“With the facts. Take away the stigmata and the air of the supernatural, and what do we have? A case of spontaneous remission. So I consulted the literature on the subject. These recoveries do happen, if rarely. According to one source, they occur in fewer than one in a hundred thousand cases.”
Ernesto picked up a volume from the pile. “This is an account of the work of William Coley, a surgeon who made the first systematic study of spontaneous remission. As a young man, he was asked to consult on the case of a girl of seventeen, who complained of pain and swelling in her right hand. The biopsy revealed that she was suffering from a severe sarcoma. They amputated her arm below the elbow, but it was too late. A few months later, she died.”
He opened the book, gently turning over the leaves. “Another man might have moved on, but Coley was a gifted surgeon and still very young. He became obsessed with investigating cases of sarcoma, trying to discover how to treat such a terrible disease. During his research, he uncovered many instances of spontaneous remission. And he found that most of these cases had one thing in common.”
I sensed that he was intentionally milking the drama, but I was willing to play along. “What did he find?”
“He found cases, some dating back a century or more, of cancer patients who experienced spontaneous remission after surviving a serious infection. When the immune system rallies to fend off a bacterial invasion, it seems, it can eliminate cancer as well. The body has wonderful defenses, but it doesn’t always recognize cancer as a threat. An infection serves to mobilize the body against one enemy, while also taking care of a more insidious foe. Chekhov mentions this. He was a doctor, you know, and in one of his letters, he notes that when a patient develops erysipelas, a severe skin infection caused by streptococcus, the growth of tumors is also checked. So these observations go back a long time.”
He closed the book. “It’s even possible, if you’re so inclined, to draw an analogy to the present war. I’m not a communist. I have nothing against the church. But I want to destroy fascism. And the only way to do this is to align that struggle with the movements that want to do away with capitalists and clergymen. In the short term, it leads to atrocities on both sides. But we can’t stop fascism unless we connect the fight to an impulse that the people can understand.”
“We’re straying from the point, I think,” I said. “What about William Coley?”
“Well, after reviewing the literature, he began looking for instances of spontaneous remission that were closer to home. In particular, he heard about the case of a German immigrant who had been diagnosed with terminal sarcoma. Later, the patient came down with erysipelas, the kind of infection that Chekhov mentions, but eventually recovered. Coley went looking for this patient, knocking on tenement doors until he finally tracked him down. And what he found was that the patient was alive and free of cancer, apparently because of the infection he’d survived.”
I began to see where Ernesto was going. “So we’re talking about a cure for cancer.”
“Coley certainly seemed to think so. He began to investigate the possibility of deliberately infecting cancer patients to trigger their natural immune defenses. He even developed an antitumor vaccine, a brew of microbes, including erysipelas bacteria, that could be injected directly into the body. The results, not surprisingly, were mixed. Some patients recovered, but others died. After all, there’s always a chance that erysipelas itself might kill the patient. It can be a brutal disease. There’s one famous case, in particular, that might be relevant here—”
I found that I knew exactly what he was going to say. “St. John of the Cross.”
Ernesto nodded, pleased, as if I had passed a test. “I’ve looked into the details. St. John came down with a fever, then an inflammation of the leg. It ulcerated and spread to his lower back, where it killed him. His biographers agree it was erysipelas. But let’s file that fact away for now.”
Signaling to the waiter for another round, Ernesto picked up a handbook of infectious diseases. “So what are the symptoms of erysipelas? It begins as a fever with tremors. A red, swollen, hardened rash appears, usually on the extremities, particularly the hands, feet, and legs. The rashes tend to be raised, with sharply defined edges. In some cases, they take the form of elevated vesicles or blisters. Not unlike, shall we say, the marks of a nail—”
The waiter arrived with our drinks, although I barely noticed this. “So you think these cases of stigmata were really erysipelas?”
“It isn’t so hard to believe. Imagine that round, hardened welts appear on a supplicant’s hands and feet after a visit to the shrine. Someone else at the monastery takes them for stigmata. Then, as word gets around, later cases show the marks even more clearly. Why? Because everyone knows what stigmata are supposed to look like. The mind influences the size and location of the markings. The cycle feeds on itself. All it takes is a certain degree of credulity.”
“Hold on,” I said. “So you’re saying that these miracles are due to visitors to the shrine being infected by erysipelas. Their symptoms are mistaken for stigmata. Because the war has reduced their access to medical care, they don’t receive the usual diagnosis or treatment, but if they survive the infection on their own, it drives off their cancer. But are you really implying that they’ve been infected by the body of a saint who died over three centuries ago?”
“That’s something I found hard to accept, too,” Ernesto said. “But look at the circumstances. A reliquary is an ideal place for bacteria to grow. Staphylococcus, for instance, has been found thriving in newly opened tombs. And you’ve seen that chapel. Visitors lie on the floor for hours at a time. They’re near death, undernourished, vulnerable to infection, in a dark, damp place that has been recently disturbed by bombing. And any battlefield doctor can tell you that bombardment releases microbes that have been dormant in the landscape for a long time.”
I remembered Ernesto’s conversation with the doctor at the International Brigade. “Is that why you spoke to Dr. Heilbrun?”
“Yes. And he reminded me of a case I might otherwise have forgotten. I imagine that you’ve heard of it. A tomb was reopened after thousands of years. Soon after the excavation, a number of those involved died, including the man who financed the dig, which led to certain fantastic theories. Well, the tomb was that of Tutankhamen. The man was Lord Carnarvon. And he died of erysipelas.”
We fell silent. I became aware that I had drunk too much. “So what are you going to do about it?”
Ernesto contemplated his glass for a moment, then took a careful swig. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” My head was throbbing, and I had trouble understanding what he meant. “What are you talking about?”
He did not respond right away. Around us, the bar had grown packed with journalists, soldiers, and girls, and when he spoke again, I had to listen carefully to hear him over the crowd:
“The Segovia offensive needs to take place,” Ernesto said slowly. “If we don’t recapture Segovia, Franco will push north until he reaches Bilbao, which will cut the Loyalists in half. If that happens, the war is lost. And if I write about this shrine, it will only complicate the situation.”
He looked into his glass, which was nearly empty. “That’s the strange thing, you see. The friar came to me because he thought word of a miracle might discourage the attack. He was wrong, of course. The last thing the Loyalists want is to give legitimacy to the church. But when you cast things in scientific terms—”
Ernesto paused. “That’s a different story. The socialists have made a fetish of science. They’ll want to look into it. Even to postpone the offensive until they have more information. And I can’t allow that to happen.”
“But what if you’re right?” I asked. “If the chapel contains a cure for cancer, are you willing to throw that away?”
“I’m willing to make the hard choice. Perhaps a handful of men and women will die without this cure. On the other hand, we have the future of a nation, even the world, to consider
. You’ve seen the forces at play here. Sarcoma is nothing compared to the cancer of fascism. If you don’t believe me, imagine how Europe will look in a few years, if that cancer isn’t snuffed out now.”
I weighed this in silence. Deep down, I knew that there was nothing I could do. I was neither famous nor expert enough to make the case for the shrine on my own. And there was always the possibility that Ernesto was right.
“Well, hell,” I said at last. “If that’s what you’ve decided, I’m not going to stop you.”
Ernesto only finished his drink, without meeting my eyes. It was too loud to talk any further, so we paid the bill and left. Outside, the city was very quiet. We headed back to the Hotel Florida, moving in silence through the ruined streets, and parted ways at the elevator. I don’t think we even said goodbye.
• • • •
Ernesto left the city soon afterward. I stayed for another few months, writing and working on my own, long enough to see the failure of the Segovia offensive, which began three weeks after his departure. Even after it became clear that the assault had fallen short, it was difficult to understand how things had gone so wrong. After suffering more than a thousand casualties, the offensive faltered, then fell back. In the end, it succeeded in delaying the capture of Bilbao by less than two weeks.
After that, I only saw Ernesto once more. A year after the war ended, I wound up in Havana, where I learned that he was staying at an estate fifteen miles from the city. On an impulse, I gave him a call. Rather to my surprise, he agreed to see me that day, if I’d be willing to drive up to the house.
When I arrived at the estate, which the locals called the Finca Vigía, it was lunchtime. I rang the bell, and Martha let me inside. She looked as beautiful as always, a tall, elegant blonde, and she seemed glad to see me. Showing me into the study, she left us alone, saying that she would bring some refreshments.
Ernesto was seated at his desk, wearing a soft red robe. Beside the typewriter lay a heap of manuscript pages. I had heard that he was working on a novel inspired by the Segovia offensive, and asked if he had a title yet. He said he was thinking of calling it The Undiscovered Country.
Waving me into a seat, Ernesto leaned back in his chair. “Any news of the padre?”
“Yes,” I said, accepting a glass of scotch from Martha, who set down a tray of sandwiches and left the room. “He was shot by the Falangists a month after our visit. For all I know, it was because they saw him with us.”
“Damn them,” Ernesto said mildly. “But it’s hard to be sure about these things. What about the chapel?”
“As far as I can tell, the cures have ceased. Visitants kept coming, but after a while, there were no more recoveries. Nobody knows why. Although I hear that the monastery was disinfected from top to bottom after a typhus scare.”
Ernesto straightened the papers on his desk. “It isn’t surprising. Microbes change character quickly. Like men. So perhaps the factors that made the cure possible simply ceased to exist.”
He took a sip of his drink. “In any case, it’s for the best. The last thing we need is for Franco to lay claim to a shrine. You can imagine how he would treat it. It would become a fascist Lourdes. Proof that his regime had been blessed by heaven. Better for it to disappear altogether.”
We lapsed into a rather melancholy silence. After a moment, the alcohol spreading through my body prompted me to speak more philosophically than usual. Finishing my glass, I said, “You know, the Loyalist republic never would have lasted. A government that is utterly opposed to the church can’t survive for long. The need for faith runs too deep.” I paused. “Perhaps in time, if things had been different, the Loyalists would have realized this.”
Ernesto, in his red robe, looked out the window at the sea. On the surface of the water, the sun was beating down in a long white line.
“Yes,” Ernesto said at last, draining his glass of scotch. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
© 2012 by Alec NevalaLee. Originally published in Analog Fiction and Fact. Reprinted by permission of the author.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alec NevalaLee is the author of the suspense novels The Icon Thief, City of Exiles, and Eternal Empire, all published by Penguin Books. He is currently at work on the nonfiction book Astounding: John W. Campbell, Isaac Asimov, Robert A. Heinlein, L. Ron Hubbard, and the Golden Age of Science Fiction, which will be released by Dey Street Books, an imprint of HarperCollins, in 2018. His short fiction appears frequently in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, including his novelette “The Boneless One,” which was selected for The Year’s Best Science Fiction, 29th Annual Edition, edited by Gardner Dozois. He lives with his wife and daughter in Oak Park, Illinois, and blogs at www.nevalalee.com.
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Unauthorized Access
An Owomoyela | 10213 words
Prison 17 had been built long enough ago that it got next to no natural light—before all the studies that said that light was good for prison behavior and morale. And of course the rest of its district had been remodded in the past ten years, so the view from outside was a phalanx of solar panels over heat-reflecting paint, making a headache-inducing pattern of black and white. Prisons and hydroponics. That was about all that called this district home.
Which didn’t stop three dozen gawkers from gathering outside the prison gate.
Aedo had expected it, but it still caught her up short. She froze on the sidewalk and saw the flashes of ocular implants and handheld cameras; that was probably going to be the picture on the newsfeeds, above the fold.
She drew a hand back through her hair, impulsively.
A quick-and-dirty breakdown of the crowd by age and dress suggested that probably a quarter of them were for legitimate news streams. She didn’t recognize most of the ones in ratty shirts with the logo of the counterculture of the month. She met their eyes first, though: allies. Then she cleared her throat and made herself walk forward, holding up a hand like she was holding court.
“Thanks for being here,” she said. She’d practiced her statement in prison, with the sympathetic ears she’d just worked her way around to thinking of as friends, and fell back on that without thinking about how completely nil it’d sound as a soundbyte. “I have stuff to say on Government data, but right now I want dinner, a shower, and a nap. I’ll post a blog in the next few days, and if you want an interview, message me.”
Because everyone knew her message address. And of course the statement didn’t prevent the barrage of questions, but it let her deploy the strategy that got her through most of her childhood: she ducked her head, focused on a problem in the back of her mind, and pretended that no one was talking to her.
She’d had the foresight to call ahead and have an autocab waiting, and she ran the gauntlet and slipped in. Paid the extra for exclusive access so no one could slip into the seat beside her. She didn’t have much credit, but she’d planned her exodus to keep herself from getting overwhelmed.
She directed the taxi toward one of the hotels along the edge of Patterway District, which she’d vetted before being sentenced in the first place. Unless things had changed in the last eighteen months, it had a decent data line, and her limited credit should let her camp there for at least a week. If things had changed, well, she’d deal with that problem when it came for her.
For now, though, she just put her head back and listened to the autocab rolling along the road.
• • • •
The hotel room wasn’t much, but compared to a prison bunk, it was a wealth of space, privacy, time. Time to be alone with her thoughts.
And time to be alone with her hunger. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning; lunch had been overridden by exit paperwork. She’d just become used to her meals happening without any consideration on her part.
These were things she’d have to un-get-used-to.
She tossed her stuff on the bed, and headed down to the hotel convenience shop.
Sometime when she ha
dn’t been paying attention, an unofficial passage to the undercity had opened up in Patterway District—which meant that the hotel was seeing a mixed clientele, which meant an odd array of convenience food in the shop. Instant noodles and dehydrated locust curry, tinned soups and mushroom vitamin bars. She was staring at the selection—decision fatigue already, and she’d barely been out of prison for an hour—when her datapad buzzed in her pocket.
Eighteen months without the thing, and it was still thoughtless, instinctive, to pull it out of her pocket and glance at the screen. She’d set it only to buzz for certain contact groups, and she blinked twice when she saw who was actually messaging her.
LogicalOR: waiting on that blog post o martyr for the cause
LogicalOR: haha seriously welcome back to civilization i just bought you a beer
And then a hand landed on her shoulder.
Aedo ducked, flipping her body around and backing into the shelf of locust curries. Her datapad came up like a taser, and the woman behind her held up both hands. She was late-middle-aged, in a business suit too good for this district but just about serviceable in the central business ones. And she held herself stiffly. Aedo wasn’t great at reading people, but she could recognize discomfort when she saw it; Patterway District must have meant slumming, for this woman.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “I suppose I should have known better.”
Aedo’s heart was lurching, and her shoulders had gone tense. For a moment she considered telling the woman that even if she hadn’t been in prison, she wouldn’t have appreciated that—wasn’t good with people, didn’t like contact with people, could still feel the ghost impression of the woman’s hand on her shoulder and it was making her skin crawl—but the words weren’t coming to her tongue, and it didn’t seem like the thing to say, anyway. “What?” was what came out.
“I should introduce myself,” the woman said, and extended a hand. Aedo tucked both of her hands under her arms, the datapad pressed against her ribs. After a moment, the woman let her hand drop. “I’m Valencia Cadares; I work in the Energy Division. I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
Lightspeed Magazine - September 2016 Page 4
