The Red Plague Affair

Chapter Twenty-Eight A Footrace With Death

Genius though he was, Morris had not been systematic. The notes were a hotchpotch, records of experiments interspersed with bits of weather observation and snatches of old prayers mixed with hand-drawn observations and elongated screaming faces, lists of foods that interfered with Morris’s most delicate digestion and constitution, and some most ugly bits of scurrilousness about Queen and Crown.

Morris had not been turned against his country. No, the genius had merely hated his fellow man with a deep, abiding passion and quite democratic uniformity, and found a way to cleanse the world of sinners with almost-invisible contagion – very much the hand of his vengeful God. It was an elegant solution to such hatred, and the drawings of the earlier iterations of the canisters were most intriguing.

But the delivery method did not give enough of a clue to the organism’s roots, as it were.

Clare went slowly through the folio as Vance continued his testing. There was some small success with dicalchimide, but it quickly faded. The tiny little beings were incredibly resistant, and Clare had a momentary shudder when his faculties turned to the question of what they were likely doing inside his own veins.

How much time do I have?

His hand stole towards the secret drawer. Inside was a small silver-chased box, and a fraction of the powder inside would make his faculties sharper. Sharp enough to cut this knotted tangle into manageable pieces, as Aleksandr of Makedon once had in a temple, long ago?

What a historical thought.

Near the end, a single, creased scrap of paper drew his attention. The notations on it blurred, and he coughed, thickly. Squinted, cursing the veil drawn over his vision. His nose had dulled, too, for he could no longer smell the experimentation. The thickness of marrowe-jelly, the stagnant reek of disease, the miasma-choke of the autoclave steam-cleansing the eyedroppers. His fingers caressed the knob that would bring the drawer open and reveal the box.

“Nothing with faramide, either.” Vance whistled tunelessly, but did not turn. “Do not take your coja, Clare. It will accelerate the illness.”

What manner of deduction led you there, sir? But it was immaterial. Clare squinted a fraction more; his faculties seized upon the notations on the crumpled, torn farthing-paper. He could almost see Morris hunched at his table, scribbling, incoherent with excitement as whatever vengeful Muse or saint waited upon mad geniuses dropped the solution into his fevered, waiting brain.

“Aha,” he breathed. “Ah.” The fit of coughing seized him, and when it was finished, he spat a globule of bright red. It splatted dully on the floor, but Clare was past caring. “Vance. Vance.”

“Filistune is also useless. I am here.”

“Here it is.” Clare forced his reluctant legs to straighten, pushing back the wooden chair with a scrape. “Here is the key. It is the alteration process. By God, man… by God…”

He did not have to finish. Vance was suddenly there, and the other mentath’s sweat was as candy-sweet as his own. Vance took in the scrawled notations with a single glance and shut his eyes, the tear filming down his shaven cheeks tinged with crimson. His own faculties would be working through the ramifications and deductions, and when he opened his eyes again Clare found that their gazes met and meshed with no trouble at all.

It was a moment of accord he could have shared with none other than a mentath.

“Muscovide. And not marrowe-jelly.” Vance nodded.

“We must have some method of separating—”

“—and an acidic base. Yes. Yes.” Vance’s fists knotted, and he made a short sharp gesture. As if he felt a throat between his fingers, and he wished to squeeze.

“It will take time to prepare, to break the chain of replication. But by God, man, we can halt this dreadful thing.”

“Then we must not stand about.” A series of wracking coughs seized Vance’s body, and he curled around them, shaking away Clare’s movement to help with an impatient violence. When he could draw breath again, he straightened, and another of those piercing looks passed between them.

“Indeed.” Clare suppressed the tickle in his own throat. With no further ado, he strode for the table and swept a working space clean with one of his trembling arms. We are in a footrace with Death. But perhaps we may gain a length or two.