“In hospital.”
She looks him up and down and rolls her eyes. “Bullshit,” she resumes wiping the bar top, “Get out.”
He walks up to the bar and displays his left wrist. It is still wrapped with a hospital identification tag. “See?”
She grabs his arm and has a closer look. “This says the emergency surgery wing,” she says, looking him over anxiously. “Exactly what happened to you?” she asks running her hand along the dried blood staining his hood.
He unveils his head showing his face, his new artificial eye, and his arm, telling her selected highlights of how he incurred his injuries, strategically leaving out the particular details of the android and what he remembers of the surgery. “So there you have it.”
Her face is horrified. She places both his hands on the bar top to look at the differences. “My god…” she runs her fingers along the knuckles of his right hand.
“And this,” he says putting her hand to his face. He gently presses her fingers along the bone seam in his forehead.
Her mouth falls ajar in shock. “I’m sorry, Rennin, I had no idea and when you swaggered in looking perfectly healthy—”
“It’s alright,” he cuts her off.
She comes around to the other side of the bar and hugs him. “You don’t have much luck, do you, Trigger?”
5.
Unrest
It’s been a week since Rennin left the hospital and nothing has happened. Nothing interesting, as far as Rennin is concerned. Work has been dreary, with Caufmann spending more time in the restricted section than anywhere else.
He glances over to Wanker. He’s been reassigned to the clock tower, continuing to keep an eye on the place just as he was while Rennin was being rebuilt in Horizon Hospital. Rennin emits an exaggerated sigh. Wanker pays no heed, so Rennin takes another look at his watch.
“Nice bracelet,” says Wanker.
“You can’t buy style.”
“Can’t afford it, you mean.”
I wonder when I can get out of this hole and into bed with Carla. Just like he has spent every night this week.
The bone irregularities are spreading across his entire body, more by the day. First it was just his artificial limbs that were showing an odd sharpness and symmetry in the bone structure, but it’s been spreading outwards from there like some kind of weed.
The seam in his forehead has sealed over and disappeared. Most of his head is showing the odd distinctiveness now, as is his entire right arm, most of his right leg and his spine. He’s tried to contact Caufmann but hasn’t managed to reach him.
He taps his foot nervously and tries to relax, but he can’t.
William Caufmann is standing behind his desk. He’s in his office for the first time in days, gripping the bridge of his nose fiercely. Mepida Rethrin, Talati Hillon and a sickly Jellan Roths stand in a line opposite the doctor.
He takes a wheezing breath that sounds like air forced through a spinning fan. “It’s a good thing, don’t you see?” he says without a hint of pleading.
Roths responds instantly, “How could this possibly be construed as a good thing?” she almost yells.
Rethrin nods her head, “It’s loose in the streets, we all but have an outbreak on our hands.”
“I’m well aware of the situation, but the outbreak pattern is what’s interesting,” says Caufmann.
“It’s completely random, William,” says Hillon in a softer tone that stinks of defeat to Caufmann.
“The vaccinations failed, we know that. I know that. But they succeeded in an unexpected way.”
Roths scoffs, “Because a handful are immune?”
“Not so much immune or immunized, more than that. Cured.”
Rethrin looks sceptical, “Cured?”
“Try to use those million-dollar minds for just a moment, please. The people already infected with the B-DNA no longer show any symptoms of infection, but there’s a flipside.”
The three stand waiting.
Caufmann continues, “The people who weren’t infected at the time of Project Outreach are now twice as susceptible and will mutate exponentially faster.”
Roths lets out a bitter laugh, “And you still see an upside?”
Caufmann’s inhuman glare fixes on her. “The toxin resets the evolutionary progress to zero, awaiting instruction. It completely isolates the mutagen in the B-DNA and all secondary exposure turns up nothing. They’re immune. Whereas the others who are exposed to the virus after the inoculation also have their evolutionary clock reset, and once the mutagen latches onto the nervous system—that’s already awaiting instruction on how to grow—all hell breaks loose.”
Hillon sighs, “We’re finished.”
“Twenty percent of the population can be saved and we will save them. There are no hostiles out yet, but within a week that will all change. Martial Law will be put in place in a few days.”
“The city is too big, we’d need an army! Not mention the questions we’re getting since we restricted travel.”
“There will be a safe zone for the uncontaminated built in the Centre-city District, and the addresses of the immune will be made known to you.”
“How can you possibly know which ones are or aren’t infected?” asks Rethrin.
“By accessing the same nano-implants that Primus used to choose it’s CryoZaiyon candidates: Embryon Protocol.”
After a short silence Hillon speaks up, “Why not send out another shipment of the antigen? Stop the virus dead in its tracks.”
“There is none left to ship. Not nearly on the scale required. A few hundred vials, maybe.”
“And I suppose they are reserved,” Roths almost spits.
Rethrin speaks in more of an outburst of sound, “Then what do we do?”
Caufmann notices his glasses on the desk flashing, indicating someone is using electronic equipment just outside his office. He looks at Rethrin, “When the hostile contaminants emerge, we shoot them. The main priority will be to protect the fortified zone,” he says moving around his desk towards the door in vast strides.
It flies up and Caufmann is outside in an instant spotting Gainsford, just a glimpse of him shoving something in his pocket.
Spying.
Caufmann contains his anger behind an emotionless mask. “Yes?”
Gainsford takes a step back. “I-I need to speak with you.”
“Come back later.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry,” he says turning and walking off briskly.
Caufmann watches him walk away with burning eyes that glow all too brightly in contrast to his dark sockets. He opens a channel with the tower on his forearm gauntlet, “Ren?”
Almost instantly, Rennin’s voice answers, “Copy.”
“Gainsford will be exiting the lab any minute. Take him out.”
There is a moment of pause.
“Yes, sir.”
In the tower Rennin loads his sniper rifle thinking about his last altercation with Gainsford. He isn’t entirely sure what the man could have done to earn a death sentence. Surely Gainsford isn’t smart enough to be a traitor or extortionist.
Rennin’s face is pensive as he slides in the firing pin, oblivious to Wanker until he gets a slap on the shoulder.
“Hey, dickhead, you listening?”
“I have things to do,” answers Rennin.
“Are you actually going to shoot him?” Wanker says, his jowls shaking indignantly.
Rennin glances over at the overweight, aging, fattening, balding man-child sitting next to him. “Don’t get worked up, Slabs of Flab, your heart won’t take the stress as well as the weight of your ample bosom.”
Wanker frowns and almost looks threatening. “You’re making jokes when you’re about to shoot somebody?”