Infected Page 8

Three flights of stairs later, he exited the building and entered the knife-slash cold sting of December in Michigan. It felt like a thousand tiny pinp.r.i.c.ks on his face and hands. His breath billowed wispy-white.

Jamming the second Pop-Tart into his mouth, he walked toward his twelve-year-old, rust-shot Ford, praying to the Great G.o.ds of Piece-ofs.h.i.+t Cars that the old girl would start.

He slid behind the wheel (he never bothered to lock the car, who the h.e.l.l would want the thing?) and closed the door. The frost-covered windows filtered the morning sun in icy-white opaqueness.

“Come on, sister,” Perry mumbled, his breath curling up and around

his head. He gave a small grunt of victory as the old car coughed to life on the first try. Perry grabbed the ice sc.r.a.per and stepped out of the car, only to have yet another itch stab at his right a.s.s cheek like a sandpaper needle. He reflexively grabbed at it, which made him lose his balance and landed him b.u.t.t-first on the parking lot. Digging his fingers through the jeans and roughly scratching the spot, Perry felt the seat of his pants dampen with melting snow.

“Yep,” Perry said as he stood and brushed himself off. “It’s definitely a Monday.”

ARCHITECTURE

The sh.e.l.ls grew in size and durability. Still too small to see with the naked eye, it wouldn’t be long before they could not be missed. The same tiny, cell-like devices that built the sh.e.l.ls used the available material to start making what went under the sh.e.l.ls — a framework that would comprise a new organism, a larger organism.

A growing organism.

The seedlings built their third and final free-moving microstructure. Where there had been “readers” to gather the DNA blueprints, and “builders” to make the sh.e.l.l and the framework, now came the “herders.”

The herders washed out into the host’s body, seeking very specific kinds of cells — stem cells. The DNA blueprints showed that these were what the seedlings needed. The herders found these stem cells, then cut them free and dragged them back to the growing framework. First the herders cemented the stem cells to the framework with simple chemical bonds, then the reader-b.a.l.l.s moved in.

The saw-toothed jaws sliced into the stem cell, but gently this time. Microfilaments bare nanometers across slid into the stem cell DNA. Slid in, and started making changes.

Because the “readers” weren’t there just to read...

They were also there to write.

The stem cells were not conscious. They had no idea they had just been enslaved. They did what they always do: grow new cells. The new cells they produced were only slightly different from those they had been originally designed to build. Those new cells spread out through the growing framework, adding muscle and other, more specialized tissues.

What arrived as a microscopic seed had hijacked the host’s body and used the built-in biological processes to create something foreign, in a way far more insidious than even a virus.

And while the seedlings had no concept of time, their mission would be complete in just a few short days.

THE DAILY GRIND

Perry walked into American Computer Solutions (ACS to those in the industry) at seven minutes to nine. He jogged through the building, catching and throwing h.e.l.los as he headed for his cubicle. Sliding into his chair, he tossed his briefcase on the gray desktop and started his computer. It chimed, seemingly in happiness at escaping the purgatory of “off,” and started through its RAM checks and warm-up cycles. Perry glanced at the wall clock, which was placed high enough that all could see it from their cubicles. It read 8:55. He’d already be working away when the clock struck 9:00.

“Thought I was going to get you today,” said a woman’s voice behind his back. He didn’t bother to turn around as he opened the briefcase and pulled out the unorganized wad of paper.

“Close but no cigar, boss,” Perry said, smiling a little at the daily joke. “Maybe next time.”

“Samir Cansil from Pullman called,” the woman said. “They’re having network trouble again. Call them first thing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Perry said.

Sandy Rodriguez left Perry to his work. Most of ACS’s customersupport staff arrived a few minutes late, but Perry was always on time. Sandy rarely addressed the staff ’s tardiness problem. Everyone knew she didn’t really care if people were a little late, as long as they didn’t abuse that privilege and got their work done. She didn’t care, and yet Perry was always on time.

She’d given him a chance when he had no job, no references and an a.s.sault conviction on his record. No, not just an a.s.sault — an a.s.sault conviction on his former boss. After that incident he was sure n.o.body would ever hire him for white-collar work again. But his college roomie Bill Miller had put in a good word at ACS, and Sandy had given Perry a shot.

When she hired him, he swore to himself that he’d never let her down in any way. That included being early every day. As his father used to say, there’s no subst.i.tute for hard work. He pushed the sudden and

unwelcome thought of his father from his mind — he didn’t want to start the day in a bad mood.

A full twenty-five minutes later, Perry heard the distinctive sounds of Bill Miller sliding into the adjoining cubicle. Bill was late as usual, and, also as usual, he didn’t give a d.a.m.n.

“Morning, sissy-girl,” Bill said, his ever-present monotone drifting over the five-foot cubicle walls. “Didums sleep well?”

“You know, Bill, I’m a little bit past the ‘I drank more than you’ stage. I’d like to think you’ll grow up one of these days.”