by Chris Hepler
"The answer to the first dilemma, regarding defining humanity, can be found with ample precedent within case law. Roe v. Wade ultimately supported medical professionals drawing a line between constitutionally protected humans and that which is other. The line in that case was drawn across time: a collection of human cells, whatever its DNA says, is not designated human nor granted the protections of the law until approximately twenty-eight weeks, when a fetus able to survive outside the womb is considered protected. This is not the only precedent set by this landmark case; its opinion considered that the doctor may also make a judgment in order to preserve the life and health of the mother, recognizing that an essential freedom protected by our Constitution is bodily autonomy: freedom from being forced to support another organism that is a danger to one's life and person.
"However, this court finds that once personhood is recognized by society, there are no circumstances under which it should be removed save death. To do otherwise is to invite catastrophe.
"Imagine an infection that removed your right to vote, to own property, to marry or reproduce, to be paid a wage or even emigrate from the very nation that does not recognize you as human."
I shoot Morgan a look. He's stone-faced, and I want him to smile. Even if we lost on wrongful infection, this is a win, isn't it? Instead, Morgan glances elsewhere. I follow his gaze to Cho. The lawyer looks as grim as if he just found a lump under his skin.
"The second dilemma, the question of criteria, is significantly hampered by the absence of good record-keeping on behalf of the Initiative. This has led Mr. Lorenz's expert witness, among others, to conjecture that this was a deliberate practice, to cover up wrongdoing in a program that went as far as terminating captive infected."
Trousdale's voice drones on while I wonder what happened. Ulan made allegations, but those couldn't be turned against her, could they? Capturing or killing infected is a sign of criminal activity, not extreme heroics. I tune back in as Trousdale continues to rattle.
"The Health Initiative has been assumed to be innocent until proven guilty in this regard, and they have made many strides in establishing their criteria by what few standards exist for scientific rigor in the largely unexplored field of qi biology. Dr. Ulan granted us the only other perspective, which brings us to the third consideration.
"Though Dr. Ulan and others like her may take precautions not to commit violence upon any person, the changes in an infected person's brain are significant, comparable with the physical alterations brought on by addiction to narcotics. Even granted that she may have lived a paragon's life following her infection, she still exposed more than two hundred people to her virus. The analogy of the grafted gun may suffice to illustrate the dangers inherent in VIHPS.
"Suppose for a moment that Dr. Ulan owned a pistol grafted to her hand and was an upright and law-abiding citizen. While the temptation to use the weapon in daily life might be strong, she could simply choose never to do so. She would fire it only at firing ranges or in defense of her life and thus not menace society at large no matter her threatening potential. Now, imagine if this loaded pistol replicates itself and could somehow force its owner to graft the replicas at the rate of one per week to anyone, even individuals who never wanted to or prepared to own a firearm. These replicas would then do the same to their owners and reward them with a narcotic high when they did so. Through no fault of her own, Dr. Ulan would find that she has made the world a much more dangerous place, as would her infected victims and their victims ad infinitum. We cannot allow Dr. Ulan's example to be followed in any capacity whatsoever because it is not sustainable. To paraphrase the book of Timothy, the law is not made for a righteous man. The law is made for the good of the bulk of humanity, and they, when infected with VIHPS, are as a rule unprepared for their condition and as medically unable to join society as Mr. Lorenz himself."
The quote has me snarling. First, they cite Roe and now the Bible. This is custom-made to gouge out my guts. Then, I feel a strong grip on my hand. It's Jessica. I squeeze back in solidarity.
"This court recognizes that the medical facts call for urgency in their application. It may be the place of a court to adjudicate the restriction or restoration of the rights of an infected individual, but it is practically untenable.
"While the court ruling is being made, the virus will run its course, and more infections or violence will result. To stop the spread of this contagious and perilous infection, a doctor must be granted the power to diagnose those with late-stage qi-positive EBL-4 and restrict their freedoms as he sees fit without judicial review. It is to this end that the court pronounces its judgment. The ruling counts five votes for the respondent and four for the petitioner."
My brain stutters. "Did they just say BRHI can operate as it always has?"
"No," says Jessica. "Now, they have legal cover."
I hear boos and realize their source. Cass, Ferrero, and Ly are standing and trying to get the masses to join in, but the norms aren’t doing it. The gavel bangs.
"Mr. Lorenz, your friends will be ejected until they can respect the decorum of this court," announces Chief Justice Fennel, and Cho immediately gestures for Ferrero and Ly to be silent. Morgan rises, too, but the downhill slide has started. The bailiff approaches, followed by uniformed officers who come out of nowhere. I focus on them. I can read eyes: something bad is going to go down.
Cass snaps at the bailiff. "What are you here for?"
"Sir, come with me please," is the answer, and I know how this will end. The woofing will end in a shoving match, and that ends with guns. I'm on my feet in an instant: this is something I can solve. Draping my hands over Cass, I pull him gently off-balance into me.
"Walk me out, love," I say. "We don't need any more of their shit." Cass stumbles, into me and then onto his feet, disoriented by my cooperative tone. Ly and the others look to Morgan.
"Come on, we're leaving," he says, and in that moment, I think of how fucked up it all is, how nice we have to play here in the face of BRHI's crimes. And worse, I'm doing their work for them, hauling an angry friend away. I focus on half-carrying, half-dragging Cass. He's making noises about how lucky the bailiff is and how this isn't over yet and whatever smack comes to mind. Then, I reach the outside hallway, staring at a dozen-plus blue uniforms and nobody else.
The phalanx of Supreme Court Police stands ready, and it takes me a second to process what they're doing. Their pistols are out of their holsters, but they are all pointed down at the floor, the sight of the ready but inoffensive weapons sending exactly the message they want.
"Morgan Lorenz," says one of the cops, all crew cut and chest radio, "it's my duty to inform you that you're under arrest. The rest of your friends are free to go."
Divide and conquer. Without the last sentence, the cop would be committing suicide.
"Morgan," says Ly, "don't tell me this is what you want."
"I needed a day in court," Morgan says. "It's over. I told you what I had to do."
"Infinity," Ly tries as Morgan presents his hands. The police apply cuffs. "We can't let them do this."
My instincts scream at me as I watch Morgan disappear into a crowd of ballistic vests. It doesn't matter that I've said goodbye. I'm barely here, remembering strangers saying my mother died and fathers and verses and promises broken. I'm a child again, suffering humiliation because I know the alternative is worse. I want to say something cynical, something that can reframe this as a test we can tolerate, but nothing comes.
I grab Ly in one hand and Cass in the other. Running is exactly what we need now. My yank breaks them from any resistance they were going to put up and starts the vipe retreat. We leave the battle behind us, with Morgan gone and the rest of the troops following me, as if I have some idea when or how we can rally again.
We push through a crowd of journalists waving printed opinions at cameras and hired paralegals translating the language like it's any other day. We emerge to the cold, bright world outside, to the awful sound of
the wrong side cheering.
45 - MORGAN
Unknown date
The smell is the worst. The stench of the gas eats at my sinuses and the back of my mouth. I don't know what the gas is, just that it's used like chloroform is in the movies. I guess it's the stuff to sedate people before surgery—the kind where they tell you not to eat for twenty-four hours beforehand so you won't puke while you're under. Because there's been puking.
My cell is about three and a half meters to a side but twice that in height. The roomy space above is not for aesthetics. It's so I can't reach the black plastic bubble in the center of the ceiling that conceals a camera. I tried jumping from the cushion. It's all I have since a bedframe could be broken and used as a weapon. For the same reason, my toilet is a hole in the floor.
I rub the inside of my elbow. The closing of my wounds is my only way of telling time. I have no clock, no phone, no wristwatch. My last blood drawing was more than an hour ago—the tiny scab has completely vanished, leaving the skin whole.
I don't know where I am. The police took me away in a van that was all steel and stronger stuff, and I spent an unremarkable night in jail before they switched it up on me. They asked to administer a sedative, and I, rather foolishly, agreed when it was clear they weren't really giving me a choice.
They had an officer present to talk with me until I lay down to rest. That was the last sign I saw of real law enforcement.
The door bears the marks of my fists and feet. Strong as I am, I still can't punch through metal, and I damn near broke a bone in the attempt. After tiring myself out on it, I discovered it didn't muffle sound completely. Or maybe it did, before I made it less-than-airtight.
I can’t hear much, but there is definitely a murmur: someone talking close to the door for extended periods. I guess there is monitoring equipment there. I lie down on my cushion and pretend to sleep. There's nothing distracting to think about, so my mind runs over the most ominous parts.
They fed me shortly after imprisoning me. I woke up with a girl in my room. Lean and young, maybe below eighteen, and all red hair and freckles. I peppered her with questions and got only a frown in response. I guess she'd been ordered not to speak. She presented her arm like a serving tray. When I finished the bite, the fans whirred, bringing in gas, and it was all over. Then again, maybe weeks later, the same girl. Not even scars to mark where I'd been. That's when I knew she was a vipe like me. She only answered one question, ever.
"Whose turn is it when you run out of blood?" I asked.
"Yours," she said.
That was it. They are not interrogating me. They only want to puncture me, suck out their samples and discard the skin like those little juice bags that kids bring in their lunch boxes.
Maybe I could theoretically fight back against whatever vipe will try to feast on me, but if they cut off my supply, I'll get weaker and weaker.
I am going to die here. Part of me thinks I deserve it. Were I to prosecute myself, Luis Rodolfo and Pierce Hauptmann would be enough to put me in a cell like this. But when I look at the freckled girl, it's different. Seeing another person subjected to my fate magnifies it.
The whirring fan starts. The air turns into a cold mist. It's the gas. I keep my face wedged into my pillow, breathing shallowly, using the cotton as a filter. I feel lightheaded, but either my plan is working, or I'm starting to build up some immunity. I can clearly hear the door open a few minutes later. They think I'm unconscious, and who can blame them? I can't count how many there are by sound alone, but I can tell the room is filling up.
"Cart in three, ready?" asks a faint voice through a radio. "One, two... lift." I hold still as they reach around me and heave, turning me over so I rest face up on a crashcart. Then, when someone touches my arm, I can't resist. I open my eyes.
I'm surrounded by the orange and black of hazard suits and darkened face shields. One of them has me by the arm and holds an empty syringe. Without thinking, I grab that wrist hard.
"What are you doing?" I find myself saying. I can't get hateful words out of my mouth, not on instinct.
The doctor I grabbed recoils but can't fight my grip. "Get him off me!" I hear, and the others are galvanized out of their shock.
"You don't need me!" I yell. "This isn't science! This is punishment!" Instantly, I regret shouting because I get a lungful of gas, and I feel my brain loosen its hold. But as more hands grab me, it takes little effort to cause more chaos. I draw my hand back across my body, and the syringe doctor comes with it, knocking into the ones on the opposite side. Everyone grabs me.
Trying to roll off the gurney, I lurch. My body feels like a barbell tumbling to the floor. There are more shouts, but they are distant, confined inside the helmets. I land on all fours.
"Come on!" I yell, struggling to get to my feet. Hands seize me, but I push back. "It's punishment! Say it! Punish me!"
Another lungful of gas ensures I have no balance, but I'm leaning on them now. I only have long enough to think that some of these jokers might not be doctors when the electroshocker hits my gut.
My body jerks as abs and chest all become a tight ball. It doesn't hurt so much as it makes me unable to move. My back muscles lock, and my hand on the crashcart rail clamps down. I try to heave the cart into my assailant, but it only rattles as my arm fails to respond. The man with the shocker fires again. I'm hit in the opposite shoulder, but my back is already as tight as it goes. I stumble. I can't even crawl. My limbs are useless, and my head hits cold tile: pain at last.
"C minus," I get out. "You didn't say it."
I lie face down, barely able to gasp for air. My diaphragm tightened, too. The tile sucks the heat from my body as the breaths full of gas finally get to me. My will dims. I don't want to kill these people. I don't care who they are. All I know is that they will hurt me beyond belief if it will get them an iota closer to breaking down the science of the virus. What I don't understand is why.
46 - INFINITY
November 14th
Ferrero's little Chevy Quasar has lousy visibility compared to Cass's truck, but like so many things now, there isn't much I can do about it. I'm craning my neck and getting blinded by headlights while I'm trying to get on the highway. Meanwhile, Ferrero's in the back seat trying to change his shirt in a way that keeps all the stains on the towels.
"How you doing back there?" I ask, guessing the distance to the bend in the road behind us. It's the only thing keeping our license plate from being spotted by witnesses.
"I don't know. Two people might have seen me leave," he says, and I accelerate, stomping too hard on the pedal as I process what he said.
"Wait, someone saw you? Mask or no mask?"
"No mask when I was with the donor, mask when I had the blood on me. That's when they freaked. We can't keep using the things. They scream 'crime in progress.'"
My thoughts are stuck in recirculate mode. I'm supposed to be the expert at this. What I get instead of a plan is a car blasting on its horn because my merge sucks.
"Do we go back?" Ferrero asks.
"And do what? Ice a witness? Stop digging the hole." I brake, switch lanes, and a motorcycle nearly gets smacked as it zips by. I hold my foot down, catching up to speed.
"Are you trying to kill us?"
"Yeah, because the number one killer of vipes is rear-end collisions," I snap. "Look, we just won't hunt there again."
"Amen to that," Ferrero says, distantly. The truth lies unspoken between us. There are a lot of places we can't go back to. Underscoring the point, I nearly take the turnoff for the place we lived during the trial. After Morgan was taken away, Jessica laid out in no uncertain terms how easy it would be to make him give up the location of our townhouse. Within twenty-four hours, we had a deposit down on another two-bedroom and vacated the old one.
It's just for now, I remind myself. I'm still repeating that mantra when the rowhouse swings into view twenty minutes later. A taste of evaded responsibility is as addictive as anything else on
my lips these days.
We pull up, and I do a quick visual check of the car—it doesn't have any suspicious stains once Ferrero has pulled the clothes and towels out. Looking around, I attempt to place any vehicles that haven't been there before but soon give up. There are too many; I'd have to bust out the notepad in my phone. I catch up to Ferrero, who is knocking at the door.
Deborah opens it. I point my fingers at her like a gun. "You should be packing if you're opening the door," I say.
She defends herself. "I could see it was you. Besides, if it was a cop, I'd be busted."
"If they ask, tell them you're scared of vipes," I say. "Now, we do this. Laundry and feeding. Where's Jessica? She's first."
"She's on the phone."
"With?"
"I dunno. New York."
I let out a breath. We all have our vices, and Jessica's is staying in touch with her old friends. "Okay, Cass, you're up."
Cass gets up from the couch where he and Ly were watching the news. He grabs a razor blade from a box of disposables on a folding table. As he goes to get his fix, I think I see a flash of coldness in his eyes. I'm going to say something about keeping the razors out of sight but decide it's not worth it. If I looked in a mirror tonight, I might get the same chill.
"Right," says Cass, "Ferrero, I got one rule for this. Want to hear it?"
"A rule?"
"Yeah, it's real simple. Just bloodsucking. I don't kiss afterwards." His tone leaves no uncertain ground.
"Got it," says the smaller man.
"Good, let's knock this out, then." The two of them go upstairs, while I take off my coat. I sit down by Ly. He's cleaned up his beard but kept most of it, creating a look somewhere between a country-western star and the Devil. I eye his bowl of blueberries. As I said, vices.
