Precursors, Part 3

Notice:  This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
sexual content, graphic violence, and explicit smoking.  You have been
fairly warned.

Copyright 1998 by G. M. Sullivan.  All rights reserved.  This story may
be copied and distributed for the uncompensated amusement of others
only.

Author's note:  This story is the next in the series begun in "Hybrid
Vigor" and continued in "Eschaton Boulevard" and "Absolute Power."  Its
action brackets two earlier stories, "Dying for a Cigarette" and
"Phoenix Ascending."  If you have missed any of these tales, they are
all archived at
"http://www.cs.brown.edu/people/lsh/stories/byname.html."   I recommend
them to your attention for a fuller enjoyment of what follows.

Dedication:  To the first smoking woman who will E-mail me after she
reads this story.


"Precursors," Part Three of Four


11.  CDC, Atlanta, Georgia, October 13, 2:04 PM EDT

Rebecca was also mourning a costly failure.

It was a feeling she had never experienced before, either in her
present life or in her previous identity.  People who always succeed in
everything they try seldom get depressed.  That had been her before the
disastrous MRI treatment of Mary Lou.

Treatment?  No that was too fine a word.  Experiment was better.
Reckless endangerment was better still.  Now, murder....

She lit a cigarette, drawing the life-enhancing vapors deep into her
expanding lungs.  There the smoke sat for an endless time before she
released it in a gray-white torrent.  She had that privilege now, in
her private office, when the door was closed and the fan running.  It
was a small triumph here in this anti-smoking bastion, but she allowed
herself no time for self-congratulations.

The smoke calmed her as she exhaled another thick cloud across her
desk.  However, It did little for the guilt, the remorse, the bleak
depression that plagued her.  It could not restore her to who she had
once been.  She, who never miscalculated.  She, who never endangered
anyone (at least not with such grim results).  She, who always
anticipated every outcome.  She, who never failed.

Maasha's near-fatal reaction to the hybrid and their later discussions
had shaken her, more than she allowed herself to realize at the time.
She had not wanted to re-think the medical and moral implications of
what she had released on the world, and had successfully avoided doing
so.  Now, having betrayed this poor, trusting child, it had all
descended on Rebecca in an avalanche of doubt.  What had she done?  How
much misery had she sown?

That Mary Lou could generate such an intense magnetic field on her own
had never entered Rebecca's mind.  No matter that Rebecca had tried,
afterwards, to generate such a field herself and failed.  She should
have anticipated and allowed for the possibility.  There was no excuse
for such a fatal oversight.  She drew angrily on the cigarette, the
smoke threatening to escape her closed office.

After the explosion she had remained unconscious for several hours.
Far too long for someone with her recuperative powers.  It had been an
avoidance, a fleeing.  When she awoke in a CDC hospital bed, Dane
Peters had been hovering nearby.

"Doc...you awake?  Feeling better?"

Peter's touching respect for her had not been lessened by his new
abilities or her failure.  Yes, she was feeling better physically.  The
wounds in her back were mostly closed, the metal shards ejected from
her flesh.  Almost automatically, part of her mind began the task of
accelerating the healing process.  She'd be out of bed in no time...but
from her guilt, escape would be slower in coming.

"I'll be fine, Peters," she had said, too coldly.  "People like us
either die right away, or we recover.  That's about the size of it.
What about Mary Lou?"

"I really don't know, Doc.  She didn't die in the blast, that's for
sure.  Just a little blood, no other...remains.  I spotted just a few
tracks on the ground outside, nothing helpful.  Wherever she went..."

"We won't find her unless she wants to be found," finished Rebecca.

"That's about it, I guess.  I'll start sweeping the area right away."

Rebecca made a decision.  "Don't.  It's a fool's errand, and I need you
here."

Peters was obviously happy with the thought of being needed.  Was
he...?  Rebecca dismissed the thought.

"Sure thing, Doc."

The news that Mary Lou had probably survived brought her no relief.
Whatever brain damage she had suffered before was surely greater now.
Infinitely greater.  To condemn someone to insanity, to mindlessness,
was worse than murder.  It was damnation-in-life, a crime she could
never encompass, much less redeem.

There was still so very much to learn, and with damage already done.


12.  Port Authority Bus Terminal, New, York, New York, November 22,
7:47 PM EST

Diesel fumes shrouded the dim platform wedged between multiple layers
of concrete ramps.  Lucy descended from the South Jersey Express,
grimacing at the "no smoking" signs that proliferated even here, in an
area exposed to the outside air.

Once she would never have noticed or cared.  Smoking was shameful,
something to be done only where there were no other eyes to see and
even then not often.  But of course she had done quite a few shameful
thing recently.  Hanging out in bars...flirting with men...killing.

Which of those three things would her father have most blamed her for?
Not the last, certainly.  He had always been an advocate of swift and
sure justice, mostly against his daughter.  His disapproving voice and
flashing belt were with her even now, evoking twinges of guilt when she
"sinned."  But twinges only, and not too many of those.  She was
stronger now.  Soon she would have his hateful ghost buried for good.

After the change, her mind had been filled with wild fantasies.  She
was beautiful, she was powerful, she could be anything she chose.  For
so long she had endured the invasive stares, the whispered comments,
the brusque dismissals of men she had been forced to serve in the
restaurant.  No more.  Now she could return those insults with interest
if she wanted.

For a while she had done just that, in all those places where men
gathered to search for animal gratification.  She had mastered the
come-on, the raised hopes, the sudden rejection, followed always by
acute male embarrassment.  It had all been too easy, too predictable,
and paled in a matter of days.  The crimes of these men seemed so petty
now, unworthy of her attentions.

When the FBI agent accosted her, she had acted on impulse.  A stupid
impulse she now realized, but she had found the fact of his presence
abhorrent, his intentions intolerable.  Here was faceless authority,
knowing too much about Shelly, about her, wanting to put an end to her
wonderful new life.  So she had ended his instead, and by so doing had
opened yet another new world of possibilities.

Lucy reached the bottom of a long escalator inside the terminal and
noticed a crowd of brightly-dressed men, examining each female who
descended from the bus platforms.  They were pimps, she knew, hoping to
entrap some runaway girl newly arrived in New York.  Lucy far exceeded
their usual age limit, but it was pleasing to see that their eyes were
fixed on her nonetheless.

Despite their evident interest, none approached or called to her.  That
was fortunate, for them.

Lucy still did not think of herself as a "killer."  She had read the
comics as a girl, and for a time fantasized about "Lucy the Masked
Avenger, protector of the innocent."  That dream had ended with the
death of the rapist and her near capture by that woman, whoever she
was.  Not a  cop, certainly.  There had been no pretense of an official
arrest, no reading of her rights.  She had been very lucky to escape
and had taken the lesson to heart.  She decided to go to New York,
where crowds and anonymity would protect her.

She emerged at last onto Eighth Avenue.  The sky was dark, the air
cold, but the myriad lights and sidewalk throngs lent her a comforting
feeling of company and concealment.  Gratefully she lit a cigarette,
blowing smoke onto the worn pavement.  No one paid her the slightest
mind.

She would be careful here, very careful.  This would be home now, and
she would not flee again.  Lucy raised her arm to hail a cab.


13.  Near Baxter, Wyoming, December 22, 10:02 AM MST

The abandoned silver mine really seemed like home now.  Working long
and hard, the girls had expanded and smoothed its many passages and
chambers.  All the living areas had been insulated and paneled with
materials taken from the looted train.  Cindy, always good at science,
had even rigged some sort of phosphorescent lighting system that needed
no electricity.  Underground springs had been tapped for fresh water.
Warm water and air were provided by an ingenious, indirect solar
heating system.  They even had a Christmas tree of sorts, woven from
the remains of many cardboard boxes and painted a bright green.

More than thirty tons of supplies had been recovered from the train.
Food, smokes, beverages, clothing, and many less useful items still
lined the halls and rooms.  Even with their profligate rate of
consumption, it would be months before any more foraging expeditions
were needed.  The girls left Baxter alone and Baxter returned the
favor.  Life was good.

They sat around the tree, enjoying some holiday cigarettes.  Darleen
had coached the younger girls in the "Saint Mary Lou" style of smoking,
and both enjoyed showing their expertise to their instructor.  Alicia
was particularly good at the snap-capture inhale, allowing an enormous
smoke ball of smoke to escape her lips before inhaling the entire thing
with a audible whoosh.  Cindy enjoyed producing smoke rings, swirling
about the room and encircling the top of the "tree."  Darleen,
displaying a French inhale to rival Niagara, encouraged them to
continue smoking continuously until even their eyes could no longer
penetrate the growing haze.

"So, what do we do next?" Cindy asked from within the cloud, her words
carried on heavy exhalations of smoke.

"I'm not sure," said Darleen, showing a rare uncertainty.  "Saint Mary
Lou was...is a wanderer.  I guess we're settlers."  This was the first
time Darleen had said anything aloud that hinted that their path might
differ from the Sacred Waif's.

"So we just stay here and..." Alicia trailed off, waiting for
guidance.

Darleen frowned.  All of this religious shit and "mantle of leadership"
burden was beginning to weigh on her.  Perhaps simple survival...and
yes, comfort...was a good enough reward.  "Mary Lou said she wouldn't
be back...but even so, if we remember her, remember to love her...and
each other...maybe we'll win whatever's worth winning."

More was said.  Afterwards came the rituals of loving, a piece of
"religious shit" Darlene never tired of.  Then came cuddling, and
shared warmth.  It was too soon interrupted.

All three heard the odd noise filtering in from outside the mine.  As
one, they left the warm, comforting haze and emerged into the frigid
Wyoming winter.

Few signs of their settlement remained on the surface.  The mine
entrance itself had been cleverly concealed for months.  Nothing
stirred, nothing seemed amiss.

Two AH-64D Apache Longbow attack helicopters suddenly breasted the low
hill, cutting their noise-suppression systems as they approached.  The
loud clattering and threatening appearance of the aircraft had the
effect their designers intended.  The girls froze in shock.

Without warning. each helicopter launched two Hellfire missiles.  Three
gouged out huge chunks of hillside without doing serious damage.  The
fourth exploded on top of Cindy, hurling her body 30 yards through the
air.  She hit the side of a large boulder and fell motionless to the
frozen ground.

"NO!" screamed Darlene, ducking to her right and accelerating her
nerves to their highest speed.  As the helicopters circled in apparent
slow-motion for another pass, she grabbed a fist-sized rock and threw
it at the nearer vehicle.

>From her hand, that rock was as deadly as any surface-to-air missile.
It hit the right Hellfire pod, detonating the remaining warheads.  The
helicopter dissolved in a ball of flame, bathing the hilltop with heat
and melting a ton of snow and ice.

Alicia was also screaming and far less deliberate in her actions, but
she imitated Darleen, making up for a lack of quality with quantity.
In less than 10 seconds she peppered the remaining helicopter with 17
rocks.  Fuselage riddled and rotors almost severed, the chopper spun
out of control, trailing smoke, and plummeted to the ground.

Unlike the first vehicle, this one did not explode.  Darlene was on it
in an instant, looking into the acrylic-shielded cockpit. The pilot was
dead, his head split by one of Alicia's rocks.  The copilot/gunner was
injured but alive.

In a mad rage, Darleen ripped the door from its hinges and pulled the
wounded soldier from his seat, parting the heavy leather
restraining-belts like tissue paper.  He groaned at the forced
movement, but Darleen was in no mood to be gentle.  She ripped a loose
piece of metal from the rotor assembly and bent it around his wrists,
pinioning his hands.

Major John Hardin, USAF, regarded his young captor through a haze of
pain and blood.  A little kid had casually destroyed his command,
killed his men, and taken him prisoner, all in a matter of moments. He
had been ordered to search for a nest of terrorists and instead found
himself warring against children, young girls who had defeated him...

"I...we didn't...it was a mistake!  An accident!" he managed to choke
out.  An strange mistake, some weird glitch had fouled the fire-control
system...he hadn't intended to fire...but he couldn't manage to say all
that.

Darleen pushed the Major toward the hidden entrance to the mine.  "You
are our prisoner," she said from behind.  "Try to escape and we'll kill
you."

"Darleen!"  Alicia shouted from nearby.  "Cindy!  Darleen,
she's...she's dead!"

Darleen spun Hardin around to face her.  "You've killed our friend,"
she said, her brown eyes cold and calm.  "You're a murderer."

"I'm...I'm sorry," said Hardin.  "I didn't know.  It's not my fault"

"Justice must be done," said Darleen, and moved slightly.  Hardin did
not have time to cry out.

With the dispensation of that justice, a new society was forever
sundered from the old.


14.  The Pentagon, Washington, DC, December 22, 9:34 PM EST

Bad news traveled more quickly this time.

The assault force assigned to scour the hills of southwestern Wyoming
had abruptly lost communications after reporting a sighting of "people
on the ground."  Several subsequent reconnaissance flights had seen no
sign of any people, movement, or the missing aircraft near the point of
last contact.  Review of onboard telemetry indicated that the Apaches'
weapon systems had been fired just prior to the communications cutoff.

If true, this was a potentially embarrassing situation.  The mission
parameters included no authorization to fire unless the force came
under direct attack.  There was no sign that any such attack had
occurred.

The search would be continued, but no one here would be particularly
upset if nothing was found.  It would become, officially, a training
accident.  Highly regrettable, a tragedy for the lost men's families,
but better by far than uncovering a friendly fire incident against
civilians.

With a little luck, the whole thing could be buried and forgotten.


15.  Zanesville. Ohio, December 28, 5:15 PM EST

It had taken a long time and a long distance, but Mary Lou had finally
returned to herself.

She found herself standing on the berm of Interstate 70, with no memory
of how she had come to that place.  Much earlier, she could vaguely
recall fleeing the hospital in North Carolina, then a long period of
wandering from town to town, always westward.  She had been filled with
fear, longing, and a sense of some impending change of great
consequence.  Her fear was of many things, but mostly of the men who
had pursued her.  They had been real, and very threatening.  Her
longing was for affection, for love, and for protection.  These had
been real needs because they were important things which she lacked.
The sense of a change coming?  That was less sure, but she still feel
it, could almost smell it on the cold Ohio wind.  Whatever it was, it
was closer now.

All during those long months she had been plagued with confusion of
mind and failures of memory.  Her recollections of past times were
still damaged or absent, but she was different now.  The confusion was
gone, replaced with a calm and serenity which she drank down like a
rare wine.  Dr. Ryan...no, Rebecca had helped her, back east
somewhere.  She remembered the white machine.  It had made a pressing
force within her, one she had struggled against, then joined, then
magnified.  There had been bright light, pain, and a long time
of...nothing.  It had helped her, though, as Rebecca promised.  Somehow
she knew her memory would not betray her again, and the confusion would
not return.

Needles could never harm her, she now realized.  She would need to be
careful of magnets and electricity, though.

Somewhere along the way she had scrounged some ill-fitting clothes.  In
a pocket she found a large sheaf of folded bills.  She had no idea how
or where she had gotten these things, but they weren't enough by
themselves.  She needed food and would dearly love some cigarettes.

She thought of turning back and seeking Rebecca again, but decided
against it.  Rebecca had her own tasks and worries, ones to which she
was no longer relevant.  Mary Lou was needed elsewhere.  Further west.

She did not seek a ride as she walked along the highway, staying far
from the pockmarked concrete.  Even weakened by hunger, her endurance
was more than adequate to walk a great distance before she would
require help.

Eventually she came to an exit with a large, enclosed mall just
beyond.  The parking lot was crowded with the vehicles of post-holiday
shoppers, looking to shed their white elephants for more desirable
items or cash.  Mary Lou pushed through glass doors and into the
thronged arcade.

Despite her disheveled appearance and unsuitable dress, she did not
expect to attract any special attention among these people, all so
focused on their individual goals.  She was taken aback when the crowds
grew still and silent as she walked down the mall, their eyes following
her movements as though she was entirely nude.

It was not shock or lewd interest which prompted their attention,
though.  Mary Lou could sense a thousand conflicting emotions in the
onlookers with a strange clarity, as if each person was a broadcasting
station tuned to her exact frequency.  Attraction, desire, and
admiration were there, certainly.  Wonder and curiosity as well.
Sexual interest in some, both men and women.  But there were other,
less definable and more inappropriate emotions, too.  Awe, a curious
non-physical hunger, and worship.

She kept her eyes on the pseudo-marble floor, knowing that to meet any
individual's gaze would trigger behavior she was not ready to deal
with.  She had no choice, though, when she entered a Wendy's franchise
for some much-needed food.

A bored, overweight teenager was manning the register.  When his eyes
met hers they went wide, his jaw dropping, attention riveted.  She
willed him to suppress his reactions, to listen to her and respond
appropriately, as she ordered an immense quantity of food.  She had to
deal in the same manner with the other employees who prepared and
delivered her order.  The cashier would never have taken her for money
if she had not pressed him to accept it.  She received no change.

Not wanting to sit down and allow a crowd to accumulate, she ate the
food standing, almost as fast as she received it.  Reaching satiety at
last she would have liked to leave the mall right then, but there was
more she needed and she knew the reactions she caused here would not be
different anywhere else.

At a JC Penny's she purchased a few items of clothing and a backpack
like the one she had carried for so long before.  At a health-food
store she found a supply of "Power ++," the high-calorie nutritional
drink that had often served her needs well.  At each stop she was
forced to deal with the sales help as she had at the restaurant.
Shoppers followed her everywhere half-willingly, like iron filings
drawn to a magnet.

A last stop at a tobacconist's gained her three cartons of Premium
100s, a brand that stimulated pleasant memories.  Forgetting that
smoking was usually prohibited in malls, she lit a cigarette
immediately.  No voice was raised to condemn her.

Remembering how she had once smoked for an appreciative crowd, she put
on a show as she walked toward a mall exit.  She smoked three more
cigarettes before leaving, launching towering plumes of smoke all the
way to the mall's skylight.  If she ever saw Shelly again, thought Mary
Lou, she'd have to recommend some MRI treatments.  This was all quite
entrancing.

Once out in the gathering darkness she accelerated to full running
speed, leaving any would-be followers far behind.  Running west.

I'm coming, thought Mary Lou, but to who that thought was addressed she
was not at all sure.


16.  Various Locations, December 31, 1998

In factories all over the American southeast, the titans hummed
quietly.

Immense machines shredded and wrapped the fall tobacco harvest in white
paper, adding chemicals and attaching filters, sorting and arranging
billions of cigarettes for packaging and shipment.  The process
remained essentially the same as it had for decades, though aided now
by modern electronic controls and automation.

None of the thousands of factory workers, supervisors, or quality
assurance engineers noticed anything different, anything amiss in the
myriad complex operations that produced a product more than a century
old.  Yet something very fundamental had changed.  Not in the
machinery, or manufacturing processes, or packaging, or anywhere else
that the workers' attention was focused.  The main ingredient itself
was different.

Much of the tobacco being used in the current production run of
cigarettes was no longer the familiar nicotiana tabacum of countless
years past.  It was nicotiana coelensis ryanii, a hybrid spread by
viral mutation, prevalent now all over North America and rapidly
spreading into Europe and Asia.  A hybrid that, once smoked, produced a
dramatic and irreversible change in the smoker, isolating him or her
forever from the common human species.

In the factory storage areas tall pallets of fresh, shrink-wrapped
cartons, most containing the hybrid cigarettes, waited mutely.  Soon
they would be winding their circuitous routs through warehouses,
staging areas, and wholesalers before reaching millions of consumer
points-of-sale.

Carrying the contagion.


End of Part Three

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