GEMUTATIONS: Plague

by Denise Randall

Prologue: The Loss of the Clinton

Tigershark’s presence in the office building downtown always drew stares. The fact that he came through here at least once a week did not seem to matter to the suits. They had not become so jaded to the presence of gemues in their lives that seeing one up close and personal did not stop them in their tracks.

He sighed in counterpoint to the click of his claws on the marble tile.

Being the only one of his kind, unique, and therefore an unusual sight, did not help the matter any. Nor did it help that he spent most of his time shirtless – and shoeless – in public. How could he not, when most clothes couldn’t be pulled on over the fins on his arms, or lay flat across a back that sported three dorsal fins? Not without modification that was for sure. Shoes were easily wrecked with toe claws sharp enough to cut through hide. For most occasions, being fully clothed was not worth the extra effort.

Besides, Tigershark had never been accused of being modest, not even when he was human. He was not about to start now.

He struggled with an urge to do something stupid in order to scare his audience back into working. Being a gemue was hard enough without reinforcing the stereotype that they were all stupid and violent creatures. It was a doubly difficult task considering he’d been on the other side of the issue before a year ago, making the attitude all the more painful to deal with.

He empathized, he wished it had not been him. But there was no denying the foreign color scheme staining his skin, nor the sandpaper texture of it – the long shark-like face and the razor teeth. There was no going back. Like it or not, this was his life now. Gritting his teeth, he finally suppressed his id and continued walking.

Max had sounded excited, and just a touch scared when he had called earlier. He said he had information Tigershark would be interested in, but would not divulge even a hint over the net. Running one webbed hand through stark white hair, the gemue strode into his friend’s cramped office. The place was cluttered, almost claustrophobic. So much of the man’s projects, research, and casual readings were stored in this room.

He had never understood why his friend never went wholly digital with all this. The last time he broached the idea, Max had told him that digital storage got too confusing for him, and more often than not, he ended up deleting things he needed. After that Tigershark had shrugged and stopped bugging him about it. Once Max was set on something, there was no changing his mind.

Max peered through his mop of curly reddish hair and over his hipster glasses as the sharkmue approached the desk. A wide smile blossomed and his green eyes sparkled with his usual charm.

The gemue was impressed; Max had somehow managed to pull off a business-like appearance. The very fact that his friend was wearing shoes told Tigershark that someone important was stopping by Max’s office later today. There were some things even Max Groden would not compromise, even for the façade of fitting in.

Max Groden had been a friend of his for a very long time. Though the details were still difficult to sift from the false garbage still programmed into his head, he could remember that.

In another life, one where people had called him David and envied him for being rich, he had met the bookish Max Groden. Max possessed a personality that was a complete opposite of David, and had fate not intervened, he probably would never have known the young man existed. They had only been introduced because the group that had been David’s friends were bullies.

David had just managed to pull his life back together after some very misguided years. A bullet from a friend was a pretty stark reminder that life as a rich little hoodlum was going to cut his life short. He had been still struggling with those darker tendencies, and still hung with the wrong crowd.

In his senior year, David did what he could to avoid the worst of his friends games, attempting to remain neutral. He knew now that he had been as culpable as the other boys, for not being man enough to stand up to them, but as a typical teen it had been hard to rock the boat with his friends.

When they had chosen Max, he found that he could no longer walk the line. David had connected with Max for a reason still undefined, and he had found himself doing what he had refused to before – stop the harassment before it started. That had been the beginning of a long and mutually rewarding friendship. The two of them had formed a bond that could not be shaken by the strengthening pull of cliques that divided most students into easily identifiable groups.

Recent years had found Tigershark short on sympathetic ears – all his “friends” disowning him the moment they found out he’d been subjected to illegal mutagenic experiments. He was still reconciling the notion that Max – as big a gemuphobe as they came – had seen through all that and reestablished their friendship.

Their camaraderie had been a boon over the past nine months.

Even Angelina, the woman responsible for returning David’s personality to Tigershark, had shunned him. He knew his previous circle of friends wouldn’t take him back, and his family still thought he was dead. Any friendship was like a buoy in a cold sea.

Tigershark focused on the here and now.

“David, how are you?” The man never failed to sound happy to see him.

“Oh, not bad. Life gets better all the time.” The gemue smiled, sitting on the footstool Max always kept available for his visits. “So what’s up? You said that you had an assignment for me.”

“Well,” Max said with a sigh, “I intercepted a disturbing message on the military channel I thought you might like to hear.” With that, Max handed him a piece of paper.

As Tigershark started to read the message, Max summarized what it had to say: “A team of SEALs left this morning aboard the USNS Clinton. They’re steaming for open water, with orders to track and capture a gemue.”

“For what?” Tigershark glanced at his friend before resuming reading.

“Well, from what I gather, this particular gemue can spread its mutation by touch. The Navy has been ordered to investigate, capture, and kill it before it can create a plague.”

“Gemues can’t spread what they are, Max.” An old frustration worked up behind his sternum. Once again, gemues were being vilified.

“Not the ones we all know.” Max straightened in his seat. “Whamues, Dolphimues, and even Mech splices, haven’t shown any kind of ability to contaminate others.”

“Exactly, gene-spliced we may be, some of us even irradiated, but that doesn’t mean we can spread it. Hell, most of the others dealt with years of change before becoming what they are.”

“But you didn’t.”

Tigershark frowned at the reminder of his messed up circumstance. “No one I’ve ever touched has turned into a mutant for it – including you.”

“And how many other anomalous experiments might there have been besides yours?”

The gemue’s expression pinched further. “Why’d you have to say that?”

“Because I look at all the facts, my friend. I did a bit of digging, and there were no less than 300 different scientists and laboratories working on some form or another of gemue since the Meltdown. And that’s just in the United States. Don’t get me started on world wide. Who’s to say that one of them didn’t muck about with the wrong mixture and create this carrier?”

Tigershark didn’t answer him, worst case scenarios already looming large in his mind. He drew a deep breath and sighed, returning to the crux of their situation.

“How do they know if it is contagious?”

“Don’t know, but this has got them scared, so there must be some halfway decent evidence. There was also mention that the target had been sighted and tagged but not yet captured.”

“So it’s a pretty sure bet that they’re going to succeed at getting this creature.” Tigershark’s mouth thinned. “What if they’re right?”

“That’s why I figured you would want to investigate it.”

“Do you have any kind of picture or description of the creature they’re after?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. The message was audio only.”

“Well then, I guess I’m going on a road trip,” Tigershark said, drawing a deep breath and leaning back. “What would I do without you?”

“Be a mushroom,” Max said with a smile.

Before the end of the meeting, Max gave him the last known coordinates of the Clinton, and Tigershark left to check out the situation. In the past several months, Tigershark revised his decision about the monetary settlement won against Marlin Cortez. He realized it was stupid to be chivalrous and pig headed about using the credits, just because Angelina had rejected him. The money was in his name, he was actually one of the plaintiffs in the case – even when he had never set foot in the courtroom.

He had compiled a collection of equipment that would make his new life comfortable and practical. Now he had what any diver would dream of needing: a powered diver, several different varieties of spear gun, and other things that would come in handy in the water-based existence his experimentation forced him to live.

Tigershark selected the items he needed for the trip and then headed for Open Ocean. Finding the location of the ship was not hard; there was enough of a slick on the water that a blind man could have followed it by feel. Even after all these centuries, the Navy hadn’t figured out a different source of propulsion than oil and boilers for its smaller surface ships.

As Tigershark left the familiarity of the Sea of San Joaquin, he realized that he had never before been in Open Ocean. The Pacific was still the largest ocean on Earth, larger since the Meltdown, and Tigershark’s heart raced with excitement.

After a week of shadowing the ship, however, the novelty wore off. The trip had been a great time; the water was cleaner, and the fish were in an abundance and variety that Tigershark had never dreamed of. Their taste was crisp and cleaner than any fish he had eaten before or since taking this form. But he had to face it – tailing a mark, even if it was a ship, was boring work.

Lying on his back at the surface, Tigershark was close to sleep. The motion of the waves and the warm sun spilling down from the heavens lulled him until strange fragments of images washed across the backs of his eyes. A wet slapping sound caused Tigershark to jump, and he arched his back, sliding silently under once more. He left his eyes above the water line. Hidden, he watched six wetsuit-clad SEALs jump into the ocean. They swam to and pulled themselves aboard a Zodiac, causing the small craft to pitch wildly. Once in, the team sped off in a northeasterly direction.

Tigershark quickly retrieved his diver and followed them at a distance. He was surprised when they went no further than 500 yards, and he slowed so as not to overtake them. The gemue observed as the team threw a net into the water, and he caught a glimpse of a creature within the ring of nylon. Three of the SEALs jumped in to help secure their captive. He knew it was not a good time to try to get involved in this, though he was certain the creature would come to harm. Once the net and the other members of the SEAL team returned to the craft, they looped back on a trajectory that would return them to the ship.

Tigershark swam out of line of site as they whizzed by, and then continued to follow at a distance.

As they prepared to raise the craft to the deck of the ship, he stowed his gear near the idle props to avoid detection. Then he moved back to the Zodiac, clinging to the underside as they hoisted it, remaining as still as possible. Taking what seemed like forever, the boat rose off the surface of the water. Tigershark’s arms burned by the time the boat came even with the deck. The boat shifted and rocked as the team offloaded their prize. Once the immediate area fell silent, Tigershark lowered himself to the deck.

Approaching the corner of the ship’s superstructure, Tigershark took another sniff, realizing the scent of the SEAL team was stronger her. A sigh escaped him. He had an irrational fear that they would immediately take the critter below decks and leave him floundering through the heavy smells of a ship at sea.

Tigershark peered around the corner, finding the SEALs standing perimeter around a second group, who seemed to have taken over disentangling the catch from the net. He was disappointed in what they revealed.

At first glance, it appeared to be an ordinary shark.

The creature was small, even, probably no longer than six feet; a baby compared some of the monstrosities the gemue had seen. What could they possibly want with an ordinary shark?

“Wait a second.” Tigershark narrowed his eyes in an effort to bring the distant events into better focus. When that did not work, he slipped closer still. It was dangerously close to discovery, but the anomalies that caught his attention finally came into enough focus for him to examine the creature properly.

This shark sported six fins on its back. The largest was a good foot tall and the other five were gradually smaller as they neared the beast’s tail. That wasn’t a natural shark trait, and, unconsciously, one of his hands flicked across the smallest fin on his back. Large round eyes rolled around in the triangular head, taking each of the sailors into its sight. They were not the doll-like eyes that frightened humans so much about sharks. They were blue, emotional, and seemed to implore its captors to leave it be.

Max was right. The SEALs had captured a simple sharkmue. Did that mean the rest of the story was accurate as well?

“Fuck,” Tigershark muttered. Once more, he hashed out possible scenarios for getting the creature away from the Navy. Resorting to violence would get the deed done, but falling back on mercenary ways was not something he was willing to try. These men were just doing their job – misguided though it might be. Barring that option, the probability rose that Tigershark would get himself hurt or killed. That didn’t stop the guilt about just standing there and watching the event unfold.

And things got out of hand fast.

One man reached for a piece of net close to the head of the creature and it cringed, whipping its forward half to one side as if to avoid a blow. The men around it misconstrued the move and reacted violently. They beat it with several handy clubs.

In a desperate attempt to defend itself, the creature bit the man closest to it. The man fell to the ground, screaming and writhing in pain. In an instant the SEALs took actuion, firing repeatedly into the body of the captive. Blood and viscera flew everywhere, coating most of the scientists in the gemue’s remains. The one on the ground was soaked in it.

Tigershark grit his teeth, angry with himself. There should have been something he could have done. He did not like feeling helpless.

The SEALs stopped firing, but stood stiffly, weapons still trained on the corpse as the injured man was extricated from the area. When it was certain that the creature wasn’t going to rise up and bite another, they stood down and allowed the remainder of the scientists to resume their work. In this case, dissecting what was left of the sharkmue. Even that carnage began disappearing as the samples were moved down another ladder-well.

As if this scene was not surreal enough…

Movement to the right of the group caught Tigershark’s eye. He found himself gawking and rising to his full six foot height as a young female gemue climbed over the rail.

The girl was a slip of a thing, shorter than Angelina. From this distance, he could tell that she was from the same lot in gemue biology as he was. Long black hair cloaked a great majority of her body, falling well past her hips. An elongated face split the length and two pointed ears emerged between the strands. That muzzle was a deep blue across the bridge of a wide shark-like nose, fading out to tan around her petite mouth. She moved nearer the working party, attracted to it like a kid to the game booths at a fair.

Tigershark squinted, noticing as she turned away from him that several fingers seemed stunted, and that her back and legs showed the pink lines of newly healed wounds.

“Hey!”

Tigershark whirled to find one of the crew members had managed to sneak up behind him. “Ah hell.”

More voices sounded out in alarm, and he spun to assess just how dire this was about to get. Even the gemue girl was looking at him. Deep set gray eyes were wide with shock and wonder, before she realized that there people closing in on her. They broke the gaze, heading for the nearest access to water. Tigershark glanced back long enough to ensure that the young gemue had made it off the ship and then attempted his own escape.

As he leapt for the rail, four sets of hands lashed about different parts of his body, pulling him back from salvation in the sea. With easy they tossed him on the deck, where he sprawled on his face. When he attempted to get back up, he was laid out with the butt of one of their weapons. Tigershark glanced through his peripheral vision to see the barrels of at least a half a dozen automatic rifles, trained on his prone body.

He froze.

Orders were still being snapped above him, before his hands were roughly drawn up and secured behind his back. They raised him from the deck by the manacles, over rotating his shoulders until they screamed at him. It was incentive enough to get feet under him quickly. None too gently, Tigershark was moved into the bowels of the ship, into a lightless and nearly airless compartment. Flipping on the overhead light, the SEALs threw him into one of the many empty cells brooding there and slammed the door. He bruised one leg on a spare bench along one wall before his momentum stopped.

Whipping around, Tigershark glared at the gorillas posted on the other side of the cell door. He paced angrily, realizing after a few circuits that the exercise was not wise. Tigershark sat down then; this was going to be a long wait.

You’re usually more careful than this! his brain prattled at him. That was stupid, getting wrapped up in a gemue girl.

Military types were touchy about security breaches and he was unsure if they would let him plead his case to whoever was in charge. He consulted the chronograph on his wrist, calculating how long he could be in here without any kind of supplemental source of oxygen. Not long enough he figured.

Tigershark had to talk to someone; he had to convince them somehow to retrieve his belongings, still stashed near the screws. Desperation and uncertainty made his heart race. He had to calm down. Exertion was only going to make his time dryworld that much shorter.

An hour passed before Tigershark received any visitors at all. Slowly, he stood, as three men entered the room and came to a stop on the opposite side of the bars. From what little he was versed on military rank structure, he guessed that the oldest of them was the man in charge. He was tall and hawkish. The most prominent feature on his face was his regal nose. His hair was white; a few strands showed its once brown shade.

The man next to him was shorter, heavier in frame with a balding spot apparent on the top of his head. By the way the officer was filling the taller man in, Tigershark guessed him to be the second in command. The third man also wore khakis, but the gemue was unfamiliar with his insignia. Having never served in the military himself, Tigershark was lost on anything beyond that.

They all scrutinized him before the elder man glanced away and addressed the balding one. Tigershark’s stomach sank to his feet, recognizing the expression on the elder man’s face. He despised gemues, considered them beneath animals . . . abominations.

“You found it where?” He asked the question as if he had asked it before, disgust evident in his voice.

“On deck, sir. Witnesses stated that there was another, but she escaped our dragnet.”

“How did they get on my ship undetected?”

“We’re not sure, skipper.”

“Then maybe you can give me a good explanation why they were there?”

“Defending the one we captured originally?” The third man asked in turn.

“No, these things don’t know loyalty for one another.” He shook his head. “Not that I have ever seen.”

“Food, then? It would be in abundance on the ship.”

“Look at it, Johnson. It appears well-fed.” He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. In a softer tone he repeated, “Why is it here?”

Tigershark listened to this exchange, his temper rising. Hearing the “dumb animal” generalization and Q&A, pushed him past his tolerance. He snapped, “Why don’t you ask it?”

He stormed up to the bars, making the three men jump back and the guards train their weapons on him.

“Y…You speak!” the man, Johnson looked completely shocked.

“When it’s worth talking to someone.”

“But gemues can’t . . .”

Tigershark hit the bars. “They can! Not that any of you would take the time to try. Fucking gemuphobes…”

The guard nearest him shoved his rifle barrel into his gut to force him back. He blinked and retreated one step. Fear scrawled across the SEAL’s face that the move hadn’t incapacitated him. Tigershark glared at the guard and then returned his gaze to his audience.

“My parents and the California Education System did a pretty damn good job of teaching me. Being a gemue doesn’t change that!” A snarled worked over his lips and then relaxed again. “Don’t insult my intelligence. If you want to know something – ask me.”

Crossing his arms, he turned away, moving back toward the bunk. For long moments he glared at one haze-gray wall.

The man he’d assumed was in charge resumed the conversation. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

Tigershark glanced over his shoulder. “Would you like my given name or my alias?”

He was not quite up to full cooperation just yet. He probably shouldn’t play games; this was not going to be a short run incarceration.

“Both.” It was evident that the man’s ire was rising.

He drew himself up, reciting his name as if he was attending one of the many business parties that his father had thrown when he was younger. “My given name is David Theodore Scott, the Second – son of Maria and David Scott, Junior. You can call me Tigershark.”

The tallest man opposite him looked to the third khaki in the room. “Check it out. I want a report ASAP.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Tigershark watched the other man go, briefly wondering what official records would show him. “I am a member of a group called the Gemue Allegiance. I was given a tip that you were hunting down a gemue on the presumption that it presented a threat to the human race – some garbage about it carrying a virus that would spread mutation like a cold.”

From their reactions, Tigershark knew that he had hit the nail on the head.

“So it is true, or you think it is . . . I see.” He purshed his stretched lips a moment, before meeting their gazes once again. “If this leaks, the Purists are going to use it as license to vigilantism against gemues. I can't let that happen.” Like you can do something about it behind bars, dumb ass. He winced internally, feeling stupid yet again for not staying focused on his assignment. Aloud he said, “Our lives are already hard enough to bear without being forfeit for bounty.”

“There will be no vigilantism if we can help it,” the “skipper” stated brusquely.

The comment forced Tigershark’s opinion of the man up a notch.

Tigershark narrowed his eyes. “Let me ask you a question – did you enjoy watching him die?”

“Him?” the hawkish man said.

“The gemue. Did it make you feel proud to know that your men had committed murder?”

“It was just a gemue.”

“And so am I!” Tigershark bellowed, completely losing his cool. “Does that mean I’m next? Or, because I can speak, I’ll be spared?”

The shorter officer rubbed his chin, seeming unhappy. The man in charge continued to measure Tigershark. “The matter is done, Mr. Scott, and we will know soon enough if we are right.”

With that, he turned to leave.

“One more thing!”

The skipper sighed. “What now?”

“Attached to the ship is some equipment of mine. If you intend to keep me alive there is something in that bundle I am going to need before,” Tigershark consulted his watch, “eight pm”

“What makes you think that we want to keep you alive?”

“I figure if you wanted me dead, the SEALs would have taken care of me on the deck, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The tall man sighed. “What is it that you think you need so badly?”

“Not think – know.”

Drolly the man added, “Why?”

Tigershark dropped his gaze, his jaw working. He heard the skipper heave a third sigh. “Mr. Scott, you cannot afford to be choosy about what you tell me at this point. I can walk away, and whatever this is that you need stays where it is.”

The gemue grew more uncomfortable at being forced to reveal his weakness to a stranger. Working up his nerve and swallowing his pride he said, “In order to keep me in the water, my creators had 75% of my lung tissue removed. I am unable to breathe atmosphere for more than six hours before my system poisons itself.”

Tigershark didn’t miss the shorter man’s grimace.

“I’m supposed to believe this, just by the voracity of your statement?”

“No, but a quick check by one of your doctors will confirm it. I can bet my oxygenation level is already down to about 80%.” The man looked highly doubtful, so Tigershark added, “Barring that confirmation, you’ll have to trust me on this.”

The CO performed another visual tour of his “guest” and tested Tigershark’s sincerity with his eyes. “Get the SEALs down there and retrieve what he has attached to my ship. Check the ‘equipment’ for any weapons and then give it to the gemue.”

“Yes, sir!” the guard being addressed barked, before disappearing out the door.

After an hour and a half, the chief and another enlisted man returned. The junior man was dragging the rebreather behind him. Tigershark tried to suppress the mirth he felt at the sight; he had forgotten how heavy the damn thing was. He was so used to it that it didn’t bother him any longer. They brought it to the cell, and the guards’ guns came up as one guard handed the chief the key to open the door. The young man lugged the device in, dropped it, and sidled out of the cell, as if Tigershark was going to lunge at him. He sat there for a moment, waiting for the two to leave the brig area, but when they showed no inclination of doing so, he rose and moved to the unit. Checking the device and booting the system, Tigershark lifted it and settled it onto his back, watching as the two continued to appraise his actions. They seemed surprised at the ease with which he muscled it on.

Tigershark secured the collar around his neck with calculated actions. He peered at the monitor and estimated the time it would give him, before he depleted the air supplement. Tigershark regarded the chief. “This tank is only going to last fifteen hours. If your CO wants me here longer than that, he is going to have to provide me with another.”

With that, he strapped on the mask.

“We’ll see what can be done.” The statement was flat, forcefully so, as if the man was fighting with himself not to let his true feelings about the situation show.

A little over a week passed before there were any more visits to Tigershark’s cell. The only exceptions were those men assigned to bring bottles of compressed air to keep him alive while they decided what to do with him.

Leaning against the wall, Tigershark was in process of eating what they loosely referred to as a meal. The rebreather sat in one corner as he worked through the tasteless food and tried to ignore the protest from the part of his body that craved fresh raw fish. Such a delicacy was out of the question at this point, and there was no use dwelling on it. Tigershark had tried several times already to broach the subject to the men assigned to bring him tanks. None would glance at him, much less listen to what he was asking them.

Tigershark was surprised when the Commanding Officer returned with a young man and several SEALs in tow. He appeared gaunt, sick, and agitated. He nodded shortly at the guards to open Tigershark’s cell. The three guards trained their guns on Tigershark as he resumed a seated position, and set the tray of food on the bench next to him. The CO glared at the young man standing behind him. The kid skittered past the older man and approached Tigershark. He had a small bag with him with a red cross painted onto the side of it. He set it down as far from Tigershark as the bench would allow and pulled out a needle, some antiseptic, and a square of gauze.

“What’s going on?” Tigershark asked.

No one responded as the young corpsman began prepping his arm. The intention was clear: they were going to get a blood sample from him. But what would they want one for? This did not bode well for an early release. After wiping down the inside of Tigershark’s elbow and with a disconcerted expression for the feel of the skin, the corpsman attempted to insert the needle into the gemue’s arm. The surgically sharp tip of the needle refused to penetrate the skin no matter how hard it he pressed.

“If I might make a suggestion?” Tigershark whispered to the corpsman, who started. “If you need blood, I suggest you go up under the gill for it. You will be there all day trying to get that needle in.”

The young man turned to his skipper for guidance on what to try next. The older man’s eyes moved from Tigershark to the needle to the young man as if considering. Finally, he nodded, and the seaman, now even more apprehensive, lifted up one soft flap of skin that concealed the gills on Tigershark’s neck.

Once he had the sample the whole entourage left and the gemue heard the Commanding Officer order the sample processed as quickly as possible. Tigershark wondered what he expected to find.

His stomach dropped as a thought occurred to him. The Clinton had come out here to catch a gemue with the ability to pass its mutation like the plague; did they suspect him of being that gemue? If they thought it was true, he had been handed a death sentence. Trying to settle his fluttering heart, Tigershark attempted to think of other things.

Another week passed where visitors were limited to the guards. At shift change, they provided a tank to keep Tigershark going. No one else ventured near him and those who handled the removal of his tanks wore contamination suits. They seemed serious about keeping him isolated.

Dozing, propped into one corner on the rebreather, Tigershark heard someone enter the brig. He blinked and tried to focus on his visitor.

It was the Executive Officer. He was by himself, and he appeared worn. Awkwardly, the gemue sat up without saying a word.

After staring for long, unnerving moments, the XO turned to one of the guards and said, “Open it.”

Tigershark goggled at him.

The guard seemed as surprised as Tigershark.

“I said open it!” the officer growled.

The guard jumped as if he had been struck. When the gate opened, Tigershark stayed put, unsure of what was going on or what to do next. A sick thought flit through his mind: they were trying to induce him to run for it, to give them a reason to kill him.

When Tigershark did not immediately come out, the Executive Officer stepped into the cell and motioned him toward the door. “You’re free to go.”

“Excuse me?” Tigershark, speaking through the transmitter in his mask, sounded as dazed as he felt.

“There is no longer any reason to hold you.”

The gemue moved forward, unlatching the mask and clearing his sinuses as the shorter officer escorted him out. “What’s with the change of heart?”

“You’ll see.” He held the door to the brig open while Tiger negotiated his way out. “The captain sends his apologies for detaining you so long but we had to be sure that you were not a carrier as well.”

“As well?” He felt butterflies rise into his stomach. “You mean it was true?”

The balding man refused to answer as they walked into another section of the ship. As the hatch opened, Tigershark caught the smell of sterile rooms and antiseptic – the ward then. Stopping short, Tigershark blanched at the sight that greeted his eyes. There were at least fifteen patients, each with a set of physical symptoms similar to the next. Some had blistering on their skin accompanied by loss of hair. Others had whole sections of skin sloughing off their muscles and in some cases, flesh off bones.

The Executive Officer glanced at Tigershark then. “It was true,” he replied to the earlier question, “but not quite in the way we were led to believe. None of the men who handled the creature before it was killed were infected. The man who was bitten, on the other hand . . .”

He stepped up to a large refrigerator door and pulled out the tray. Upon it was a man who had undergone a partial transformation into what looked like a shark creature. Sickly twisted features were brought into sharp relief by the harsh lights overhead, and it appeared as if one portion of his body had grown faster than the rest. Features were distorted beyond recognition. Tigershark peered around the ward again, seeing similarities all around him.

“He spread it to at least ten people. Somehow the contagion mutated and became what we had feared. This new strain – I’m being told – is transmitted through the oils of an infected person. Each new infection can in turn spread it to others. We are pretty sure that 50% of the people on this ship are infected. Everyone is in quarantine. We have five casualties already to this contagion. As you can see the changes are catastrophic. It kills by changing the body too fast, inside and out. Our doctors figure there is about a twenty percent chance of survival for those infected with it.”

“Your CO has it, doesn’t he?” Tigershark asked, remembering how ill he’d seemed on that last visit.

The shorter man nodded. “He was the first to shake hands with the man who was bitten. He’s holding on – the doctor’s think he’s going to survive it. But he’s still contagious.” The pain in the officer’s face betrayed a close friendship with the ill man. “A few of us have been unaffected by the mutation. We have run batteries of tests on ourselves and found nothing to say that we even carry the virus. And we have no idea why.

“We have informed the chain of command of what has happened, and they have a team on the way. Your time here has been stricken from all official records. You were never here. You are free to go.”

“Just like that?”

“You’ve tested safe. If you’re still here when the team arrives, they’ll no doubt kill you. They’re going to shoot first and ask questions never, trust me. They have no love in general for your kind.”

“Good point.”

“You need to take your stuff and leave before they arrive. We are a death ship now. Good luck to you.”

Tigershark had not realized it, so caught up in the details the man was giving him, but they had made it back onto the weather deck. Before he could thank the XO, the man turned and left. The gemue glanced around, seeing how empty the deck was and how forlorn the scene.

He wished there was something he could do, once more feeling helpless in a situation much larger than him. Events were already in motion. He wondered grimly how the headlines would read tomorrow about this vessel and its contaminated crew – if the military would acknowledge it at all.

Tigershark leapt from the rail into the water and retrieved the rest of his gear, before heading back home to the Sea of San Joaquin.

The next day, Tigershark returned to Max’s office. Stepping in, he found himself trapped in the tight hold of Max’s wiry arms. The gesture caught him by surprise and made him more than a little uncomfortable.

Max stepped back after a moment, clearly relieved. “Damn it, man, don’t scare me like that!”

“What are you talking about?”

Silently, Max handed Tigershark a paper with a shaking hand. The New Fresno Bee had run a first page story about the USNS Clinton, about an accident that had claimed all but ten lives and scuttled the ship. The Navy claimed that the reactor had melted down and either killed the crew immediately or exposed them to enough radiation that they had died of poisoning. Tigershark knew it was a load of crap; he’d tasted diesel in the water the entire week he had tracked the ship. He wondered if anyone else would catch that. Of those rescued, the article gave them little chance of survival.

Tigershark peered up at Max, saying dumbly, "Oh."

“What happened?”

“I was clumsy, and I got caught.” He flopped down onto the footstool. “They released me before the team arrived to scuttle the ship.”

“Was it true? Was there a contagious gemue out there?”

Tigershark glanced down, thinking about the lives lost. When he met Max’s eyes again, he sighed. “Yes. It killed most of those who contracted it. There’s one sick bastard out there.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Cortez is still in jail.” He’d been sure to keep up on that man’s whereabouts.

“What about his scientists?”

“Most of them were incarcerated too; the only one they couldn’t pin to the program was Marcus himself.”

“Slimy son of a bitch.” Max spit into his trashcan in disgust. “He would be the most likely candidate.”

“Yeah, he was the one who put Cortez’s ideas into action. Still doesn’t explain satisfactorily why, though.”

“No…no it doesn’t.”

Tigershark paused a moment as the vision of the girl filled his head again.

“And there was this girl.” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“You out for the Navy girls now?”

“Huh?” Tigershark said, broken out of his thoughts. “Nav…No! God, your sense of humor sometimes! No, she was sharkmue, like me. Though, I don’t remember ever seeing her in Coretz’s lab.”

“Another one?” Max sounded incredulous. “I thought you were the original article, man.”

“I thought I was too, but there was no mistaking the work.” He slumped, tired from his return trip. “She was perfect. . . .” Tigershark trailed off, losing himself in his thoughts again. “Except . . . she was scarred.”

“Scarred how?”

“Heavy scars. Her back, her arms, she was missing several of her fingers.”

The images reformed clearer now than they had been when he’d first seen her.

Max and Tigershark discussed the details of his foray for a long time. Only when the all too familiar pressure started in his chest, did the gemue realize how late it had gotten.

Wearily, Tigershark pushed to his feet, wishing he could lie out on the couch and catch a nap like a normal human being. But his past had set the future in stone, and though it had not been his choice to be a gemue, he was stuck with its consequences. Tigershark said his good-byes and donned his rebreather for the return trip home.

A/N: I guess I'm just cruising for a bruising here...

I've put this story up and taken it down from here more times than I can count in the past three years. But putting myself on a posting schedule seems to have done wonders for stories like Forgotten Ties - at least as far as me getting off my butt and actually doing the revisions...

This is a sequel to a story that I published back in 2005 "Gemutations: Mercenaries and Angels" and yes that book can still be found on Amazon. I pulled "Plague" down two years ago with the intention of revising it and getting it ready for the same road to publishing that the first book did, and then realized that a lot of what is written is crap - uneccessary and superflous. Soooo...I knew I needed to work it over. Only every time I tried I got bored with it and quit.

The of course I did the Webcomic adaptation of this and it really gave me an idea of what kind of concise storytelling I could pull off if I really tried.

I will promise no update schedule on this...because the first chapters especially are in need of major overhauls, so I will be referencing my webcomic as well as taking into account changes to Forgotten Ties (And Starting Over) to ensure continuity of character. (Oh I didn't mention that this is a crossover story did I?)

NEXT UP: "From the Desk of..." and "Threats"

These two will post together, From the Desk of is very short and is supposed to set the tone for the rest of the story. I like its addition, I hope you do too.

Threats - They'd been chasing the man for nearly twelve hours, when he stumbles into the New Fresno Medical Center, the situation escalates quickly.