Invasive Procedures

by Aaron Johnston

  The guard saluted Riggs and Carter and looked genuinely pleased to see them. “Welcome home, sirs.” He saw the small suitcase Frank was pulling. “May I take your bag, Dr. Hartman?”

  So they were expecting him. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

  The guard escorted them to another door and returned to his station. Carter repeated the security check yet a third time, and the doors opened, revealing another expansive room nearly equal in size to the Command Center but far more tranquil. No computers, no monitors, no furniture at all, just stark white walls and bright white light. A few BHA employees in matching black uniforms walked by, the heels of their boots clicking on the polished floor and echoing through the chamber.

  “Welcome to T4,” said Riggs, leading them inside. “Everything you need is housed here, Frank, including your barracks.”

  “Barracks? Your staff live here?”

  “We’re completely contained in this facility. Mess hall, barracks, combat training, and workout gyms. Even an on-site sewage-treatment plant and enough water tanks to last us at least ninety days. Basically, we could stay down here for weeks without ever going to the surface.”

  “Why underground?” asked Frank. “Containment?”

  “Millions of people live in LA County,” said Carter. “You can imagine the disaster that would result if a Level 4 substance leaked into the open. The earth between us and the surface is simply another shield of protection.”

  “And this way,” said Riggs, “if there was a leak, the only people who would die would be us. And since we’re already underground, no one has to bury us.” He winked at Carter.

  “Right,” said Carter, smiling. “We’d be in the world’s biggest coffin. All they’d have to do is a make a little gravestone above us. ‘Here Lies the BHA.’ ”

  Frank allowed himself to grin but didn’t feel particularly amused. The thought of having no escape should a leak occur wasn’t comforting. To change the subject he stepped forward and took in his surroundings. A series of corridors was in front of them, each extending at least a hundred yards, with multiple connecting passageways that led off in every direction. It was a massive underground complex, larger than any federal facility Frank had ever seen, aboveground or below.

  “Come on,” said Riggs, checking his watch. “We had the countervirus taken to the infirmary. Let’s see if you’re worth the trip.”

  10

  YOSHIDA

  Monica wasn’t sure which bothered her more—that she had found a stranger in Wyatt’s room playing video games with him or that the stranger in question, this Dr. Kouichi Yoshida, was being so friendly. It felt off. So far the only people she had met here were Galen, the Healers, and other prisoners like herself. Of those, the only people who had seemed happy were the bad kind. And right now, Yoshida had a smile right out of a Colgate commercial, all teeth, ear to ear. He creeped Monica out.

  “Perhaps we could talk in my office,” Yoshida said. “Wyatt can stay here and play video games with Lichen.”

  Monica looked over her shoulder at Lichen, who, big as a bear, stood watching from the hallway. She felt Wyatt’s fingers dig into her side and knew that Wyatt considered hanging out with Lichen as bad an idea as she did.

  “Some other time, perhaps,” she said. “Wyatt and I have had a traumatic day. I’d rather be alone with him right now, thank you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Yoshida said, waving his hand dismissively and moving for the door. “You two will have plenty of time to see each other. Besides, I should bring you up to speed on all the equipment before the surgeries.”

  He stood in the doorway now, facing her, that same vacant smile on his face. With Lichen looming behind him, Yoshida looked embarrassingly small. He was about five-and-a-half feet tall with straight black hair parted down the middle. A pair of small, round silver spectacles framed his unblinking eyes. Beneath his white lab coat he wore a tacky Hawaiian shirt with about twenty colors more than necessary.

  “What surgeries?” said Monica.

  “You see?” said Yoshida. “You do have a lot of questions. Come on, I’ll lead the way.” He turned away from the doorway and disappeared from view.

  “Don’t go, Mom,” said Wyatt quietly, still clinging to her. “Don’t leave me alone with him.” He was peeking around her at Lichen.

  Monica took both of his hands in hers and knelt in front of him.

  Lichen said, “Wyatt can stay here by himself. He doesn’t need me to watch over him. I will accompany you and Dr. Yoshida.”

  Monica felt lightheaded. She wanted nothing more than to be with and comfort Wyatt. And yet she feared that if she wasn’t completely compliant, it might have negative repercussions for them both. The memory of Jonathan’s limp body with a tranquilizer in his neck was too vivid a one to forget.

  She rubbed a hand down Wyatt’s arm, straightening his shirtsleeve and giving him what little comfort she could. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” she said. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you. When I get back, we’ll play head-to-head.” She nodded at the TV. “You can blast me with a potato gun.”

  He glanced at the screen, then turned back. “Five minutes?”

  “Five minutes,” she said.

  Yoshida was waiting out in the hall, the grin on his face not the least bit diminished. “Your Wyatt’s a real charmer,” he said. “Fast with his fingers, too.” He mimed using a game controller.

  “Where’s your office?” Monica said, changing the subject. The less attention given to Wyatt, the better.

  “This way,” said Yoshida, going in a direction Monica had not yet explored. She followed and heard Lichen’s heavy footsteps behind her.

  They went down a dimly lit hallway, through a large room that looked as if it could have once been a cafeteria, and down a flight of stairs.

  Yoshida held open the rusty metal door at the bottom of the staircase, and Monica stepped inside. It was like stepping into another world, going from darkness to light, leaving the grungy, mildew-infested halls of an abandoned retirement home and entering an immaculate laboratory—the kind of lab one would expect to find at a multinational electronics corporation: bright, modern, and static-free. Robotic arms with needle-sharp points at their tips lined a narrow conveyor belt that ran the length of the room. Elsewhere were computer terminals of various shapes and sizes. Miles of cable extended to every machine and device and then to the twenty or so computer servers lined against the wall. The servers hummed quietly and blinked with so many tiny dots of colored light that they looked like boxed Christmas trees.

  “Welcome to my office,” Yoshida said, clearly pleased with himself. “Come on, I’ll show you around.” He held the door open long enough for Lichen to enter and then crossed the room to where the conveyor belt ended. When he saw that Monica hadn’t followed, he waved a hand and shouted her over.

  Reluctantly, she went to him, eyeing each of the robots as she passed. They stood like frozen little soldiers, each about the length of Monica’s arms, and looked like the kind of machines you might suspect to find on the assembly lines of auto manufacturers, only much smaller.

  She found Yoshida standing at a folding table near the end of the conveyor belt. On the table, lined in a neat row atop a piece of felt, lay four small computer chips. Extending from one side of each of the chips were several dozen strands of fiber optics, making it look as if each chip had a spiked haircut roughly two inches long.

  “I was going to make the last one earlier,” Yoshida said, “but I thought you might want to see it for yourself. So I waited. You ready?”

  “Ready for what?” she said.

  Yoshida’s already-stretched-to-the-limit smile widened, and he flipped a switch.

  The room came to life. All the robotic arms and drills and machines hummed and whirred and moved into position over the conveyor belt—the army of electronic soldiers were getting into formation. Monica leaned forward and peered down the length of the conveyor belt and saw that the machines and arm
s at the opposite end were already at work, poking and soldering something on the belt. Then the conveyor belt jerked forward, and Monica stepped back, startled.

  As the object moved down the belt, the arms and devices stretched and poked and did their brief business, then shrunk back out of the way, allowing the next cog in the machine to poke or stamp or do whatever it was designed for.

  Finally the object being created came into view.

  It, too, was a computer chip, identical to the other four on the table. Yoshida, now wearing white cotton gloves, picked up the chip as delicately as he might pick up a volatile explosive and placed it gently beside the others. He sighed, cocked his head to side, and admired his creations. “They’re beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “What are they?” Monica said.

  “Well, they’re not exactly ready yet,” Yoshida said. “I still haven’t downloaded all the data onto them. Galen wants to wait until right before the surgeries to do that.”

  “What are they?” she repeated.

  He looked at her, still all smile, and put his hands in his lab coat pockets. “These, Dr. Owens, are George Galen’s mind.”

  11

  LEVEL 4

  Frank followed Agents Riggs and Carter through the halls of the BHA’s underground facility until they reached the locker room. As far as locker rooms went, it wasn’t anything to write home about. Rows of tall metal lockers with thin wooden benches between them.

  Riggs made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “This locker room connects to our Level 4 containment area, where the infirmary is housed. All of your patients are waiting in there. Director Irving wants you to treat them with the countervirus as soon as possible, so I’ll shut up and let you get down to business. You’ll need to go in wearing full biogear. Agent Carter here will give you all the equipment you need and then accompany you inside and help out however he can.”

  “And the countervirus?” Frank said.

  “If our luggage boys followed instructions, your trunk should be waiting for you inside Level 4. Any other questions?”

  Frank shook his head.

  “Good. And don’t sweat it. We brought you here because you’re the best.” He gave Frank an encouraging tap on the arm and left.

  “Well,” said Carter, “let’s get you suited up.”

  He led Frank down one of the aisles of lockers. Once he found the locker he was looking for, he stopped and tapped it with his finger. “This one’s yours. Everything you need is inside. Strip down to your underwear. Put on the suit and helmet. If you have any questions, I’ll be over there changing.” Carter left Frank and went to his own locker only ten yards away.

  Frank opened the locker. A black rubber suit hung neatly under a single beam of light. Frank took it out and held it up to his body. Instead of being loose-fitting to allow for air circulation, like the suits he was accustomed to, it was tight, like a wetsuit.

  Frank undressed, hung his military uniform on the hooks inside the locker, placed his shoes and socks on the floor of the locker, then stood there in his boxers, not sure how to proceed. The biosuit was a single piece of rubbery fabric, like a glove. As far as Frank could tell, there were no zippers or holes in the back for opening and allowing someone to step into it.

  “Stretch the collar,” Carter said, watching from a distance. To demonstrate, Carter stretched the rubbery collar of his own suit, making a wide hole. Then he stepped into the hole and slowly worked the suit up his body and over his shoulders.

  It took a little doing, but Frank eventually got his on as well. It fit him like a glove, as if it had been made to his exact size and specifications. He did a few knee bends. The fabric was snug but not restrictive.

  The helmet came on next. It slid over Frank’s head easily and connected to two air tanks in the bottom of the locker via a long air hose. Frank opened the air valve, and cool oxygen flowed into the helmet. He slid the air tanks into the backpack clearly designed to carry them and slung the backpack over his shoulders, tightening the straps.

  He looked at himself in the mirror hanging at the back of his locker and felt more like a scuba diver than a virologist.

  A compartment below the mirror caught his eye. He opened it. Inside hung a contaminant rod, a pistol, four cartridges of ammunition, and a Kevlar vest. He lifted the pistol and pulled back on the hammer. It was light, made of durable plastic, and fit snugly in his rubbery grip. He returned it to its stand and lifted the vest. It was heavy, with a large hump in the back to fit over the user’s air tanks and backpack.

  Carter appeared at his side dressed in his own biosuit.

  “Why do I need this?” Frank said, holding up the vest and speaking loudly to be heard though the helmet.

  Carter pointed to an electronic device on the wrist of his suit. “Hit your comlink,” he said.

  Frank found his own and touched it. Carter’s voice became clear and audible inside his helmet. “We wear those vests only when we’re in the field,” Carter said. “Same for the sidearm. Hopefully you won’t need them.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. I’m here as a medical consultant, remember?”

  Carter shrugged. “I’m not the quartermaster.” Then, eyeing Frank’s suit, he said, “How’s the fit?”

  Frank rotated his shoulders. “Feels good.”

  Carter did a quick check for leaks, then pressed a button on Frank’s shoulder that sealed the bottom of Frank’s helmet to the neck of his suit, making it airtight.

  “Ready?” said Carter.

  “As I’ll ever be,” said Frank.

  Carter led the way to Level 4, passing through a series of glass doors that required security clearances. Finally they reached the entrance.

  INFIRMARY

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  WARNING: LEVEL 4 CONTAINMENT

  DO NOT PROCEED WITHOUT

  PROTECTIVE CLOTHING

  They went inside. The entry room was wide and sterile and lined with medicine cabinets. Frank’s metal trunk sat on the floor near the wall. Carter went to a cabinet and found an injection gun and a handful of syringes. Frank opened the trunk, removed several vials of red countervirus, and gently put them in a pouch on his hip.

  “The patients’ rooms are through here,” said Carter, leading the way.

  They went to an adjacent room with a line of doors on one side.

  Frank walked to the door nearest them and peered through the window in it. Inside, an old man slept on a hospital bed surrounded by a wall of life-monitoring machines. He looked to be in his seventies, with wrinkled, saggy, liver-spotted skin. His jaw was covered with white stubbly facial hair that matched the wispy white hair on his head. He wore a red hospital Johnnie with the letters BHA embroidered over the right breast and a pair of white ankle socks.

  “Who is he?” Frank said.

  “Name’s Richard Schneider,” said Carter. “He was the second one we brought in. Healers had treated him the night before we found him, so it hasn’t been three days yet. The virus is still in him, spreading through his system.”

  “Agent Riggs said the Healers have their own version of the countervirus. Were they scheduled to give it to him?”

  “That’s our guess. Mr. Schneider isn’t being too forthcoming with the details, so we can’t be sure. But from what we’ve gathered, Healers typically return three days after giving the treatment to administer a countervirus of their own creation. We’ve got two of our boys watching Schneider’s house in case the Healers come back.”

  “What were they treating him for?”

  “Parkinson’s disease. It’s monogenetic, meaning it’s caused by a change in the DNA sequence of a single gene. Healers target that type of disease because technically it’s the easiest to cure. Fix the one bad gene and the disease goes away.” He pushed open the door. “Come on, let’s give Mr. Schneider his dose of countervirus.”

  As it turned out, Schneider wasn’t asleep after all. His eyes snapped open when Frank and Carter entered, and he sat up i
n his bed, looking suspicious.

  “You can’t hold me here,” he said. “I got rights.”

  Carter touched a button on his comlink, and his voice was broadcast from a speaker on his helmet. “Mr. Schneider, this is Dr. Frank Hartman. He’ll be giving you some medication today.”

  Schneider scooted to the far side of the bed. “I don’t need any medication. Not from you.”

  Now that they were close, Frank could see that the old man’s hands and face were trembling; it was an advanced case of Parkinson’s disease.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter, Mr. Schneider,” Carter said. “So I’ll appreciate your being cooperative.” He gestured at Frank to proceed.

  Frank looked down at the trembling old man and felt increasingly uncomfortable. Not only did he have serious reservations about administering the countervirus before proper testing had been conducted and FDA approval had been granted, but he also disliked treating patients suffering from so much anxiety.

  He hesitated, then removed a vial of countervirus from his pouch and stepped to Schneider’s IV. When it became obvious to Schneider that Frank intended to attach the vial to the IV tube, Schneider pulled the IV needle from his wrist.

  “You’re not putting that inside me,” he said, angry now. “You don’t have the right to put nothing inside me. Not unless I say so. I’m in the middle of something. I can’t have you putting stuff inside me right now. You’ll mess it up.”

  “Mr. Schneider,” Carter said, remaining calm. “You are making this more difficult than it needs to be.” He gave Frank the injection gun. “You will remain still so that Dr. Hartman can give you this injection, or we will be forced to restrain you.”

  “The hell you will. I want my lawyer on the phone. You people can’t hold me here.”

  Carter held his ground. “Actually, Mr. Schneider, we can. You have an illegal substance in your body which puts those around you in danger.”