Free World War Moo by Michael Logan

Frank, stating the obvious.
    â€œBingo. So, we take away their motivation.”
    â€œWe’ve been through that,” Tony said. “The only way to take away their motivation is to cure it or assure them it’s contained long term. That’s what we’re trying to do. Rather ineptly so far, I might add.”
    â€œThere’s another way to take away their motivation.” Glen reached into his briefcase and threw his own set of briefing papers onto the table with a heavy thud. “We spread it.”
    The silence that filled the room could only have been more stunned had Glen announced he wanted to live out the rest of his life as a woman and whipped off his uniform to reveal a basque, miniskirt, and stockings. Nobody reached for the papers, so Glen pressed on. “Tony, I’d like to quote what you said during your CNN interview, ‘Would everyone having the virus be such a bad thing? If we all had it, there would be no need for violence.’”
    Tony, still struggling to get his brain to come up with some response to relay to his slack mouth, remembered the comment. It had been an off-the-cuff remark, not a policy recommendation, and he’d realized it was ill judged as soon as he said it. Now it was being tossed back in his face.
    â€œIn that spirit,” Glen continued, “I propose we refit our Trident missiles with refrigerated warheads filled with blood collected from soldiers and fire them at Europe. We can have infected blood raining down on Paris, Berlin, and Rome within a few minutes, too quick for them to respond. They’ll assume the lack of a mushroom cloud means the missiles were duds or simply a warning of our capabilities. It’ll take them a while to figure out what really happened, and when they do there’ll be no point in launching a response. The virus will be out, and they’ll be too busy trying to contain it. Plus, they’ll have more motivation to find a cure, or everyone will be infected.” Glen paused, his teeth shining white in the dark shadow of his face as he grinned. “Now, any comments?”
    Amira, who was shaking her head so vehemently that her dangly earrings almost slapped Tony in the face, spoke up. “I have one,” she said. “You’re off your bloody rocker.”
    Her voice broke the paralysis, and suddenly everybody was talking at once, hands waving and fingers stabbing the air. Amira was up on her feet, her composure gone for the first time since Tony had known her. Glen ignored the storm of voices and slid one of the briefing papers along the table to butt up against Tony’s fingertips. Tony hesitated. Their gazes met, and Tony realized that the military man, normally so volatile, seemed utterly calm.
    â€œIt’s the only way,” Glen said, his strong voice cutting through the hubbub.
    Tony picked up the document and began to read.

 
    7
    Ruan awoke at the stealthy click of an opening door. She opened her sleep-encrusted eyes to a boxy room, where the single mattress she’d slept on was the only furniture, and prepared to bolt. She always slept fully clothed, shoes and all, in preparation for just such a moment, but when she threw back the duvet she found she was wearing only a T-shirt and frayed white knickers. Even her rucksack and sword, normally packed and ready to snatch up, lay discarded in the corner instead of beside the window. She thrust a hand under the pillow and settled on the reassuring heft of the pistol. At least she hadn’t been totally lax. Still disorientated, she had no idea where she was, how she’d gotten here, or why she’d been so careless, but she knew that she would have to sacrifice her belongings.
    She was up on her feet, fumbling at the catch on the window with nerveless fingers, when the door swung open fully and a soft female voice said, “You don’t have to run.”
    The gun rose as Ruan spun and tightened her finger on the