The bartender nodded, and then reached for a glass. It was artfully filled and pressed into his hand.
Alex traded him a twenty for it. “Four more. Line
’em up.” He downed the first one and tried to smile.
“Tough day?” The bartender was too young and too innocent to know anything about bad days.
“Last day.” The hint of sadness in Alex’s voice was unmistakable and it was enough to make the bartender leave him alone with his liquid friends.
Alex sipped at the second drink and spread the pamphlets out on the bar. Might as well know what he was up against. He flipped open the fat one, skimmed the opening details and gore, then cut straight to the dos and don’ts. He hoped that he’d find some secret remedy contained in those scant pages. Instead, he found bad news and more bad news.
Chief among the don’ts was drinking. “Fuck you!” he grumbled to the pamphlet, then slammed it shut and tossed back the third shot. The bartender stared at him for a moment, then turned away in silence.
There were few dos included. Not much advice and little or no hope. Apparently, nothing much helped, beyond doing none of the things you enjoyed up until you were left drooling in a wheelchair and then killed by something stupid, like a cold, when your immune system finally collapsed.
He thought about his wife, Brin, and his eyes welled with tears. He’d have to tell her, but he didn’t know how he’d do it. She was strong and brilliant and amazingly self-sufficient, but this would devastate her. And he didn’t want to think about what the news would do to their daughter, Savannah. She was Daddy’s girl, tried and true.
Alex smiled as he thought about her, her sweet face, her tiny hand in his. Then he frowned. She was a little over two. If the disease progressed quickly, she might not even remember him, or worse, she might only remember an incompetent in a wheelchair who could never help her or protect her.
Alex thought he would rather be dead in some hell hole than face his wife and daughter with this kind of news. Dead that way, he was making a difference. He was a warrior, and if he couldn’t fight this disease, he could damned well go out fighting.
And who knew, he thought, maybe he was strong enough to beat it for a while. The power of the mind, his body was still in great shape, maybe he could will himself to overcome the disease. He shook his head and took another swallow of the burning liquor.
If not, what good could he do himself, his family or the world, with this damned disease?
He swallowed as the answer came to him.
Denny Talbot heard the faint tone in his earpiece that indicated someone wanted to speak to him and he slipped on the wraparound-style sunglasses that allowed him to access the virtual world of Room 59. Using his avatar, he keyed in the codes that would transform the digital green lines of nothingness into what looked like a normal office in seconds. When it was done and his avatar was seated, he said, “Enter.”
Kate Cochran, the director of Room 59, came through his virtual door at a good clip, her platinum-blond hair bouncing around her neck as she moved. She had one of those damnable red folders in her hand, which meant this was important—life-altering important.
Denny leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest. Everything in the Room 59 virtual world could appear as real or unreal as the user desired.
He preferred reality to the strangeness of a dream, so his office mirrored reality to the smallest detail.
“A red folder,” he said without preamble. “What do you have for me this time?” A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Something big,” Kate said. “And very juicy.”
She tapped the folder and set it on his desk. “Rare-steak juicy.”
Denny started to reach for the file but she pulled it back just in the nick of time. “Okay, why don’t you fill me in, then?” He smiled, full on, and laced his fingers over his belly as he rocked slowly in the chair.
“Ever heard of a company called MRIS? Medical Robotic Imaging Systems, Inc.?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“They’re a high-tech medical-imaging firm, mostly working on the research-and-development side of diagnostic equipment. They’ve even developed a successful prototype of a nanobot camera—
nanobots are tiny robots that can be injected into a person’s body—eliminating the need for such things as endoscopic procedures and upper GIs. It still needs a lot more testing before they can go public with it, but it will happen soon enough.
They’re privately funded, very quiet and already making hundreds of millions of dollars a year,”
Kate said.
Denny nodded, wondering where this was heading.
“Last year, MRIS opened a facility in China, up in one of the northern provinces, specifically for the continued development of this nanobot imaging system.”
“Where’s the part where this concerns us?”
Denny asked. Kate could be blunt, but she could also drive a man to distraction with too much detail.
“Apparently, that isn’t all they’re up to. Yesterday, we got a communique from one of our assets in China. Site intel and surveillance shows that MRIS isn’t
Seems they’re also building some sort of related biological weapon. According to the Chinese, the biological end of it is complete. It’s just the weapon part—the delivery system—that needs work.”
Now his interest was piqued. He sat forward and leaned both elbows on the desk. “And they want us to eliminate the threat.”
“Bingo.” Finally, she tossed the file across the desk, watching it skid slowly into Denny’s hands.
She took a seat in a chair and crossed her long legs, watching his face as he accessed the information and read through the file and scanned the pictures.
When he was done, Denny slid the folder back and shook his head. What he’d read had made him sick, deep inside. The particular nerve gas MRIS
had created was very spooky. They’d found a way to use the nanobots to deliver a payload specifically designed to kill slowly in order to maximize suffering and increase the contamination rate. “They’re right,” he said. “We need to stop this. Now.”
“Pai Kun completely agrees,” Kate said. “It was one of his who that initially got the intel. But he wants us to take the lead on it, rather than using a local asset.”
“Why?” Denny asked.
“He thinks we’ll have a better shot at keeping things quiet and suspicion away from any of his local assets,” she said. “I think he’s right.”
Denny stared at the folder for a long moment, and then glanced up, another question in his eyes.
“Who do you want to send?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Alex Tempest. This is right up his alley. He’d be perfect for it.”
Denny shook his head. “He’s great at blending in, but even he might have trouble looking Chinese.”
A crease formed down the middle of Kate’s forehead and she frowned. “He pulled off that mission in Korea just last year,” she countered. “I think he can do it.”
“Maybe,” Denny admitted. “But he’s only been back from that mission in Mexico a few weeks or so. And things didn’t go very well down there. I was thinking of giving him some extended downtime.”
Kate nodded thoughtfully and studied her shoes for a moment. “There’s nobody better suited for it,”
she said. “And we can’t afford a failure here. Who else has his level of experience, let alone his training?”
“I can think of a few—”
“Who else will get the job done or die trying?
Come on! You know damned well that nobody else we’ve got right now is capable of taking this on with any kind of certainty of success. There’s only Alex.” Kate paused for a moment and studied his face with the trained eye of an interrogator.
“We mandate three weeks minimum between missions, Denny. He’s had that and is probably sitting on his hands waiting for something else to do by now. Maybe sending him back out is what he needs, more than extra time off.”
Denny thought for a moment. He knew Kate.
