the Garden, making the Children of Eden acceptable in the hard eyes of the Lord.
Today the Master looked drawn, older than his sixty-five years, and Joshua Casey frowned his concern. He knew that his father, like himself, observed the strict dietary guidelines of their faith. Both men were vegetarians, and they augmented the benefits of their diet with daily hydrotherapy as outlined in the Handbook for Health written by his father nearly forty years before. Neither had missed a day of the Lord’s work in his lifetime.
“Hello, Father,” Joshua said, extending his hand to the elder Casey. “What brings you back to Costa Brava?”
“The Lord’s work, of course,” he said. “And yours.” His voice was gravelly, strained. “I decrypted your report on the Bartlett matter. It worries me.”
“It’s unlike you to worry, Father,” Joshua said. “Please, have a seat.”
Joshua patted the headrest of one of two leather recliners and, once his father was seated, he relaxed in the other. A silver serving table between them held a small loaf of bread, a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. Joshua poured each of them a glass and broke each of them a piece of bread, as was their custom. Calvin nibbled the bread, sipped the water, then set the glass down with a barely audible “Amen.”
Each took out a handkerchief and brushed the other’s shoe—a ritual foot-washing.
“Bartlett’s work helped us make great strides in controlling the Papist menace,” Calvin said. “I wanted to be sure that he hadn’t fallen prey to a Swiss Guard.”
“I appreciate that, Father.” Joshua Casey shifted under the Master’s demanding gaze. “He did not fall to the Catholics. He fell prey to something more mundane—an artificial viral agent, presumably of his own design. It must have been a private project, there is no mention of it in his log.”
“Then I presume the intruder story was provided by the Agency.”
“Correct.”
“Whatever possessed the man to experiment on himself?”
Joshua Casey sipped his ice water, decided against lying.
“He didn’t. It was an accident.”
“Accident!” The older man rose out of his chair. “Well, then, what if the whole compound’s infected?”
“Relax, Father. Sit, sit.”
Calvin Casey sat, but he didn’t relax.
“It was a simple influenza vector, designed to operate out of the DNA of the mitochondria rather than the cells themselves. . . . ”
“In plain English, please,” Calvin said. “I’m a preacher, not a virologist.”
Joshua Casey ran a hand through what was left of his hair.
“Several things are set up to happen, based on different signals,” he said. “In this case, the body’s immune system was ordered to attack itself. The entire body became a raging, irreversible infection.”
“You mean, he rotted alive?”
Joshua Casey couldn’t meet his father’s gaze.
“In a manner of speaking. The body digested itself and rejected itself at the same time.”
His father’s face showed the expression of utter disgust that he usually reserved for Rome.
“And how did he get it?” Calvin asked.
“Mosquitoes,” Joshua said. “We thought it was impossible, at first. An enzyme in the mosquito’s stomach must have reorganized the virus instead of destroying it. It shows the delicate balance we operate under here.”
Joshua Casey did not offer his father details of the ghoul that Red Bartlett had become in his final hour. Whatever raged inside him had demonstrated a tremendous drive to replicate. Joshua’s preliminary investigation pointed to an unauthorized study at Level Five, but Dajaj Mishwe was the principal investigator, not Red Bartlett.
This one might lead us to the right one, Casey thought. Mishwe can add it to his candidates for the final scouring of the gene pool.
Joshua Casey did better than prepare for Armageddon—he scripted the plan. Dajaj Mishwe carried it out.
“Any other casualties?” his father asked.
“Everything was
Today the Master looked drawn, older than his sixty-five years, and Joshua Casey frowned his concern. He knew that his father, like himself, observed the strict dietary guidelines of their faith. Both men were vegetarians, and they augmented the benefits of their diet with daily hydrotherapy as outlined in the Handbook for Health written by his father nearly forty years before. Neither had missed a day of the Lord’s work in his lifetime.
“Hello, Father,” Joshua said, extending his hand to the elder Casey. “What brings you back to Costa Brava?”
“The Lord’s work, of course,” he said. “And yours.” His voice was gravelly, strained. “I decrypted your report on the Bartlett matter. It worries me.”
“It’s unlike you to worry, Father,” Joshua said. “Please, have a seat.”
Joshua patted the headrest of one of two leather recliners and, once his father was seated, he relaxed in the other. A silver serving table between them held a small loaf of bread, a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. Joshua poured each of them a glass and broke each of them a piece of bread, as was their custom. Calvin nibbled the bread, sipped the water, then set the glass down with a barely audible “Amen.”
Each took out a handkerchief and brushed the other’s shoe—a ritual foot-washing.
“Bartlett’s work helped us make great strides in controlling the Papist menace,” Calvin said. “I wanted to be sure that he hadn’t fallen prey to a Swiss Guard.”
“I appreciate that, Father.” Joshua Casey shifted under the Master’s demanding gaze. “He did not fall to the Catholics. He fell prey to something more mundane—an artificial viral agent, presumably of his own design. It must have been a private project, there is no mention of it in his log.”
“Then I presume the intruder story was provided by the Agency.”
“Correct.”
“Whatever possessed the man to experiment on himself?”
Joshua Casey sipped his ice water, decided against lying.
“He didn’t. It was an accident.”
“Accident!” The older man rose out of his chair. “Well, then, what if the whole compound’s infected?”
“Relax, Father. Sit, sit.”
Calvin Casey sat, but he didn’t relax.
“It was a simple influenza vector, designed to operate out of the DNA of the mitochondria rather than the cells themselves. . . . ”
“In plain English, please,” Calvin said. “I’m a preacher, not a virologist.”
Joshua Casey ran a hand through what was left of his hair.
“Several things are set up to happen, based on different signals,” he said. “In this case, the body’s immune system was ordered to attack itself. The entire body became a raging, irreversible infection.”
“You mean, he rotted alive?”
Joshua Casey couldn’t meet his father’s gaze.
“In a manner of speaking. The body digested itself and rejected itself at the same time.”
His father’s face showed the expression of utter disgust that he usually reserved for Rome.
“And how did he get it?” Calvin asked.
“Mosquitoes,” Joshua said. “We thought it was impossible, at first. An enzyme in the mosquito’s stomach must have reorganized the virus instead of destroying it. It shows the delicate balance we operate under here.”
Joshua Casey did not offer his father details of the ghoul that Red Bartlett had become in his final hour. Whatever raged inside him had demonstrated a tremendous drive to replicate. Joshua’s preliminary investigation pointed to an unauthorized study at Level Five, but Dajaj Mishwe was the principal investigator, not Red Bartlett.
This one might lead us to the right one, Casey thought. Mishwe can add it to his candidates for the final scouring of the gene pool.
Joshua Casey did better than prepare for Armageddon—he scripted the plan. Dajaj Mishwe carried it out.
“Any other casualties?” his father asked.
“Everything was
Similar Books
