“So, you’ve earned your bonus. The money will be in your account by the close of business tomorrow,” Dr. John Brightling promised.
“Suits me, sir.” Hollister fished in his pocket and pulled out the master key, the one that would open any door in the complex. It was a little ceremony he always performed when he finished a project. He handed it over. “Well, sir, its your building complex now.”
Brightling looked at the electronic key and smiled. This was the last major hurdle for the Project. This would be the home of nearly all of his people. A similar but much smaller structure in Brazil had been finished two months earlier, but that one barely accommodated a hundred people. This one could house three thousand-somewhat crowded, but comfortably even so-for some months, and that was about right. After the first couple of months, he could sustain his medical research efforts here with his best people-most of them not briefed in on the Project, but worthy of life even so because that work was heading in some unexpectedly promising directions. So promising that he wondered how long he himself might live here. Fifty years? A hundred? A thousand, perhaps? Who could say now?
Olympus, he’d call it, Brightling decided on the spot. The home of the gods, for that was exactly what he expected it to be. From here they could watch the world, study it, enjoy it, appreciate it. He would use the call-sign OLYMPUS-1 on his portable radio. From here he’d be able to fly all over the world with picked companions, to observe and learn how the ecology was supposed to work. For twenty years or so, they’d be able to use communications satellites no telling how long they’d last, and after that they’d be stuck with long-wire radio systems. That was an inconvenience for the future, but launching his own replacement satellites was just too difficult in terms of manpower and resources, and besides, satellite launchers polluted like nothing else humankind had ever invented.
Brightling wondered how long his people would choose to live here. Some would scatter quickly, probably drive all over America, setting up their own enclaves, reporting back by satellite at first. Others would go to Africa-that seemed likely to be the most popular destination. Still others to Brazil and the rain forest study area. Perhaps some of the primitive tribes down there would be spared the Shiva exposure, and his people would study them as well and how Primitive Man lived in a pristine physical environment, living in full harmony with Nature. They’d study them as they were, a unique species worthy of protection and too backward to be a danger to the environment. Might some African tribes survive as well? His people didn’t think so. The African countries allowed their primitives to interface too readily with city folk, and the cities would be the focal centers of death for every nation on earth-especially when Vaccine-A was distributed. Thousands of liters of it would be produced, flown all over the world, and then distributed, ostensibly to preserve life, but really to take it … slowly, of course.
Progress was going well. Back at his corporate headquarters the fictional documentation for -A was already fully formulated. It had been supposedly tested on over a thousand monkeys who were then exposed to Shiva, and only two of them had become symptomatic, and only one of those had died over the nineteen month trial that existed only on paper and computer memories. They hadn’t yet approached the FDA for human trials, because that wasn’t necessary-but when Shiva started appearing all over the world, Horizon Corporation would announce that it had been working quietly on hemorrhagic fever vaccines ever since the Iranian attack on America, and faced with a global emergency and a fully documented treatment modality, the FDA would have no choice but to approve human use, and so officially bless the Project’s goal of global human extermination. Not so much the elimination, John Brightling thought more precisely, as the culling back of the most dangerous species on the planet, which would allow Nature to restore Herself, with just enough human stewards to watch and study and appreciate the process. In a thousand or so years, there might be a million or so humans, but that was a small number in the great scheme of things, and the people would be properly educated to understand and respect nature instead of destroying her. The goal of the Project wasn’t to end the world. It was to build a new one, a new world in the shape that Nature Herself intended. On that he would put his own name for all eternity. John Brightling, the man who saved the planet.
Brightling looked at the key in his hand, then got back into his car. The driver took him to the main entrance, and there he used the key, surprised and miffed to see that the door was unlocked. Well, there were still people going in and out. He took the elevator to his office-apartment atop the main building. That door, he saw, was locked as it was supposed to be, and he opened it with a kind of one-person ceremony, and walked into the seat of Olympus’s chief ,o d. No, that wasn’t right. Insofar as there was a god, it was Nature. From his office windows, he could see out over the plains of Kansas, the swaying young wheat . . . it was so beautiful. Almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. Nature. She could be cruel to individuals, but individuals didn’t matter. Despite all the warnings, humankind hadn’t learned that.
Well, learn it they would, the way Nature taught all Her lessons. The hard way.
Pat O’Connor made his daily report to the ASAC in the evening. Coatless, he slid into the chair opposite Ussery’s desk with his folder in hand. It was already fairly thick.” Bannister case,” Chuck Ussery said. “Anything shaking loose yet, Pat?”
“Nothing,” the supervisory special agent replied. ‘We’ve interviewed fourteen friends in the Gary area. None of them had any idea what Mary was doing in New Fork. Only six of them even knew she was there, and she .ever discussed jobs or boyfriends, if any, with them. So, nothing at all has happened here.”
“New York?” the ASAC asked next.
“Two agents on the case there, Tom Sullivan and Frank Chatham. They’ve established contact with a NYPD detective lieutenant named d’Allessandro. Forensics has been through her apartment-nothing. Latent prints are all hers, not even a maid. Neighbors in the building knew her by sight, but no real friendships established, and therefore no known associates. The New York idea is to print up some flyers and pass them out via the NYPD. The local detective is worried there might be a serial killer loose. He has another missing female, same age, roughly the same appearance and area of residence, fell off the world about the same time.”
“Behavioral Sciences?” Ussery asked at once.
O’Connor nodded. “They’ve looked over the facts we have to date. They wonder if the e-mail was sent by the victim or maybe by a serial killer who wants to fuck over the family. Style differences on the message that Mr. Bannister brought in-well, we both saw that it appeared to have been written by a different person, or someone on drugs, but she was evidently not a drug user. And we can’t trace the e-mail back anywhere. It went into an anonymous- remailer system. That sort of thing is designed to protect the originator of electronic mail, I guess so people can swap porno over the Net. I talked with Eddie Morales in Baltimore. He’s the technical wizard in Innocent Images” – that was an ongoing FBI project to track down, arrest, and imprison those who swapped kiddie porn over their computers – “and Bert said they’re playing with some technical fixes. They have a hacker on the payroll who thinks he can come up with a way to crack through the anonymity feature, but he’s not there yet, and the local U.S. Attorney isn’t sure it’s legal anyway.”
“Shit.” Ussery thought of that legal opinion. Kiddie porn was one of the Bureau’s pet hates, and Innocent Images had turned into a high-priority nationwide investigation, run from the Baltimore Field Division.
O’Connor nodded. “That’s exactly what Bert said, Chuck.”
“So, nothing happening yet?”
“Nothing worthwhile. We have a few more of Mary’s friends to interview-five are set up for tomorrow, but if anything breaks loose, my bet’s on New York. Somebody must have known her. Somebody must have dated her. But not here, Chuck. She left Gary and didn’t look back.”
Ussery frowned, but there was no fault to be found with O’Connor’s investigative procedures, and there was a total of twelve agents working the Bannister case. Such cases ran and broke at their own speed. If James Bannister called, as he did every day, he’d just have to tell him that the Bureau was still working on it, then ask him for any additional friends he might have forgotten to list for the Gary team of agents.