swarm of bots could be called in moments to fight the flames. On an isle ship, one didn’t need equipment on hand. One simply needed a comm connection that bypassed every conceivable intermediary.

On board the

Chiron

, therefore, the glass with the fire extinguisher had been replaced by a smaller transparent plastic cover, still recessed into the wall, with a palm-size bright-red button behind it. It was still invisible to the casual passerby, unless and until one ceased to be casual.

Dash ran to the nearest such emergency station, slapped the glass up, and smashed the button. She tore her face mask away. “Condition Zebra!” she said as loudly as a gentle Balinese woman could bring herself to shout. “Get tight!”

The Condition Red alarms wailed just as they had wailed on Assault Night, although the emergency was quite different.

Chance and Velma caught up with her. Velma looked wildly around as automated doors started to slide closed and bots rolled up to manual doors and dogged them shut by hand.

Chance asked the obvious question, although she suspected she knew the answer. “Condition Zebra? What’s that, exactly?”

Dash answered distractedly as she dialed her phone. “It’s a long-standing nomenclature used aboard ships to alert everyone of a hull breach, and all the waterproof hatches must be sealed to delay or prevent the ship from sinking.”

Velma still looked disoriented. “Is the ship sinking?”

Chance understood now. “No, girl, but the watertight seals will also slow the spread of an airborne infection.” She turned to Dash. “Right?”

Dash disregarded this as her phone connected. “Amanda. We need to set the whole archipelago to Condition Zebra immediately. We’re under attack from a new bioweapon, designed and engineered specifically to target the BrainTrust.” Dash paused. “If we’re very lucky, no one will die except all of us on the

Chiron

.”

They collected air samples to confirm Dash’s hypothesis. She pointed at a captured virion on the wallscreen of the lab. “Look at that protein coat.”

Velma and Chance both scrutinized the molecular layout. Velma, who specialized in virology, whistled. “That’s the most complex set of capsomeres I’ve ever seen.” The capsomeres were the building blocks that self-assembled to create the coat. They were typically simple since a virus had only enough RNA or DNA to manufacture a few proteins.

Dash nodded. “Even the most complex natural viruses are able to produce less than two hundred proteins. I estimate these are able to produce almost three hundred, and many of them are involved in that coat.”

Chance asked the obvious question. “Why? What’s so special about this capsid?”

Dash highlighted a chunk of protein forming an outer layer on the outer layer, then waited for a moment, hoping someone would spot the significance. When no one responded, she explained. “This capsomere can totally block ultraviolet radiation. UV-A, UV-B, and also—” she paused dramatically—”UV-C.”

Chance balled her hands into fists. “So it’s immune to our most important sterilization system?”

Dash gave her a smile of approval. “Precisely.” She drew carefully on the screen, highlighting the whole outer coat. “It’s almost like a separate shell. When the virion escapes the cell into the blood, the plasma starts to break it down so it can infect the next cell. But if it gets expelled from the body, it enters the outside world virtually invulnerable.”

Chad came running into the room, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Trina’s dead.”

And they all found themselves running again, to stand quietly for a moment beside the bed of the once-beautiful young woman, The rash that had earlier grown at an incredible pace to cover her body had, in the last moments of the disease’s progress, started to fade. She looked at peace.

Velma started to scream in horror, then as quickly stopped. She looked at Chad. “Did she have any special medical conditions? I don’t understand how she could have died so quickly.”

Chad shook his head in bewilderment. “I can’t understand it at all. She was a marathon runner; you could see her moving at an incredible speed all over the archipelago. She once told me she hadn’t been sick once since she was twelve years old. That was one of the reasons she volunteered: she figured if anyone could survive a test that went wrong, she could.”

Dash exhaled in a shuddering breath. “Of course. That’s what’s going on.” She whipped out her phone once again and started giving orders for bots to bring her a long list of chemicals. She could see from their expressions that Chance and Velma had no clue what she had planned.

It made no difference. Unless she was completely off-base, every minute that now passed without action would cost lives. Dash called Amanda again, putting her on speakerphone. “Any chance we called Zebra in time to protect the rest of the ship outside the Red Planet deck? I’m sure that’s where it originated.”

Amanda’s answer from the Command Information Center, her duty station during a Condition Red emergency, was grim. “About half the decks are reporting infections. There’s no particular pattern to the decks reporting the disease. I’m almost certain the whole ship has been exposed, there are just some parts of the ship where no one has gone symptomatic yet.”

Dash nodded. “Can you partially repeal the Condition Zebra? I need all the air ventilation systems and the doors and hatches open if I’m to spread my, ah, solution.”

Chance asked hopefully, “You have a cure? Already?”

Dash frowned. “I have something to mitigate the side effects of the disease, and hopefully save most of the people on the ship.”

Amanda answered the earlier question. “I’ve put out the orders to unseal all the interior compartments.” Even as she spoke, they could hear the automated doors gently whine as they slid back. Bots ran once again to open the doors they had previously closed.

Chance asked, “So what’s the plan?”

Dash gave her a wry smile. “I’m going to sabotage all our immune systems to make things easier for the virus.”

Velma started laughing. “Of course. I get it now.”

Dash started shifting back and forth on her feet. “I should really explain the plan, but we have no time.” She turned and started running again.

Velma yelled at her departing form, “Go. I presume you’re planning to pump an aerosol into the ventilation system. I’ll explain to everyone.”

As Dash ran down the corridor toward the down ramp, bots with equipment and chemicals emerged from the side passages and assembled behind her like a line of ducklings behind their mother.

Chance smiled as Dash disappeared. “She took the phone we were talking to Amanda on.” She pulled out her own cell. “Poor Amanda. It has got to be tough being in charge when you have so little control.”

Amanda’s face appeared on the small screen. “OK, everyone, I believe I have been reasonably patient and accommodating. Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

Velma took a deep breath. “Now that Dash is doing what can be done, we might as well get comfortable for a moment.” She hustled into the nearest conference room and slipped into a chair while Chance brought Amanda up on the wallscreen.

Amanda appeared to be ready to tear out her hair. “Remember my patience earlier? It’s all gone.”

Velma started with a story from the past. “Dash realized why Trina died so quickly. It’s like the 1918 Spanish flu.”

Chance squinted at her. “The Spanish flu? I know it was the most lethal flu pandemic in history, but this rubola is derived from measles. I don’t see the connection.”

Velma grimaced. “Neither did I, embarrassingly enough.” Some internal dialog held her entranced for a moment. “One of the striking characteristics of that flu was that the onset and death could be unbelievably sudden. There’s one well-documented case of a man getting on a trolley in downtown New York with no symptoms at all and dying before they reached his stop on the outskirts of town.”

Amanda nodded. “Like Trina.”

Velma leaned forward. “Precisely. They didn’t know it at the time, but closely related to this extraordinary speed was the demographic pattern of the disease’s lethality. The flu slaughtered healthy young adults while leaving the elderly and the children sick but still able to recover.”

Chance looked away thoughtfully. “So it struck the people with the best immune systems hardest.”

Amanda added, “Again, like Trina.”

Velma leapt up, apparently unable to relax although she was the one who had insisted on getting more comfortable. “The disease didn’t kill them. The virus didn’t have enough time during a ride on the trolley to kill anyone. The patient’s own immune system killed him as it reacted violently to contain the virus.”

Amanda concluded, “So Dash has dumped something into our air to weaken us, so our own immune systems don’t destroy us.”

Dash ran up to the door of the conference room, saw everyone gathered there, and slumped against the door frame. “It’s done.” She looked at Velma. “Did you explain?”

Velma nodded. “Spanish flu. Immune system overreaction.”

Dash seemed to slump farther. “Almost everyone will get violently ill, but I expect most people will now survive.” She straightened up sluggishly, her voice turning grim. “But as is all too often the case, there are side effects. Having released the spray into the ventilation system, I not only weakened the immune reactions of the healthy people but also of all the people whose immune systems are already weak.”

Velma stopped pacing. “The elderly.”

Chance gasped. “All the rejuv patients. They’re almost all already compromised. This could wind up killing every last one of them.”

Dash took a breath. “Hopefully not that bad. We do already have them all hooked up to the best care they can get. But it will be bad.” She looked away. “I don’t see how my uncle will be able to survive.” She turned to go.

Chance leapt up to follow her. “Let me check on most of our patients. You go be with your family.”

Amanda looked at something off-screen. “No!”

Everyone turned to look at her.

She looked horrified. “Oh, no, no, no.” She looked at Velma. “Since Dash and Chance have to go see the rejuv patients, you have an additional assignment. I’m sending another patient down to you.” She choked back a sob. “Colin Wheeler has gone symptomatic.”

Ping and Jam had been traveling north clearing toll blockades for several days.

Jam looked over her shoulder again. “Congratulations, you finally lost them.”

Ping dodged another crater in the road. “Ha! Free at last!” She looked around, essentially daring the landscape to wreck the Jeep while she was distracted. “Looks like we lost the drone, too.”

Jam shrugged. “I think it went back up to the dirigible to recharge. I wouldn’t count on having lost Ciara if I were you.”

Ping growled but said nothing.

They crested a hill, and Ping squinted into the distance. “Is that a solar power farm up there?”

Jam squinted as well. “Can’t think what else it could be.” She switched back to an earlier subject. “So how’s the cybernetic limb factory coming? Any idea how long it will be before we can fix up the Beloved Advisor?”

Ping answered brightly. “Excellent news. The factory is operational. Not ready to run at full capacity yet, but we got the first production run yesterday. Shura’s scheduled to get her hands first, and I think she goes in for surgery tomorrow.” Her voice turned grim. “As for the Advisor here, there’s a long line in front of him.”

Jam clapped. “I’m glad Shura is first. She certainly deserves it.” She raised an eyebrow at Ping. “Even if she did trick you into being empress.”

Ping scowled. “I half-expect her to take the hands off again. She’s so facile with that clamp-thing, I can’t help thinking a normal hand may be a step backward.”

Jam grunted. “She better keep at least one hand. Everybody is going to feel safer once we’ve removed that Stylus of Death she has on the other arm.”

Ping grudgingly conceded the point. “There’s that, too.”

Jam pointed forward. “Looks like our fleeing criminals have given up the escape.” Up ahead, a battered brown truck bounced to the side of the road and two young men jumped out with their handy-dandy assault rifles.

At the last toll booth/roadblock, two of the bandits had managed to dodge the hornets long enough to start a truck and charge away. Ping and Jam, after making sure the main group of thugs was quiet enough for collection by the Amazons, had torn after them.

It had been a long chase, the driver of the truck being every bit as insane as Ping. She’d even complimented him a couple of times as the pursuit continued long beyond expectations.

Once again, Ping slid the Jeep sideways to a stop.

The men lit up the landscape with their guns for a few seconds until they’d shot their magazines dry. Both Jam and Ping winced as a handful of rounds hit the Jeep.

Jam took careful aim and fired three times. With nothing but a pistol the range should have been too great even for Jam, but she managed to take out a tire nonetheless.

The men ran around behind the truck. Ping hopped onto the hood of the Jeep and yelled at them, “Hey, guys, do I really have to send you another batch of hornets? Throw out your guns and come out here with your hands up.”

Ping waited with moderate patience while a barely recognizable argument went on behind the truck. “OK, I haven’t got all day. I’m going to load up the hornets now. Last chance.”

Two AK-47s thumped on the dirt in front of the truck, and the men stepped out with their hands up.

Jam ran over while Ping covered her, quickly stripping the rifles and pocketing the firing pins. “Hands behind your backs.”

As Ping sauntered up, she asked, “So, why’d you stop here, anyway?”

The driver ground out, “Ran out of gas.”

Ping nodded. “Important safety tip: fill up before running for your lives.”

Jam threw her a doubtful look. “Since when have you been into that kind of long-range planning?”

The prisoners now quiescent, Ping looked to the north. “Let’s go check out that solar panel field. Who’s up here, anyway?”

Jam pointed at the men. “What about these two?”

Ping shrugged. “Either the troops pick them up, or they escape on foot.” She waved her hand around the empty landscape. “Either way, I’m happy with it.”

“Fair enough.” Jam looked north at the solar farm. “You sure you want to keep going? Not only did we leave the troops behind, but I’m also pretty sure we left the country behind.”

Ping chuckled. “I’m pretty sure we had already left the country behind even before that last roadblock.” She shrugged. “Easy enough to check.” The GPS showed they’d crossed most of Niger and were on the verge of entering Mali. “So, outside my jurisdiction.”

“At last, I don’t have to call you empress any more. Still want to go north and see the solar panels, even if you’re not head honcho?”

Ping grinned. “Road trip.”

The solar farm that had looked so close at hand took over an hour to reach. Even Ping was tired.

As they slowed to a halt, Jam looked around disapprovingly. “Honestly, I’m tired of wandering around parts of the planet that have turned to desert. First northern China, now this.” She swept her hand across the landscape. “According to the history books, the Sahel didn’t used to come this far south.”

Ping hopped out and walked toward the solar field. “Everything changes.”

A young man stepped out from under the shade of the panels. “Good afternoon. My name is Quraish. And you are?”

Ping pointed to her partner. “This is Jam, and I’m Ping.”

The fellow nodded politely to them both, then swiveled his head sharply back to Ping. “I think I may have heard of you. Are you the Empress of Benin?”

Ping buried her face in her hands.

Jam coughed to hide her laugh. “She certainly is. I don’t suppose you’d care for the job?”

Quraish looked at her in puzzlement.

Ping answered, “This is Mali, right? I’m not the empress here. Call me Ping.”

Quraish nodded. “As you wish. May I ask why you are here?”

Ping shrugged. “We were chasing bandits, and during the hot pursuit, we wound up just south of you.”

Quraish’s expression turned grave. “Ah, bandits. It used to be worse than that here, you know. Boko Haram came, intent on slaughter, but then several years ago, our benefactor arrived and drove them away.”

Ping clapped. “Marvelous. Glad I’m not the only person around here snuffing out terrorists. I guess I don’t have to worry about your people, then.” She glanced around. “Really, you’re kinda outside my jurisdiction anyway, so I’m doubly glad you’ve got someone to look out for you.”

Jam listened intently. “Your benefactor?”

Quraish smiled dreamily as if contemplating a scene of peace and serenity. “Shortly after arriving, he also started building our solar power field.”

Ping homed in on the original question that brought her here. “Exactly what are you doing with this solar farm, anyway? There aren’t any cross-country power lines to take the power to the cities, are there?”

Quraish shook his head. “We use the power locally to the extent we can. In the afternoon on most days we get enough power to do many things, like running an arc welder to repair the bicycles, but the rest of the day, it’s almost useless. Many of us think it’s more trouble than it’s worth, but not me.” He pointed at himself. “I come out every day to check on the wiring and clean the panels.”

Ping frowned in frustration. “So if it’s not that useful, why did your benefactor put them here in the first place?”

Now puzzlement filled Quraish’s face. “Our benefactor says they will bring back the rain. He explained how, but honestly, I didn’t understand it.”

Jam asked with bemusement. “So this fellow drove off the terrorists, built a solar farm, and plans to make the desert bloom. I’m almost afraid to ask: what else does he do?”

Quraish’s dreamy expression returned. “He teaches from the Quran.” He winced. “And more recently, he brought us vaccine, and made us all take shots lest we suffer if the plague in America reached us.”

Ping muttered to Jam. “Quite the jack of all trades.”

Jam smiled back mischievously. “Remind you of anyone?”

Ping looked dazed, as if she had been struck in the face. Together, Ping and Jam said in chorus, “Dash.”

Ping wrinkled her nose. “But only sort of. I mean, he’s not a techno-geek, he’s just into a lot of different good things for people.”

Jam nodded acknowledgment.

Quraish took them on a brief tour of the facility. “Sorry there’s not more of interest, Empress.” He looked away. “I mean, Ping.”

A loud squalling came from the Jeep. Jam put her hand to her lips. “We forgot about the Chief.” She smiled warmly at Quraish. “It was very nice meeting you.” She turned to Ping. “I’ll see you back at the Jeep.” She jogged off to attend the unhappy ex-Advisor.

Ping turned to Quraish. “It’s been delightful spending this time with you. Thank you.”

Quraish shook her hand. “I’ll tell our benefactor you visited. He’ll be sorry he missed you.”

Ping chuckled. She was about to ask the name of this benefactor, contemplating the creation of an alliance between their two forces of civilization, when her phone played

Another Brick in Wall

by Pink Floyd. “Ciara, what’s up?”

The answer sent her running headlong back to the Jeep with barely a wave of thanks and goodbye.

Uwais nestled another ceramic shuriken in his belt. He was clothed in loose-fitting black pants, a similarly loose black shirt, and black sneakers, looking for all the world like a ninja, if ninjas were made in XXL sizes. “It sounds like everything is going according to plan.”

Sabaah grunted. “I’m a little surprised that they opened the internal compartments so soon. Shucks, I’m surprised they declared Condition Zebra so quickly.”

Uwais twisted back and forth, stretching. “Yeah, they pushed up our timetable all right. Fortunately, we’re ready.” He thought about it for a moment. “It’s probably that Dr. Dash Khalid’s been so crazy about.”

Sabaah secured the last of his ceramic throwing knives and grabbed his plastic paintball gun. “Well, that’s what we’re here to take care of. Ready?”

Uwais snapped the magazine into his own paintball gun. “Let’s go.”

They programmed their small yacht to surge forward for a few minutes, then stepped onto the roof where they had their sky-blue powered hang gliders strapped down. One after the other, they strapped the gliders to themselves and lifted into the freshening wind.

Each had an earbud with which to talk to the other. Sabaah, of course, had some issues with the strategy they had undertaken. “Let me guess, you’re delighted at this opportunity to learn all about hang gliding.”

Uwais answered in a bellow. “Why not? And think how much fun it would be someday to hang glide to the top of a mountain with skis and come back down.”

Sabaah shook his head. “So much trouble just to get to the blasted ship.”

Uwais answered phlegmatically, “Hey, if we went through the security checkpoints like we did the last time, the AIs would do facial recognition and sound every alarm on the deck. ‘Aha! There’re the guys who stole our CRISPIER.’”

As they rose higher and flew eastward, eventually they spotted the archipelago in the distance—the towering white superstructures of most of the isle ships, plus the dazzling multi-color delight of the

Elysian Fields

. At this point they dropped their engines and batteries, the only parts of the glider with significant amounts of metal. They were now, for all intents and purposes, invisible to radar, and infrared, and visual detection.

They landed on the

Chiron

helipad and trotted down the ramps to the Red Planet deck. As they arrived there, they started firing paintballs to splatter all the vidcams as they charged through. This surely alerted the peacekeepers, but now it was too late for them to intervene effectively.

Coming into the biosafety cabinet area, they slowed to a halt. More than one person turned to stare at them. An older balding guy walked up to them. “This is a biohazard containment area. What are you doing here?”

Uwais stepped up to tower over him. “Where is Dr. Dash?”

The man blinked. “Dash? I have no idea. Presumably dealing with the bioterror attack. You know this ship is infected and quarantined, right?”

Sabaah ribbed his partner. “He’s right. The safest place in this ship is probably

inside

the cabinets where they keep the dangerous diseases.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Uwais rolled his eyes. He looked at the older man, who stood very straight and very indignant. Uwais chopped him in the throat. As the gagging man fell to the floor, Uwais pushed him down to pound his head on the deck surface.

That surface was a kind of hard rubber, so it did not kill the fellow. But it put him out of commission for the foreseeable future.

Sabaah studied the unconscious body for a moment. “I think that was Simon, the head of the CDC.”

Uwais shrugged. He pulled out his phone. “Showtime.” He pushed a button.

All over the

Chiron,

the lights dimmed. The doors and hatches between the decks whirred closed once more, trapping any peacekeepers who might have been coming their way on whichever deck they happened to be. The shipwide broadcasting system fired up.

Uwais spoke softly. “Good evening. This is Uwais al-Nassif, your new captain. Your old captain on the bridge and your old Chairman in her sterile little Command Information Center, have been removed from the network. Do not doubt that I am in charge.”

Sabaah chortled. He said, loudly enough to be heard throughout the ship, “We control the vertical. We control the—”

Uwais pushed him away. “And that was Sabaah, my partner on this holy quest to cleanse the world. In case you haven’t heard, you’ve all been infected with a new virus. Most of you will die soon enough, but some of you may die prematurely nonetheless.” He chuckled. “Or not. I have but one demand you must fulfill, and I shall leave you to whatever may remain of your pitiful heathen lives.”

A commotion at the opposite end of the open area caught his eye. “But more on that in a moment. Right now I have to put down an attempted coup.” He nodded to one of the two tall women running through the assembled scientists, parting them much as Allah had parted the waters for Moses. “Dr. Chance Dixon, nice to meet you. Shall we dance?”

Uwais reached for a shuriken, but Sabaah whispered, “Better save those.”

Uwais nodded. “Good point. These two should be easy. I’ll take Chance.”

Sabaah agreed. “I’ll take the other heathen, whoever she is.”

Chance slowed to a dancing rhythm and launched a flurry of strikes: a fist to the face, a kick to the abdomen, the other fist to the other side of the face.

Uwais saw each strike before it started and blocked them all. He then leaned into his opponent and struck.

Sabaah laughed as the other woman just came up, no defense, no tactics, just charged until she was in range and threw a high, twisting kick to the head. He ducked underneath and struck her face with his fists, left-right-left.

She fell without a sound.

Chance blocked Uwais’ first blow, but the power he unleashed was incredible. Even blocked, the strike knocked her back. Then he was on her.

She danced back, trying to regain her balance.

But by then Sabaah had finished with the other one. He came from the side and kicked her with the same head strike she had used so successfully on others.

She also fell to the deck.

Uwais rolled his shoulders in a stretching motion. “I guess all that training paid off after all. I think six months ago she would’ve given me a tough go.”

Sabaah grumped. “Whoever the other one is, she’s a beginner. I think we spent too much time training, myself.”

Uwais shrugged. “With luck, we’ll finish here and be gone before we find out.”

Sabaah shook his head. “Spoilsport. What’s the point of training against these Jam and Ping people if we never even meet them?”