Perry drew in a huge breath, and screamed his final words.

“Thank you for saving my life!”

The giant bomb exploded. The mushroom cloud rose up far beneath her feet. It wouldn’t reach her. She wouldn’t feel the effects.

She was safe: it was only other people who died.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

•  •  •

Margaret Montoya opened her eyes. She’d failed Perry. She’d failed Dew Phillips. She’d failed Amos Braun.

She sat up in bed, trying to remember where she was. A bed, clean sheets that smelled faintly of bleach, heavy blankets … her room aboard the Carl Brashear.

A nap, a short nap that had done nothing to ease her exhaustion.

She wanted to watch the diver go into the Los Angeles, but she could barely move. Maybe it was time to take Tim up on his offer for Adderall. She’d had four hours of sleep in the last twenty — every hour of sleep was a lost hour of a.n.a.lysis and research.

Margaret pushed herself out of bed. She could watch the diver’s efforts while she waited for the initial results from Tim’s yeast modification. Saccharomyces feely. That was the answer, it had to be.

The hydras were a fascinating development, but largely unknown. What effect would they have on a living host? They might wind up being as bad as — or worse than — the crawlers that they killed. Tim had found his living hydras inside pustules on Walker; that was one way the crawlers spread. Would the hydras also puff out, microscopic bits floating on the air until they landed on a new host?

If so, the hydras could become an airborne contagion.

Tim’s yeast, on the other hand, carried no such threat. He’d ramped up the growth rate somehow, making it reproduce two to three times faster than most yeast. It wasn’t contagious — and even if it was, it was just yeast with a piece of the hydra’s coding: no threat of any kind. Still, she had sent Murray a message to look into the Spectrum Health HAC study. If one partic.i.p.ant in that study produced hydras, other partic.i.p.ants might as well. She couldn’t afford to overlook any possibility that could provide a potential weapon.

Margaret stood. She felt old, she felt creaky. She’d watch the diver, then maybe take one of Tim’s pills.

Tired or not, the work wouldn’t wait.

POSITIVE THOUGHTS

Tim Feely walked down the white corridor, toweling off his hair as he went. Amazing what a shower could do for the soul. His flip-flops flapped against the floor. He wore a thick, white, terrycloth robe, a gift from Captain Yasaka. That poor, poor woman; she commanded an entire ship’s worth of sailors, day in, day out, but sometimes a girl just needed someone else to take charge.

Tim wondered if Margaret Montoya was that kind of woman in the bedroom. Or did her boudoir policies stray into the dictatorial realm? He certainly couldn’t see Clarence Otto as the kind of guy who let his lady boss him around. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Margaret was too aggressive for Tall, Dark & Don’t Threaten My Manhood. If Margo wanted to call the shots, that wouldn’t bother Tim in the least.

If the ladies liked it, Tim liked it — a simple philosophy that opened up a world of possibilities.

Could he land Margaret? Why the f.u.c.k not? He felt on top of the world, he felt like a king. He’d isolated the hydra’s catalyst-producing gene sequence and inserted it into his fast-growing yeast, which was now happily diving away. It remained to be seen, however, if the modified yeast actually produced the catalyst, and if that catalyst actually worked.

From everything he’d seen so far, it would. Which meant — Tim Feely might very well have just saved the world.

And if that don’t get you laid, nothing will.

Tim entered the briefing room. Margaret was sitting in one of the room’s ten theater-style chairs. Clarence stood off a bit to the side. He’d lost the suit coat, thank G.o.d. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. A T-shirt that was too tight, in Tim’s opinion. Well, maybe Margaret was tired of all those muscles. f.u.c.k but that Clarence dude was put together, though.

Margaret saw Tim enter, raised her gla.s.s of wine. “Doctor Feely. I found the liquor cabinet and helped myself. You don’t mind?”

He gave her his best seductive smile. “Don’t mind at all.”

Clarence saw the smile. He scowled.

Tim dialed the smile back a few notches, from leering to slightly-more-than-friendly.

Margaret gestured to the room, clearly hoping to change the subject. “This theater is really something.”

Tim could imagine how the room took newbies by surprise. In addition to cushy seats that faced a ten-foot screen, there was a fridge full of beer, plenty of snacks, and a liquor cabinet packed with the best liquid treats a boy could buy.

“Don’t forget there was a full staff here for years,” he said. “Uncle Sam wanted his pet scientists to be happy.”

Clarence let out a snort. “Yeah. And the people who actually do the work of running the ship? What do they think of your little private theater?”

Tim waggled his pointer finger side to side. “Please to no-no-no,” he said. “The entire science module is off-limits to the rank and file. I doubt people who hot-bunk would appreciate we brainiacs living in the lap of luxury.”

“Right,” Clarence said. “That doesn’t bother you at all?”

Tim walked past Clarence to the liquor cabinet. The half-empty bottle of Adderall was right on top. Correction, half-full: Tim was an optimist, after all. He opened the cabinet and pulled out the bottle of Oban 2000.