The scientist fought to control her breathing.
Her partner’s voice inside her helmet was crisp, urgent. “Alpha Lander One, I’m reading abnormal vitals. Are you in danger?”
The scientist tapped hastily on her palm control, disabling the suit’s sensors and video feed. “Negative, Lander Two.” She paused. “Possible suit malfunction. Proceeding to collect samples from last known survivors of subspecies 8472.”
She withdrew a cylinder, knelt beside the large male, and placed the cylinder inside the elbow of his right arm. The second it made contact, the male lifted his other arm toward her. He placed his hand on the scientist’s forearm, gripping gently, the only embrace the dying man could manage. Beside him, the female had finished the meal of rotten flesh, likely her last, and looked on through nearly lifeless eyes.
The sample cylinder beeped full once, then again, but the scientist didn’t draw it away. She sat there, frozen. Something was happening to her. Then the male’s hand slipped off her forearm, and his head rolled back against the wall. Before the scientist knew what was happening, she had hoisted the male up, slung him over her shoulder, and placed the female on her other shoulder. The suit’s exoskeleton easily supported the weight, but once she cleared the cave, keeping her balance was more difficult on the ash-covered rocky ridge.
Ten minutes later she crossed the beach and the doors of the ship parted. Inside the ship, she placed the bodies on two rolling stretchers, shed her suit, and quickly moved the survivors to an operating room. She looked over her shoulder, then focused on the workstation. She ran several simulations and began adjusting the algorithms.
Behind her, a voice called out, “What are you doing?”
She whipped around, startled. She hadn’t heard the door open. Her companion stood in the doorway, surveying the room. Confusion, then alarm spread across his face. “Are you—”
“I’m…” Her mind raced. She said the only thing she could. “I’m conducting an experiment.”
PART I:
SECRETS
CHAPTER 1
Orchid District
Marbella, Spain
Dr. Kate Warner watched the woman convulse and strain against the straps of the makeshift operating table. The seizures grew more violent and blood flowed from her mouth and ears.
There was nothing Kate could do for the woman, and that bothered her more than anything. Even during medical school and her residency, Kate had never gotten used to seeing a patient die. She hoped she never would.
She stepped forward, gripped the woman’s left hand, and stood there until the shaking stopped. The woman blew out her last breath as her head rolled to the side.
The room fell silent except for the pitter-patter of blood falling from the table, splattering on the plastic below. The entire room was wrapped in heavy sheet plastic: the walls, the door, every inch of the floor. The room wasn’t an operating room, but it was the closest thing the resort had—a massage room in the spa building. Kate used the table where wealthy tourists had been pampered three months before to conduct experiments she still didn’t understand.
Above her, the low whine of an electric motor broke the silence as the tiny video camera panned away from the woman to face Kate, prompting her, saying: file your report.
Kate jerked her mask down and gently placed the woman’s hand on her abdomen. “Atlantis Plague Trial Alpha-493: Result Negative. Subject Marbella-2918.” Kate eyed the woman, trying to think of a name. They refused to name the subjects, but Kate made up a name for every one of them. It wasn’t like they could punish her for it. Maybe they thought withholding the names would make her job easier. It didn’t. No one deserved to be a number or to die without a name.
Kate cleared her throat. “Subject’s name is Marie Romero. Time of death: approximately 15:14 local time. Suspected cause of death… Cause of death is the same as the last thirty people on this table.”
Kate pulled her rubber gloves off with a loud crack and tossed them on the plastic-covered floor next to the growing pool of blood. She turned and reached for the door.
The speakers in the ceiling crackled to life.
“You need to do an autopsy.”
Kate glared at the camera. “Do it yourself.”
“Please, Kate.”
They had kept Kate almost completely in the dark, but she knew one thing: they needed her. She was immune to the Atlantis Plague, the perfect person to carry out their trials. She had gone along for weeks now, since Martin Grey, her adoptive father, had brought her here. Gradually, she had begun demanding answers. There were always promises, but the revelations never came.
She cleared her throat and spoke with more force. “I’m done for the day.” She pulled the door open.
“Stop. I know you want answers. Just take the sample, and we’ll talk.”
Kate inspected the metal cart that waited outside the room, just as it had thirty times before. A single thought ran through her mind: leverage. She took the blood draw kit, returned to Marie, and inserted the needle into the crook of her arm. It always took longer after the heart had stopped.
When the tube was full, she withdrew the needle, walked back to the cart, and placed the tube in the centrifuge. A few minutes passed while the tube spun. Behind her, the speakers called out an order. She knew what it was. She eyed the centrifuge as it came to a stop. She grabbed the tube, tucked it in her pocket, and walked down the hall.
She usually looked in on the boys after she finished work, but today she needed to do something else first. She entered her tiny room and plopped down on the “bed.” The room was almost like a jail cell: no windows, nothing on the walls, and a steel-frame cot with a mattress from the Middle Ages. She assumed it had previously housed a member of the cleaning staff. Kate considered it to be barely humane.
She bent over and began feeling around in the darkness under the cot. Finally, she grasped the bottle of vodka and brought it out. She grabbed a paper cup from the bedside table, blew out the dust, poured a sailor-sized gulp, and turned the bottom up.
She set the bottle down and stretched out on the bed. She extended her arm past her head and punched the button to turn the old radio on. It was her only source of information on the outside world, but what she heard she hardly believed.
The radio reports described a world that had been saved from the Atlantis Plague by a miracle drug: Orchid. In the wake of the global outbreak, industrialized nations had closed their borders and declared martial law. She had never heard how many had died from the pandemic. The surviving population, however many there were, had been herded into Orchid Districts—massive camps where the people clung to life and took their daily dose of Orchid, a drug that kept the plague at bay, but never fully cured it.