“Venice,” Tim said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Margaret answered. “It’s Shakespeare — If you prick us, do we not bleed?”
Cantrell glanced at her, then at the testing unit, then looked at her again, stared hard.
“Lady, are you… are you here to kill me?”
A direct question, but it didn’t make sense. Clarence noticed a slight gleam on Cantrell’s forehead. He was perspiring a little… did he have a fever?
Margaret answered in a calm, measured voice. “Mister Cantrell, why do you think I want to kill you?”
Clarence understood: she thought Cantrell might be showing signs of paranoia, one of the main symptoms of infection.
Cantrell blinked rapidly, sniffed. He forced a smile, gestured to the walls around him.
“I’m a guinea pig, ma’am,” he said. “It’s a logical question.”
Before Margaret could ask another question, Cantrell removed the white plastic tube, pressed it against the tip of his right pointer finger. The yellow light started flashing immediately.
Clarence watched, tension pulling his body forward, making his hand itch to draw his weapon — a weapon he didn’t have. He felt naked. He needed to get a rig that would let him wear a holster over the suit. Was Cantrell’s light about to turn red? Was a piece of thick glass all that separated Margaret from one of the infected?
The flashing yellow slowed, then stopped and blinked out.
The green light turned on.
Clarence’s body relaxed slightly, a tight spring uncoiling halfway. Maybe these guys still had a chance.
Cantrell carried his test — box and envelope and all — to his toilet. He tossed everything down the open hole. Clarence heard a soft whump: an incinerator flaring to life.
The other diver slapped on the glass of his cell, making Margaret jump.
“Ma’am, you got to get me out of here,” he said to her. “We’re fine, the tests keep coming up negative, we’re fine.”
It took Tim only two steps to cross the aisle. He put the other box in the airlock, rotated it through.
“And this fine gentleman is Diego Clark,” Tim said. “Clark, how about you quit with the whining and make with the pricking?”
Clark looked at the test box like it was poisonous. He then looked up at the cluster of nozzles mounted in his cell’s high ceiling. Some of the nozzles were stainless steel, others were brass. The brass nozzles reminded Clarence of something, but he couldn’t place what. The stainless steel ones he recognized, as he’d seen them in the MargoMobile — they were for knockout gas, in case Tim and Margaret had to go in and work on a dangerous infection victim.
Clark slapped the glass again. “Let me out! We were just doing our jobs, we shouldn’t be locked up! This is horseshit! Where’s my CO? Where’s my lawyer?”
“Less talky-talky,” Tim said, “more testy-testy.”
Clark opened the box and removed the foil envelope, then threw the box down and stomped on it.
“When I get out of here, Feely,” he said, “I’m going to shove one of these straight up your ass.”
“As long as you buy me dinner first,” Tim said. “Now do the damn test.”
Clark again looked up to the ceiling, then shook his head.
“Ain’t gonna burn me,” he said.
Burn. That triggered Clarence’s memory. He again looked up at the cell ceiling, and understood why the brass nozzle seemed familiar: it looked like a flamethrower. Clark was right to be afraid — his cage could be instantly turned into a fire-filled oven that would burn him alive.
Tim sighed, clearly bored with the drama. He slowly raised a finger toward the flat-panel controls of Clark’s cell.
“You’re getting tested,” Tim said. “You can either be conscious for it, or I can knock you out and give it to you myself. Your choice.”
Clark instantly shook his head. Whatever Tim used as knockout gas, it clearly had unpleasant side effects. Clark tore the foil envelope open, took the time to use the alcohol swab — which Cantrell hadn’t bothered with, Clarence realized — then stabbed the end into his finger.
The yellow light flashed faster, then slowed.
Then, stopped.
The red light came on.
No one said a word. Clarence stared, stunned into thoughtlessness. The man had looked fine.
Cantrell broke the silence. “ ‘If you poison us,’ ” he said quietly, “ ‘do we not die?’ ”
Clark raised the testing kit to eye level, his wide stare locked on the steady, red light.
Margaret shook her head. “No,” she said. “No… we won.”
Tim finally reacted. He moved his hands in front of his face, accessing something on his HUD.
“Clark, Diego L., tested positive for cellulose,” he said. “Administering anesthesia.”
He tapped the empty air. Something up above beeped. Clark looked up, eyes wide, body shaking.
“Don’t light me up, man,” he said, “don’t… light…”
He sagged to the floor. He didn’t move.
RUNNING DRUGS
“Hey, Jefe Cooper.”
José spoke quietly, but Cooper heard the words loud and clear. He tried to ignore them. He was sleeping, after all.
“Hey, Jefe Cooper.”
Cooper lifted his head, opened his eyes. Smiling José was kneeling next to the bed. He was close, almost leaning over Cooper, but the tiny half-stateroom didn’t leave much of an option; it was already too cramped for just one person, let alone a second.
José offered a steaming cup of coffee. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said, as if it was a lucky coincidence.
“I am now,” Cooper said. “And I don’t want to be. I haven’t slept all night, man. Is everything okay?”
José shrugged. “Probably. But… can I show you something?”
Cooper flopped his face back into the pillow. “Does it involve me getting up?”
José laughed, but it seemed forced. “Why, is there something of mine you want to see while you’re lying in bed?”
“Good point. Aren’t you supposed to be on the bridge?”
“I am,” José said. “But I think this is really important.”
Cooper sat up quickly. “Is Jeff…”
His voice trailed off. He was about to ask if Jeff had the helm, but the loud snoring from the other side of a thin wall told him Jeff was out cold. When they’d bought the Mary Ellen, Jeff had built a wall dividing the ten-by-ten captain’s stateroom into two equal five-by-ten rooms. He’d put in another door, even installed a second sink so they would each have one. Partners, fifty-fifty all the way, as they’d been since childhood. While it gave Cooper the luxury of a small amount of privacy, it also meant he heard everything that went on in Jeff’s stateroom. What Jeff did more than anything else in there was snore. Loudly.
Cooper took the cup of coffee. “You left the bridge unattended. This better be fucking important, dude.”
José nodded quickly, placatingly. “Yes, Jefe Cooper, I know. Maybe it’s nothing. Come up to the bridge, okay? And… and don’t wake up Jefe Jeff, yet, okay?”
“Why?”
José shrugged. “I need the money from this job. If I don’t get it, my family will get kicked out of our house.”
That meant the problem had something to do with Stanton. Jeff seemed one more incident away from insisting on turning back, killing the contract and dumping Stanton and Bo Pan back on shore. José needed the money — so did Cooper, so did Jeff.