| Opening pages of Pandora Solution |
Oh, Christ,” Dr. Adam Forrester groaned as he entered his lab. Forty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, wiry and tanned, Adam looked more like an Olympic athlete than the pale and wan research scientist one would expect in this environment. He was wearing khakis that were clean but hadn’t seen an iron since his wife died two years ago. He wore a denim shirt, nearly threadbare and seriously faded by the sun and overuse, and a pair of tattered La Sportiva rock-climbing shoes. His curly brown hair was full, on the long side, and somewhere between bed-head and casually messy. Blue-gray eyes were open, steady, and bright, like a November New England morning. Under normal circumstances, Adam projected confidence, ebullience and a comfortable self-knowledge. Now he saw in his reflected image signs of shock, apprehension and alarm; at least signs apparent to him. He consciously adjusted his expression; shock, apprehension and alarm are not appropriate characterizations for the Director of Viral Research of the biggest and best-known secret biotest lab in the country. No, the world.
Clusters of small red and yellow lights flashed urgently on the stainless panels and computer screens set into and surrounding the console Adam was approaching. The array of lights reflected like an orgasmic Christmas tree from all the shiny, polished alloy surfaces of the lab; walls, floor, ceiling, stainless steel doors, counters and table tops. The red lights punctuated the overall tone of the lab; the flat, chilly blue tone generated by banks of cool fluorescents, the battery of polished cold steel appliances and instruments of containment, observation, and analysis. The visual effect was heightened by shrill audible alarms pulsating endlessly, as they had been doing in vain through most of the night, and would continue to do until someone turned them off.
ViraTech Lab, like all biocontainment labs, is a labyrinthine cluster of hermetically sealed chambers within larger sealed chambers, like nesting Chinese boxes. Everything is contained, and contained again; people, test animals, computers, chemicals, isolates. Everything has a place, and everything is either being actively used, is carefully disposed of, or is stored where it belongs, with no exceptions, no excuses. There are no cracks in the walls, no chinks in the armor, no flicker of sunlight in the high hazard labs. The sterilized air is as dead and dry as a high desert tumbleweed in the Sierra Nevada. The sound of it being processed, and pumped into and out of the various chambers of the lab was a never-ending loop of ambient white-noise.
The hefty chamber doors furnishing access and egress to these chambers are impregnable airtight hatches that can be sealed hermetically from either side. A technician or visitor can be locked in, or locked out, depending on the nature and location of an alarm or emergency. In the lab, especially in BSL-4, one soon has the sense that one exists in a perpetual state of jeopardy; a fraction of a second or a centimeter away from catastrophe; a scalpel-sharp Damocles sword hung from a frail hair. The universal biohazard symbol, a circular, spiky crimson trefoil, usually black in a field of red or yellow, never lets you forget the threat. It glows like a skull and crossbones from every door, wall and container in BSL-4.
“What the hell?” said Tom Kolenter, as he sauntered into the lab seconds behind Adam. Tom, 45, was a Central Casting fashion plate. Ralph Lauren, Hugo Boss, Tom Ford and Ermenegildo Zegna were his dearest friends. His moves and poses were smooth and calculated. It was clear he was very taken with himself, as charming and winsome as James Bond. He had a good excuse, he felt, for his oversize egotism; he was Viratech’s Director of Marketing. You might find it curious that a research lab would have a Director of Marketing, since their biggest clients, the DOD, FBI, CIA, and a few of the biggest names in Big Pharma came to them and had been with them essentially from the get-go, but sustaining those relationships and culturing potential new ones was considered to be an important activity to ensure a profitable corporate future, and Tom was happy to play the demanding role of key marketing person. Tom approached the console, put down his designer coffee mug, and followed Adam’s gaze through the hermetically-sealed triple-glazed window into the BSL-4 biocontainment chamber – the “Hot Zone”. All the test animals: mice, rats, pigeons, dogs and monkeys, were lying lifeless at the bottoms of their cages.
Adam threw the switch that turned off the audible alarms. He rolled his shoulders; an involuntary shudder. He did not turn to look at his uninvited colleague. Adam was angry with himself for not sealing the door to the lab immediately when he entered and saw that there was a problem. Tom Kolenter visited the lab only on occasion to snoop or gossip or ramble on about unimportant stuff – mainly himself and his latest conquest — why the hell did he have to pick this particular morning to drop by? It was as if he could smell the germination of a headline-worthy story calling for a top priority press release to all appropriate media.
Adam swiped with his hand to scroll down through the recent biofunction data on the display.
“Holy shit,” said Kolenter.
“Uh huh,” said Adam.
“All these suckers died hours ago, right?”
“Pull up a chair, Tom. Sit down, and chill.”
“What the hell happened?” said Kolenter.
“The mice went down around nine p.m.,” said Adam, almost as if talking to himself. “The birds between 9:30 and 9:45. Dogs around 11:00. Monkeys clustered around midnight. The rats went down last, between 2:00 and 3:00 am.”
“Fuckin’ rats.”
“Yup.”
“Holy shit, Doc. Do you think it’s the… you know…?”
Adam scrolled through the histories on the monkeys, whose function-monitoring systems were the most thorough. “Asphyxiation,” he said. “Drowned in their own fluids.” He saw movement in his peripheral vision, and looked up into the window to BSL-4, but there was no sign of life in the chamber beyond. The ghost of his own reflection stared back at him.
“Asphyxiation is the official cause of death,” announced Adam, in an administrative timber.
“Doc, c’mon,” said Kolenter, “don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
Adam got up and moved toward the de-con staging room.
“What are you doing?” Kolenter said.
“Suiting up, Tom. I have to go in.”