Douglas Preston - Mount Dragon

“Nope,” said Carson. “Probably won’t take him long, considering ...” He stopped. Considering I was instrumental to the cause of death .

“Yamashito, the video technician, said the investigator was planning to spend the day watching security tapes,” she said, twisting into the arms of her suit.

They donned their helmets, checked each other’s suits, and went through the air lock. Inside decontam, Carson took a big swallow of air and fought down the nausea that inevitably rose as the poisonous yellow liquid cascaded down his faceplate.

Carson had hoped the elaborate decontamination procedures after the accident would have rearranged the interior spaces of the Fever Tank, made them look somehow different. But the lab seemed just as Carson had left it the minute Brandon-Smith walked in to announce the chimp’s death. His seat was pulled away from the desk at the same angle, and his PowerBook was still open, plugged into the WAN socket and ready for use. He moved toward it mechanically and logged on to the GeneDyne network. The log-in messages scrolled past; then the word processor came up, displaying the procedure write-up he’d been finishing. The cursor came into focus at the end of an unfinished line, blinking, waiting with cruel detachment for him to continue. Carson slumped in his chair.

Suddenly, the screen went blank. Carson waited a moment, then hit a few keys. Getting no response, he swore under his breath. Maybe the battery had gone dead. He glanced over to the wall plug and noticed that the laptop was plugged in. Strange .

Something began to materialize on the screen. Must be Scopes , Carson thought. The GeneDyne CEO was known to play with other people’s computers. Probably a prepared pep talk, some way to ease the transition back into the Fever Tank.

A small picture came into focus: the image of a mime, balancing the Earth on his finger. The Earth was slowly revolving. Mystified, Carson punched the Escape key without success.

The small figure suddenly dissolved into typed words.

Guy Carson?

Here, Carson typed back.

Am I speaking with Guy Carson?

This is Guy Carson, who else?

Well, looky here, Guy! It’s about time you logged in. I’ve been waiting for you, partner. But first, I need you to identify yourself. Please enter your mother’s birthday.

June 2, 1936. Who is this?

Thank you. This is Mime speaking. I have an important message from an old homeboy of yours.

Mime? Is that you, Harper?

No, it is not Harper. I would suggest that you clear your immediate area so that no one inadvertently sees the message I am about to transmit. Let me know when you’re ready.

Carson glanced over at de Vaca, who was busy on the other side of the lab.

Who the hell is this?he typed angrily.

My, my! You had best not dis the Mime, or I might dis you back. And you wouldn’t like that. Not one bit.

Listen, I don’t like—

Do you want the message or not?

No.

I didn’t think so. Before I send it, I want you to know that this is an absolutely secure channel, and that I, Mime, and none other, have hacked into the GeneDyne net. No one at GeneDyne knows about this or could possibly intercept our conversation. I have done this to protect you, cowboy. If anyone should happen by while you are reading the following message, press the command key and a fake screen of genetic code will pop up, hiding the message. Actually, it won’t be genetic code, it will be the lyrics to Professor Longhair’s “Ball the Wall,” but the patterns will be correct. Press the command key again to return to the message. Whoopie-ki-yi-yo, and all that sort of thing. Now sit tight.

Carson again glanced in de Vaca’s direction. Perhaps this was one of Scopes’s jokes. The man had an odd sense of humor. On the other hand, Scopes hadn’t sent a single message to the laptop in Carson’s quarters since the accident. Perhaps Scopes was pissed off at him, and was testing his loyalty with some kind of game. Carson looked uneasily back at the laptop.

The screen went black for a moment, then a message appeared:

Dear Guy,

This is Charles Levine, your old professor. Biochem 162, remember? I’ll get right to the point, because I know you must feel compromised at the moment.

Jesus , thought Carson. Understatement of the year . Dr. Levine, penetrating the GeneDyne network? It didn’t seem possible. But if it was Levine, and if Scopes found out ... Carson’s finger moved quickly to the Escape key again, punching it several times without result.

Guy , I’ve heard rumors from a source in the regulatory agency . Rumors of an accident at Mount Dragon . The lid’s been shut down tight , though , and all I’ve been able to learn is that someone was accidentally infected with a virus . Apparently it’s quite a deadly virus , one that people are scared to death of.

Guy , listen to me . I need your help . I need to know what’s going on out there at Mount Dragon . What is this virus? What are you trying to do with it? Is it really as dangerous as the rumors imply? The people of this country have a right to know . If it’s true — if you really are out in the middle of nowhere , messing with something far more dangerous than an atomic bomb — then none of us are safe.

I remember you well from your days here , Guy. You were a truly independent thinker . A skeptic . You never accepted what I told you as given; you had to prove it for yourself. That is a rare quality , and I pray you haven’t lost it . I would beg you now to turn that natural skepticism on your work at Mount Dragon . Don’t accept everything they tell you . Deep inside , you know that nothing is infallible , that no safety procedure can ensure one hundred percent protection . If the rumors are true , you’ve learned this firsthand . Please ask yourself: Is it worth it?

I will be in contact with you again through Mime , who is an expert in matters of network security . Next time , perhaps we can talk on line: Mime wasn’t willing to risk a live conversation initially.

Think about what I’ve said , Guy . Please.

Best regards,

Charles Levine

The screen went blank. Carson felt his heart pounding as he fumbled with the power switch. He should have turned the thing off immediately. Could it really have been Levine? His instincts told him that it was. The man must be insane to contact him like this, endangering his career. As Carson thought about it, anger began to take the place of shock. How the hell could Levine be so sure the channel was secure?

Carson remembered Levine well: stomping across the lectern, speaking impassionedly, suit lapels flapping, chalk screeching on the blackboard. Once he had been so engrossed in writing a long chemical formula that he shuffled off the edge of the lectern and fell to the floor. In many ways, he had been an outstanding professor: iconoclastic, visionary; but, Carson remembered, also excitable, angry, and full of hyperbole. And this was going too far. The man had obviously become a zealot.