PERSONAL RECORD: DESIGNATION ZETA4542910-9545E
PALLAS STATION
478.2.6.02
Max pivoted toward me, angled brows knotting over his tired eyes. “Via donations?”
Nate’s grip on my fingers grew uncomfortably tight, but I did not pull free. The verbal affirmative tangled in my throat. I could but nod.
Dr. Clarkson snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s why—” Kyleigh’s lips trembled, then she burst into tears. She tried to speak, but only Freddie, eyes, and ever were distinguishable.
Williams dropped her datapad onto her chair. Uttering soft shushing noises, she enfolded Kyleigh in her arms.
“Why what?” Dr. Clarkson’s irritating, disembodied voice demanded. “What donations? Tristram, I can’t understand you when you’re blubbering like that. Maxwell, calm her down—dose her with something if you have to. The girl is too excitable.” The woman’s groan grated over the speaker. “I don’t know what made the powers that be think sending veritable children on this assignment was a good idea.”
“Enough, Clarkson.” Max strode across the room to give Kyleigh a tissue. “She’s the sole nanotech specialist who was willing to go, and she’s the one who discovered the separate parts to the delivery system. The past few days have been hard on her.”
“Right, right. I forgot. Being kidnapped and quarantined and all,” Dr. Clarkson acknowledged. “Does she have symptoms yet?”
Yet? Anger beyond indignation arced through me like a drone’s reprimand.
Nate’s response was terse. “No.”
“Well, take samples—”
“Already done,” Williams said through clenched teeth. “But to answer your previous question, yes. Organ donations.”
“Which are willed by citizens,” Dr. Clarkson stated.
Williams glanced at the ceiling, where the inactive Consortium camera stared blankly into the room. “Not all.”
“You can’t mean there are Recorders? That’s almost civic-minded and self-sacrificial of them.”
Yanking my hand from Nate’s, I pushed off my pillows and faced the speaker. “You think we do not care? Because we are not to display bias, that we have no emotions? That we would wish for others to die unnecessarily?”
“You’re putting words in my mouth,” she argued.
Heedless, I continued, “Is it not enough that we are stripped of connections and our sole name is our shared title? Or do you think merely capitalizing it expresses worth? From infancy and our very first step into a Caretaker’s arms, we are raised to serve—to protect and preserve human life. Or perhaps you believe we are not human and cannot desire good for others?” A distant part of my brain registered Kyleigh’s stifled sobs and Nate’s low sweetheart. I did not care. “You know nothing. Nothing of our constraints, emotions, even dreams, all held back and suppressed to serve the people who—who—”
“Abandoned you,” Max said quietly.
Regret cascaded and drowned my outburst. A kaleidoscope of emotions I could not parse flashed through me, narrowing into the single, aching need for absolution. I had not meant to implicate Max, of all people, in rejecting Recorders. Not when he had no contract over twenty-six years ago, no power to prevent his children’s mother from gifting them.
“Max,” I began, “I—”
“Whatever else is going on, it’s quite clear why you were up for review by the Consortium,” Dr. Clarkson said flatly. “Founders’ oath, what a mess.”
Williams released Kyleigh and glowered at the speaker, as if Dr. Clarkson could be aware of—or would even care about—the intensity of her reaction. “Some of those Recorders are in the Hall of Reclamation against their will.”
“What would you know, Williams? You’re only Consortium staff.” A staticky chuff filled the room. “None of which matters, because putting someone in a tank against their will implies they’re still alive. You can’t possibly mean they are parceled out like goodies at a kid’s birthday party, because that would be a death sentence, and execution is illegal. We’re beyond such primitive behavior.”
Williams lifted her chin. “As Consortium medical staff, I spent the final quarter of my internship in the retrieval rooms, assisting with donations. So, yes, I know.”
“Your lack of knowledge does not negate the problem, Dr. Clarkson,” I said before the woman blurted another ignorant response.
Max’s jaw was tight. “No one will want to believe the truth about the Hall of Reclamation. I didn’t. But facts are facts.”
“It’s unlike you, Maxwell, to blindly accept such a wild idea,” Dr. Clarkson said. “But on the off chance you’re right about donations from Recorders, and if Kyleigh is right about the bioweapon altering Consortium tech, we might have a bigger problem than we thought.”
I held my breath for the count of three before asking, “Williams, can we verify the presence of nanotechnology in citizens’ bloodstreams? In Freddie’s?”
She tilted her head. “With the proper equipment, yes, providing we can compare older samples with—”
“Just get new ones,” Dr. Clarkson ordered. “He can spare a vial.”
“With any changes.” Williams scowled but gave Kyleigh one last pat on the shoulder before picking up her datapad and scrolling through data. “No, no evaluation of nanotech in the previous reports.”
“Clarkson,” Max said, “start reviewing files for organ transplants or blood transfusions in Thalassa’s crew and the marines. Last we knew, the citizen death rate was around sixty percent. I find it hard to believe such a high percentage of the population has Consortium nanites in their blood, but the hypothesis is better than none at all.”
For once, the woman did not argue back. “I can check. We haven’t found much else, to be honest, and if—if—you’re right, at least we can separate the ones at risk. I’ll talk to Archimedes about restricting trips from Pallas to here until we figure this out.”
“How will you get samples if you limit trips?” Williams asked.
Dr. Clarkson did not acknowledge the question. “Stopping the spread is a priority. Fortunately, as far as we know, the exposure was limited to four ships and Lunar One, though where those terrorists who started all this went before coming here is beyond me. People must be panicking by now, though with long-range comms down, we have no information from New Triton.”
A sharp click was her farewell, and I slumped in relief when the link fell silent. Kyleigh blew her nose before resuming her work at the computer. Max stood, arms crossed, and stared at the wall behind me. Eyes on her datapad, Williams lowered herself onto her chair, and her fingers flew through its small cyan and amber datastreams. For twenty-three seconds, no one spoke.
“Kyleigh.” Max waited until she swiveled around on the stool. “We’ll need you to take another look at Freddie’s final samples, the ones we were saving to send to the virologists. And yours and hers.” He nodded in my direction. “Williams, message Edwards. You are both Consortium, and I have to assume you have their tech in your blood.”
“Imogene Clarkson won’t warn him,” Nate said. “She’ll wait until she can prove it and take credit.”
“I’m warning him now.” Williams finished her message and set the datapad back on the chair. “I have never had anything more than vaccines, but Edwards had an emergency appendectomy on Manitoba.”
Max’s nostrils flared. “They should’ve used a tank rather than resorting to surgery for something that simple.”
Williams held up her hands. “It was not about Edwards being staff. We had injuries after a run-in with pirates, and the medtanks were full. The doctor was positively gleeful to be able to ‘practice something so primitive.’ He said it kept his skills up.”
Max rubbed the back of his neck, though the action could not have been beneficial while he wore a suit and helmet. “That might not have required any transfusions.”
“It is unlikely that such a high percentage of the citizenry has undergone surgery,” I said. We were missing something.
“But the nanotechnology angle seems likely,” Nate said.
“It’s the best explanation.” Kyleigh heaved a sigh. “But Williams, don’t worry about Edwards. He always follows procedures.”
“I know, but . . . I am concerned.”
Tanks. Procedures.
“Moons and stars,” I blurted. In an instant, all attention fixed on me. “Your search might not be broad enough. I was in the medical tank on Thalassa and in the emergency transportation tank on the shuttle. It was before any contamination by the bioweapon, but Consortium devices could have mingled with the tank’s medgel.”
“But the tank filtration system should have cleaned it—” Williams interrupted herself with a groan. “But only of biological waste, bacteria, and viruses, not Consortium technology.”
Kyleigh gasped.
“So we need to expand the search to anyone who has been in a tank.” Williams glanced at me and Nate. “It might need to be even wider.”
The small circles Nate rubbed on my back slowed, then stopped, and he lowered himself beside me. “How so?”
Her gaze bored into his, then shifted to mine. “Elliott.”
Nate’s expression darkened.
“But he apologized, for what it’s worth,” Kyleigh said, her voice small and thin. “And he helped us get away.”
“Which is not the issue.” Williams focused on Nate. “Transfer via saliva, Timmons. I know you’ve never been in a tank or had a transfusion, but . . .”
As surely as if someone had hit my solar plexus, I could not breathe. Elliott had contaminated me, and that meant when I had kissed Nate, I had placed him at risk.
I twisted toward him. He cupped my face in both gloved hands, and his speaker amplified the whisper: “I don’t regret a single second. It’ll be okay.”
But if it hurt him, I would regret it for the remainder of my life, until I served to nothing in a Consortium tank.
“Oh, stars above.” Kyleigh’s voice cracked, and another frisson of fear ran through me. “That means me, too, doesn’t it? I helped carry the Elder and Freddie through the tunnels after that hateful, evil man injected them. And I kissed Freddie goodbye.” Dashing at her tears with her sleeve, she reached for a tissue, blew her nose loudly, and dropped the tissue into the biohazard waste bin. When she reached for the sanitizer, she paused. “If it’s in the tech, I don’t suppose killing germs will do any good.”
“Use it anyway, Kye,” Williams said gently.
“Well, I’m not sorry. Freddie was—” Kyleigh’s right hand drifted up to the green-and-white mourning band around her left arm, then she raised her chin. “No. Freddie still is worth every single kiss and every single second I spent with him. I knew I was risking things when he was dying. So how is this any different?”
“Perhaps it isn’t,” Williams said, though when she turned away, I caught the pinched expression on her face. “Kyleigh, you isolated the original nanites, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did, though Julian Ross destroyed the files when he erased Thalassa’s documentation and the security footage. I backed it up, though it was all on my flowered datapad, which was overwritten to make a jammer. So that information’s gone.”
Nate, who had been silent, spoke. “But we have two Recorders down here. Neither James nor Daniel has been exposed, that we know of. Check their nanites against hers.”
Max nodded. He studied the readout behind my hoverbed, then turned wordlessly and searched through the container of medical supplies.
“Kye,” Williams asked, “what will you need to check for nanites?”
Kyleigh waved a hand at the small centrifuge and microscope on the counter opposite her computer. “More powerful stuff than this. I need the portable equipment from Georgette SahnVeer’s lab.”
“You probably shouldn’t go traipsing about the station, given roaches and insurgents, but there might be enough room in here if we can gather what you need.” Nate squinted at Williams’s desk. “Given the power fluctuations, a backup generator is a good idea, too.” He stood abruptly. “Looks like we need an expedition.”
I swung my legs over the side of my bed.
Nate caught my arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Is it not obvious? The materials Kyleigh requires will be located in secured sections of the station, and someone must gather them for her.”
His face softened, and he tucked a curl behind my ear. “And that someone won’t be you.”
“I have a suit now, Nathaniel. My presence will not put others at risk.”
“Not the point. You need to rest.”
“Very well,” I said stiffly. “I shall not traipse about. But you cannot expect me to lie here and do nothing.”
“Oh, can’t I?” But he said it softly, as if the words meant something else altogether.
I turned away to look for my datapads—my own navy-blue one and the green one that had belonged to the station Recorder. They were gone, though two datasticks rested in an otherwise empty glass beside a container of tissues. Freddie had given me one to create an identity for James, but . . . where had I found the other?
“If you’re looking for your commlink and those two datapads, they’re charging by Williams’s station.” Max brought me more water and two small, white pills in a disposable cup. “It seems I rely too heavily on nanotechnology. This is the sole oral analgesic we brought down. Take these. I’ll send for more, next shuttle trip.”
No sudden scent of lavender and pine calmed me when I swallowed them, though I knew the nanodevices’ absence did not indicate inefficacy.
Williams, who had been gathering necessary supplies to draw more blood, added, “We do have stronger IV drugs, in case we must put you under. Maybe the doctor who so gleefully removed Edwards’s appendix had a point about primitive medicine?”
“All right.” Kyleigh placed her hands on her thighs and stood. “I’ll go.”
Max shook his head. “No. You don’t have symptoms, but we need to keep an eye on you.”
“But if they need access to the computers and the sealed rooms—”
“James and Daniel were Recorders. They will figure it out,” Williams said. “And if James is anything like his father, that is good enough for me.”
Max’s response was buried in an avalanche of sound as the station’s alarm blared. Immediately after the initial screech, both his and Nate’s communications links chimed.
“Tim. Max.” Jordan’s alto spilled over their links, giving the impression she spoke from two places at once. “One of Jackson’s teams had another run-in with the bugs near the hangar. Dropped out of a crack in the ceiling on top of them.”
The doctor growled something under his breath, then turned to his assistant. “Williams.”
“The blood samples can wait until we are back,” she said. “And do not worry, Kyleigh. Someone will track down the equipment you need.”
The two moved in unison to the vestibule, and the door closed behind them before Jordan spoke again.
“Tim, there’s been a change in plans. Johansen will be back in about thirty minutes, but your run tomorrow is on hold.”
“By whose orders?”
“I don’t know.”
Nate raised an eyebrow. “Can’t see Archimedes falling for Clarkson’s line, but staying here for a while is fine with me.”
Jordan made an indeterminate noise that might have indicated agreement. “What equipment was Williams talking about? If we hold off on shuttle runs, we’ll have to make do with whatever we have here.”
“I need some gear from Dr. SahnVeer’s laboratory. Sending you a list.” Kyleigh’s old-fashioned keyboard clicked. “You’ll need an alternate route, though, because one of the marines said they ran into company when they were last in that section.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Jordan said. “In the meantime, Tim, Jackson needs as many boots in the tunnels as he can get.”
Nate exhaled. “Guess that means me.”
“You guessed right.” She paused, and her voice lowered. “How is she, Tim?”
“She’s awake.”
Jordan repeated his statement, and several cheers sounded over the communications link. “Stars, Tim, but that’s the best news of the day.”
A tiny flush of warmth lit in me at their concern. “Thank you, Jordan.”
Nate’s gaze held mine. “And she’s staying here.”
“I have a suit, Nathaniel, and my assistance—”
“Isn’t necessary,” Zhen DuBois’s voice snapped over Nate’s link. “Traipsing through roach-infested halls the day you emerge from a sickbed is a stupid idea.”
“You cannot know the halls would be overrun with insects.”
“Oh, can’t I?”
“Simmer down, Zhen.” I could easily envision Jordan holding up one hand. “Kyleigh, this is quite a list, but we’ll track down your supplies.”
“If we have a current map with the intrusions, fissures, and collapsed hallways marked,” I offered, “I will find a safe route.”
“Nope.” Nate crossed his arms. “You’ll rest. Let Zhen earn her keep and puzzle it out.”
“But, Nate—”
“Let her find a way, and let us handle any locked doors. If you overdo it . . .” His eyes met mine. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t do that to me again.”
Although I had not intended to be ill and he could not expect me to remain behind and do nothing, my protest vanished when the light over the vestibule changed to green. Max and Williams were through, and the small area awaited its next occupant.
“Please,” Nate repeated. When I nodded, a vestige of a smile touched his lips. “I’ll see you later.”
I clutched his hand so tightly my fingers ached. The possibilities that rose in my mind validated the Consortium’s disapproval of imagination, for potential disasters—the bioweapon, the roaches, the people who hated Recorders and wanted all of us to die—outweighed any potential good. I did not want Nathaniel to leave me and venture into such chaos.
His gloved fingers slipped from mine.
The vestibule door closed behind him. For fifteen minutes, Kyleigh and I watched the red indicator light as his suit was scrubbed clean of contagion. The light shifted to green. Nate was gone.
Kyleigh rose and gathered both the blue and green datapads, which she set carefully beside the glass with the datasticks.
“Rest,” was all she said before returning to her computer, effectively leaving me alone, a prisoner of my own blood and a bioweapon that had already claimed lives.