lot of them favored the black outfits that made them look almost anorexic. To prove that her outfit gave her the desired measure of anonymity, her fellow passengers disembarked one by one, until only she remained, one lone woman headed to the upper floors.
Floor after floor ticked by on the digital display above the door, and now that she was alone in the elevator, Violet suddenly became aware—maybe too much so—of the white briefcase hanging from her left hand. Her fingers were still clenched around the handle so tightly that her knuckles were bloodless and stiff. Despite herself and the strict instructions from Nerva, she couldn’t help but wonder what was in it. Just what was this strange and magical,
powerful
weapon that was supposedly going to wipe out all the Hemophages but not harm the humans? Common sense dictated that it had to be something biological, a devastating agent designed specifically to target the mutated DNA structure of the Hemophages while bypassing that of humans.
Or . . . no. Maybe the uninfected
would
catch it, but their immune systems, being slower and more primitive, might be able to fashion an antibody to the agent before their likewise sluggish metabolisms ran the disease—assuming that’s what it was—throughout their system. It wasn’t hard to imagine if one likened the possibility to that of the now eradicated Ebola virus of the former African continent, the last of which had finally burned itself out in the bat-filled caves of the Republic of Congo after the global eradication effort. During its heyday, Ebola would often manifest and disappear again almost immediately, simply because it would kill its host—some sad and unlucky human or primate—far too quickly for its own reproductive cycle. Something modeled after that and intended for the Hemophages could be deadly, indeed.
Was that something like what Violet carried in this mysterious white briefcase? Surely not—if so, it didn’t make sense that Nerva would instruct her to detonate the bomb that had been affixed in her clothes since she’d left the meeting place this morning and started on her mission. An explosion was too risky, wasn’t it? After all, detonation had to mean taking a big chance of spreading the virus, or whatever was contained in this case, on the air currents afterward. It would mean every piece of debris left in the explosion’s wake might be contaminated, a potential avenue for mass dissemination of the virus.
Violet glanced down and saw that her forefinger had involuntarily moved to stroke the cool metal. She had risked her life for this briefcase, fought against and beaten down countless soldiers as she took the chance that she might be caught and tortured or killed at any second. She’d given so much and asked for so little in return . . . didn’t she have the right to know what was inside?
She was two floors away from her stop when she reached out and pushed the emergency stop button. The elevator stopped with a jerk, but unless she intentionally pushed it, the alarm wasn’t going to sound. It was just her, and the silence . . .
And the briefcase.
She looked down at it in indecision—
No, that simply wasn’t true.
There wasn’t any indecision about it.
With a senseless glance behind her, Violet knelt and swung the pizza-box-sized briefcase around until it was flat on the floor in front of her knees. Her heart was racing again, this time in anticipation and . . . oh, sure. That thrill, the one she sometimes got when she was about to do something she knew she wasn’t supposed to, like a kid in a toy store getting ready to filch something small but which still had the potential to get him prosecuted. Her personality had always been that of a rebel, a woman who took chances for sometimes nothing more than the fun of doing so.
Another glance, this time at the floor indicator to reassure herself that the elevator hadn’t moved, then Violet slid her thumbs down and broke both of the DNA
Floor after floor ticked by on the digital display above the door, and now that she was alone in the elevator, Violet suddenly became aware—maybe too much so—of the white briefcase hanging from her left hand. Her fingers were still clenched around the handle so tightly that her knuckles were bloodless and stiff. Despite herself and the strict instructions from Nerva, she couldn’t help but wonder what was in it. Just what was this strange and magical,
powerful
weapon that was supposedly going to wipe out all the Hemophages but not harm the humans? Common sense dictated that it had to be something biological, a devastating agent designed specifically to target the mutated DNA structure of the Hemophages while bypassing that of humans.
Or . . . no. Maybe the uninfected
would
catch it, but their immune systems, being slower and more primitive, might be able to fashion an antibody to the agent before their likewise sluggish metabolisms ran the disease—assuming that’s what it was—throughout their system. It wasn’t hard to imagine if one likened the possibility to that of the now eradicated Ebola virus of the former African continent, the last of which had finally burned itself out in the bat-filled caves of the Republic of Congo after the global eradication effort. During its heyday, Ebola would often manifest and disappear again almost immediately, simply because it would kill its host—some sad and unlucky human or primate—far too quickly for its own reproductive cycle. Something modeled after that and intended for the Hemophages could be deadly, indeed.
Was that something like what Violet carried in this mysterious white briefcase? Surely not—if so, it didn’t make sense that Nerva would instruct her to detonate the bomb that had been affixed in her clothes since she’d left the meeting place this morning and started on her mission. An explosion was too risky, wasn’t it? After all, detonation had to mean taking a big chance of spreading the virus, or whatever was contained in this case, on the air currents afterward. It would mean every piece of debris left in the explosion’s wake might be contaminated, a potential avenue for mass dissemination of the virus.
Violet glanced down and saw that her forefinger had involuntarily moved to stroke the cool metal. She had risked her life for this briefcase, fought against and beaten down countless soldiers as she took the chance that she might be caught and tortured or killed at any second. She’d given so much and asked for so little in return . . . didn’t she have the right to know what was inside?
She was two floors away from her stop when she reached out and pushed the emergency stop button. The elevator stopped with a jerk, but unless she intentionally pushed it, the alarm wasn’t going to sound. It was just her, and the silence . . .
And the briefcase.
She looked down at it in indecision—
No, that simply wasn’t true.
There wasn’t any indecision about it.
With a senseless glance behind her, Violet knelt and swung the pizza-box-sized briefcase around until it was flat on the floor in front of her knees. Her heart was racing again, this time in anticipation and . . . oh, sure. That thrill, the one she sometimes got when she was about to do something she knew she wasn’t supposed to, like a kid in a toy store getting ready to filch something small but which still had the potential to get him prosecuted. Her personality had always been that of a rebel, a woman who took chances for sometimes nothing more than the fun of doing so.
Another glance, this time at the floor indicator to reassure herself that the elevator hadn’t moved, then Violet slid her thumbs down and broke both of the DNA
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