muster.
“General,” said the guards, saluting as he approached. They were men he’d handpicked for Dogwood, and they knew not to be confused by an infantryman in a general’s uniform. He saluted back, and they opened the door to the main building. The strong scent of antiseptic wafted out, and the guard offered Shon a paper mask to cover his mouth and nose.
Shon hesitated, not wanting to muffle the link by restricting his air, but the guard shook his head. “Trust me, sir, you’ll want it. The link still functions, it’s just weaker.”
Shon took the mask, and motioned for Mattson to do the same. They walked inside, where an old friend of Shon’s met them with a crisp salute.
“Sir, welcome to Dogwood.” Michelle, a sergeant herself, had driven Shon’s armored personnel carrier in the Isolation War, and they’d fought together in ten or twelve military campaigns since, most of them against other Partials after the Break. Since Long Island had no easy access to fuel for the APCs, Michelle had been scheduled to return to the mainland after the initial invasion was successful, but Shon had asked to keep her as a tactician. Now she ran Dogwood. The weary tinge to her link data told Shon she was as exhausted by the demands of emergency promotion as he was.
Shon saluted back. “Sergeant.”
“Thank you for coming, General,” said Michelle. “I wish I had better news.”
“More victims?”
“Two more, though all the victims were stationed inside East Meadow. I have the bodies isolated, and I’ve sent everyone in their units to Duckett Farm.”
Shon sighed. “Do they know they’re in quarantine?”
“They know they’re not allowed to leave; maybe they suspect the truth, I don’t know. Even if they do, they might not suspect it’s a bioweapon.”
“We’re genetically engineered to fight off all disease,” said Shon. “Now that there’s a disease we can’t fight, I don’t know what else they’d think it is.”
“I’m just hoping for the best, sir,” said Michelle. “So far none of them have gotten sick, just like the previous units we put under quarantine, so unless they’re carrying the disease and haven’t manifested yet, I think we’ve saved them all.”
“Not all, though,” said Shon heavily.
Michelle shook her head. “Not all. Come with me.” She led them to a small room full of white plastic bodysuits, talking as they pulled the protective coverings on over their uniforms. “The doctor arrived only two days ago, but he’s already made some excellent headway toward figuring out what the bioweapon is.”
“That’s good.”
“I suppose it’s progress,” said Michelle, “but as news goes, it hardly classifies as ‘good.’ The blisters seem to be caused by an autoimmune response—the bioweapon affects Partial biology in such a way that the body becomes allergic to its own skin; the skin cells can’t connect to each other properly, and the entire epidermis starts to disintegrate. There’s a word for it that I can’t remember; something big, at least five syllables.”
Shon glanced at her sidelong, confused by the self-deprecation. “You know plenty of five-syllable words.” Almost immediately he felt her embarrassment through the link data. She was trying to stay on top of everything, and she’d learned the word, but this was so far outside the realm of her expertise and she hadn’t slept in days and there should be a doctor or a general handling this outpost, not a driver, and—
He held up his hand. “It’s okay, Michelle, I know you’re doing your best.”
“Acantholysis,” she said quickly, and her link data returned almost immediately to a professional calm. “I’m sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.”
“It’s not your job to know the names of the diseases,” said Shon. “That’s what the doctor’s for. So if this …” He shook his head, struggling to remember the word, and eventually gave up. “If these blisters are caused by an autoimmune response, I assume that makes it harder to cure?”
“Much harder,” said Michelle, opening a door to a basement stairwell. The antiseptic smell was stronger here, and the plastic-lined steps were puddled with disinfectant. Shon pressed his face mask tighter against his mouth and nose to keep from coughing. “But I haven’t told you the worst part yet. The other primary symptom is rough, scaly skin, something the doctor can only diagnose as icthyosis.”
Shon parsed the Latin roots of the word and frowned in confusion. “Fish. Because of the scales, I assume?”
“Exactly. But icthyosis isn’t communicable, it’s genetic.”
Shon stopped short, one hand on the stairway railing. “This is a genetic disease?”
“Somehow the humans have found a way to make a genetic disorder contagious.”
Mattson swore, and Shon couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment; the link data from both Mattson and Michelle was sharp with fear, detectible even through the face mask. Shon looked at the door at the bottom of the stairs, which Michelle’s team had converted to a makeshift air lock, shrouded with plastic and ringed with rubber seals. Shon felt a surge of trepidation, stopping just for a moment; the urge to turn and flee almost overpowered him. It occurred to him that if he could still sense link data through the mask, it probably wasn’t protecting him from an airborne disease, either. He kept it on anyway.
“Let’s do this.”
Michelle opened the door and they followed her through.
The basement was as carefully sealed as the door, not only the windows but the walls themselves covered with layers of protective plastic. The room was crammed with bulky medical computers and the two hospital beds, each one bearing a Partial covered with boils and rough, scaly skin. Shon had considered housing the victims and their researchers in the East Meadow hospital, but he was concerned the disease would get out, and wanted it as far from the Partial population on the island as possible. Instead he’d brought several of the hospital’s solar panels and set them up here, to power the medical equipment and air recyclers.
He’d also sent Dogwood the hospital’s best human doctors, since all the Partial doctors had already expired.
“This is Dr. Skousen,” said Michelle, leading him to an old man in a medical gown and a face mask of his own. The human looked up from a twitching, sweating patient and scowled at Shon.
Shon nodded but didn’t bother to extend his hand to shake. “We’ve met,” said Shon. “Tell me, Dr. Skousen, have you had any luck isolating the cause of the disease?”
Shon was only beginning to understand the full range of human facial expressions, but the hatred on Skousen’s face was easy to read. “The only reason I’m even looking for this germ is to shake its hand for killing you so spectacularly.”
Shon radiated irritation on the link, even though he knew the human couldn’t sense it. “But you are looking for it?”
Skousen simply scowled at him, and after a moment Michelle answered for him. “As far as we can tell, yes,” she said. “He may as well be doing magic down here for all we understand it.”
“He’s not hurting anyone,” said Shon, meeting Skousen’s stare. “That’s not who he is.” He looked back at Michelle. “You’re giving him time to study our RM resistance in return, like I said?”
“Two hours a day,” Skousen snarled, “with no access to my notes or my team from the hospital.”
“I can give you some of that,” said Shon. “If Michelle vouches for your work, I can bring some of your notes from East Meadow.”
“And my team.”
“I can’t take the risk that you’ll collude against us.”
“I thought you said that’s