Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  “Thank you. Ah, before you go…” Ortley dropped her voice and moved slightly closer to the Deputy. “Could we talk somewhere?” She smiled.

  “I really am on a schedule. What is it?”

  Ortley hesitated, putting her hand over the mike. “I’ve heard there are certain approved exceptions,” she whispered. “You know, adjustments to the restrictions?”

  Longworthy scowled. “Just a few tactical adjustments in timing, nothing more. What are you getting at?”

  “I just learned of a medical issue in my family.”

  “I am so sorry,” Rex said impatiently.

  “You see, my son has contracted Tuberculosis 6. Surely, an exception, based on our excellent—”

  “Ah, please. Much as I would like to, I am afraid that would be impossible. And, frankly, it would be illegal. We will just forget you asked, won’t we?”

  Mayor Ortley stared after the black limousine as it retreated down the street and disappeared. She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Can I give you a lift?” Shanks asked. Ortley shook her head. After Shanks drove away, she picked up her bicycle, no longer trying to hide her tears.

  Chapter 52

  Ed Bates, the CEO of Bates Communications scowled. “Commissioner Rex Longworthy is here…again? Where the hell is he?”

  “In the waiting room.” Bates’ administrative assistant was standing in the doorway to the Chair’s private bathroom.

  “Put him in the small conference room. Get him coffee. Leave him alone.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  The door closed and Bates sighed. “Can’t even take a piss alone,” he mumbled, zipping his pants. We are so screwed, he thought. It was only a matter of time.

  Half an hour later, he stepped into the bare, windowless conference room. “Rex,” he said. “To what do I owe you the pleasure of this visit?”

  “Something I didn’t think should be handled on a lower level.”

  “How flattering. Out with it. I have a business to run.”

  “We’ve reviewed tonight’s coverage of the new tuberculosis cases.”

  Bates sat down across from Longworthy. “So?”

  “We found it inflammatory and irresponsible.”

  “My God, man,” Bates said, slapping the table. “This is a straight story. We have our facts right.”

  “Your reporter used the word epidemic.”

  “No kidding. He should have used the word pandemic. Half a million cases on the East Coast alone. And doubling every eight weeks. What would you call it?”

  “Suspected cases.”

  “Of TB 6!”

  “There is no TB 6. That is an urban legend. Surely you don’t want to be a panic-monger, Mr. Bates. This kind of irresponsible journalism has no place… Let me rephrase that. Our Retirement order exception was predicated on a degree of voluntary restraint of your organization that this piece does not reflect.”

  “Facts are facts, Longworthy.”

  “And power is power, Mr. Bates.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Let me be blunt. Pull the story or we pull the plug. Thank you for the coffee.” Longworthy rose to leave.

  “Sit down, Rex. Let’s not be so hasty. The story doesn’t need the word epidemic.”

  “Good. But the report states that these new cases are TB 6 as if it were absolute fact.”

  “How about ‘some of the cases are suspected TB 6?’”

  “That is better. But your number estimates are far too high.”

  “Estimates, my ass. Those were reports.”

  “Really, Mr. Bates,” Longworthy said, getting up.

  Bates waved Longworthy to sit. “Fine. Fine. You win. How about we run the local angle? That leaves out the national numbers entirely.”

  “Better. What would the report say about the rest of the country, then?”

  “We’ll just say that new cases are showing up, mostly in the coastal cities, and not give out numbers.”

  “There,” Longworthy said, beaming. “Partnership is better than conflict, don’t you agree?”

  “So the show runs with those changes?”

  “Provided I get some air time.”

  “A short interview?”

  “Two minutes at the end.”

  “One minute,” Bates said. “Near the end.”

  “Agreed,” Longworthy said. “You drive a hard bargain, Ed.”

  “Screw you.”

  ——

  Dinner was in John Owen’s personal dining room on New Kona. While construction noises growled and beeped outside, the meal was held in the cozy corner of a huge den, built inside an immense metal shed, filled with dining tables and an antique diving bell. A full scale model of an Orca whale was suspended from the corrugated steel ceiling by invisible wires. A Chopin polonaise came from a grand piano next to the diving bell, where a vivid hologram of a woman in a black gown seemed to play and smile at the guests.

  “Where are your daughter and grandson?” Dornan asked as he approached the glass and driftwood table.

  “I think Elisabeth and Little Josh are still asleep,” John said. “It’s so wonderful to finally have them around.”

  “And where is Ken?”

  “He’s with the King of Tonga, reviewing the latest construction.” Then Dornan noticed a distinguished man with sharp ebony features sitting next to Dr. Owen.

  “Is this…?” Dornan began.

  “Bill, do you know our new scientist-in-residence, Dr. Sing?” The geneticist held out his hand.

  “I do now,” Dornan said, gripping the man’s hand. Sing’s name had been a household word in biotechnology before the Treaty, until he had gone to ground. Dr. Owen beamed as if he had a secret.

  “Mr. Dornan, I understand I will be working for Dr. Owen and you.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you. We all work for John, Dr. Sing. I am here to run security. Please call me Bill.”

  “Dr. Sing has reconstructed all the research done by the late Dr. Fischer, and is moving ahead,” John said. “We need to stay at least two steps ahead of the bugs, and this is the man who can do it.”

  “Outstanding,” Dornan said. “The epidemics are dangerously close to pandemics, even worse.”

  “I believe that we can stop them,” Dr. Sing said.

  John stood. Across the room, a giant Polynesian man with regal bearing had entered the room from the verandah. He was accompanied by Ken Wang. “Gentlemen, I would like to introduce King Joseph Jones.”

  Dinner was served in the corner of the large room. While an attendant brought the first course, the holographic pianist began playing Gershwin.

  Dr. Owen made small talk until dessert; then he clinked his water glass. “Time to get down to business, my friends,” he said. Silence fell across the table and ten key friends and allies looked up. “As you know, King Jones, on behalf of Tonga, has graciously agreed that we may move Vector Pharmaceutical to this site. As a result of his generosity and courage, we have been shipping small quantities of lifesaving drugs all over the world from this island for the last eighteen months. Demand exceeds our manufacturing capacity. Today King Jones has now graciously agreed that Edge Medical, and all of our other worldwide research and manufacturing operations, can also move to this site. As a result, we will be able to step up production a thousand fold.”

  John’s face turned solemn. “That will draw attention and increase risk. We all know that his kingdom has not signed and will not sign the Earth Restoration Treaty. As a result he has placed his kingdom at some risk. Because we take care of our friends, Edge Medical is funding enhanced security. This month we will be able to provide around the clock robust paramilitary protection to the nation of Tonga and all our employees.”

  “I am happy that Tonga will host the new facilities,” King Jones said. “And I was even happier that Tonga was completely ignored in the Treaty process. The Commission’s mistake is our gain.” The king’s smile was huge and toothy.

  ——

/>   Later in the day, and a mile away, on a section of beach concealed by a berm, two helicopters laid out cable from the site of a portable generator into a long wound in the red, tropical earth. At the same time, the walls and roof of a prefabricated building were lifted from a cargo ship a thousand yards off shore onto a barge. A winch anchored in lava rock and a reinforced aluminum pier slowly began to pull the barge toward shore. Near the foundation of the new site of Vector Pharmaceutical, fifteen workers and two trucks waited.

  Dr. Owen, dressed in tan shorts and shirt, Seattle Mariners’ baseball cap, dark glasses and sandals, stood outside a portable office, holding a clipboard balanced on his left arm. Little Josh, now a toddler, stood next to him. “What’s that?” Josh asked.

  Owen stopped writing, reached down and patted Josh on the head.

  “They’re putting wire for Grandpa’s new building.”

  “Can I see?”

  “When they’re done, Josh. You can help me check it all out.”

  “Okay.”

  Dornan walked up the crushed lava path to the portable. “I see you’re right on time!” he shouted. The project foreman, who was standing in the doorway of the portable, turned in Owen’s direction and gave a thumbs-up.

  “Can anyone pick up this work from a satellite?” Owen asked.

  “Very few eyes in the sky still work,” the foreman shouted. “Nothing overhead here.”

  Josh looked skyward. “Where are the eyes, Grandpa?”

  Dornan chuckled and picked up Josh. “Invisible eyes, Josh, far away.” Josh continued to stare.

  Owen grinned at Josh and finished writing. He was using his right hand again. “I almost became a real southpaw,” he said.

  “What’s a southpaw?” Owen handed Dornan the clipboard and took Josh.

  “Your Mom’s a southpaw,” he said, tickling Josh under one arm. Josh squealed. “Let’s go see her…”

  Chapter 53

  A month later in Manhattan, at St. John’s Hospital for Children

  The child was alone in the hospital room. Through the window in the closed door, the woman in the orange hospital visitor uniform could see the little girl’s freckled face through the clear respirator mask, whose hopeful eyes were searching the window in vain for a familiar face. The girl tried to identify the woman peering at her from outside the quarantine. She made eye contact with the lady’s eyes looking over the mask; they were beautiful gray eyes, but they were the eyes of a stranger. Where was Mommy? Where was Dad? The woman was just tall enough to see in the window without standing on tiptoes. Reluctantly, she turned away.

  It was evening, well past supper time, and the window was a narrow one, recessed in a door marked with a large sign: QUARANTINE AREA, SEE PRECAUTION PROTOCOL A.

  The air in the corridor outside was still as a crypt.

  “Should I call you Reverend or—?” It was the duty nurse.

  “You can call me whatever you like. Where are the little girl’s parents?” The nurse, a tall, spare woman, just spread her hands and shrugged. “Can’t I just go in with my mask?” The woman pulled away her mask and looked into window. She smiled at the little girl. “I’ll come in soon,” she mouthed.

  “You will need the whole ensemble, I’m afraid. You need the air filter mask, the blue suit and gloves.”

  The woman nodded. “Where is Doctor Stern?” she asked.

  “Off duty. Dr. Wallace is on call for this wing right now. No physicians are here. There’s not much…” The nurse let the sentence die.

  “I know, I know. So let’s get me suited up. Where are her parents?”

  “The airports are still closed. We haven’t heard anything else.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Jenny Ryan,” the nurse answered.

  The nurse opened the door a crack, allowing a light breeze from the corridor to enter the negative pressure environment. “Jenny,” the nurse said gently. “Your mommy and daddy are still trying to get here but the airport is still closed. So they have sent someone to see you.” The woman quickly suited up, and after the nurse left, she took the chair by the bed. She noticed with a pang that second bed in the room was empty. Its little occupant had died earlier that day. The woman reached out her hand, closed it around the small child’s hot fist.

  Jenny was a five or six year old girl, clutching a well-worn and well-loved teddy bear with her other hand. She let her fist relax at the woman’s touch. She opened her eyes and attempted a smile.

  “Hi, sweetie,” the woman said. “You don’t have to talk. I’m staying with you tonight. I have some stories to tell you. I think you’ll like them.” The little girl nodded, closing her eyes. She formed words with her mouth. The woman leaned over the bed, looking closely at the girl’s moving lips through her translucent mask, and she said, “Jenny, I think I got part of that.”

  Jenny repeated herself, mouthing, “Why can’t they help me?” Jenny was obviously a very bright child. The woman repeated her words out loud and Jenny, nodded, mouthing, “Why did God let me get so sick?”

  That was a particularly hard question for the woman to repeat. It had taken the child a long time to form the two questions. It was more than long enough for the woman to feel the accompanying chill. She stopped, trying to control her sudden anger.

  Why? Why God? What the hell can I tell her?

  She stroked the child’s tiny arm. “Why did God let you get so sick?” She paused, feeling a deep dread in the pit of her stomach. “A lot of people are getting it, Jenny. Haven’t you been sick before?” Jenny nodded. “So have I. It’s not much fun, isn’t it?” Jenny nodded again solemnly. What a cop out, the woman thought.

  After a moment, Jenny’s eyes opened a crack. “Don’t leave.” The words formed over and over again.

  “Leave you? I’ll be right here. Would you like a story right now?”

  The little girl clutched her bear and nodded. “Let me tell about a place far away and long ago. There was a young Indian girl in the mountains. She had a horse, named Wind. She was seven years old and it was a bright sunny day…”

  ——

  Hours later, Helen Hawke made this entry in her journal:

  I’ve just seen another innocent child die, a victim of Gaia’s revenge. Tuberculosis 6 is already the century’s great plague, more than a public health disaster. It could easily rival the Black Death, India Plague… Or the genocide of the Tribal Nations from smallpox. I am almost wept out, but I shed a tear for Jenny tonight.

  She snapped the journal shut and angrily shoved it in her carry bag. Suddenly spent, she shuffled wearily to the elevator.

  ——

  This Commission video ran on all media markets on the same day. Because of the technology confiscations, it was no longer possible to estimate the number of viewers.

  The scene is a corporate boardroom. Three men in suits are sitting around a conference table. There is a soft drum beat in the soundtrack.

  The first executive says, “They will never find out.”

  “But what about the obvious birth defect clusters?” the second asks.

  The third executive explains: “They can’t be traced to the gene-altered chicken.”

  “Good,” Executive One says, “no one should be allowed to stand in the way of progress.”

  Executive Three adds, “Production will be up five fold. We will feed millions.”

  The first executive stands, smiling. “What’s a few thousand minor birth defects, anyway?”

  The other two executives stand, looking cheerful. “Progress!” they say.

  The background drum beat swells in volume and picks up pace.

  Next, the audience sees a hospital room, where a woman is in the last stages of labor, with physician and husband standing close by. When the baby emerges, the physician frowns.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Jones.”

  “Oh my God!” the husband says.

  The mother cries, “What is wrong?”

  “I’m afraid your baby has no face
.”

  The scene changes: It is a doctor’s office. Two physicians are talking.

  “That makes two hundred so far this month.”

  “The same defect?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “We saw none of these before these new gene altered foods appeared.”

  “Frankenfoods.”

  “We’re calling the Commission.”

  The last scene is in the same corporate boardroom. The same three executives are sitting around the same conference table.

  “We are agreed on secrecy then?”

  “Yes,” they say in unison.

  The conference room door bursts open. Two uniformed officers and a man in a suit enter.

  “This is an official Commission visit, gentlemen. Take ’em downtown, boys.”

  Executives are handcuffed.

  Triumphal music swells.

  An announcer’s voice says, “Your Technology Licensing Commission. Fighting the special interests and the corporate profiteers.”

  The image fades to reveal the Gaia logo. The music swells to full volume.

  The picture fades to green.

  ——

  Uncounted months had passed while Snowfeather settled into her new life as a stealth rebel, occupying a small apartment in a larger complex secretly funded by The Human Conspiracy. Just before dawn, Snowfeather’s bedside intercom chimed. She stirred slightly; then she pulled the covers around her. The chime repeated. She opened her eyes, staring into the dark. “What?” she snapped.

  “Very sorry to bother you so early, Reverend Hawke, but the gentleman insisted.” It was Little Al, the giant doorman.

  “Gentleman? What gentleman?”

  “He says to tell you, ‘it’s a tribal meeting.’”

  “Stocky man, long gray hair?”

  “Yes.”

  Dad! “Send him up.” Quickly, Snowfeather found her better robe and started the coffee pot.

  Moments later, as the coffee burbled in the kitchenette, Standing Bear stood grinning in the doorway to his daughter’s rooms. “My God,” she said, “it is you.”