“Oh, but you did prove it, you did—and you exposed some holes we hadn’t even considered patching. You did the work for us, and you’ve brought me everything we’ll need to repair the situation. Half a dozen researchers, a few dozen assistants, and all this goes away for another decade. That should be more than long enough for us to make some real progress on the problem, without sending the world into a panic.” He chuckled. At least he wasn’t backing up anymore; his back was to the counter, Kelly locked against his chest. “You get so hung up on your precious truth that you can’t see the big picture. If this information got out…”

“What? People would know something?” Becks glared. “Your evil plan sucks.”

“Why tailor new strains of the virus?” asked Mahir. “What does it serve?”

“We’ll find one that doesn’t trigger reservoir behavior,” said Dr. Wynne. “Once that’s done, we’ll be in the position to pick the virus apart at our leisure. No more pesky moral issues with shooting the infected. No more unexpected behavior. Once it’s been normalized, once it conforms, we can finally get to work on a virus that does what we want it to do, that follows our orders, not anyone else’s. We’ll save the world the way we want to, in our own time, and we’ll get the proper credit. The reservoir conditions complicate things, and we can’t have that. Still, I’m sorry the strike on Oakland was called in early, Shaun. I really did like you. I’d hoped to spare you this very situation.”

“What makes you think the information won’t get out anyway?” I asked, mildly. “I didn’t bring my whole team here. If we don’t check in, it all goes public.”

“Ah, but by the time it goes public, we’ll have tied you to the outbreak in Portland, and possibly to the attacks on President Ryman’s campaign. You may even be the reason your sister died. You won’t be a hero, Shaun. You won’t even be a martyr. You’ll be the man who killed his sister for ratings, and the world will hate you.” Dr. Wynne smiled beatifically as he let go of Kelly and reached for the counter behind them. She didn’t move. Something about the gun pressed to her temple seemed to be dissuading her. “Nothing that comes out of your little tabloid press will be believed. It’ll just be the final thrashings of a madman.”

You bastard, whispered George.

For once, I was calmer than she was. “You’re an asshole,” I said.

“Yes, but I’m an asshole who’s going to walk away from here alive, which is more than I can say for you,” he replied. He locked his arm aroundagain, pulling her toward the door. “Security is on the way. There’s nothing you can do.”

When he moved his hand, I saw what he’d picked up from the counter: two plain ballpoint pens. “What are you going to do when security gets here?” I asked. “Scribble us to death?”