Clara leaned over the counter and sniffed. "Hey ya, Peter. How's the lasagna?"
Peter, a gangly young black man with a lightning bolt-shaped bald patch over his left temple, a paper hat, apron, and numerous rings in his earlobes, shrugged.
"Hey, Doc. The usual grub - almost palatable. How come I haven't seen you around in a while?"
"I've been working nights. How were midterms?"
"A stone bitch. But I got through them. Even got a B on my microbiology test."
"Peter, that's terrific! And you thought you'd fail!"
He grinned. "Yeah, it's cool. Thanks for helping me prepare. Umm, do you think we could go over my microbiology exam together sometime?"
"Of course. Maybe later in the week. Say, Peter ..."
She leaned on the counter, glancing at the guard who'd been assigned to follow her around. He was helping himself to a Coke at the soda fountain. That put him - briefly - with his back mostly to her. Clara gave Peter a wink and, pressing a finger to her lips, pulled a vial out of her pocket. She swiftly emptied the contents onto the lasagna, then pocketed the vial.
Peter gave her a strange look. "What gives?"
"A little special spice," she said in a low voice, and jerked her glance toward the guard. "Serve it up as usual. Nobody'll get hurt. I'll explain later."
Peter nodded slowly. "You got it."
"But between you and me, I'd avoid the lasagna."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
An hour later, in the clean room, Poynter entered the lab where Faneuil was overseeing Clara's work. Her hair was coming out from under her hood and she looked worried.
"A technician in the wet chemistry lab has collapsed," she said.
"The cause?"
"They don't know. It appears to be a severe flu. The infirmary medic wants you there right away."
"Keep an eye on her," he said, jerking his chin toward Clara. "Don't leave her alone."
Clara kept working, while Poynter sat on a lab stool and glowered at her.
Ten minutes later the phone on the wall by the door rang. Clara started for it, but Poynter snapped, "Leave it!" and grabbed it herself.
"Uh huh? Yes, an RN degree. Shit! How many? I'll be right there."
She hung up and turned to Clara. "You're to come with me."
Clara followed her to the infirmary, and the guard waiting outside followed them both. The medic, a cranky old woman named Janice, was there with Faneuil. Clara leaned against the wall while Poynter, Faneuil, and Janice conferred in low, anxious tones. Inside the infirmary were groans and the sounds of people throwing up.
As she stood there a young man staggered down the hall toward them, and from another direction, a woman helped another woman along. A crowd of concerned friends and coworkers was gathering.
"Dr. van Renssaeler!" One of the technicians grabbed her arm. "What's going on?"
Others turned to look. She said in soft, grave tones, "Everyone should remain completely calm. We have no definite proof that one of the experimental viruses has escaped containment and mutated."
There were gasps and whispers. "What did she say? What did she say?"
"An experimental virus is loose!"
Pandemonium broke. Everyone started running and shouting. Faneuil - who was starting to look a little sickly himself - raised his voice, trying to stem the panic, but Clara might as well have lit the fuse on a bomb.
She made her way through the ensuing chaos to the clean room. The guards had fled, including her own. She suited up swiftly and entered. The flasks of Black Trump virus she'd made so far were encased in coolers by the door, neatly labeled awaiting verification of the test cultures.
Clara carried the coolers over to the microwave oven. All but three of the flasks fit. She'd have to do it in two batches. Fifteen minutes per batch would be too much time to gamble on, but ten minutes should be enough. She set the timer, and paced, watching the door.
When the alarm went off, she dragged the flasks of destroyed virus out, stuck the last three in, and reset the timer. Some sixth sense, or perhaps a faint noise, caused her to turn. A small compressed gas bottle was descending on her. Poynter's face was behind it.
Clara dodged and the metal bottle struck her shoulder. She buckled with a cry.
Poynter shoved her out of the way and grabbed the flasks out of the oven. She tried to run but Clara caught her by the leg and she stumbled, barely keeping hold of the flasks as she went down.
They wrestled for control of the flasks. Clara was larger but Poynter was younger and much stronger. She wormed free of Clara's grasp and scrambled to her feet, and hurled a two-gallon glass jug of plasmid solution at Clara, catching her in the gut. She sat down with a whoosh, all the air knocked out of her. The glass shattered on the floor between her legs, bathing her in sticky, acrid solution.
Poynter was gone by the time she'd recovered.
Clara stuffed the tissue cultures into the oven and turned it on, then ran out to find and stop Poynter. She dodged into a room when she heard General MacArthur Johnson's voice; he and a squad of goons armed with semi-automatics ran past. They entered the clean room airlock behind Poynter. Clara waited till they were all inside, then hit the emergency button by the airlock.
Alarms started going off all over, signalling a contaminant release in the clean room. The airlock doors would now be sealed till they could get someone outside to activate the override.
But some of the virus still lived.
Clara ran for the basement, pausing only long enough to fan the flames of panic with a word here and there.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Hours passed. Finn imagined every possible catastrophe. Hartmann uttered them. Joan yelled at them.
Finn huddled against a wall, and imagined they had discovered her. Killed her. Fuck that, nobody gets to throttle her but me, he thought. He knew he was losing his mind. He never wanted to see Clara again, but the thought that he wouldn't was a sharp pain deep in the gut. Then, just when all hope was gone, the key grated in the lock and the door flew open. Clara stood revealed, her hair looking as if she'd combed it with an egg beater, a wild light in her green eyes.
For the first time Finn felt good enough to notice the environment beyond the door. It was really unexciting - stacked boxes, lab beakers lining shelves, sacks of bulk food supplies, in short ... a basement storeroom. Clara noticed his abstraction, slapped him on his withers with an open palm.
"We have to hurry. Johnson's not stupid." She was almost stuttering as she tried to force the words out faster. "He'll figure out soon it's not the virus, and I don't know if I got them all. Guards I mean. He's got four. If some of them didn't eat ..."
Finn shooed Joan out the door. She was a blur of camouflaging scales whipping across the floor. Finn leaped through the door. Clara grabbed him around the neck. Pressed a kiss on his mouth. He howled. She fell back, her hands pressed to her mouth, bumped into a stack of crates which went tumbling with a god-awful crash.
"Hurts," Finn muttered, wondering why he was reassuring her.
Hartmann skittered out of the room. "Want to give me a little nudge?" he asked. Finn stared at him in confusion. "Scare me," the senator amplified. He sounded irritated.
"I wouldn't think you'd need any help for that," Finn said.
"I need high gear. One of us has got to get out, give the warning. I'm probably the fastest of any of us. If you goose me."
Finn shrugged, and cow-kicked at Hartmann, clipping him lightly in the side. He levitated about a foot into the air. All of his myriad legs began churning, and he hit the ground running. Finn watched the senator go, swarming up the stairs and out of sight.
"Which floor?" Joan called from inside the elevator.
"Not the elevator," Finn yelled back. "If anybody's alert they'll shut them down. Trap us." Joan came out of the elevator at Mach two.