The stillness was the first thing he noticed. It wasn't the usual quietness of the midnight clinic. This was an oppressive, expectant silence, broken only by the frantic, staccato banging of his own fingers on the data-slate. Before him, the System's interface was a bloated, shining mess of catastrophe. The Karysia TB forecast was a knot of scarlet data streams. Collins's proposed "Scylla-Protocol" shone on the horizon like a cumulonimbus building.
Scores of tiny, yellow alerts—potential measles clusters, drug-resistant illness, water contamination advisories—blinked for attention like a drizzle of doom.
He was so deep in the data that he didn't hear the soft step at the door.
"Papa?"
Miriam's voice was as thin as a reed, a breath of sound. Reuben growled, not lifting his head, his fin
