by Tom Kratman
Normally George enjoyed performing his duties at the forts and outposts; after all, treating pregnant women and sick children was rewarding, but not particularly exciting. His trips out of the city presented many different challenges, but also allowed him a measure of autonomy that was absent at the hospital. This time, however, he couldn’t wait to get back. Perhaps it was his unease about the new vaccine, or maybe it was the constant sense that someone was watching him every time he was outside at the fort. Then again, maybe he was just looking forward to getting back to Yelena. No matter the cause, George was ready for the tour to be over so that he could get back to the city.
The pounding on his door woke him at three a.m. He’d been asleep only for a couple of hours, and would have to be awake again in an hour in order to be at the hospital to complete his rounds before six a.m. He was training two young students to act as medical technicians. There was no let-up in patient load, so he had to do all of the training in the early morning and late evening. George threw on a long coat in a nod to decency and to ward off the chill as he rushed to the door. His head was beginning to throb in time with the pounding at the door.
It was Yelena, and one of her older brothers. “Jorge, mi Corazon, it is my younger brother Rodrigo. He is badly injured and very sick. We need you to come quickly and help!” Yelena looked worried, while her brother—George struggled for the name, ah, Emilio—just looked impatient.
Pleased as he was to see Yelena at any time, George was not at his best, with only two hours sleep and no caffeine. “You can take him to the hospital. Dr. Espinoza is on call and can help him. I’m in no shape to help him right now.”
Emilio grunted, and looked as if he was ready to pick George up and carry him out the door, but Yelena put up a hand to stop him. “No. No hospital, this is . . . this is muy importante that you come.”
George sighed. If it had been anyone but Yelena, he would have refused, but it was her brother—soon to be his brother-in-law—so he relented and told them to wait in the small living room of his apartment while he went back to the bedroom and dressed.
When he came back out, he went to the tiny kitchen to heat water. “I’ll need some coffee, first. I’m sorry, but I am just not awake enough.” He was surprised to find Yelena already at his side; she laid one hand on his arm to stop him from reaching for the kettle, while the other held up a ceramic mug already filled with steaming liquid. He took a sniff, then breathed deeply of the rich aroma, already beginning to wake up at the smell alone. Ah, her grandmother’s coffee. This thoughtfulness was one of the things he truly loved about her, not to mention that the Guerrero women were all excellent cooks!
Despite his continued protestations that Rodrigo should be seen at the hospital, George grabbed both his emergency bag and the military kit that he had yet to unpack from the recent tour of duty. Yelena and Emilio had brought an additional mount for George to ride, and they quickly traveled to the family home just outside the city. It was far enough that they could no longer see light from the taller buildings, but still close enough to smell the smoke left over from the previous night’s cooking fires.
The family had decided to keep Rodrigo out of sight of the younger children, so he was lying on a table in the building Yelena’s father and brothers used as a workshop. The room was filled with adult family members; the usual smell of sawdust and wood shaving tinged now with blood, sweat and human waste. The boy—at seventeen, a man by Balboan standards—did not live with the family, but spent most of his time in the back country. George had never been told what he did, and had never asked. It was a large family, after all, with parents, children, grandparents, and grandchildren living under one roof.
There was a blood-soaked bandage on Rodrigo’s leg, but it was dark and dry. An old wound, and not necessarily an immediate problem. He was pale, though, sweating and shivering at the same time, with occasional muscle contractions that caused him to grimace, to flail his arms and legs, or even to curl his spine to the point where he lifted most of his body off of the table.
After a particularly severe contraction, Yelena let out a whimper and clutched at her mother, who’d been tending to Rodrigo before they arrived. The two began to speak in whispers. George couldn’t quite follow the words, but he recognized the inquisitive tone and worry on the part of the older woman, but Yelena began to look very nervous. She saw his look, and forced a smile. “She asked what was wrong with him and wondered if we should call for the priest?”
George was silent for a moment as he examined his patient, then looked back at the women. “The fever and chills could be infection, but not the spasms. This looks like a toxin of some sort: his face is swollen, as well as his neck, fingers and toes. His skin is hot to the touch—that could be allergic reaction or infection, but it looks like . . .” He paused. No, that doesn’t make sense. Every once in a while a parent would bring in a child that had eaten bolshiberries and suffered a reaction to the deadly plants. This looks very similar . . . but an adult wouldn’t eat bolshiberries.
George jerked upright as he remembered the wounded soldier at Fort Cristóbal. An adult wouldn’t eat bolshiberries!
He spoke decisively. “Okay, first things first, he needs an antihistamine to stop the swelling. I can’t do much about the convulsions until I know what this is, but we need to cool him down. Get some cloths and soak in cold water from the well. Place them on his forehead and throat, then wrap his arms and legs.” When they nodded, he continued, “I need to look at this wound.”
Yelena turned to go, but her mother placed a hand on her arm. At a nod, two of her older sisters departed for the house, and a brother was sent to the well. Yelena seemed even more nervous, and her mother’s restraining touch did not seem to be helping.
A suspicion began to form in the back of his mind, but George pushed the thought away as he unwrapped the bandage, cutting away the part where the dried blood had stiffened and stuck to the wound. He retrieved a bottle of sterile saline from his emergency bag to wash the blood and dirt away and reveal the wound. It wasn’t bad, entry wound on the front of the thigh, exit wound on the back. It appeared to have been cleaned and bandaged soon after it happened, by someone who knew what they were doing. there was no sign of infection despite it obviously being days old, just a bit of redness around the wound itself. “How did this happen?”
Yelena’s brother’s looked at each other, but didn’t speak until her father nodded.
“Hunting boar. It was an arrow.” Emilio said.
“No, I don’t think so.” George’s rebuke provoked an angry glare from the father and restless stirring from the others present. “This is a small caliber rifle wound, entered from the front, slightly bigger wound on the exit in back. An arrow doesn’t do that. Besides, you hunt boar with large caliber rounds that would have left a gaping hole on exit!” George looked up at Emilio, then turned to glare at their father. “Care to tell me exactly what happened? You know I have to report this.”
Yelena sobbed. “No!” and ran out of the shed.
George stared at Señor Guerrero until the older man finally looked down. “He is with the resistance.”
Hmm. “Resistance,” not “insurgency,” thought George. “And just what was he resisting?”
“Agents from Los Grillos were attacking a farm.” Guerrero spit on the pressed sawdust floor. “Men from ‘Penal Interstellar Servitude’ were hunting a fugitive slave. They are monsters. The child was not a slave; she was born free, here in Balboa. A child should not be held accountable for crimes of her parents, especially when they were political prisoners that Earth wanted to be rid of!”
George had heard of Los Grillos. Named for the Grillo Building in Ciudad Balboa that held many of the UNISBC offices, P.I.S. (or Pen.I.S. as it was called by the young men with muffled laughs and hidden grins) was notorious for using any excuse to prolong a transported prisoner’s term of indenture. It was slavery in every sense, including inventing reasons for indenturing children of prisoners as
well.
“So you say, but that doesn’t change the fact that this was a small caliber wound, probably from a military rifle, not a boar hunting rifle or even Los Grillos’ stun sticks. How do I know he was defending an innocent and isn’t a terrorist shot by the military for plotting to bomb civilians?”
“Because he was with me.” George turned as the new voice spoke. Yelena had returned leading a cloaked man who removed his hood as he spoke. “He was with me, Tonio. He was doing exactly as they said; he stopped one of Los Grillos’ men from beating a child, fought back, and was shot by one of the mercenarios they bought from the UN. I dressed his wound; I brought him here when he fell ill. I told Don Guerrero that you could be trusted.”
George stared, speechless, not even protesting at the use of a name he’d abandoned over fifteen years before. The cloaked man accompanying Yelena looked like . . . sounded like . . . “Julio?” he managed. “You’re one of the t—”
“The word you want is ‘resistencia,’ The Resistance, tonto,” Julio corrected before George could finish the word. “We are not terrorists; the only terror we strike is to the heart of the UN. No civilian targets, only military.” He gestured toward Rodrigo, “. . . and Los Grillos.”
“Tonto, indeed. You must think I’m an idiot as you always have. First you set me up to be almost killed on Earth, now you hunt me down on Terra Nova, reveal my past and what, you set all of this up? Played me the fool with Yelena?”
At mention of her name, Yelena stepped forward and laid a hand on George’s arm. “No, George, it was not like that.”
He shook off her hand and continued. “You set me up. Are you planning to blackmail me so that I’ll treat your terrorists?” He practically spat the word, but was rocked backward by the sudden slap from Yelena.
“No!” The shout and slap silenced George and he worked his jaw but remained silent while Yelena yelled at the rest of the men in the room in rapid-fire Spanish. Everyone except for Yelena and Julio left the room—and Rodrigo, who was lying on the table, occasionally shivering, but neither convulsing nor conscious.
“No. You are tonto. I love you, but you are estupido.” Yelena faced him, eyes blazing. “People are being enslaved, their farms robbed or taken, girls raped, boys killed. Now people are getting sick. You see only a part of it because you are in the city. When you go to the towns, you work at the TNHO stations and you treat the soldados. People trust you to care for the niños or bebés but do not know if they can trust you not to report to the UN.” She paused, briefly. “Rodrigo is not terrorista.” She stopped and breathed heavily, anger evident in her body language as if she were preparing to strike him again.
Julio reached out an arm and placed it between the two. He pushed Yelena back slightly, and she relented, still glaring, but less angry. “Rodrigo is a good boy who was protecting a child that had committed the ‘unpardonable sin’ of being in the way of Los Grillos. Several of his friends had gotten sick, though, that was why they came to me. I have been helping to treat the outcasts and resistance fighters. After a few years of practice in Aztlan, the TNHO decided I wasn’t worth their attention. I work in the city a few months per year, but mostly in the countryside. I can move around and I don’t have the ‘sombra’ that you have when you go out to the farms and forts.”
George was confused. It wasn’t just the head-rattling slap, or the shock of seeing his old roommate, or even the growing sense that he was missing many things that were happening around him. “Wait, you’re saying I have a ‘tail’? A shadow?”
“In the countryside, yes; in the city, no. When you were at Fort Cristóbal, there were mercenarios following you. Not UN Marines, these were ‘security contractors.’”
“Umm,” George stalled while he formed his question. “You know this how? You were following me?”
“Following, no. Observing, si. Several of Rodrigo’s friends were getting sick. Influenza, they thought, but many of them ended up looking like he does now.” Julio gestured at the boy. “They contacted me, and I met up with them. They also reported that Rodrigo’s sister was seeing a gringo doctor, but they didn’t know if they could trust him.” He snorted. “Mierda, they barely trust me. So we followed you. There was supposed to be an attack on the fort, but I was watching through a pair of binoculars I liberated from some UN puta who tried to bust up one of my clinics. I saw their gringo doctor and told them to call off the raid. Carvalho may have had his men rearrange your face, but they didn’t change your eyes, mi amigo! With your light skin, pale eyes and horrible accent, it’s no wonder they think you are blanco!”
George started to retort, but was interrupted by a word from Yelena. “Look.”
Rodrigo had started to convulse again and George had to turn his attention to his patient. Yelena and Julio held the boy’s arms and legs while he quickly completed his examination. A quick glance around showed that the shed served not only for woodworking, but also leatherwork to maintain tack for the farm animals. “Grab some of the straps; we need to restrain him to keep him from hurting himself. Get the others back in here with the cold water and bandages!” He selected a wide, clean piece of leather and placed it between Rodrigo’s teeth to give him something to bite on.
The convulsions were confusing. Julio had mentioned men in the Resistance getting sick with influenza, then showing more severe reactions. When they’d arrived, Rodrigo had presented the appearance of an allergic reaction, much as someone who ingested one of the toxic indigenous plants. Now, however, he had convulsions consistent with a high fever, yet was still cold and clammy to the touch. The convulsions must be from a different toxin—but what? He watched as the muscle twitches proceeded from arms and legs to the neck and face. Tendons stood out on the boy’s neck, his jaw clenched and the mouth was drawn into a grimace resembling pursed lips. His breathing became heavy, then rasping, with a hacking or “quacking” sound as it passed through the constricted larynx.
“What?” George stood up and looked over at Julio. “Duck fever?” The memories that had so recently been painfully resurrected by his old friend’s presence came flooding back.
“Si, mi amigo.” Julio nodded sadly. “You were always the best of us at infectious diseases. That is why I asked for you.”
George reached for his emergency bag, then, as an afterthought, reached for the military kit. He’d try to avoid using the blood analyzer if he could; the DNA sequencer and biometric scanner almost certainly recorded all data and reported it to TNHO. He’d have to hope that the diagnostic scanner would be general enough to protect the identity of the patient. He took a blood sample anyway, just filled the tube and handed it to Yelena. “Put this someplace cool until I leave—perhaps one of the cloths soaked in well water. I will take it to the hospital and analyze it there.” He pressed the diagnostic device to the side of Rodrigo’s neck and waited.
“Influenza A, H9N6/avian/Hong Kong/77” was the result a few moments later. The diagnostic display continued with: “Gamma serotype, K-peptide conjugate, variant LSCIII2112.” While the diagnosis and treatment display read: “K-fever. Administer vaccine LC12-TN.” That was the new vaccine alright.
Julio looked over at the readout and grunted. “You have a vaccine. How convenient.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. “How nice of the UN to have a vaccine ready for a disease they created.”
“You think this is deliberate?”
“Duck Fever was always a joke we played on the First Years and pendejos like Carvalho. Somehow, they’ve made it real and they’re using it against the Resistance.”
“In that case . . .” He looked back at the scanner. He stared for a moment in disbelief as recognition dawned on him. “Oh hell. I know who did this.” He turned the device so that Julio could read the display. “Look there. ‘Ell-ess-cee-eye-eye-eye’ Lucas S. Carvalho the Third. His name is all over it.”
Yelena broke in. “You can give him the vaccine, then. You can cure my brother?” She looked hopeful until she looked in the eyes of the two docto
rs.
George shook his head. “I’m not sure it will work with symptoms this advanced. I can give him something for the convulsions and swelling, but he needs to be in a hospital.”
“No.” Both Julio and Yelena spoke at the same time. Julio continued, “If this is deliberate, and I agree that it sure fit’s Carvalho’s methods, then they’ve done it to flush the Resistance out. You have reporting instructions on the vaccine, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He turned to Yelena. “That is the real other reason I can’t give him the vaccine. I have to report biometrics and DNA, then await an unlock code for the injector.” He shook his head and turned back to his old roommate. “Very high tech—Earth tech, not Hamilton—that’s just more evidence for your suspicion that this is all a UN plan.”
The other family members had returned, so George conveyed instructions for treating the boy. He would need to stay unconscious to survive the night—well, morning. There was a local plant, similar to a very popular drug on Earth. Like that drug, it was often smoked for euphoric effects, but properly prepared it would keep Rodrigo sedated and reduce the convulsions. After providing the care instructions, he retrieved the vial of blood and returned to his lodging to prepare for the day’s work.
Yelena had stayed with her brother. It had been a stressful encounter, and George hoped that their relationship would be able to survive it. Julio did not dare to be seen at the hospital or in George’s company, so he, too, had left, with only the promise to be in touch. Fortified with abuela Guerrero’s coffee and a mid-morning nap in an unused exam room, George finished his patient rounds and went to the small laboratory to work with the blood sample he’d taken from Rodrigo.
