Spiral

“The droplet is like a tiny test tube,” Vlad said. “Each patch tests for different pathogen. I make the droplet sit…” Vlad made the droplet move to the next patch and descend again, impaling itself on the needles. “The needles have oligos bound to it-short strands of single-stranded DNA. Each is a genetic sentence taken from different pathogen. If the DNA in droplet matches the DNA stuck to needles, they bind together. Two single strands of DNA link up to form double helix. If the sequences don’t match, they won’t.” He hit a key, and the droplet popped back up.

The droplet suddenly took off, running along the grassy patches like a crazed mouse in a maze. The watery orb ran to another patch, descended, then popped back up. “We do it over and over, testing for each pathogen,” Vlad said as the droplet ran around on the chip, flattening and popping back up at a dizzying pace.

Becraft pointed to a square. “Wait. That spot is glowing.”

“DNA found a match there. Its complementary strand. It bound to DNA on square like lover, staying behind when droplet went away.”

“And so that square glows.”

Vlad nodded. “It tells you the pathogen.” Vlad checked the sequence written on the chip next to the glowing patch: CACGTGACAGAGTTT. “Hmm. Human parainfluenza virus.”

Becraft stepped back.

Vlad put an arm on his shoulder. “Common cold.”

Becraft said, “What was Connor’s part in all this?”

Vlad nodded. “This chip works with viruses. They are easy-a virus is nothing but genetic material and a protein shell. A few reagents release DNA or RNA, then we run a few steps of PCR to amplify. But bacteria, fungi, they are different. Their genes are locked up inside nucleus, which is inside membrane, which is inside cell wall.”

Jake said, “Connor was developing protocols. Using the Crawlers to collect the samples, slice open the cells, extract the DNA, all the preparatory steps. The gardens of decay were his testing ground. He was teaching Crawlers to conduct every kind of genetic test you might imagine. It was easy for him to adapt his work to this project.”

“And provide advice,” Vlad said. “Say a topic, he’d tell you everything about it. What it linked to. Fungi, bacteria, viruses. The whole history of pandemics, their use as biological weapons.”

Becraft looked to Jake. “I thought you told me Connor didn’t work with anything dangerous.”

“He doesn’t. When you are developing the protocols, you can use anything. Liam worked with whatever benign fungi he happened to be growing in the gardens.”

“So I ask you again. He didn’t work with any dangerous pathogens?”

“No,” Jake said.

Vlad jumped in. “Neither do I. We develop technology on harmless stuff. Cold rhinoviruses. E. coli. Nothing that is not in you already.”

Becraft looked unsatisfied. “Could the Crawlers be used for something dangerous?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Could they be used to make a pathogen instead of test for one?”

“No,” Vlad said. “You would need more than just Crawlers. You would need an entire lab.”

The inspector rubbed his eyes. “So. Let me be clear. A few missing Crawlers by themselves would be completely harmless.”

Jake started to answer, but Vlad got there first. “Well. No. Not necessarily.”

Becraft stared at the Russian.

Jake knew what was coming. He and Vlad occasionally strayed into this kind of territory in their late-night drinking-and-tale-spinning sessions. Wars fought by insect robot proxies. A disgruntled kid crossing a rhinovirus with smallpox and killing off half the country.

Vlad said, “What if you already had pathogen? You could store it inside Crawler. Then you could carry Crawler around in package of Chiclets. Shake it out, it could find its way anywhere. Crawl into a ventilation duct. Slip under a door. The Crawler could even bite someone. Inject pathogen into wound. You have a pathogen you want to get out? A Crawler would make hell of a vector.”

Jake’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, surprised by the name on the screen.

“Yes?”

“Jake. It’s Maggie Connor. Can we talk?”

13

TIMES SQUARE WAS A CACOPHONOUS SYMPHONY. ADVERTISEMENTS screamed down from the JumboTrons. The streets were packed with city buses and yellow cabs. The occasional bike messenger ducked though cracks in the traffic. Pedestrians ran, walked, shuffled, and backtracked.

Officer James Ostrand loved the place. He had loved it for the twenty-two years he’d been a cop. He’d watched it evolve from grit to glamour, from strip joints to the advertising center of the universe. His wife was always after him to move, leave the city, maybe down to Pennsylvania, where her sister lived, but Ostrand would never do it. He loved the mix of rich and poor, the debutantes and the destitute. He loved Times Square. You stand here long enough, you’d see every kind of person that God ever made.

Unfortunately, that included crazy freaks like this one.