The Ares Decision

65

Sarie van Keuren followed along obediently. There was no other option.

She’d spent the last eleven hours locked in a dormitory-style room, unable to sleep. De Vries, the Iranians, Smith, and the parasite were enough to keep her awake for the rest of her life.

Mehrak Omidi opened a heavy steel door that looked like every other door they’d passed and motioned her inside. When she started to back away, he shoved her through.

It turned out to be nothing more than a simple conference room. There weren’t enough chairs around the large table and some of the people were standing against the walls, expressions ranging from stony resolve to barely controlled panic.

Sarie barely saw them, though, instead focusing on a Plexiglas wall that displayed a white cube of a room and its lone occupant: Thomas De Vries.

He rushed at the glass when he saw her enter, slamming into it, mouth twisted in a silent scream. Blood washed across his face as he tried to get through, adding fresh streaks to the dried ones already there.

She looked away, telling herself that the thing in that room wasn’t the person she’d known in Uganda. De Vries was gone — destroyed by Mehrak Omidi and the indifferent cruelty of nature.

“I’d like to introduce your team,” Omidi said, closing the door behind him with a metal clang that carried a strange finality.

“My team?”

“The men who are going to help you alter the parasite. Make it more controllable.”

She had a hard time tracking on the names as he went around the room introducing biologists, chemists, and lab techs. Instead she looked each one in the eye, trying to find something meaningful. Why had they been chosen and not someone else? Were they the best minds Iran had to offer or were they just believers?

When the introductions were complete, Omidi pointed to a stack of folders centered on the table. “They’ve all read my report on what I’ve observed about the parasite, and everyone is aware of your background and reputation.”

“My background and reputation?” she said, though it almost sounded as if someone else were speaking. “What are you talking about? What are you people doing here?” She pointed at De Vries, who had exhausted himself and was now on his knees in front of the glass. “Do you see him? They want you to turn this into a weapon. To use it against other human beings.”

“Your moral outrage is commendable,” Omidi said. “But weren’t you part of a team that included a microbiologist from America’s bioweapons research program and a former employee of the British Secret Service?”

“The U.S. doesn’t have a bioweapons program,” she responded.

“You’re being a bit naïve now, aren’t you, Doctor? The Americans spend more on their military than the rest of the world combined. They are the only country to have ever used a nuclear device during war — against primarily civilian targets.” He looked at the people in the room as he spoke and it became obvious his words were meant more for them than for her. “They invade and bomb any non-Christian country at the slightest provocation — sometimes at no provocation at all. Do you really believe that they’ve drawn some sort of line that prevents them from doing this kind of research?”

“Even if that’s true, why would you want to do the same?”

“What we develop here will never be used, Doctor. It will be held up as a deterrent — a safeguard against America trying to take away our freedom again.”

“What makes you think you can control it? That no one else will ever get hold of it? That it won’t get out of this facility by accident? We have to destroy it. We have to let it disappear.”

“It can never disappear again. You know that.”

“It doesn’t have to—”

“Enough!” Omidi said, clearly finished using her as a foil for his lecture. He pressed a button on the room’s intercom and said something that Sarie couldn’t understand. Everyone else did, though, and the sound of rustling fabric filled the room as everyone shifted uncomfortably and shot nervous glances at one another.

A moment later, a door at the back of the room holding De Vries slid open, revealing a tiny elevator and its lone occupant. He was tall and dark skinned, with a thick build and matching beard. There was no fear in him at all, only defiance.

De Vries heard the door and turned, leaping to his feet and charging the man, who, unable to retreat, stepped forward and raised his fists.

He had the look of someone who had seen, and probably perpetrated, a great deal of violence in his life. It was understandable that he didn’t see the pudgy, bleeding old man as much of a threat.

The shock was clearly visible in his eyes when he was lifted into the air and slammed into the wall behind him. De Vries clawed at his face, going for his eyes as the man threw a forearm up and used the leverage of the wall to push his attacker back.

The gap opened between them was wide enough for the man to lift a booted foot and deliver a kick that caused De Vries to slide back on the slick floor. He stayed on his feet, though, and ran at the man again, this time bringing him down.

The battle became impossible to follow after that — De Vries’s arms blurring as he broke down the man’s pathetic attempts to defend himself. They stayed locked together like that for what seemed like an eternity before the elevator door slid open again, revealing an armed man in a hazmat suit.

De Vries abandoned his barely conscious victim and charged to within a few meters before a muzzle flash glinted off the glass. He went down hard, thrashing wildly but unable to get back to his feet.

A uniform gasp rose when the gun sounded again, sending a round into the center of the old man’s chest. It was impossible to know if it was the act of shooting the helpless man that affected them or the fact that De Vries didn’t stop trying to get up until the gun was empty.

Smoke swirled around the room as De Vries’s body was dragged into the elevator and the man on the floor crawled toward the glass. His right cheek was split from the edge of his mouth almost to his ear, and bare cartilage was visible on the bridge of his nose. Both eyes were still intact, but one no longer tracked straight as he silently pleaded with the people watching from the safety of the conference room.

Sarie swallowed hard, fighting the urge to throw up as Omidi looked on.

“We got him from a rural prison where he was awaiting execution for rape and murder. To pity him would be a waste of time you would be well-advised to use more productively.”

She’d been in danger all her life — in the backcountry, on her father’s farm, in her home outside of Cape Town. But it was danger she had grown up with, that had become part of her.

This was different. There was no sky above her, no beat-up rifle in her hand — nothing familiar at all. It wouldn’t be malaria or a snake or even a gang of violent men. No, she’d lose who she was a thousand feet underground, finally bleeding to death while Omidi’s people jotted notes.

She took slow, even breaths like the psychologist had taught her as a child and felt a little of her calm returning. She wouldn’t let Omidi use fear and empty promises to break down her resistance. There would be no reward for helping him — no safety, no flight home, no rescue. Her life was coming to an end. The question was, what was she going to do with the time she had left?

Sarie let the fear and uncertainty remain etched deep into her face, though she felt only anger and hate. It would be those emotions that would get her through this. Anger and hate.

“All diseases spread quickly in Africa,” she said, beginning the speech she’d worked out during the hours she’d spent locked away. “AIDS is a perfect example of that. But it’s different in the West. They have sophisticated medical response systems, reliable media, and an educated population.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the man in the glass cage staring at her, and it caused her to lose her train of thought.

“Go on,” Omidi prompted.

“The initial symptom of the infection is obvious disorientation. Warnings will be all over the news about this, and since nearly everyone in America has a house, a gun, and a phone, they’ll have a lot of options. They could barricade themselves somewhere, shoot the infected person, call the police or an ambulance…”

Of course, she was talking nonsense. The disorientation phase wasn’t serious or lengthy enough to ensure that it would be noticed. Even a married person with a family might become sick while their spouse went to work and go fully symptomatic while alone. Or, even more likely, the disorientation phase could occur at night when the victim was asleep. Hospitals, unable to provide a cure and handle thousands of violent patients, would shut down. Family members would try to protect loved ones from authorities, who would have no choice but to euthanize victims in an effort to contain the pandemic. And to the degree that people in America had guns, did it really help? Many would find it impossible to shoot family and friends, while others would panic and shoot everything that moved.

Omidi nodded thoughtfully. His own arrogance and misogyny would work against him. Despite not having a background in biology or disease control, he would never believe that anyone could outsmart him — particularly a woman.

“I agree,” he said finally. “Along with making the parasite easily transportable, we’ll have to make the onset faster and more violent. We can’t leave time for people to react.”