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Pandemic Scott Sigler 21740K 2022-07-22

Margaret gestured to the small trailer around them. “What is this room?”

“It’s called a mission module,” Klimas said. “Instead of building everything in as a permanent part of the s.h.i.+p, the Coronado has s.p.a.ce for modules that serve different purposes. This one, obviously, is a medical module. My unit has several — bunk modules, weapons maintenance, mission prep, that kind of thing. We’ve cleared out a bunk module for you, so you’ll have private quarters.”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not, I can’t put your men out.”

He held up a hand to stop her. “Normally, you’d get a stateroom, but we’re restricted to the hold in hopes of providing some separation between us and the crew.”

“You mean between the crew and anyone who had contact with me, Clarence and Doctor Feely.”

Klimas shrugged. “Tomato, tomahto. We’re in this together now. At any rate, the decision has been made — if you don’t sleep in the bunk room, it will sit empty.”

“Thank you, Commander. At least I know chivalry isn’t dead.”

His expression changed. For the first time, he looked uncomfortable.

“There’s one more thing,” he said.

Her eyes shot to his hip, to the holster there and the pistol in it. She hadn’t given it a second thought … until now.

“You have to test me, right?”

Klimas reached into a pocket of his fatigues and pulled out three white boxes. The number surprised her.

“Three?”

He nodded. “One for you, one for Levinson and one for me. All my men are testing every three hours. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to go first.”

He offered her one of the white boxes. She stared at it. There was only one door into the mission module; by standing between the beds, Klimas had blocked the only way out. If she tested positive, he would kill her.

But if she did see that red light, did she really want to live?

She reached out and took the box.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said.

Seconds later, she stared at the blinking yellow light. Slowing, slowing …

Green.

Klimas smiled. “Only twenty-three more or so to go, right?”

She ran through the math in her head. “Yeah, three days ought to do it. We’ll know by then.”

Margaret sagged back into the bed. She still felt exhausted — the unexpected moment of intense fight-or-flight response hadn’t helped.

Klimas opened another box, cleaned Levinson’s finger, then pressed the tester against it. Yellow, yellow, yellow …

Green.

“Two down,” he said. “My turn.”