Reliquary

“Let’s take a quick look,” she said, carrying the pieces into the main lab and placing them on the stage of a wide-angle Stereozoom. She peered through the eyepieces, probing the remains with a scapula. As D’Agosta looked on, she sliced open the back of a head, peeled the skin and fur away from the skull, and examined it carefully. Next, she cut open a section of spinal cord and peered closely at the vertebrae.

“As you can see, it looks normal,” she said, straightening up. “Except for the rejuvenative qualities, it seems the primary changes are behavioral, not morphological. At least, that’s the case in this species. It’s too early to be sure, but perhaps Kawakita did succeed in taming the drug in the end.”

“Yeah,” D’Agosta added. “After it was too late.”

“That’s what’s been puzzling me. Kawakita must have taken the drug before it reached this stage of development. Why would he take such a risk, trying the drug on himself? Even after testing it on other people, he couldn’t have been sure. It wasn’t like him to act so rashly.”

“Arrogance,” said D’Agosta.

“Arrogance doesn’t explain turning yourself into a guinea pig. Kawakita was a careful scientist, almost to a fault. It just doesn’t seem in character.”

“Some of the most unlikely people become addicts,” D’Agosta said. “I see it all the time. Doctors. Nurses. Even police officers.”

“Maybe.” Margo sounded unconvinced. “Anyway, over here are the bacteria and the protozoans we inoculated with the reovirus. Strangely enough, they all tested negative: the amoebas, paramecia, rotifers, everything. Except for this one.” She had open an incubator, exposing rows of Petrie dishes covered with purple agar. Glossy, dime-sized welts in each dish of agar indicated growing colonies of protozoans.

She removed a dish. “This is B. meresgerii, a single-celled animal that lives in the ocean, growing in shallow water on the surface of kelp and seaweed. It usually feeds on plankton. I like to use them because they’re relatively docile, and they’re exceptionally sensitive to chemicals.”

She carefully dragged a wire loup through the colony of single-celled animals. Smearing the loup on a glass slide, she seated the slide on the microscope tray, adjusted the focus, then stepped away so D’Agosta could take a look.

Peering into the eyepiece, D’Agosta couldn’t see anything at first. Then he made out a number of round, clear blobs, waving their cilia frantically against a gridded background.

“I thought you said they were docile,” he said, still staring.

“They usually are.”

Suddenly, D’Agosta realized that the frenzied maneuvering was not random at all: The creatures were attacking each other, ripping at each other’s external membranes and thrusting themselves into the breaches they created.

“And I thought you said they ate plankton.”

“Again, they normally do,” Margo replied. She looked at him. “Creepy, isn’t it?”

“You got that right.” D’Agosta backed away, inwardly surprised at how the ferocity of these tiny creatures somehow made him feel squeamish.

“I thought you’d want to see this.” Margo stepped up to the microscope and took another look herself. “Because if they plan on—”

She paused, stiffening, as if glued to the eyepiece.

“What is it?” D’Agosta asked.

For a long minute, Margo didn’t respond. “That’s odd,” she murmured at last. She turned to her lab assistant. “Jen, will you stain some of these with eosinophil? And I want a radioactive tracer done to find out which are the original members of the colony.”

Motioning D’Agosta to wait, Margo helped the lab assistant prepare the tracer, finally placing the entire treated colony under the Stereozoom. She peered into the microscope for what seemed to D’Agosta like an eternity. At last she straightened up, scratched some equations into her notebook, then peered into the Stereozoom once again. D’Agosta could hear her counting something to herself.

“These protozoa,” she said at last, “have a normal life span of about sixteen hours. They’ve been in here thirty-six. B. meresgerii, when incubated at thirty-seven degrees Celsius, divides once every eight hours. So”—she pointed to a differential equation in her notebook—“after thirty-six hours, you should see a ratio of about seven to nine dead to live protozoa.”

“And—?” D’Agosta asked.

“I just did a rough count and found the ratio is only half that.”

“Which means?”

“Which means the B. meresgerii are either dividing at a lower rate, or…”

She put her eye back to the microscope and D’Agosta could hear the whispered counting again. She straightened up again, this time more slowly.

“The dividing rate is normal,” she said, in a low voice.

D’Agosta fingered the cigar in his breast pocket. “Which means?”

“They’re living fifty percent longer,” she said flatly.

D’Agosta looked at her a moment. “There’s Kawakita’s motive,” he said quietly.

There was a soft knock at the door. Before Margo could answer, Pendergast glided in, nodding to them both. He was once again attired in a crisp black suit, and his face, though a little drawn and tired, betrayed no sign of his recent journeys beyond a small scrape above the left eyebrow.

“Pendergast!” D’Agosta said. “About time.”

“Indeed,” said the FBI agent. “I had a feeling you’d be here, too, Vincent. Sorry to have been out of touch so long. It was a somewhat more arduous journey than I had imagined. I would have been here to report my encounter half an hour earlier, but I felt a shower and change of clothes to be rather essential.”

“Encounter?” Margo asked incredulously. “You saw them?”

Pendergast nodded. “I did, and much else besides. But first, please bring me up to date on events aboveground. I heard about the subway tragedy, of course, and I saw the troops in blue, massing as if for Ru

He listened intently as Margo and D’Agosta explained about the true nature of glaze, about Whittlesey and Kawakita, and about the plan to flush out the Astor Tu

“This is fascinating,” he said at last. “Fascinating, and extremely unsettling.” He took a seat at a nearby lab table, crossing one thin leg over the other. “There are disturbing parallels here to my own investigations. You see, there is a gathering point, deep in the Astor Tu

“What did it look like?” Margo asked almost reluctantly.

Pendergast frowned. “Difficult to tell. I never came that close, and the NVD I was wearing does not resolve well at distance. It looked human, or close to it. But its gait was… well, it was off somehow.” The FBI agent seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “It squatted forward in an u

“Was it hit?” D’Agosta asked.

“I believe so. Some blood spoor was evident. But by that point, I was somewhat anxious to return to the surface.” He looked at Margo, one eyebrow raised. “I would imagine that some of the creatures are more deformed than others. In any case, there are three things we can be sure of. They are fast. They can see in the dark. And they are completely malevolent.”