Calypso Directive (47 page)

When she asked about the gender, the doctor had said it was too soon to tell. No matter, she knew it was a boy. She would call him Will … just as she had his father.

United States Army Medical Research Institute
of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID)
Fort Detrick, Maryland

“
I
S HE BRAIN-DEAD
?”

“No. He's in a medically sustained coma, but that's technically not the same as brain-dead,” Xavier Pope replied, staring down at the gray body lying on a lone hospital bed.

An orchestra of automated commotion set an unnerving cadence in the room. Machines whirred, and monitors beeped. IVs dripped, and fluids pumped. Pope frowned.

There would be no miraculous escape this time.

He looked apprehensively at the figure standing next to him. Given the cloak-and-dagger communication protocols the Curator had insisted on over the past several months, Pope had imagined a very different character. His preconceptions were of the “Men in Black” variety: hyper-masculine, dark glasses, dark suit, and a humorless face chiseled from stone. He had been wrong about everything, except for the face chiseled from stone bit. First of all, the Curator was not a he. The woman beside him bore no resemblance to the stereotypical agency spook. To the contrary, she looked like the poster child for a World War II Nazi Aryan eugenics program. Her mane of shoulder length hair was the color of the midday Nordic sun. The white business dress she wore was fitted and tailored just above the knee, showing off her tight, sinewy calf muscles. She stood perfectly erect, and her square shoulders and taut stomach added an aura of military bearing. What struck him most were her eyes, so pale and cold they seemed carved from a glacier, shimmering, and arctic blue.

“Have you resumed the work you were conducting for Vyrogen?” the woman asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She reached in to her handbag and retrieved a mobile phone. She pressed a button on the touch screen. “The Curator would like to speak with you,” she said plainly, handing him the phone.

Pope raised an eyebrow. “I thought
you
were the Curator?”

She smirked, seemingly pleased by his misconception. “No. I am his right hand.”

Pope took her mobile phone and raised it to his ear. “This is Xavier Pope.”

A coarse and curious voice said, “Dr. Pope, I understand from Myrh that your transition into the new position at USAMRIID has been seamless?”

“Yes, it has. Thank you for asking. And thank you for rescuing my career. I know I left a trail of red tape in my wake … complicating things.”

“Red tape is easy to cut, if you have a sharp pair of scissors,” said the voice. “Now, I want to make sure that going forward, we are on the proverbial
same page
. Understood?”

Pope shifted his weight nervously from leg to leg.

“I'm listening, sir.”

“Do you understand that the test subject is the property of the United States Army now?”

“Yes.”

“And that even though you are a civilian, you work for the United States Army?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And that you also work for me.”

“Um, no, I was not aware of that.”

“I was afraid that detail might not have been made clear to you. No matter, I will explain. Until your debt to me is paid, you serve two masters: the United States of America, and me. Is that clear, Dr. Pope?”

“Yes,” Pope replied.

“Good. These are my instructions, so listen very carefully. You will finish your research on the mutation within eighteen months. You will turn over the findings to your USAMRIID department head at that time. However, you will deliver a viable product, your methods, and all of your research data to me within nine months time.”

“I don't understand. How am I supposed to finish the work in eighteen months, but …”

The Curator interrupted him. “The room you presently occupy is under surveillance Doctor, so choose your words more carefully.”

“I'm sorry. What you said doesn't make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. My deadline is nine months. The USAMRIID deadline will be set at eighteen months. You answer to me, first and foremost. I gave you your life back, and I am the one keeping the wolves at bay, but I can just as easily take away that which I have given. Cross me, and the pain and humiliation you'll suffer will be terrible. Is that clear?”

Pope nodded and answered, “Yes.”

“Good,” the voice said, satisfied. “One last thing, Dr. Pope. A storm is coming. When it does, if you've paid your debt to me, I will give you shelter.”

“Thank you,” Pope replied, confused. Then he added, awkwardly, “I won't let you down.”

The line was already dead. He glanced at the phone's LCD screen, hoping to catch a glimpse of the caller ID, but the text displayed read “BLOCKED.” He handed the phone back to the woman the Curator had called Myrh. Her glacier eyes sent an unnerving chill down his spine. He took a step back, increasing the space between them.

She held her stare, overtly passing judgment, before returning her gaze to the subject of her visit.

“What is his name?” she asked, staring at the comatose patient.

Pope paused before answering. Certainly, she knew the answer to her question. That meant the question had to be a test, the first of many tests in his
new
life. He chose his words carefully.

“His name … is Patient-65.”

F
IRST
,
I WOULD
like to recognize Morgan Soutter, whose assistance brainstorming and editing early chapters of
Calypso
was invaluable. Morgan is a great friend and gifted writer; I can't wait to see his novels on the shelf in the coming days. Second, I would like to thank friends and family who encouraged me and critiqued early drafts of the manuscript: Brandon, Chris, Colleen, Dana, John, Erika, Jennifer, Mom and Dad … your support and advice kept me writing. Third, I would like to thank my agent, Kristin, and my editor, Lilly, for believing in the story and patiently shepherding me through the harrowing process of selling and publishing my first novel. Last and most importantly, I would like to thank my wife to whom this book is dedicated. Not only did she read every sentence in this book a least a hundred times, but her attention to detail, keen editorial eye, and insightful advice made this story ten times the work it would have been had I been left to my own devices.

Bonus feature:

Ring of Flowers
, the untold prologue to
The Calypso Directive

Copyright © 2012 by Brian Hittle

This is a work of fiction. The scientific, legal, and medical references contained herein were extensively researched and are based on fact. However, the names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN:978-1-61145-745-2

Eyam, England
August, 1665

E
THAN
C
ROMWELL WALKED
with purpose, like men with testosterone-laden agendas typically do. In three days' time, he would propose to Kathryn Vicars, the most beautiful girl in the Derbyshire village of Eyam. No matter that she was the seventeen-year-old daughter of a lowly tailor, with no dowry to speak of. For Cromwell, she was desire incarnate. If he could combine all of the most delightful experiences from each of his five senses, and flood his brain with that pleasure in a single instant, the cumulative bliss would still fall short of how he imagined it would be to ravage her.

Cromwell rapped vigorously with gloved knuckles on the wooden door of George Vicars' modest stone cottage. Inside, he heard the unmistakable cacophony of a stack of pots and pans accidentally knocked to the floor. This calamity was followed by an unholy expletive, and then the sound of shuffling boots.

“I'll be right there … just a second.”

“Vicars! What on Earth are you doing in there? I don't have time to wait for your fumbling and bumbling,” Cromwell barked. He raised his fist to pound again, but the door flew open instead. George Vicars, Eyam's only tailor, stood in the doorway with a flushed face and eyeglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He pushed the spectacles back up to their rightful perch with a long, delicate index finger. Although he was thirty-nine years of age, his wrinkle-free, freckled complexion and full head of reddish-brown hair made him look like a man ten years younger.