She was right. In the time she’d been speaking, I’d accessed the Mines Commission and the minutes of the inquiry. The whole proceedings were now bedded down in my mind — the testimony of witnesses, reports on physical evidence, the conclusions of the panel’s experts.
Curious point #1: Rustico Nickel had met all safety requirements and then some. The "natural-gas-explosion" theory was accepted only because no one could offer a better explanation… and flat on the record, none of the experts liked it. Sallysweet River sat on shield-stone four billion years old; older than life on our planet, older than the biological processes that produce natural gas and other explosive fumes. So where did the natural gas come from?
Curious point #2: Dr. Henry Smallwood’s body was too cold. When he was found, he’d been dead ten minutes at most. Yet he was right icy, as if he’d been passing time in a refrigerator — colder than the tunnel itself.
Curious point #3: Lynn said the trapped miners had seen a light and followed it. She’d also called them dizzy and disoriented, maybe from breathing gas fumes. But when I checked the inquiry records, I saw she’d got that backward. The miners saw lights a-flicker in the darkness; when they moved toward the lights, then they suddenly felt dizzy and disoriented.
The kind of disorientation you got from riding a Sperm-tube?
Last point: according to the miners, the lights in the tunnel were green and gold and purple and blue.
The Peacock. There twenty-seven years ago. On the spot when my father died.
WOLFPACK
Next afternoon Lynn and I were released… after some wrangling with medical authorities, who were royally cranked to have Lynn show up as an uninvited guest. More tests. More olive oil. But none of us Homo saps showed a single occurrence of the Pteromic microbe.
Nor did Tic. Nor did Yunupur.
"Pteromic B doesn’t affect Ooloms," Yunupur reported. "It refuses to grow or even play passenger in Oolom tissue cultures. As far as anyone can tell, this bug only latches on to Freeps."
All of us, police, proctors, and assorted companions, had gathered in Bonaventure General’s VIP suite — a grotty little staff lounge that got commandeered whenever patients needed to hide from the press. That need was great upon us now: a full-fledged media gangbang was scrumming its way through the hospital, looking for broadcast prey.
Reporters didn’t know all the details — the police had bottled up word about killer androids, for example — but buckets of facts were already circulating. Like the return of the plague; health authorities had decided the public must be told, to make sure everyone started swigging olive oil. And, of course, our government was obliged to inform the Freep embassy that Kowkow Iranu’s body had turned up. Within minutes, each person on the embassy staff was dickering with news agencies, selling the story to the highest bidder.
(When I called home, Winston told me I’d been offered half a million for spilling everything I knew. Then we shared a restrained proctor-lawyer giggle, reciting together the Criminal Code sections governing Vigil members who breached the public trust for personal gain.)
Still and all, we could get past the reporters whenever we needed to — our platoon of ScrambleTacs could spearhead through the journalistic hordes. The question was what happened after that. Where did we go from here?
"I go onto the sidelines," Cheticamp said gloomily. "This business ranks light-years above my authority — it’s world federal now. I’ll be given a wank-off title like ‘Bonaventure Liaison’ while the feddies take over the meat of the investigation."
"Ditto me," Yunupur agreed. "The Global Health Agency is in charge now. I’m just a special thanks to in the autopsy report."
"It’s the same in the Vigil," Tic said. "Bonaventure is now hip-deep in senior proctors, scrutinizing everything from fire hydrants to tea leaves." He glanced at me. "Sorry to pass on bad news, Smallwood, but you’ve been reassigned: no more scrutinizing the police. For the next few weeks, you’re watching Traffic Roads. Snow removal. Filling up potholes. Unplugging storm sewers. And since I’m your mentor, I’ve been ordered to accompany you on these urgent investigations." He gave a weak grin. "For some inscrutable reason, the other proctors don’t want a Zenned-out loon valtking them."
Silence. Gloom.
"Come on," Lynn said at last. "Is it so bad that other people are involved? No one likes to get shoved aside, but it’s witless to go all territorial. These new folks are good, aren’t they? I should blessed well hope they’re the best Demoth has to offer."
She looked around the room, waiting for anyone to say otherwise. No one spoke. The people who would take over — who’d already taken over in the time we were quarantined — would definitely be the best. Our government agencies had buckets of flaws, but they could cut the political dog crap in a genuine emergency. And if they didn’t take this situation seriously, the Vigil would wheedle and whinge till they did: till they assigned top-notch personnel with appropriate authority and resources to address the issues properly.
"Yeah sure," Yunupur said at last. "This is a job for experts. After all, what do I know about exotic diseases? Zilch. And I tend to jump to wild conclusions."
"What wild conclusions?" Tic asked immediately. "What’s the first idea that popped into your mind?" A great fan of gut feelings, our Tic. "Ahh…" Yunupur sounded embarrassed. "I keep imagining this disease was manufactured artificially. You know — germ warfare."
Prickly silence. Then Festina cleared her throat. "Why do you say that?"
"Just… I can’t see how it could have evolved naturally. I mean, this six-month incubation period, when you’re contagious but nonsymptoniatic. Doesn’t that sound way too convenient? Like someone wanted to infect the entire population before doctors noticed anything. Then the disease breaks out and people die in eight to twelve weeks, no exceptions. That’s weird too. Natural microorganisms don’t get far if they always kill their hosts. That’s like setting fire to your own house — especially for a germ that only inhabits one species. Natural microbes do better if they don’t kill their hosts at all… or at least if they let the hosts linger, infecting others all the while.
"But the thing that’s really got me stumped," Yunupur continued, "is this switch from Ooloms to Freeps. It wouldn’t be so odd if Pteromic B infected both races — that’s business as usual for germs, expanding their range of targets. But why should it immediately stop affecting Ooloms? That’s counterproductive evolution-wise."
He frowned for a moment, then let his face ease to a laugh. "See? I’m not cut out for this disease research stuff. An epidemiologist would just say random mutation can have bizarre effects. Microbes don’t have deliberate purpose in mutating. Changes just happen. Accidents. Flukes. A miniscule shift in DNA can have a huge impact in actual behavior, but there’s no conscious plan."
I glanced at Tic. As I expected, he’d gone all pensive. Never tell him microbes didn’t have a conscious plan.
Getting out of the hospital came off as a fancy song-and-dance number from some cast-of-thousands show.
The cast = police, proctors, Festina, and Lynn, plus a mob of overacting extras who’d be listed in the credits as The Media Wolfpack (Print, Broadcast, VR, and Other).
The dance = a phalanx of ScrambleTacs surrounding the lead characters (including that blushing blond starlet, Faye Smallwood), all pushing forward through a battalion of journalists who jostled each other for room to thrust out their microphones, their cameras, their VR bobbins, their precious pretty faces, their hard, determined chins.