Alt.History 101 (Alt.Chronicles)

by Ken Liu

  He takes her hand. She doesn’t resist. The tears welling up in the corners of her eyes say she wants to believe him, but she’s so badly hurt. Scarred. The pain in her eyes is raw.

  “I think Jenner was on to something with cowpox,” Lincoln says. “Others may laugh. They may lampoon me, but ignorance and ridicule are the refuge of small minds.”

  Susan nods in agreement.

  “We have to be courageous,” he says, gently squeezing her warm fingers. “Secretary Mahon says we’ll have a man on the Moon before the decade is out, but I think we can do something greater. We can eradicate these horrific diseases. Banish them to the history books!”

  “Just,” she says, patting his hand tenderly and pausing for a moment, searching for the right words. “Just don’t forget her. Okay?”

  “Is that what worries you?” he asks, sitting at the table next to her.

  Susan can’t speak. She nods, biting her lip as tears flood her eyes.

  Lincoln wants to deny he could ever forget young Lisa, but he knows what Susan means. Work is an escape, a chance to focus on something else. It’s too easy to forget, too easy to become busy solving the nation’s problems and not his own. Lincoln doesn’t want to forget, and yet forgetting is the only way to relieve the pain. For Susan, this is the crux of the issue—that their children are more than letters etched on tombstones.

  “For Lisa,” he says in barely a whisper. “For Alex. For Davy. For Phil.”

  There’s a knock at the door.

  Lincoln swallows the knot in his throat, adding, “And for Jonathan.”

  He gets up and walks to the front door. Outside, someone is setting up a wooden lectern on the carefully manicured lawn.

  Clouds darken the sky, threatening rain.

  Workers struggle with a couple of bulky black and white television cameras on the roadside. Each camera is the size of a small cannon, with large telephoto lenses protruding like some futuristic alien ray gun. Police keep bystanders back as Lincoln’s personal assistant arranges seats for the press.

  “We’re almost ready,” a young woman with a clipboard says. “The Secretary of Health just arrived.”

  “Thank you,” Lincoln says as the Secretary jogs up the footpath wearing a dark suit.

  “Jesus, Lincoln,” he says, brushing past the woman and stepping inside the house. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, I knew we were scheduled for today, but you’ve just buried a child! I can call off the whole thing. No one will think less of you. The public will understand.”

  “No,” Lincoln says. “I’m fine.”

  “Sue?” The Secretary for Health says with genuine concern in his voice.

  Susan stands by the kitchen table with her hands folded tightly across her chest. For a second, Lincoln wonders what she’s going to say. He’s never demanded any kind of loyalty or allegiance from her, that’s just not the way a healthy marriage works. If she wants to voice her dissent to the Secretary, she has that right.

  The Secretary walks over to her, showing a level of care that’s surprising given his position and the mere handful of occasions he’s met her before. He hugs her as though she were family.

  “I—I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  Susan seems to crumple in his arms. He steps back, looking deep into her eyes as he holds her by the shoulders.

  “You and Linc. You’re an inspiration. If there’s anything Jan and I can do?”

  Susan shakes her head. Like Lincoln, she wouldn’t dream of imposing on the Secretary of Health and Human Services for the United States of America.

  “I’ve spoken with the President,” the Secretary says, turning to Lincoln. “Politically, he can’t be seen to take sides on this issue. Privately, he shares your concerns. He’s one of eight with only two surviving to adulthood. His brother has lost children to the pox. He’s sympathetic, but the party is divided on the issue of naturalism and he’s facing a hostile Congress with the war in Spain.”

  “I understand,” Lincoln says.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” the Secretary asks.

  Lincoln nods.

  “You’ll get one shot at this. One shot, and only one shot. The media is going to smell blood in the water. They’ll be merciless.”

  “I know,” Lincoln says, retrieving a small felt-covered black box from his briefcase. Normally, it holds his fountain pen, but not today.

  “And you’re okay with this?” the Secretary asks, turning back to Susan. “You know he’s throwing away his career?”

  Susan smiles and nods. If Lincoln didn’t know better, he’d swear she didn’t have a worry in the world.

  “I trust my husband,” she says as their eyes meet.

  “I just want you to know,” the Secretary adds, turning his attention back to Lincoln. “If Congress calls for your resignation, there’s still a place for you on my staff… If you want to retire to academia, I understand. I can pull some strings at Princeton.”

  “Thanks, Mitch.”

  Lincoln doesn't make a habit of referring to the Secretary by his first name, but given the intensity of the moment and the genuine heartfelt support he’s received, it seems only appropriate.

  “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”

  Lincoln follows the Secretary out the front door and into a hail of flash bulbs.

  The Secretary stands before the lectern and addresses the media.

  “Thank you all for coming here today. Ordinarily, we would hold a media conference like this in a stately room, flanked with flags, but this is no ordinary day, and Dr. Lincoln Thompson is no ordinary physician. As Surgeon General of the United States of America, Dr. Thompson holds the most senior medical position within our government and is responsible for crafting the Evidence-Based Medicines Act currently before Congress.”

  The Secretary steps to one side, adding, “Dr. Thompson,” by way of introduction.

  Lincoln steps up to the wooden lectern and adjusts the microphone. He has no notes, only the small black case in one hand and the journal of Edward Jenner tucked under his arm. He rests the journal on the lectern and places the case beside it, looking down at them as he composes himself.

  At first, there’s a flurry of activity. Cameras flash. Reporters start calling out questions over the top of each other, but Lincoln waits for the commotion to subside before looking up at the Press.

  “This morning, I buried my daughter. This afternoon, I bury my career.”

  A murmur ripples through the Press. They were expecting the discussion to center around the controversial Evidence-Based Medicines Act.

  A woman calls out, “Are you resigning because of the Senate Inquiry?”

  Another yells, “Is it true you side with the Anti-Naturalist Movement?”

  Before Lincoln can respond, a man at the back yells, “Are you resigning because of your daughter?”

  “My daughter?” Lincoln begins, distracted by that comment. “My daughter died two days ago after being in an isolation ward for over a week.”

  It’s strange, but talking about Lisa in a factual sense allows Lincoln to detach himself from the emotion of her death and funeral.

  “No,” he says, leaning forward and speaking clearly into the microphone. “This is not about my daughter. It is about your daughters. It is about your sons, your fathers, your mothers, your nephews and nieces. This is about you.”

  The press falls unusually quiet. Normally, they’re ravenous, clamoring over each other to ask the next question, never content to hear an answer—only to push on to question after question, battering public officials to death with their incessant words. But not today.

  “We have the best of intentions. Whether it is suggesting coffee enemas for cancer, honey baths for smallpox or homeopathy for polio, we only want to help. We are passionate, enthusiastic, convinced by the slightest glimmer of hope, only Nature is not so accommodating. Sincerity is wonderful but easily misguided.”

 
The female reporter on the front row calls out, “Does this mean you’re siding with the anti-naturalists?”

  Lincoln ignores her. If she’s smart, and Lincoln has no doubt she is, she already knows the answer.

  “Confidence should be based on evidence, not a sales pitch. Evidence and evidence alone should rule the day, not someone’s financial agenda.”

  “But you’re resigning?” one of the reporters calls out.

  “I am not resigning,” Lincoln says, which causes a flurry of murmurs from the Press. “I’m announcing that the Department of Health is going to start the first ever human trials to test whether inactivated cowpox virus can successfully protect against smallpox infection.”

  Lincoln barely gets the last word out before the reporters are on their feet, yelling and screaming over the top of each other.

  “Outrageous!”

  “Trans-species infection? You’ll create a monster!”

  “You want to overturn five hundred years of naturalism?”

  “That's both immoral and unethical!”

  Lincoln is expecting this. He holds his hands out, gesturing for the Press to let him speak.

  As the commotion dies down, someone yells, “And who will be your lab rat? No one will volunteer to become a heifer!”

  Laughter erupts from the press as Lincoln quietly says, “I will.”

  He holds the small black case up as though he were presenting communion wine before the Cross of Christ, and the press, gathered as a congregation, fall silent. Lincoln opens the case and pulls out a needle and syringe. He puts down the case and screws the needle onto the syringe as another flurry of flash bulbs explode around him, almost blinding him for a moment.

  “When my own daughter fell sick, I decided the time for debate was over. Seven days ago, based on the observations of eighteenth century physician Dr. Edward Jenner, I injected myself with inactive cowpox.”

  The silence is deafening.

  Lincoln takes off his suit jacket, slowly and methodically draping it over the lectern as he glances at the Secretary of Health standing to one side. Lincoln rolls up the sleeve on his left arm.

  “Dr. Jenner observed the absence of smallpox among milkmaids and correctly deduced why. Their immune system was strengthened by exposure to a similar but weaker form of the pox, but as milkmaids gave way to machines, we lost sight of this astonishing observation.”

  The press are madly making notes and whispering amongst each other.

  Lincoln holds up the syringe, saying, “I have here a lethal dose of smallpox taken from pustules on the skin of my own poor daughter, Lisa. May her death not be in vain.”

  The needle presses against the soft skin in the crook of his forearm, but it doesn't break through. For a moment, there’s silence as the thin metal depresses and then suddenly pierces his skin, sliding deep into one of his veins. Lincoln squeezes the syringe, injecting the smallpox directly into his bloodstream. He flexes his hand, making a fist as the cold fluid courses through his arm.

  “This is madness,” someone yells.

  “He’s insane.”

  “He’ll kill us all!”

  “It’s time for the bickering to end,” Lincoln says. “It’s time for us to stop clinging to factions in this debate and look at the facts. It is a healthy mind that can let go of all it holds dear and change.”

  Were it not for the microphone, Lincoln’s voice would have been lost in the unrest. Several of the reporters flee from the seating area, retreating back by the clunky old broadcast vans with their bulky television cameras. They’re terrified.

  “You want proof?” Lincoln says, holding his arms outstretched. “HERE I AM!”

  In a show of unity, the Secretary of Health walks over and stands beside his friend, resting his hand on his shoulder.

  “The time of ignorance has passed,” Lincoln says, gripping the lectern with white knuckles. “From this day forward, we will no longer fear either virus or the prospect of change. The future is for the brave!”

  With that, he turns and walks toward his home.

  Susan stands on the steps facing him. She has tears in her eyes, only this time they’re tears of joy.

  A New Beginning

  A Word from Peter Cawdron

  When we think of alt histories, it’s tempting to think of alternatives brought about by sensational, radical changes, like Hitler winning World War II, but the times we live in are astonishingly frail. Had someone like Edward Jenner died of smallpox, the concept of vaccination might have remained unknown for centuries.

  It seems inconceivable, but the discovery of vaccination was not guaranteed. The concept of inoculating children against smallpox can be traced as far back as China in the 10th century. By the early 1700s, the practice had spread to India and Turkey, but the procedure hadn’t been refined, relying on weak strains of human smallpox rather than cowpox, producing inconsistent results.

  In 1721, the wife of the British ambassador to Turkey introduced the concept of inoculation to Britain. By 1765, research papers were being published by the London Medical Society on “Cowpox and its ability to prevent smallpox,” and yet it would still be another thirty years before Edward Jenner developed vaccination, some eight hundred years after the concept of inoculation first arose!

  This story asks the question, what would have happened if Edward Jenner had died prematurely? What impact would the loss of his knowledge have had on future generations?

  Our lives are so short we barely recognize how quickly our world has transformed. The lifestyle we enjoy today is the result of scientific advances made possible because diseases like smallpox were not able to cull upwards of 30-40% of the population.

  Between vaccinations, antibiotics and refrigeration, our concept of good health has been overhauled. What would the world look like if Einstein had died of smallpox? Or Edison? Or Wilbur Wright? Would we have still enjoyed such a meteoric rise?

  Our collective, generational memory of these hideous diseases has faded, and paranoia has convince some to turn against the concept of vaccination. In this story, I applied some role-reversal, with anti-naturalists instead of anti-vaccination campaigners being a rallying point in society.

  Don’t believe the myth that some of these diseases are harmless. Entirely preventable diseases such as measles still kill almost 150,000 people a year!

  We have seen such a radical transformation in health care it is easy to forget that prior to the 20th Century, the mortality rate of women giving birth to children could reach as high as 40%—that’s more than one in three women dying while giving birth to a child, a horrific statistic.

  Child mortality was even worse, reaching every strata of society. Mozart was the youngest of seven children, five of whom died in their infancy. Beethoven was the second youngest of seven children, only three of whom survived to adulthood. Johann Sebastian Bach had thirteen children, over half of them died before reaching their teens.

  We live in astonishing times thanks to the pioneering efforts of doctors such as Edward Jenner, Ignaz Semmelweis who identified how unwashed hands spread infection, Clara Barton who founded of the Red Cross, Jonas Salk who developed the vaccine for polio, and innumerable others. To them, we owe a debt of gratitude.

  If you have doubts about vaccination, you shouldn’t. I hope this story inspires you to take the time to learn a little about vaccination and what an astonishing difference it has made to our world.

  Thank you for supporting independent science fiction. You can find my writing on Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Peter-Cawdron/e/B00600L9FO/, and you can catch up with me on Facebook and Twitter. Sign up for my email newsletter - http://wordpress.us3.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=38ce2c9dfccf04083623d9fda&id=66420df0d0 - if you’d like to hear about new releases. I’m also at http://thinkingscifi.wordpress.com

  Please take the time to leave a review of this story online.

  Eighth Amendment

  by Thomas Robins

  LIFE

  “LANCE, IT
’S OVER.”

  The air hung heavy everywhere on death row, but this room most of all--small, concrete walls, metal table, and two chairs. It was a minimalist's work of art. A room where every second punctuated the fact that meeting with your lawyer was technically allowed, but not encouraged. Lance sat, nervously rubbing his thumb over a picture of Margaret. It had rough edges, but it was the only photo left after the fire and the only item that had accompanied him to the prison.

  “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Look, I’ve been reading up on the Supreme Court’s rulings in the seventies. There’s a real chance we could--”

  “How come every time someone is about to die, they immediately become a legal expert?” Mr. Peterson looked straight into Lance Johnson’s eyes with a dispassion Lance wished he had known the man was capable of before he’d hired him.

  “This is my life we are talking about!” Lance banged his hand on the table and forced back a wince from the pain. “Don’t be glib; go file an appeal.”

  Mr. Peterson looked at his watch and shook his head. “I’m sorry if you don’t like my tone, but I’ve done everything I possibly can, Lance. You have twenty-two minutes left before you die. I suggest you use it to eat your last meal before it gets cold.”

  “It’s already cold. I didn’t kill my wife...I didn’t kill her...” His voice had softened.

  “Unfortunately, you don’t decide if you killed her or not, a court does. And a court did. It’s not what you want to hear, but, legally speaking, you tied up Margaret and torched your house. I’m leaving you now for your own good. I hope you find some inner strength before your death; you’ll need it.” Mr. Peterson closed Lance’s file, which now looked much too thin to his client. Too little research and legal maneuvering to have him found not guilty. The lawyer hit the door with one knuckle to call for his own release.