The microscopic neutrophils had a relatively massive area to cover. The equivalent, perhaps, of a dozen mice scattered onto an area the size of a dozen football fields. Much ground to cover, and yet the neutrophils had been designed for this very action.
Three were too weak to make the journey. They expired along the way, leaving nine that found each other, amorphous blobs pressing in on each other.
At the center of this shifting pile, three neutrophils underwent a rapid physical change. They altered their internal workings to produce a caustic chemical, a chemical specifically preprogrammed by the Orbital some five years earlier. This trio pressed themselves flat against the Tyvek material of the gloves upon which they rode. The trio started to swell, to fill with fluid, until — following those same, preprogrammed instructions — they sacrificed themselves by tearing open their own cell walls.
The caustic chemical spilled onto the Tyvek: just a microscopic drop, something not even visible to the naked eye, but enough to weaken the material, to create a tiny divot.
Another neutrophil flowed into the divot, then repeated the process, deepening the hole. Then another, and another.
The chemical burst of the last one was enough to punch all the way through.
Pressurized air flowed out, an infinitesimal, nearly immeasurable amount, sliding past the flat bodies of the seventh and eight neutrophils that climbed through the microscopic hole all the way to the glove’s inner surface. These, too, began a phase change — their bodies quickly split into dozens of tiny, self-contained particles.
Those particles flaked away, scattered like an invisible shower onto the skin of the person wearing the gloves. There the particles began to burrow.
The Orbital had watched. The Orbital had learned. It knew of the primitive-yet-effective technology the humans had developed to protect themselves from infection. Drawing on the knowledge of a vastly superior technology, the Orbital had prepared a way to defeat this protection.
The last neutrophil sensed that its fellow microbes had succeeded. It underwent the final portion of the preprogrammed dance. It slid into the microscopic hole and began to swell, bloating until it pushed against the sides.
Air stopped flowing out of the glove.
That final neutrophil hardened, then died, fulfilling its role as nothing more than a plug in a hole so tiny it would take an electron microscope to see it, if anyone ever looked.
And no one ever would.
IT’S ABOUT CANTRELL
Clarence needed a shower. At least he was out of that suit. Built-in air conditioner or not, when he wore it, he sweated like a whore in church — probably less from any heat and more because of what waited just outside of the thin material.
He sat in the small control center that looked down through the clear roofs of the three science modules. The console in front of him and the walls on either side were packed with computers, monitors and communication equipment — neat, tidy, space-conscious military design. The built-in microphone in front of him let him speak to people in the modules; speakers in the console let him hear them talk.
Through the control center’s glass, he saw Margaret and Tim working away. They’d pulled Candice Walker’s scalp down over her face. The inside-out flesh looked bone-white, smeared with tacky blood. Tim was cutting into her skull with a handheld saw.
Clarence had been in the BSL-4 suit for about two hours, total, and had been counting the minutes until he could get out of it. He didn’t know how Margaret and Feely managed it so well; the two of them would probably be in their suits for another eight to ten hours, at least. They had both opted for devices that allowed them to urinate and defecate while still in the suit.
You told her she’s not a soldier. You can barely keep your suit on for ninety minutes but she can piss and shit inside of hers for twenty-four hours straight if she has to.
Not that Clarence hadn’t faced his own fair share of awful conditions. In Iraq, his unit had been pinned down. Waiting for support, he and his buddy, Louis Oakley, had hidden behind rocks, suffering 120-degree heat while dreading that the next bullet would hit home. Lou-Lou took a round to the head. He died instantly. Clarence had lain there for the better part of a day, unable to move away from the corpse, willing his body to press closer to the ground. Louis had looked on, unblinking.
Clarence shook his head, came back to the moment. No time to get lost in those memories.
He finished up the notes from his interview with Cantrell. Margaret preferred her information summarized, the most-important stuff bullet-pointed right up top. If she needed info beyond that summary, she would ask.
At times, being in a relationship with a woman who was clearly much, much smarter than he was felt a little intimidating. In their day-to-day life it hadn’t been noticeable — she was a woman, he was a man, things worked out. But when it came to talking politics, finances, history, or — God forbid — science, the gap in their IQs became clear. At least he knew more about football than she did. Or, at least that’s what she let him believe. He was never really sure about that one.
Clarence turned on the microphone. “Margo, is now still a good time?”
She and Tim stopped what they were doing, looked up. Margaret nodded.
Tim had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Suit’s a little stuffy, eh, fella? You want me to go to the kitchen and fetch you a nice glass of lemonade to cool you off?”
Clarence ground his teeth in embarrassment.
“Or some talcum powder,” Tim said. “Maybe your bottom is damp?”
Margaret reached out, slapped Tim lightly on the shoulder. He stopped talking, but the grin didn’t go away. Was he actually posturing, trying to impress Margaret? At a time like this, the guy was hitting on her?
Just hope we never step into the ring, you little runt. We’ll find out who’s the better man.
“Margo,” Clarence said, “verbal or send it to your HUD?”
She tapped her visor. “HUD. Tim’s as well.”
Clarence did as he was asked.
Both Tim and Margaret read through the info playing on the inside of their visors.
“Fancy,” Tim said. “It’s like Cliff’s Notes for Holy Shit the World Is Going to End Theater. Bullet points? Please, Agent Otto, don’t spend any time going into actual detail.”
“Tim, cut it out,” Margaret said, still reading. “This is how I want my data. Clarence knows what I like.”
That line shut Tim up. He glared up at the control booth. Clarence knew Margaret hadn’t meant anything sexual by the reference, but he couldn’t help but give Tim a little nod that said, Awww yeah, I know what she likes, and you never will.
Margaret tapped the air, shutting off the report.
“The bleach thing is interesting,” she said. “Is anyone checking their suits for holes or malfunctions?”
“I asked Captain Yasaka if someone could test them,” Clarence said. “She’s going to have the nonquarantined divers run a pressurized rate of fall test as soon as they can, probably first thing tomorrow morning. The divers pressurize the suit and watch the gauges, see if there is a loss greater than expected. In other words, fill it with air and see if it leaks.”
“The holes could be small,” Tim said. “The crawler spores are tiny. We’re talking microns, here. Gauges might not show pressure loss from something that size.”
Clarence nodded. “Correct, which is why if they don’t find a leak that way, they will then go for a full submersion test. They need our airlock for that, the big one that leads outside the ship.”