of black veins.
A cold feeling sank in the pit of my stomach. The sound of the heart monitor sounded faraway as it began to blip faster.
“Calm down,” Pellwynne said.
I flexed the fingers again. The muscles worked under the skin, but the hand wasn’t mine. The arm wasn’t mine. My tattoo from the service was gone. The scars, the calluses, even the body hair …they were gone. In their place was the smooth, gray limb of a dead man.
“Calm down,” she said again. She reached out and took the gray hand in hers, then placed her other over the back of it.
“Feel that,” she said. Her hands felt hot, like warm wax.
“They’re warm,” I said, but it wasn’t true. The fingers she had touched my forehead with were cold.
“You’ll get used to the temperature difference.”
“Who authorized this?” I asked. It was all I could think to say.
“It was at the Agency’s discretion,” she said.
“Who, specifically, authorized it?”
“I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry.”
She gave my hand one last squeeze and then let go of it.
“You will get used to it, Agent. I promise.”
I checked my JZI, and it had detected the new system. Information regarding the nerve interface and the paper-thin filter that separated the living tissue from the dead popped up and scrolled by. System vitals appeared and provided feedback on the arm’s condition, right down to the nanoblood version.
“Where is …” I started to ask.
“By the time anyone got there, it was gone,” she said. The revivors had taken it.
“You’ll have full use of the new arm in two weeks, and it will be stronger than the original,” she said. “Until then, you’re running at near ninety percent. You can go back in the field, but be careful.”
I nodded. I’d seen replacements fitted in the field before. I’d told myself it was the next best thing. The reality of what had happened hadn’t hit home yet. It buzzed at the edge of my mind, like a fly at a window that couldn’t get in. I felt weirdly distant and calm.
“How long was I out?”
“You’ve been in surgery for four hours.”
Four hours. Fawkes had issued the code four hours ago, and we were still at a standstill. I had to get out of there.
Van Offo was offline. I tapped into the hospital records and checked the inpatient list; he’d been brought in to have the bullet removed from his neck, and was discharged two hours ago.
The man arrested at the site, Rafe Pena, hadn’t fared as well; he was still checked in. He’d suffered broken bones, internal injuries, and multiple bite wounds. He was listed as being in serious but stable condition.
I found the FBI records for the lockdown at Mother of Mercy and brought them up. According to them, Van Offo and one SWAT team member were taken out, along with me, by the EMTs. The SWAT officer died in transit. There were no other survivors from the basement.
“Where’s Pena?” I asked. Pellwynne frowned.
“He’s not ready for transport yet,” she said. “His injuries were fairly traumatic. Don’t worry about him right now.”
I watched one black vein bulge in that gray arm. I tried, but I couldn’t look away from it.
“You know, it may not seem that way now,” Pellwynne said, “but you’re very lucky, Agent Wachalowski.”
I cycled through the footage. Bodies lay in a foot of water that had turned red with blood. The cages had been torn open and the captives inside ripped apart. There was blood spatter painted across the walls, punctuated by bullet marks. It had been a slaughter.
“I found you a good match,” she said. “The nerve interface …it’s some of my best work. I know that doesn’t make this any easier to swallow. There was enough residual tissue to use with the growth accelerators. The join is solid. The blood is the latest version. It’s field upgradable, so you won’t have to report to Heinlein for transfusions. You shouldn’t experience any of the tingling or phantom muscle ticking usually associated with the older variants, and you’ll have full—”
“When can I leave?”
“As soon as you want. I’ll be honest, Agent—we could use the room.”
I sat up and put a call into the Bureau to let them know I was back on my feet. Fawkes could have played this card at any time—he didn’t choose today at random. I had to find out what the reason was.
“You can sign for your weapon when you check out,” she said. “I’ve left my contact information on your JZI, should you have any questions or need anything.”
“Thanks,” I said, but I barely heard her. She lingered for another minute; then I was vaguely aware of her leaving the room. The fly continued to bounce at the window as I stared at the black vein, following it as it branched out beneath the stranger’s cold, dead skin. Though terror was brewing somewhere inside me, I couldn’t look away.
4
FIRST STRIKE
Nico Wachalowski—VA Hospital
I left the hospital room in a daze. The circuit request still flashed in the corner of my eye. MacReady hadn’t picked up. Maybe he wasn’t going to.
Because of the trouble in the streets, the halls were crowded. Patients sat, holding bloodied gauze in place, outside doors while doctors rushed by. People were shouting, but I barely heard it. I felt like I was moving through the chaos in a bubble. Numb. Blood dotted the floor in a wandering line, and I followed it, heading toward the elevators.
I eased relaxant into my system, but even with the drugs I couldn’t shake the jitters. One of those things had cut off my arm. While I’d lain there, bleeding to death, they’d carried it away and eaten it. The last man I’d seen with any link to what was happening out there was somewhere in the building right now.
Halfway down the hall, I stopped, and an angry looking nurse brushed past me. I accessed the hospital’s records again.
He was on that same floor, being held for questioning. The next time someone in scrubs moved past, I grabbed his arm. He looked irritated, but winced a little when I applied pressure.
“Room 9E-C,” I said.
“Back down the hall and to your right,” he said, pulling his arm free. Before I could say anything else, he was gone. I turned away from the blood trail and began moving back the way I’d come.
The room had three gurneys, but only one was occupied. The empty ones were still dressed in bloodied sheets, and on the third lay a whip-thin man. His pockmarked face was slack, and there was gauze covering the right side of it. I watched my hand push the door closed and then lock it.
“Wake up, Mr. Pena,” I said. He didn’t respond right away, and I kicked the gurney. One of his eyes cracked open, and when he saw me, the other one followed suit.
He sat up as I approached him, and when I breathed in, my nose filled with the stink from my clothes: rank blood and sweat, combined with the fouled basement water. I unbuttoned my jacket, the thick, gray fingers tripping me up for a second, then removed it and tossed it onto one of the empty gurneys. Sprouting from the rolled-up
