EXTRACT FOR
Deviation
(Author Unknown)

Chapter One

    

    July 18, 2010

    

    "This is your last book tour, Reesa Zimms." The woman holding the gun said with such authority that Reesa's stomach knotted in reaction. "I need to know who Patient Zero is and I need to know now."

    There were several different kinds of heroes, Reesa thought numbly as she stared at the gun.  John Wayne's no-nonsense, hit-'em-with-the-butt of your weapon came to mind, but she had very little in common with the heroes he portrayed and she'd be the first to admit it.  Clinging to Jake's belt, Reesa tried to work up the courage to at least think straight.  Because if she didn't think of something very quickly, her publicist of eight years was going to be shot right in the middle of Brady's Belfue Bookstore.  Her immediate instinct to run was curtailed by the chest-high bookshelves boxing them in and her legs refused to move. 

    Jake's shoulder blocked part of her view, shielding her from the gun.  He stood poised and unmoving, his six foot frame a solid presence in the store front.  His attention never wavered from the threat in front of them.  Reesa's chest went tight; who would've thought Jake had it in him? Her mind ticked off several reasons why he'd place himself in danger for her, most of them dealing with their business relationship.  She was his client, after all, but a publicist was a far cry from a bodyguard.

    When Reesa still hadn't answered, Jake shifted just-so, bringing more of his body between her and the gun.  He hesitated, but finally managed to speak; "She already told you she doesn't know."

    Reesa heard the slight waver in his usually self-assured tone ??" even if the woman couldn't ??" and felt the muscles in his back coil.  He almost sounded normal, as though there was nothing strange about a woman with a tattoo in her eyeball pointing a gun at them. 

    Hero, Reesa thought, her fingers tightening on his belt so hard she could feel the leather edge bite into her skin; maybe not John Wayne, but a hero just the same.  

    "In the first book, Martian Tribulation, page eighty-five, you wrote that the Mavirus had a starting point, a Patient Zero, but that scientists never found her." Tattoo woman continued to speak to Reesa, ignoring Jake's presence completely. "But that doesn't mean you don't know who she is."

    Internally, Reesa decided she was going to try her hand at the young adult market.  She doubted J.K. Rowling had ever been held up by a fan demanding to know where Diagon Alley really was.  For that matter, Reesa had never known her fan base included the cult-like insane until two minutes ago.  

    The blonde woman was dressed in an overly plush jacket that seemed to swallow her in cadet-blue, stained fabric.  Her face, however, was clearly visible ??" all smooth contours and elegant features, and Reesa was struck with a strange sense of recognition.  She was familiar, even with the tattooed eyeball, but Reesa couldn't place her in her memory.  She was beautiful like a diamond, Reesa thought; pretty to look at but cold and hard to touch.

    For half a heartbeat Reesa hoped she saw conflict in Tattoo Woman's gray-green eyes.  And then those eyes hardened, slitting into a glare that froze Reesa's blood.  Tattoo depressed the trigger and the shot cracked into the little bookstore, echoed by the barely stifled screams of those unfortunate customers who'd come in for Reesa's autograph.  Jake grunted in painful surprise, slamming back against her.  

    Scrambling to catch him, Reesa released his belt and wrapped her arms around his lean torso.  But he was three inches taller than she was and at least fifty pounds heavier.  They toppled backward, crashing into the book signing table, which promptly slid into the nearest bookshelf.  Reesa's head connected with the hardwood floor an instant later, sharp lights bursting into her vision on impact.  Jake landed heavily on top of her, his head smacking into her shoulder so hard that her fingers went numb.  

    Books showered around them, paperbacks plunking to the ground, their titles reflecting the halogen lights in a strangely innocuous way.  Shocked out of the present, Reesa blinked at one cover in particular.  Ender's Game, it read, Orson Scott Card's novel.  Next to it was a copy of her third novel: The Jupiter Invasion, a Tale of the Lothogy. Its copper lettering taunted her from the floor just before Tattoo stepped back into view. 

    Tattoo's perfect mouth twisted into a scowl. "I tried to avoid this."

    Jake groaned and cursed, his body rolling halfway off her so that he could grip his left shoulder.  Reesa wrapped herself around him, her hands automatically covering the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood.  He had gone an unnaturally gray color, his face pasty with sweat.  She could feel the slick of warm blood under her fingers, and for a panicked moment forgot that Tattoo was still there.  Blood rimmed his baby blue shirt, making a rusty stain that peeked out from where she clutched tight to the wound.  His hand covered hers, strong and clammy.  

    In the back of her mind, Reesa wondered if there was an exit wound.  She'd never been shot but she'd written about it enough times that she knew that exit wounds were preferable to having the bullet lodged in his body.  Her mind stumbled, unable to calculate distances, velocity, angles or location.  All she could think to do was hold on, to stare at his handsome-set face and pray help arrived soon.     

    "Crazy bitch," Jake hissed through his teeth.    

    Finally remembering that Tattoo was standing over them, Reesa glared up at the woman; "You shot him!"

    "He is irrelevant. Tell me of the Mavirus." Tattoo wasn't looking at them; she was scanning the room, checking the exits.  

    Jake was right, she really was a crazy bitch.  For an instant, Reesa thought she recognized the movement.  It was deliberate, focused, and the way Tattoo held the weapon appeared disciplined and controlled.  This woman, Reesa realized, was trained.   

    "The Mavirus is a fictional disease from a fictional work ?" Reesa's words were cut short as the woman made a point of chambering another round. 

    "Patient Zero."

    It was the cool, calm gaze from the tattooed eyeball that made Reesa's heart stop.  For an agonizing moment she thought she might have a heart attack, if the fanatical woman didn't shoot her first.  But then Tattoo leveled the weapon at Jake's head and Reesa felt the stuttered, heavy thud of her heartbeat again. 

    There should have been some sort of rage, she thought.  Heroes always came to this moment and were ignited by overwhelming fury that bypassed courage, but in that breathless second Reesa could only find a heavy, icy knot of fear in her chest.  She wasn't a hero, she was a novelist; a quiet, intelligent, seafaring novelist.  Violence was reserved for the pages of her work, not for her irritatingly handsome publicist.  

    Reesa opened her mouth to say something, but could only manage a pathetic squeak.  

    She was a novelist.  All she had to do was make something up.  

    Reesa's mind flashed to her books, to her stupid "world-building" and all the notes that cluttered her workspace at home.  Then the muzzle of the gun lowered a fraction, distracting her again because it was aimed at Jake's chest.  Reesa gripped Jake's body tighter, anticipating another shot as she tried to find something useful to say or do. 

    "The-the Mavirus Carcinoma," every word she said seemed to trip over her tongue, flying out with a rush of adrenaline as she prayed that the police would get there soon. "First reported outbreak was December 12, 2181.  At least ? at least that's what's on my outline.  Please don't shoot him again."  

    "I know what was reported, Reesa Zimms.  I want what wasn't reported.  I need Patient Zero.  I need a name."

    "I don't have a name!"

    "You have to have the name!"

    "Damnit, Reesa, just make one up," Jake half-growled and Reesa winced. 

    Tattoo took one step toward her and hesitated, scowling at the front of the store.  For a moment Reesa could do nothing but thank God for the flash of red and blue that filled the room.  Sirens whined, filtering in through the brick walls and half opened door.  Glancing at the window, Reesa felt a surge of relief.  Tattoo said something but she couldn't hear it, then the woman turned and ran for the back of the store. 

    Reesa watched her go, one hand clutched around Jake's body, still pushing hard against the wound in his shoulder.  Tattoo's overly-large coat flapped open in the retreat and Reesa was assaulted with a new sort of shock.  Starting at mid-thigh, the woman's leg cut off into pure robotics, joints and gears clearly visible until the foot disappeared into a boot.  Reeling in disbelief, Reesa continued to stare after her, transfixed by the whirr of machinery mounted to her leg.  A moment later, Tattoo disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind her. 

    Chaos burst into the bookstore as police barreled in, several rushing after Tattoo and several more moving to usher people out.  Dazed, Reesa looked down at Jake, who was swearing and trembling in her lap.  It took her a moment to realize what he was saying. 

    "And I thought ? you were the biggest nut-job I'd ever met."

    He probably meant to make her laugh, but she couldn't find the humor.  Instead, she shifted to hold him better, pressing her forehead to his as the gravity of the moment overwhelmed her.  Bodies crowded around them but she didn't move.  Reesa just closed her eyes and tried to stop crying.  She couldn't remember when she'd started, and she knew she looked hysterical and weak, but she imagined people would forgive her for that.  

    Someone was trying to talk to her.  She felt a hand on her shoulder, but still she didn't move. 

    It wasn't until Jake touched her cheek, his sweaty, cold palm pressing against her skin, that she found the will to withdraw.  Gazing down at him, Reesa could read the strength and relief in his eyes.  He would survive, she knew.  If Tattoo had wanted him dead, she would have aimed more to the center of Jake's body.  His dark blue eyes softened a bit, and he trailed his fingers over her jaw.  

    "Ma'am, we need you to move your hand." 

    Blinking, she tore her gaze away from Jake and to the barrel-chested paramedic at her side.  Olive-skinned and serious, the paramedic had already located what he needed to take care of Jake and was poised beside them, ready for action.  Obediently, Reesa let go of Jake and allowed herself to be pulled away.  

    Her eyes strayed to the bathroom where two of the policemen were trying to kick the door down.  Another paramedic was trying to talk to her, calmly flirting in what she assumed was an attempt to soothe her shattered nerves.  She was in shock, she knew that in a disjointed way.  She was cold, her heart was thudding so hard in her chest that she couldn't really hear much, and her body couldn't stop shaking.  But try as she might, she could not pull her attention from the bathroom door. 

    "This is your last book tour, Reesa Zimms." Tattoo's voice echoed through her.  Lightheaded, Reesa felt her knees give way.  Strong arms caught her, but she didn't have time to see who it was.



*

    

    "The United Nations announced Tuesday that the Hawaiian Islands were to be converted into a Mavirus sanctuary.  All men, children, and uninfected women have been ordered to evacuate as the first of the infected are shipped in. Standing just seven months after the Mavirus Carcinoma's first victims perished, the U.N. has promised that the sanctuary is only temporary as top scientists from across the globe scramble for a cure."  --A.P. Thursday, July 24, 2182

    

Chapter Two

    

    April 9, 2998

    

    "You must fully understand what you are agreeing to," Celeocia watched the woman with shrewd, unfaltering surveillance.  Shrouded in black robes that managed to look rich in spite of the simplicity of the garment, the candidate kept her eyes on the marbled floor just in front of Celeocia's feet.  "The Novo require a lifetime commitment.  You will never marry.  You will go where and when the Temple decides.  Should you choose to disobey any direction given to you, the Temple holds the right to send you to a correctional facility where you will be held indefinitely."

    Dark humor flickered in the would-be apprentice's eyes.  It was faint, but Celeocia spotted it.  Behind the cloth that covered the woman's mouth, Celeocia knew the candidate was smirking.  Under normal circumstances, she would have enjoyed the subtle defiance in the woman.  Unmarried women had two choices in life; obey or disobey.  Outright rebellion led to a correctional facility, a place that held foreboding, hushed whispers of maltreatment.  Celeocia knew these rumors were true.  Deep down, every woman knew it.  That was why so few defied the laws anymore. 

    At least out loud. 

    The Temple of the Novo Femina was tolerated on account of their acquiescence to society.  Proper respect was given to men and in turn the Temple had a semblance of privacy.  Their ranks were populated by spinsters, those few women who had not been wanted, and widows who had borne no children.  On occasion there was a younger woman who chose the Temple over marriage.  This would always depend on the family, who had the right to send the girl to a correctional facility instead. 

    In this case, however, the applicant was none of these. 

    She was a spy. 

    The robes gave her away.  They were too rich, too new, to be from the pretend family flanking the woman.  All of the men behind her were in shades of gray and black; thick padded pants that were worn here and there, and shirts that had seen mending.  Civilian garments, Celeocia registered, but the most suspicious clue was that none of them were wearing weapons.  Or at least, she thought, no weapons that she could see.  She doubted these Makeem Loyalists would have entered the Temple unarmed.    

    Celeocia smiled, warm and inviting, while she memorized the face of the so-called father.  The cybernetics in her left eye digitally mapped out his features, burning a copy to her memory.  Annoyingly enough, the robot inside her could not locate his true identity, but she kept herself poised.  She would find out who he was and everyone he was connected to later, adding the information to their network so that her own spies could be alerted.  For the moment she was content to seize the opportunity she'd been given. 

    "She will have to be inspected," Celeocia spoke to the man, who seemed startled at the sudden attention.  "The Temple has certain standards, you understand."

    "Such as?"  She heard the distinct pitch of suspicion in his voice. 

    "We do a great deal of charity work.  If she is weak or gets sick easily she would be of little use to us."

    "She's neither."

    Celeocia kept her pleasant smile fastened on the man.  Of course the girl was strong and healthy.  She would have to be if she'd come from a Loyalist training yard.  And Celeocia knew she'd come from a training yard.  It was unlikely that they would utilize one of their own family members for a mission like this, not with so many females wallowing in the correctional facilities these days.      

    She found it distinctly amusing that the Makeem were trying this again.  Their last attempt to infiltrate the Temple had been disastrous to their cause.  The girl they'd sent swayed and double crossed them, rose in the ranks of the Novo Femina until she was named High Priestess.  And that girl was Celeocia, who had a marked sense of the irony presented before her. 

    "High Priestess," a calm, sultry voice called her attention away from the spy. 

    Celeocia turned to Eanmar, her personal assistant.  The vibrant claret-colored robes of the Novo Femina could do nothing to hide the puckered face that greeted her.  While every woman was disfigured in some way ??" a direct result of genetic alterations done hundreds of years ago -- some had more unfortunate locations.  Eanmar, for example, appeared to have only half a face.  The left side was pristine, smooth, with a glinting green eye that resembled lake lichen.  Starting at the nose, however, the beauty failed.  The right side seemed to fall in on itself, twisting and bubbling with incoherent scar tissue. 

    It was for women like Eanmar that the female race bore the robes.  Head to toe, faces masked, the robes concealed everything from view.  Only after marriage, under the protection of a husband and a family name, could a woman remove the robes if she wanted.  Most kept them on, clinging to them like a safety line. 

    Throttling down a spurt of agitation for the weakness of her race, Celeocia focused her attention on Eanmar, "Yes?"

    "You have an urgent message from the enclave on Earth."

    Hiding all traces of excitement from her face and voice, Celeocia nodded and said; "Of course." 

    This was the call she'd been waiting for.  Keeping her movement deliberately slow, she made her way to the draped archway that led into the recesses of the Temple.  Smooth, unhurried, calm, she paused just long enough to instruct Eanmar to inspect the applicant before she ducked behind the velvet red drapery.  After four slow steps she quickened her pace, hurrying down the corridor to the communications room. 

    The marbled ivory tones of the Temple gave way to clean, polished metal inside the small chamber.  Two chairs, both occupied, faced the east and west walls where liquid-black screens were lit with bright, white lights.  She'd never worked the Comms Department, so she wasn't certain what each light on the touchable screens meant.  Her expertise was in strategy and calculations.  At the southern wall another thin, mounted screen flickered through static until an image started to form. 

    "That's as good as we can get it," one of the women reported. 

    "Do we have audio?" the woman on the screen asked, half her words crackling with noise. 

    "Affirmative," Celeocia stepped closer to the screen.  "Report."

    She knew the woman without having to access any data files; Rebecca Dorsan, twenty-seven years old.  Rebecca had been suspected of murdering her husband, though nothing had been proven.  Three days after his death she joined the Temple.  Highly intelligent, an excellent pilot, she'd been given the designation Blue Twelve upon entry to the Novo Femina. 

    There was movement on the screen as Rebecca made a quick duck.  A moment later the camera readjusted, flashing into view a crude toilet and supply shelf before Rebecca's face showed up again.  From the awkward vantage Celeocia could see the girl was crammed up against the door, and some kind of pounding rattled the camera, shaking the already distorted image. 

    It was obvious that they had very little time.

    "Report," Celeocia said again. 

    "Target acquired," Rebecca's voice broke into static but her mouth kept moving.  Seconds later the audio came back.  "I repeat; Caresse Zimmerman is Reesa Zimms." 

    On screen, the door burst open, and Rebecca toppled to the floor.  The camera whirled three times before settling, the viewfinder giving a clear picture of the breathless moments that followed.  Two men in tactical gear shoved their way into the room, weapons aimed at Rebecca.  Orders were shouted, unclear amidst the scratch from the audio.  Rebecca's leg, obviously robotic even in the black and white image, bent until her knee was in reach.  Both men paused in shock, which was all Rebecca needed.  She pulled the pin on the explosive device mounted in the robotic limb and the screen exploded into static. 

    Silence enveloped the communications room as the screen shut off.  Celeocia lowered her gaze to the dull metal floor, giving homage to Rebecca Dorsan, Blue Twelve, a woman of vision and courage.  A woman who had refused to hide behind the robes; a Novo Femina who deserved so much more than a rudimentary toilet room as a final resting place. 

    Rebecca Dorsan, her friend of seventeen years. 

    And she could not even mourn for her.  Not in public anyway.  It would be impossible to explain the death, not only 400 million kilometers away but several hundred years in the past. 

    Tense, uncertain shifting in the room forced Celeocia to lift her head.  Two deep breaths later she turned to face them, her features returning to that disciplined gaze of disinterest that she'd perfected.  The robotic part of her that clawed around the left side of her neck and chin helped with this, keeping muscles exactly where she wanted them. 

    "The man in the receiving room is a Makeem Loyalist.  Identify him and process his information.  I want all Novo Femina to be aware of him by night fall."  She exhaled through her teeth, gave a curt nod to the room, and started for the door. 

    She didn't bother returning to the receiving room.  Eanmar was more than capable of handling the applicant and the pain of losing Rebecca was sharp enough that Celeocia didn't trust herself around the spy.  With the loss, however, was also a gain.  While Rebecca hadn't managed to find patient zero, she had been successful in locating the one woman in history who could; Caresse Zimmerman. 

    Celeocia made her way through the maze of marble-metal-meshed hallways, ignoring the respectful bows of the women who passed.  The puzzle was nearly finished.  She could almost see it, completed, answers pouring around her, the great feminine movement revived; freedom at last for all women.  The last piece, the Zimmerman woman, was all she needed now. 

    But time and finances were against her. 

    Rebecca had taken the last ship.  It was on the other side, waiting.  She couldn't buy a new one, either.  There was an influx of spinsters joining the Temple, more than doubling the costs of food and lodging.  The Temple was already stretched thin, even with the generous donations from some of the engineering companies.  Some days, she just wanted to strangle the Scientific Community for their convoluted trade-and-sell economy.  

    Most civilians led simple lives, farming or working some form of trade, but were cash poor.  The Community, in its brilliance, gave everything a monetary value, allowing civilians to trade for goods they would normally be required to pay for with cash.  A man with a five thousand head herd of cattle could purchase a single-seat orbital class ship simply by trading their herd. 

    But Celeocia did not have a five-thousand head herd of cattle.  She didn't have a five-thousand head herd of anything.  The charity work that the Novo Femina provided was stringently recorded by Makeem Loyalists; all payments made to the Temple were done by trade, never cash.  The only way Celeocia got anything done was by subterfuge, hiding what little cash they had in various places.   

    Pausing on the pentice joining the main temple to the living quarters, Celeocia caught a glimpse of cobalt in her peripheral vision.  Moving to the marbled railing, she saw the answer to her problem.  A landing pad of creamy textures cut a wide, open circle into the otherwise dark shades of purple that were trademark of terraformed Mars.  In the center of the landing pad, looking noble and clean and everything she'd ever needed, was the Lothogy.  Hedric's ship.  Her son's ship. 

    They'd come here for more than one type of repair, she knew.  Hedric was mourning for his recently lost wife; Mesa. 

    Strumming the railing with sharp, rapid taps Celeocia had to fight another sort of pain.  The pain only a mother could understand.  Hedric's loss cut her as deeply as the death of Rebecca.  Still, she knew what she had to do.  She didn't like it, but it was necessary. 

    Hedric would understand in the end.