“Not at this time. Not until we know whether the vaccine actually works. The schools close after the GA rally on the 23rd, and the docks will be shut down soon afterwards. The Horizon Military will not be inoculated unless it’s proven to work; we’ll need them once the hostile infected emerge.”
“This is an impossible fight. How do you expect to contain an entire city?”
Caufmann averts his gaze for a moment, “I have several D-class satellites in place to glass us, if and when it’s necessary.”
“You have access to Desolator satellites?” she asks rhetorically, gripping the bridge of her nose.
Caufmann says nothing and waits for it all to sink in.
She takes a long breath inwards. “How long before we’re in serious trouble?”
“About a month before the hostiles become too numerous to contain.”
“And we’re not going to call for help?” Hillon asks.
“No unnecessary risks. No contamination. The plan is simple, we fight it on our own and if we lose, I’ll activate the Desolator satellites.”
“What about android help? We could call in for the fully cybernetic HolinMech Warrior unit.”
Caufmann knows who’s in that crew but remains absolutely deadpan, “No, that is not an option.”
“Why not? They are Solar Special Forces and are a Godyssey owned project, it’s within our power to get them here. They’re androids, they’re immune. The things they’ve done—”
“They are not to set foot in this city. Not until this infiltrator Progenitor-class is found and destroyed.”
“You just said we don’t have time. I helped design Magnus Breen’s system I know what he can do! He’s commanded them for four years.” she says.
“There have been irregularities with them. One of them went AWOL if you haven’t heard.”
Hillon frowns obviously unaware, “Which one?”
“Unit Arca Drej.”
Hillon makes a dismissive gesture, “Ah. He was nothing but trouble.”
“How so?”
“He didn’t respond at all to authority.”
“He recognised Magnus’ authority well enough. From what I’m told he didn’t like the restrictions that were put on the crew,” says Caufmann.
“He’s not supposed to like or dislike, William, he’s a machine and should do what he’s told.”
Caufmann bites back a retort that may have been accompanied by a strike to the face, “Have you told Del that face to face? Would you tell Arca Drej?”
“Of course not,” she laughs.
“Drej was complaining of nightmares not long before he went missing.”
“How did he get out of Iyatoya Base?”
“He didn’t. He disappeared on mission.”
“Which mission, William?” she says growing impatient.
“Unknown. Something out near Jupiter.”
“Is there anything more we can do on the E-DNA?” she asks returning to the more immediate problem.
“The vaccine is the E-DNA,” says Caufmann.
Hillon looks hard at him. “You sent out an experimental retroviral gene sequence as a vaccine?”
“I told you, we are out of time.”
Rennin is back in the food hall, having another attempt at eating his breakfast. Since that oafish twat, Michael Gainsford, isn’t around his half raw precooked chicken skewer should be safe.
The watchman pokes at the mashed potato that has the texture of particularly runny excrement, not that he regularly pokes his passed solids. He lets out a half cackle, unintentionally drawing attention from the other diners.
The newspaper article’s release brought home a terrible truth to many of the scientists and regular staff: Watchman Rennin Farrow will shoot you if you try to leave. His workplace relationships, such as they are, have always been tainted by his requirement of taking out escapees but it was always something that everyone refused to truly admit to themselves.
The article just threw it in all their snide faces. After all their years of schooling to become anally retentive virgin geniuses, the grunt with a gun on duty has their lives in his hands.
He looks up to see Caufmann and Gainsford entering from opposite sides of the food hall. Caufmann, with his hunched walk and rapid stride, seems distracted or even oblivious to his surroundings.
Gainsford is in a mad rush, fury writhing across his facial features. He moves heavily and quickly across the room. He has definitely noticed Caufmann. The two are about to pass when Gainsford attempts to shoulder check the Head of Research upon passing.
The hit is meant as one of those schoolyard tactics that lets an enemy know you’re not his friend without actually saying anything. The knock is hard, but Gainsford is the one thrown by it. He looks like he just walked into a solid block of concrete and is rebounded off balance to fall flat on his side, his face a mask of utter shock.
Rennin is impressed. Even more surprising, Caufmann doesn’t even break stride, he just keeps walking until he’s out of the food court as if Gainsford isn’t even there.
When his shift ends after four dreary hours of replaying Caufmann’s body knock to Gainsford over and over, Rennin is back at the pub across the road.
Just under three hours later, with four pints of rum and ginger ale under his belt, he’s feeling the intense heat and numbness of intoxication. Thinking of ‘The Caufmann Slam’ now brings an ear-to-ear grin. Rennin hates Gainsford.
In fact, he can’t think of one staff member he actually likes.
I could shoot them all.
That thought stops his swimming and dizzy mind for a moment and with a crystalline clarity he thought lost after the war he finally sees something he does well. Murder.
Not murder, maybe. Murder implies a crime of passion and Rennin Farrow would never kill someone at Godyssey out of passion because that would mean he’s wasting what limited emotional bandwidth he has on those parasites. Then again, when he thinks of Caufmann in his crosshairs he does feel pause. He likes the doctor.
The bartender is not the robot this time, he notices, staring at the frame of a thirty-something year old pouring drinks with alarming inaccuracy regarding the maximum alcohol allowed per serve.
Despite it being the weekend there are barely any people at the bar. She passes a drink to the man to Rennin’s left and he can smell the potency of that concoction. He makes eye contact with her with his reddened eyes. She jilts her head back in the what-do-you-want manner.
Rennin opens his mouth and the bar top is nearly greeted with a coating of his dinner brought on by a surprise convulsion.
He manages to suppress the purge. “I’ll have what dingus—” gesturing to the guy who was next to him a moment before, but seems to have vanished, “—had.”
She smiles and turns back to the bar to make the drink and Rennin’s eyes seem to move on their own to her waistline.
“Holy God,” escapes his mouth. Only a dribble of saliva running down his face would make him look like more of a sleaze.
She turns back and hands him the potion. He wrenches his eyes up to hers, “Cheers. Here’s to something meaningful,” he slurs taking a swig.
She arches an eyebrow, “Nothing in particular?”
He cringes at the taste, “Jesus…”
“To Jesus then,” she says smiling, putting her hands together in the prayer fashion.
“Funny,” he chokes out, wiping his mouth and feeling his insides burning, “what the hell was that?”
“Absinthian Siege.”
“Absinthe?” He blinks hard, “That stuff is mean and I used to like liquorice.”
“I recognise you. You’re the guy in the papers, right?”
He shrugs, “I don’t know anything.”
“If you finish that drink as fast as the others you’ve had, you may never know anything again.”