“I don’t give a shit about the bodies—but you’re not allowed to do that.” Bolam looked indignant.
As Tom Rom talked, he continued packing away the specimen containers. “It’s important work.”
“But what is it for? Why would you do this?” The man narrowed his eyes, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is there some profitable substance in the bodies?”
“My employer has reason to believe that there may be some medical potential in the royal jelly excreted by these Klikiss glands.” Tom Rom sealed his pack, then opened the kit to remove a needle-tipped thimble. “It could be a miracle cure, could be a drug. We’re going to do a thorough analysis. That’s why we needed the samples.”
He rummaged in his kit and found a vial filled with clear liquid. He removed the cap and dripped some of the fluid onto the end of the thimble, making sure the fluid was evenly distributed.
Bolam was incensed at being treated as irrelevant. “I can’t just let you walk in here and do this. I’ll need to file a report. If you suspect there’s some medical use to the Klikiss bodies, then we’ll set up a research team, investigate it thoroughly.”
Tom Rom shouldered his pack, adjusted the straps, and stepped up to the still-babbling Bolam. With a flick of his finger, he scratched the man on the neck.
Bolam recoiled. “What the hell?” He swatted at Tom Rom, who easily dodged the man’s flailing hands. “I’m going to have you held until we can bring in the authorities.”
Finishing his business, Tom Rom removed the thimble from his finger and slid it back into a pocket in his kit. He paid no attention to Bolam, who continued to grow more outraged by his attitude.
The camp administrator touched the scratch on his neck, and his face began to swell. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish’s. He choked, his eyes bulged. White boils appeared on his skin. He wheezed, but could not draw a breath. His hands swelled, and more boils appeared along his arms. He began to drool down the side of his chin, which Tom Rom found disgusting.
“My employer wants this matter kept confidential,” he explained, though it served no purpose. “If the royal jelly is successful, she intends to obtain a large stockpile without competitors knowing about it. If the glands prove to have no use, then it doesn’t matter.”
Bolam dropped to the floor, writhing. He took longer to die than Tom Rom expected, but the fatal allergic reaction could not be measured precisely. Removing a small antigrav handle from his pack, he strapped it to the body, then lifted the dead man like a lightweight package and carried him out through the Klikiss corridors.
He encountered none of the camp’s other archaeological teams as he carried Bolam out, found a thicket of the tortured Whistler cacti. Several species of Eljiid cacti were known to have alkaloid poison, to which some people were prone to extreme reactions. He dumped Bolam’s body next to the thicket, where the long spines left more scratches on his skin.
Finished with his work, Tom Rom made his way back to the camp. As he grew closer, he feigned a panicked expression. “I found Mr. Bolam by the Whistler thicket outside the ruins!” he cried. “I think he’s dead—looks like anaphylactic shock. It was horrible.”
Several researchers gaped at him from their tents and tables, before grabbing first-aid kits. Tom Rom called as they rushed off, “Maybe you can save him, I don’t know.”
He returned to the Klikiss transportal and stood before the tall stone window. Its flat opaque surface showed nothing until he activated the coordinate tile for the Rheindic Co nexus. The solid surface shimmered and formed a doorway, and he stepped through.
Another successful mission. Zoe Alakis would be pleased.
TWENTY-SIX
ZOE ALAKIS
On Pergamus, Zoe Alakis waited for Tom Rom to return with new findings. She looked forward to seeing him, hearing about his new discoveries, and studying the samples he brought for her. He never let her down.
Other people longed to visit strange worlds, but Zoe was terrified by the idea of exposing herself to all that. She was no coward, but she was no fool either. Every planet was full of insidious, invisible organisms ready to compromise biological systems. Compromise biological systems: a fancy scientific way of saying “Kill any human who allowed herself to be vulnerable.”
Tom Rom took enormous risks for her—he always had—and he knew how much Zoe appreciated his efforts, his sacrifices. Thanks to him, as well as her dedicated scientific teams and her spare-no-expense research facilities, Zoe possessed a vast library of cures and treatments, and an even larger library of diseases. It was her arsenal against the worst imaginable situation.
Her central dome on the planet’s surface contained everything she needed. It was home to her. It was safe, and she never intended to leave. The filtered air inside her dome was cool and smelled metallic from the disinfectants. She needed no scents to brighten her quarters. The wallscreen continued to sort news reports, interviews, articles, and research papers.
While she waited for Tom Rom, she had programs to administer and results to assess. Zoe ate a bland breakfast porridge of autoclaved grains and devoted her morning to reading the project summaries from her Pergamus teams.
Two of the surface domes were biological sweatshops where a hundred diligent but unimaginative data specialists crunched through genetic maps of countless microorganisms to be stored in her ever-growing database. The vast majority of those microorganisms would never be looked at, would never prove useful, but at least Zoe had them. Someday, she would allow the information to be shared among other researchers, but not now. They didn’t deserve it; no one deserved it. For the time being, that treasure vault was hers alone.
Most of the project reports showed continuing work, but little progress. Even with generous funding and the best equipment, breakthroughs were rare. But today’s report submitted by Dr. Hannig from Orbiting Research Sphere 12 was flagged as important, so Zoe contacted him via screen. She never met personally with any researcher. While her teams operated under the strictest sterilization and decontamination protocols, she still had qualms about their proximity to the dangerous diseases.
She didn’t need to refresh her memory about his work; she kept track of exactly which diseases each team was studying. In his weightless research sphere, Hannig and his four associates worked in a sterile facility lit by white lights. The lead researcher drifted into the screen’s frame. He was a round-faced man with bristly white hair and close-set eyes. He had gained weight, or at least curves, from his recent six months in zero-G.
“Ms. Alakis, we’ve made progress in curing Tamborr’s Dementia. Our models show that we can develop a phage through auto-cloning techniques. This stops the deterioration of the neural systems in the brain and might even begin to restore the biochemical channels.”
Zoe brightened. Every time one of her researchers found a cure, she felt as if she had acquired another weapon in her arsenal for the never-ending war. “I’m pleased to hear that, Dr. Hannig.”
The man kept smiling and nodding, as if he could feel her pat him on the back, even from orbit. “It’s an innovative approach, and we wouldn’t have thought about it without access to your previous work on Heidegger’s Syndrome. It gave us the key we needed.”
“Now you see why all the research is interconnected, why I need to have everything.”