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It was dark in the tiny computer room on the third level of the Chem-Tech facility. Dark with the exception of the oddly compelling pale green luminescence from an active terminal; near to the sliding doors which opened into the north-east corridor. After midnight of the 29th, only one programmer sat staring at the simple diagram which repeated itself every five minutes as fresh data came in over the trunk line from MIT.

Tom Chambers was just one link in the chain of technicians who'd been leased to the government for a vital project. Chem-Tech, otherwise concerned with pest control and growing fatter tomatoes, had few dealings with Uncle Sam officially. The conglomerate discontinued it's other interests when both Russia and the United States had agreed that creating better weapons through chemistry was simply a bad idea.

But even with this loss of assured revenue, Chem-Tech still keep the lines with the Pentagon open; just in case. Apart from having the brightest researchers outside of Dugway and Detrick, their systems; both in gross storage and computational capabilities were best of the best.

So it was that when the horror, which had hit hard the eastern states of the Americas back in 1969, reared its ugly rotting head once more, the military turned to Chem-Tech for help.

Tom, at twenty six, was one of the new generation of analysts who'd had been recruited just before the shit hit the proverbial fan. Raised on the budding new technology, the seventeen member team had a familiarity with the faster systems that their slide ruler predecessors did not. The government hoped this would give them an edge at curbing this second crisis of resurrection.

"Shit!" he glared at the new information which suddenly broke up the half finished map. The anticipated spread was unreadable, impossible to believe. "Another fuck up in the transfer. Maybe them Massachusetts boys need a lesson in remedial math."

The sudden glare from the opening door behind him made his narrow eyes water uncontrollably, the image before him becoming even more indecipherable. A curious voice asked the obvious. "Trouble with the download, Tom?"

The questioner was the virgin of the team, Peter Lawson who'd barely walked in the door of Chem-Tech before being called upon to serve his country. He was also a family man, married only about a year with a kid well on the way.

"No shit, we have trouble." Chambers remarked, his pudgy hands massaging his jowly cheeks as his large frame leaned back in the chair. "The new figures don't jive with the stuff we've already gotten from the others. Look at the lines indicating spread of the virus, or whatever it is, across the affected areas."

Peter was a thin kid, his narrow face scrunching up in deep concentration as he peered over the others' broad shoulder. "Weird. Such an uneven distribution when set beside the mortality figures we've gotten from Princeton. Not like the 69 crisis at all."

"Like I said, No Shit." Tom responded angrily. "Did you process the data concerning the Ares probe yet? I'm sure DR. Johannson would like to run a sim using the NASA information, both before and after the satellites' detonation in the upper atmosphere."

"Right here." Peter handed him the floppy. "I'm glad the rocket boys had already reformatted the data before giving it to us. I'd hate to have to process the older material off magnetic disc. What does DR. Johannson hope to find?"

"Order out of chaos, Repeatable patterns, something to hang a workable hypothesis on." the other answered as the image straightened itself out at last. It still made no sense, outbreaks of the disease, if it was that, manifested in formerly untouched areas. "Right now it's still shit."

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