The Altian Plague
Copyright© 2026 by D M Arnold
Chapter 7: Sanitized
Nyk parked the car in the lot of an industrial center. He approached a door labeled FloranCo, withdrew a key and opened it. Dyppa stepped in behind him and he surveyed the room. “Look -- sprouting beds dried out. Nothing salvageable.”
“Nyk -- why have a lab here? This is on the edge of a desert.”
“The plant breeders thought we might need euphorbias.”
“Euphorbias?”
“Yes -- latex-bearing spurges. Many desert plants are members of the euphorbia family.”
She nodded. “I recall, now. Euphorbias are important to our organic chemical industry.”
“Yes -- did you know an important ingredient in healing salve comes from a euphorbia?” Nyk began opening drawers. “If you see anything from the homeworld -- set it aside. We’ll pack it into cartons and ship it.”
“Ship it where?”
“To your lab in Wisconsin.”
“Here’s a drawer full of stasis capsules,” she said.
“Stuff like that. I’ll see if I can find a carton.” He looked around the lab. “Here -- put them in here. We’ll have to find a post office or United Parcel around here. At one time I’d have put all this into a suitcase and checked it onto the airplane, but since the Trade Center, I don’t dare...”
“What do we do with this?” She pointed to a laptop computer.
“That we can take on the aircraft.”
She picked up another object. “What’s this?”
Nyk took it from her and turned it over in his hand. “It looks like an Earth handheld computer.”
“It’s like a handheld vidisplay.”
“Yes -- without the communications ... and storage ... and computational power.” He slipped it into his pocket. Dyppa powered up the laptop. “What are you doing that for?”
She shrugged. “Maybe there are some orders from the plant breeders we should know about.”
“Good idea.” Nyk began rummaging through drawers. “A pair of stasis canisters. Those have to go.” He opened the lids. “No cultures inside.” He opened the door to an incubator. “Oh, gross!”
“What?”
“Hold your nose -- cultures rotted and moldy.”
“Yuck!” She pinched her nose. “That smell is enough to make me gag.”
“I’ll dump them outside.” He carried the incubator tray at arms length and emptied the contents into the shrubbery lining the building.
Nyk stepped back into the lab. Dyppa was manipulating the laptop computer. “Find anything?”
“His email has been wiped clean,” she replied. “I don’t see any other files or documents.”
“Switch it off and pack it up. I’m going to look for some tape to seal these cartons and we can look for a place to mail them. Then we’ll have enough time to drive to the airport, turn in the car and make our flights.”
Nyk held the case with the laptop as he stood on line waiting to pass through the airport security checkpoint. Dyppa shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “It’s nice Jaquie made return reservations on the same flight,” she said.
“Yes -- we ride together to Milwaukee and I change planes to New York.”
He reached the head of the queue and placed the laptop on the belt. “Here goes the drill,” he said and stepped through the metal detector. It buzzed.
“Step over here,” the screener said and began passing a hand wand over his body.
“It’s the pin in my wrist,” he said. “It always sets it off.”
The agent passed the wand over his wrist. “Sure enough.” Nyk began to pick up his laptop. “Hold it, pal -- we’re not done.” He motioned Nyk back to the screening area and passed the wand under his arms and down his torso. It beeped as it passed over his hips. “What’s in your pocket?”
He reached in and withdrew the handheld computer. “Put it on the belt,” the screener said and again scanned him with the wand. “Okay -- NOW you’re done.”
Nyk picked up the handheld and poked it into his pocket. Dyppa picked up her purse. “I got patted down both coming and going,” she said. “Does your wristchip do that, too?”
“Yes -- I tell them I broke it and have a pin in it.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Nyk found the gate and found a seat. Dyppa sat beside him. He took the handheld out of his pocket and switched it on. “Do you know how to use that?” Dyppa asked.
“I’ve never seen one close up. We’re not issued these, so it must’ve been something Marxo bought himself.” He looked at the tiny icons. “Address ... clock ... date book ... to do list ... games ... mail. These things are so primitive.” He poked the screen with his finger. “Touch screen -- that’s like a vidisplay ... but, you’d need such tiny fingers to use it.”
“What’s that?” Dyppa pointed to the top of the device. “An antenna?”
Nyk pulled on it and the stylus came out in his hand. “I get it -- you poke the screen with this thing...” He began poking icons.
“Can I try?” Nyk handed it to her. “Why do you suppose Marxo would bother with one of these?”
“I dunno,” Nyk replied. “I suppose it’s nice to have something so portable.”
“Look -- I tapped mail and there are messages in the inbox.”
“His laptop email was wiped clean...” Nyk took the gadget and looked at it. He heard the boarding call, switched it off and slipped it into his pocket. “We’ll look at it some more after we’re airborne.”
“Good idea,” she replied. “It might keep my mind off flying.”
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“All right,” Dyppa replied. “It’s been a smooth flight so far. Let’s look at that handheld.”
Nyk pulled it from his pocket and opened the inbox. “Most of these look like they’re forwarded from the Floran tachnet ... I don’t recognize any of these locator codes.”
She pointed. “That one has an Altian prefix.”
“This one?” He tapped the message.
“Yes.”
“Why would Marxo be receiving telemessages from Altia?” He scrolled through the text. “‘Nine to one. 112 on 1 15. 115 on 1 18.’ What does that mean?”
Dyppa squinted at it. “Nyk -- it’s an Altian street code.”
“Street addresses?”
“No -- it’s the nines code. It’s one used by criminals to code messages.”
“I don’t see a single nine.”
“At the top -- nine to one. Read it as 992 on 9 95. 995 on 9 98.”
“And, what does THAT mean?”
“Well -- a 992 is a pick-up and a 995 is a delivery.” She smiled. “You absorb this sort of thing when you’re turning tricks. The 980s refer to prostitution. A 980 is a whore, a 989 is her customer... 981 is a male prostitute, and so on.”
“What does 998 mean?”
“I don’t know that one.”
“So this reads “Pickup on delivery. Delivery on ... who knows what. Why use this sort of code? Why not use comm ciphers?”
“They do -- but they also code the message. Comm ciphers have back doors -- the security forces can decipher them.”
“This way the message is still secure ... reasonably secure ... or, at least, plausibly deniable...” He squinted again. Are the nine codes all three- digit?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Delivery on nine ... nine five. That’s not a 3-digit number -- it’s a single digit and a two- digit number ... Suppose we’re to substitute nines only in the three-digit numbers. That makes it read ‘Pickup on 1 15. Delivery on 1 18.”
“January fifteen and January eighteen?” she asked.
“Marxo died on January nineteen. Four days before he got sick, he picked something up, and three days later he delivered it.”
“He received instructions from Altia,” Dyppa observed, “from someone who knows the nines code. Was Marxo an Altian?”
“Oh -- no, I don’t think so. I think he was a Floran. You’re the first Altian Agent -- to my knowledge, that is.”
Dyppa tapped the screen. “No other Altian prefixes...”
“The others look like requests from homeworld plant breeders.”
A chime sounded in the aircraft and the flight attendant announced the approach to Milwaukee. Nyk switched off the handheld and slipped it into his pocket. Dyppa grabbed his hand and held it, squeezing it as she felt the thumps and grinds of deploying flaps and landing gear. She clamped her eyes shut and bit her lip as the airliner touched down, bounced once and lost speed.
“We’re here,” Nyk said.
Dyppa opened her eyes and color began returning to her cheeks. “I really hate flying. I don’t know which is worse -- air travel or space travel. I’m happy this is my final destination. YOU have to continue to New York.”
“Good morning, Jaquie,” Nyk said as he stepped into the office.
“How was your trip, Mr Kane?”
“Jaquie, when you made the hotel reservations -- did you remember to confirm both rooms?”
“Why, yes. Was there a problem?”
“They seemed to have lost one of the confirmations. Dy ... Karen and I had to share the room.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience.”
“We managed...”
Jaquie opened a desk drawer and withdrew a spiral notebook. She flipped through it and held it up. “Here are the confirmation numbers.”
“Okay -- so it was their screw-up.” He looked into Jaquie’s face. “Oh, Jaquie -- I didn’t think you made a mistake. I just had a silly notion that...”
“That what?”
“That canceling one of the rooms so Karen and I would have to bunk together might be the sort of practical joke someone in this office would find amusing.”
She held her hand to her lips and shook her head. “Oh, no, Mr Kane...”
“Not you...” He nodded toward Seymor’s office.
“I’ve never known Mr Seymor to engage in practical jokes.”
“He pulled one on me once -- a doozey. It took me a year to realize what he had done.”
“What sort of a joke?”
He gazed at her. “I’d rather not go into it, but it’s why I asked.”
“I understand, Mr Kane. Once burned, double shy.”
Seymor poked his head into Nyk’s office. “I’ve been going over Marxo’s draw account,” Nyk said. “There is some odd stuff going on with him.” He put the handheld onto the desk.
Seymor picked it up. “A Palm Pilot?”
“Marxo’s.”
“We don’t issue these to our Agents.”
“He must’ve bought it on his own. Look at his inbox.”
“How do you work one of these?” Seymor asked.
Nyk removed the stylus, poked the screen and handed it to his boss. “This message. It’s from an Altian locator code.”
“The message reads 112 on 1 15, 115 on 1 18. What the hell is that?”
“Dyppa thinks it’s a code used by criminals in Altropolis. She thinks it means, Pickup on January fifteenth, delivery on the eighteenth. Marxo got sick and died on the nineteenth.”
“Ah, so young Dyppa is familiar with Altian crime codes -- another red flag.” He handed Nyk an envelope. “Red flags are flapping all around her.”
“What’s this? Not another out-of-town assignment...” Nyk peered inside. “Milwaukee? Is something wrong with her? She hasn’t fallen off the wagon, has she?”
“See?” Seymor replied. “You don’t trust her, either -- you’re concerned about her addiction, too. No, Nyk -- last night officials on Altia detained a young man who was found loitering around an address known to have once been a safe house for The Seven.”
“So? Why don’t they just pump him full of truth drug and interrogate him?”
“There’s a complication. This young man is an ore-worker.”
“Again, so?”
“Altian ore workers are given medical implants to counteract the toxic fumes and solvents they’re exposed to.”
“Once again, so?”
“That implant will interact with truth drug with fatal results.”
Nyk nodded. “I saw one of those in action on Lexal.”
“No interrogator will touch a man known to be an Altian ore-worker. It’s why they’re favored as foot soldiers for The Seven.”
“They’re interrogation-proof. How does Dyppa fit into this?”
“The man’s name is Manrei ... Manrei Lom.”
“Lom!” He closed his eyes and winced.
“I’ll fill you in with the rest...”
“Seymor -- I know the rest already. The authorities are looking for anyone with a connection to Lom. They sent out an all-points bulletin, and you’re on their mailing list. You told them of Dyppa. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut.”
“I have an obligation -- and so do you. I’m a Floran first. The Seven are a threat to the entire hegemony.”
“You’ve no need to apologize. I’d have done the same ... maybe. I imagine they wish to interrogate her.”
“You got it, lad. You ARE a natural at this.”
“And, you want me to make sure she gets on the packet here and gets off on Altia. It’s going to be a tough sell. She told me she has no desire to return there -- ever.”
“They’ve issued a warrant for her. She has no choice.”
“A warrant?”
“Nyk -- if that girl has anything to do with The Seven -- they’ll have a warrant out for YOU.”
“She doesn’t, Seymor.”
“Are you sure? What about her familiarity with those codes? You’re her sponsor. I think you should go with her. If she should go up and then disappear -- it’ll fall hard on you.”
“You don’t really believe that’s likely -- do you?”
“Nyk -- we’ve discussed this before. You’re the finest Agent to come through here during my tenure, but you have this unfortunate tendency to let emotion cloud your reason. Young Dyppa is an Altian pschyco-addict with a record -- three strikes in my book.”
“She’s a good kid who strayed and is now on the right path. If someone doesn’t give her a chance, how will she ever prove herself? We’ve gone over this, Seymor. I trust my gut.”
“This office isn’t a church or a charity, Nyk.”
Nyk looked at the itinerary. “All right, I’ll go with her.” He sighed. “I’ve been getting all the plum assignments lately. I had no idea being an Assistant Agent-in-Chief was this rough. What’s your job like?”
Seymor’s eyes twinkled. “Well, lad -- if you do it right ... You can delegate most of the rough stuff to your Assistant Agent-in-Chief.”
Nyk proffered a faint smile. “Let me make a phone call...”
The taxi dropped Nyk off in front of the college union. He looked at his watch -- it was one in the afternoon. He dug his wallet out of his pocket, removed the staff card he had used during his first tour and flashed it for the guard at the door.
He stepped to the coffee bar and ordered a mocha latte from the barista. This he carried to a table, sat and sipped it.
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