The Echoes of Sarastro

The phone’s shrill, insistent ring slashed through Patricia’s dreams like a razor. She shot upright, heart pounding, pulse hammering against her ribs. Only one device in the world sounded that way—her encrypted link to Karma. She fumbled across the nightstand until her fingers found the phone. A soft chime confirmed her identity as Karma initiated the verification protocol. Seconds later, the AI’s voice—measured, precise, almost human—broke the silence. “Patricia, an ambulance has been dispatched to Fred Rainier’s residence. He exhibited signs of severe respiratory distress. He is being transported to Yale New Haven Hospital. Your immediate presence is required.” Patricia swung her legs off the bed, already pulling a jacket over her shoulders. “Karma—” she rasped, lacing her boots with frantic speed. “Does Oscar know?” “He was the first to be informed,” Karma replied. “He has authorized a team specializing in pulmonary critical care. They are standing by.” “I’m on my way,” Patricia said, snatching her purse. “Keep feeding me updates.” “Already in progress,” Karma assured her. “Drive carefully. Your vital signs indicate elevated stress levels.” Patricia didn’t bother replying. She tore out of the apartment and into the night. The hospital loomed like a fortress, its glass façade gleaming under the halogen lights. Inside, the sterile chill of the lobby struck her as she sprinted across polished floors. A solitary guard barely registered her badge before she was at the information desk. “Fred Rainier,” she demanded, voice taut. The clerk typed rapidly, then frowned. “Pulmonary ICU. Sixth floor.” Patricia’s stomach sank. Pulmonary ICU meant the worst. Moments later, she was outside a reinforced glass door, fists clenched at her sides. Beyond the barrier, Fred lay motionless—pale, frail, his chest rising only because the machines around him forced it to. “Karma,” she whispered into her earpiece, “talk to me.” “I detected anomalies in Fred’s respiratory function thirty-seven minutes before collapse,” Karma replied, voice cool, clinical. “He declined intervention. Rapid decompensation followed. Emergency response initiated. He arrived thirty-nine minutes ago.” Patricia swallowed hard. “Was it natural?” “Unknown,” Karma said. “Current analyses include environmental toxins, pathogenic exposure, and bioagent infiltration. Results are pending.” Before she could respond, a tall woman approached—silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe knot, clipboard in hand. “Agent Salinger?” she asked. “Yes.” Patricia flashed her badge. “Fred Rainier. Status?” “Dr. Elena Voss, Pulmonary Critical Care,” the woman introduced herself. “He’s stable for now, but intubated. Severe respiratory failure. We don’t know the cause yet.” Patricia’s throat tightened. “Is he conscious?” “Not yet. Sedation is being maintained until we can stabilize further.” Patricia nodded grimly, but before she could ask another question, Karma’s voice slipped back into her ear—low, grave. “My monitoring has been expanded. If there is the slightest deviation—signal, movement, or anomaly—I will alert you immediately.” Patricia’s gaze stayed locked on Fred’s still body. Machines could keep him alive for now. But it wasn’t the machines she feared. It was whoever wanted him dead. Hours later, in a dim side room off the ICU, Dr. Voss delivered her verdict. “This is one of the rarest combinations of infections I’ve ever seen. Fred contracted a severe strain of influenza—H1N1. That opened the door to a secondary opportunistic infection.” “What kind?” Patricia demanded. “Mucormycosis. Black fungus.” Patricia’s blood ran cold. “That doesn’t just… happen.” “Normally, no,” Voss admitted. “But in someone whose immune system was already collapsing? Yes. He’s receiving aggressive antifungal and antiviral treatment, but he’s in critical condition.” Patricia pressed a hand against the wall, grounding herself, forcing her voice steady. “And if he doesn’t respond?” Voss hesitated. “Then ECMO may be the only option left.” When the doctor left, Karma spoke again. “Patricia,” the AI said softly, “this is no longer a medical mystery. It is a statistical impossibility. Influenza, mucormycosis, and now MRSA—all within ten days. The probability of such a cascade in a healthy man is 0.000041%. Either Fred Rainier is the unluckiest human alive… or someone designed it this way.” Patricia’s jaw tightened. “And if it was designed?” “Then you are dealing with an enemy who understands how to weaponize probability itself,” Karma said. “Someone who knew exactly how far to push nature before it began to look like intent.” Patricia stared at Fred through the glass—tubes, wires, machines keeping him alive. She whispered into the silence, though only Karma could hear: “Then we’d better find out who.”