Invasive Procedures

by Aaron Johnston

  “I took precautions. I hung the plastic like they told me. I stayed in bed. I wasn’t going to get out. No one was in danger. It was only going to be for a few days, until the treatment ran its course, see?” He held his hands out. “Look, I got the Parkinson’s, all right? I need this treatment they gave me. I can’t have you putting stuff in me.”

  Frank loaded the vial into the injection gun.

  “What’s the matter, you deaf?” said Schneider. “I said I don’t want any of your meds.”

  Carter held up a hand to quiet him. “I’m not going to argue with you, Mr. Schneider. Right now, you will follow instructions and remain still. Had you not pulled out your IV, we could have done this the easy way.”

  Schneider pointed a trembling finger. “You’re not sticking me with that, you hear? In the IV or otherwise. Not unless you tell me what it is.”

  Carter hesitated.

  “It’s a countervirus,” said Frank simply. He wasn’t going to lie to the old man.

  “Countervirus?” said Schneider, suddenly looking horrified. “You mean it’ll stop the treatment?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pressed himself against the bar on the opposite side of the bed. “You stay away from me, you hear me? I’ll be cured in a few hours. Once it runs through my system. You stay away from me.”

  The beeping of the heart monitor began to increase. Frank stiffened. The old man was working himself into a frenzy.

  “You’re going to ruin everything,” he said. “You’re going to ruin it. I can feel myself getting better, do you hear me? I can feel myself getting whole again. You can’t stop that now, not when I’m this close. I beg you, please.”

  He broke into sobs and covered his face with his hands.

  Frank was at a loss. Why couldn’t they wait a few hours? What harm would it do? The man was isolated already. Who could he infect? Why not wait, see if the virus heals him, and if it doesn’t, give him the countervirus then?

  Carter must have sensed something of what Frank was thinking because Frank heard Carter’s voice in his helmet, speaking privately so that Schneider couldn’t hear. “We don’t have a choice, Frank. We have to do it, if for no other reason than to find out if the countervirus works. Healers are criminals. They may appear to have a benevolent agenda, but they’ve killed people, they’ve destroyed property, they’ve turned this entire region into a biological hot zone. You’ve seen what this virus can do to people it wasn’t intended for. We can’t let that go unchecked. We have to have a method for treating people. And we’ll never know if this countervirus is the answer unless we put it to the test. We can’t wait for formal human trials, not when the threat is this immediate. We’ve got to stop these Healers now. If we can use the technology they’ve created to help people, we will. But we’ll do so legally, safely, without putting others at risk.”

  Frank nodded. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” The logic was inarguable. And yet it still seemed cruel to Frank to snuff out the man’s hopes like this, to leave him with the disease with the end so close at hand.

  “Let’s do it,” said Frank.

  They faced Schneider again and saw that he was brandishing his IV needle like a knife, a single drop of blood visible at its tip. “Stay away from me or so help me, I’ll stick you with this. Don’t think I won’t.”

  They both froze. The needle was clearly strong enough to puncture their biosuits.

  “Mr. Schneider,” Carter said calmly, “you will put the needle down and act civilly.” He took a step forward and Schneider waved the needle at him violently, narrowly missing Carter’s stomach.

  “Mr. Schneider,” Carter boomed, “this is your final warning. You will cooperate or you will be forced to cooperate.”

  But he wouldn’t cooperate, and it was ten minutes before two orderlies in biosuits showed up to restrain him. Frank gave him the injection in the arm, and the old man howled in agony, not from the needle prick, but from losing what he had so longed for.

  When they left him he was curled up in the fetal position on his bed, crying like a child.

  After that experience, Frank decided not to inform the other patients what the vials contained. They were getting the treatment whether they wanted it or not, and upsetting them by telling them it was a countervirus would only make the process more difficult. At Frank’s request, the orderlies accompanied him and Carter to each room and stood quietly by their sides while the countervirus was administered. With the orderlies present, no one else put a fight.

  There was the young black man suffering from sickle-cell anemia Riggs had described on the airplane; a thin boy of twelve or thirteen with visible symptoms of Marfan syndrome; and five others, who technically were clean of the virus, having been given a countervirus by the Healers three days after their respective healings, but whom the BHA wanted to keep in isolation until they were certain these people didn’t pose a threat to the outside world.

  “You can’t keep me locked up like this,” said one middle-aged woman who was clean of the virus. “The treatment’s been out of me for months. I’m not a threat to anybody. You can’t hold me like this.”

  “Could you describe what the countervirus they gave you looked like?” Frank asked, hoping to get some shred of information that might help him guess at its composition.

  “Why would I tell you?” the woman said. “You only want to stop them. You think I’d turn on them like that? After what they did for me? They healed me. I owe them everything. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  Frank didn’t press the issue.

  Once all eight patients had been visited, all Frank and Carter could do was wait. The countervirus would need a few hours to be integrated into each patient’s system.

  After those hours had passed, Frank took a blood sample from each of the patients.

  The orderlies took the samples away to an adjacent lab and then came back in a few minutes with the answer. In all cases, the blood tested negative for the virus. There was no trace of it in anyone’s system, including the three patients in whom the virus had still been active before treatment.

  Carter took Frank’s hand and shook it. “Well, Mr. Countervirus, General Temin was right. You’re a genuine virus killer.”

  Frank somehow managed a smile. He knew he should be pleased—five months of work had gone into creating the countervirus, and this should be a moment of relief and satisfaction. Yet he felt none of that. Instead, he thought of Schneider coiled on his bed, crying and clutching the sheets, his hands still trembling from Parkinson’s.

  After decontamination, Frank showered, wrapped himself in a towel and returned to his locker. Carter was there on a bench, waiting for him. Rather than put his flashy business suit back on, Carter had dressed in the black uniform of the BHA. In his lap was a folded uniform identical to his own.

  “Here,” he said, offering the uniform to Frank. “Welcome to the club. Change and meet me outside. Then we’ll get you something to eat.”

  Carter left the locker room, and Frank put on the uniform. It fit nicely. Black slacks. Black shirt, with the insignia of the agency over the left breast pocket. White stripes down the length of the sleeve suggested rank. A pair of new shoes and socks sat on the bench, and Frank put those on as well. When done, he tossed his towel in a hamper and joined Carter in the cafeteria.

  The food was surprisingly delicious. Like every other aspect of their organization, the BHA had spared no expense. Dinner consisted of steak, grilled potatoes, asparagus, and a peach cobbler.

  “So,” said Carter, cutting into his steak, “is there a Mrs. Frank Hartman?”

  The question caught Frank off guard. Broaching the subject of family seemed taboo. He was here on business, not to make intimate friends.

  “There used to be,” he said. “I’m divorced.”

  “Oh,” said Carter. “That’s none of my business, I guess. Sorry.”

  Frank shrugged. “Such is life.”

  “Such is life,” Carter repeated. There
was a moment of awkward silence. Frank tried to think of a segue to a different subject, but Carter got there sooner.

  Sort of.

  “I’m a child of divorce myself,” he said. “My parents spilt when I was ten.

  “That must have been tough,” Frank said, not really knowing what else to say.

  “My father wasn’t the greatest of men. Part of me was glad to see him go, truth be told.”

  Not knowing how to respond to that, Frank became interested in his peach cobbler.

  “Once he was gone, though,” continued Carter, “I felt worse than I had when he was around. He had ignored me when my parents were still together, but at least he had been there. During those times, I could pretend, at least, that he was there because he cared about me. But when he was gone, I had nothing to hold onto. He didn’t come around, so I knew he didn’t give a rat’s ass.”

  Carter waited, giving Frank an opportunity to contribute to the conversation. For his part, Frank didn’t feel particularly motivated to chime in. To have a stranger—for Carter still was one—divulge his childhood relationship with his father seemed odd.

  “It’s tough being a parent,” Frank said simply, hoping that would end the conversation.

  It had the opposite effect.

  “Oh?” said Carter. “You speak from experience? You got kids?”

  Somehow the question Frank avoided at all costs had snaked its way into the conversation. And once asked, it could not be ignored. To ignore it demanded an explanation. It was better to simply answer and move on.

  “I did,” said Frank. “A daughter. She died of leukemia.”

  The response to this was always the same. People were mortified to discover that they had broached an unhappy, deeply personal subject and felt guilty because they assumed that by bringing up a death they were making the person experience the grief of it all over again.

  Carter blushed. “I’m . . . sorry,” he said, fumbling. “I didn’t mean to . . .

  “It’s okay,” said Frank, forcing a smile.

  But it wasn’t okay. Not really. And as Carter quickly steered the conversation to safer ground, Frank found himself thinking only of Rachel. She had been six when she died, following a long hard fight. When the end had finally come, Frank and his wife had felt some measure of relief—not because there was no grief (there was plenty of that), but because nothing had been more excruciating than to watch Rachel slowly slip away, to watch her suffer.

  Despite these memories, Frank put on a good face throughout the remainder of dinner and even afterward while Carter showed him to his room in the barracks.

  The room was what he needed and nothing more: a bed, a bathroom, and a soft pillow. There was a computer terminal in the wall, and Carter showed Frank how to access the system and notify him or Riggs if Frank found the need. They then made arrangements to meet again in the morning, and Carter left him for the evening.

  Frank still had the burned book of scripture, George Galen’s The Book of Becoming, and he lay on the bed flipping through it. Since many of the pages were damaged by fire, Frank had to fill in a lot of blanks.

  It was clear, however, from what remained that Galen had been careful in writing it, leaving out anything that could be considered incriminating. No mention of the virus. No mention of Healers or any specific group at all, in fact. Galen simply explained the need to reach out to the less fortunate, particularly those whom the world had forgotten: the homeless, the hungry, gangs, even small business owners were to be kept on a good servant’s radar.

  Occasionally Galen quoted the prophet, who always adopted a more biblical form of speech. Then there were chapters on healing oneself, how to rid the body of those habits and vices that kept one from reaching one’s full potential. Drugs were shunned. And alcohol. Idleness was frowned upon. A continued practice of learning was encouraged. Regular exercise. Healthy diet. The chapters that followed were dedicated to those with genetic diseases, how science had dropped the ball, how the solution to these ailments was within grasp but ignored by those who could make it readily available. This was the Galen Frank had read and heard about, the pompous Galen, the quick-to-throw-blame Galen. Although the NIH was never named, it was clear who Galen was pointing a finger at.

  The final chapters of the book were the most unnerving. They spoke of unlocking a healthy person’s “genetic potential.” No methodology was suggested, but the essence of it was clear: Galen believed that improving healthy DNA was as worthy of the reader’s attention as healing diseased DNA. After that, there were several quotes from the prophet alluding to his own death and resurrection, which Frank, finding nothing of interest in them, merely glanced over.

  With everything read, Frank turned to the last illustration, the Council of the Prophets. The young man in the red necktie, this supposed prophet, whoever he was, stood with four men identical to himself. The detail of the drawing was good, but the face of the man left room for interpretation. It wasn’t a face Frank recognized, and yet some of the features felt familiar to him. The jaw. The nose. The roundness of the face. He had seen these features before.

  As he stared at it, a thought came to him, and he quickly put the book aside and turned on the computer terminal. He signed onto the Net and did a search for George Galen. The first hundred hits or so were exactly what he expected: articles on the Human Genome Project, reports of Galen’s tirades on a few talk shows, a few scientific journals containing studies written by Galen. But then Frank found what he was looking for: a photo of Galen in younger years, long before he had gained notoriety, long before the notorious white hair. It was a newspaper photo, taken back when Galen was doing some postdoctoral work at Stanford. Galen and a few graduate students were huddled inside a children’s hospital, surrounded by many of the children from the ward. Galen had apparently organized some charity event that had raised money for the hospital and made the local paper. He was smiling wide, full of youthful idealism. The similarities were unmistakable. Dark hair, brown eyes, even the posture was the same. There was no questioning it, the drawing in the book was of Galen in his youth. The man in the red necktie featured in all the illustrations was George Galen. Author and prophet were one and the same.

  12

  CONTROL

  Monica sat on the bed in Wyatt’s room, watching him sleep. It was past midnight, and the hall outside their room was quiet. She had been listening for footsteps or voices for over an hour and had heard neither in that time. When she had checked the door earlier, she found it unlocked with no one outside it guarding it. The Healers either didn’t suspect Monica would try to escape or they simply knew escape was impossible.

  She looked down at Wyatt. He slept on his stomach, still wearing the clothes he had dressed in that morning. For the first time today he looked at peace.

  Monica got up and pulled the sheet over his shoulders. She didn’t want to leave him alone, but now was the best opportunity she was going to get to explore and find a way out. If she found one, a safe one, she’d come back, wake Wyatt, and the two of them would go together.

  Stepping softly so as not to disturb him, she went to the door, opened it, and walked out into the hall. The lights were on, but the hall was empty. She stood there, listening, but heard only the ambient hum of the overhead lights and the air-conditioning.

  She thought about what she might say if they caught her out of her room. She couldn’t claim to have been looking for the restroom, since there was one near Wyatt’s room she had been using all day. She could say she was looking for food. Their meals had been brought to them on trays, so she wouldn’t be lying if she said she didn’t know where the kitchen was.

  She walked in the direction of Yoshida’s office . . . no, his laboratory, where he was building what he believed to be Galen’s mind.

  She shuddered. Yoshida was no more sane than Galen was.

  She remembered passing a set of double doors on her way to his office and decided to try them. She reached them without incident and pushed
on them tentatively. They swung open. The hall beyond was no different from the one she now stood in. Taking a final glance over her shoulder, she stepped into the unknown.

  After thirty yards the hall turned to the left. It was then that she heard voices. She stopped, pressed herself against the wall, and listened. The voices were faint—whispery, almost, and sounded as if they were saying the same thing over and over again, like a recording that had been looped. Monica peered around the corner but saw no one. Down that direction, however, light spilled from a doorway into the hall.

  She took a few cautionary steps closer and as she did, the voices became more distinct. Closer still, and she realized that what she had perceived to be two voices was actually one. Yoshida’s voice.

  Staying out of sight, she drew close to the doorway.

  In hushed tones, Yoshida was whispering, “There is no master but the master. I must obey the master. There is no master but the master. I must obey the master.”

  He screamed then, and a loud crash sounded. A metal serving tray flew out the doorway and clanged against the opposite wall, clattering to the floor near Monica’s feet.

  She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

  Yoshida grew louder, more desperate. “There is no master but the master. I must . . . obey the master.”

  His voice strained with every word, as if it required all of his strength to speak them.

  “There is no . . . master . . . but . . . I will . . .”

  Another crash as metal objects fell to the floor.

  Monica looked back the way she had come. Someone would hear this. Healers would come. They’d find her here. She had to get back before she was discovered.

  Just as she turned to go, Yoshida stumbled out of the room. He was a wreck, the perpetual smile gone, his eyes wild, his hair unkempt, and worst of all, his whole body was shaking, a trembling that began at the top of his head and extended to the tips of his extremities.