Infected

Margaret started to speak, a kind of automatic reaction to correct a layman’s guess at science, but stopped. Otto oversimplified it, but his concept was right on the money.

"Amos," Margaret said, "has this task force been mapping the occurrences of the actual fibers?"

Amos shrugged. "I would imagine so, but I’m not sure. We’d have to talk to them."

Margaret flipped through the pages. "Doctor Frank Cheng. He’s the project lead. I need to talk to this man. I don’t know if Murray will let me call him."

"Margaret, may I say something?" Otto asked.

"Sure."

He spun once in his chair, then gripped the desk with both hands, smiling the whole time. "You seem to let people push you around. You ever notice that?"

She felt her face turning red. Just because she had a problem, and everyone knew she had a problem, didn’t mean Otto had to actually talk about it.

"That’s none of your business," she said.

"Because it seems to me you’re a lot stronger than you think. We’re dealing with some pretty crazy stuff here, am I right?"

She nodded.

"So if you’ve got something you feel we need to do, maybe you should stop being such a p.u.s.s.y."

"Excuse me?"

Amos slapped the coffee table. "Preach on, Brother Otto!" "I said, Margaret, stop being such a p.u.s.s.y."

"I heard what you said."

"So stop letting Murray tell you what to do."

Margaret’s jaw dropped. "Are you completely deranged? He’s the

deputy director of the CIA, man! How can I not let him tell me what to do?"

"So he’s the deputy director. Do you know what you are?"

"Tell her!" Amos screamed. He stood and raised his hands to the sky. "Tell the good sister what she is!"

"Yes, Agent Otto, please tell me what I am."

Otto spun twice, then spoke. "You are the lead epidemiologist studying a new, unknown disease with horrific implications."

"Horrific!" Amos echoed.

"You are short-staffed, and you can’t get the experts you should have."

"It’s a sin!" Amos said.

"Amos," Margaret said, "just knock it the f.u.c.k off."

Amos smiled, then picked up a magazine off the coffee table and sat down, pretending to read.

"Margaret, he put you in

She started to speak, then stopped. No. Murray wouldn’t do that. Not because she was the end-all be-all, but because he wanted to keep this tight as a drum. Murray needed her.

"So," Otto said as he gave one strong push. He started spinning, speaking one syllable on each revolution, almost as if he’d read her mind. "Use... what...you...have."

Her anger faded.

Agent Clarence Otto was right.

THE POISON PILL

The seedlings continuously monitored development, fed by data from the roaming readers. At a certain point, the seedlings’ checklists determined that the readers’ jobs were completed. A chemical signal rolled through the host. The readers went through a phase change. With a simple adjustment, the sawlike jaws dropped off and the b.a.l.l.s sealed up tight.

Inside the b.a.l.l.s, death started to brew.

They inflated, filling themselves with a new chemical compound. Herders moved the chemical b.a.l.l.s throughout the framework, wedging them here, wedging them there.

Where the jaws had been, a crusty cap appeared. The deadly compound ate away at the inside of the cap, but the seedlings flooded the structure with another chemical that added thickness to the cap from the outside. It was a delicate balance, but as long as the seedlings remained "alive," kept making the chemical, the poison b.a.l.l.s would remain sealed.

If the seedlings ceased to function, however, the caps would disintegrate and the vile catalyst inside would spread through the framework, dissolving it, the modified stem cells and all the cells they had created. Cells would blacken, die, then dissolve, the resulting waste material moving on to poison other cells. The ensuing chain reaction would dissolve every soft tissue it reached — framework, muscle, skin, organs... everything.

To stop this from happening, the seedlings had to survive.

But this host had no way of knowing that.

GOOD-BYE

"I’m sorry, Mister Phillips," the doctor said. "He just slipped away. We thought we had him out of the woods, and then he was just gone."

Dew stared at the doctor, who looked tired and bedraggled. It wasn’t the doctor’s fault; the man had done everything possible. Dew still couldn’t stop the wave of fury that swept over him, that had him wondering how easy it would be to snap the little doctor’s skinny neck.

"What killed him?"

"It wasn’t one particular thing. I think the whole incident was just too much for his body to handle. To be blunt, he should have died back on Monday, but he was strong enough to fight another sixty hours. Because of that, we thought we might be able to save him, but there was just too much damage. I’m very sorry. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go talk to his wife."

"No," Dew snapped. Then, quietly, "No, I’ll do it. I was his partner."

"As you like, Mister Phillips," the doctor said. "I’ll be nearby if you need me."