The Second Cure

by Margaret Morgan

  ‘You haven’t packed?’ Marion frowned. ‘You’re leaving before dawn, Seth. Don’t leave these things to the last minute.’

  Seth sighed. ‘I won’t. I don’t.’

  ‘And don’t use that tone of voice with your mother.’

  Tricia saw Seth about to speak, to defend himself. But then he suppressed it, and deliberately sliced a piece of steak, put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. He seemed oddly restrained. She returned to her meal, embarrassed to be witnessing family tension. She didn’t want to know that the Effenbergs were like everyone else, sniping over dinner.

  ‘It’s a big day for our lad,’ Jack told Tricia. ‘His first official trade talks with New Zealand start tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, their little boy’s growing up,’ Seth said to her.

  ‘Any more of that and you’ll be leaving the table,’ Marion snapped at him.

  Loath as she was to acknowledge it, Tricia had to admit that Seth’s relationship with his parents was a little … unusual. He wasn’t a boy, yet they treated him as one. It was remarkable they trusted him with ministerial responsibilities, given their apparent attitude to him, but then she supposed that bureaucrats would be holding his hand throughout.

  ‘We’ve been working for some time on better relations with New Zealand,’ Jack was telling her. ‘The trade sanctions Australia’s been imposing on us look like they’re finally cracking. New Zealand has had enough of being pushed around by Canberra, so this might be our moment.’

  ‘Is this your first trip to New Zealand, Seth?’ Tricia asked, trying to keep the conversation on safe ground.

  ‘Yep,’ he said and then smiled at her to soften it.

  As the conversation turned to other matters – renovations of the kitchens, plans for a new girls’ school to be run by the Daughters of Light, a surge in applications to join the CSSA – she stole glances at Seth. His manner continued to perplex her. He was restless and trying to hide it. His impatience with his parents was clear, but he kept checking himself, censoring himself. Why? As soon as dessert was finished (stewed peaches and vanilla ice cream), he excused himself and left for his suite.

  Tricia left soon afterwards, pleading tiredness, and a drive home ahead of her. She tried to reassure herself nothing had been said about Charlie Zinn, but couldn’t. There was an undertone to the dinner she couldn’t read and it worried her. It was a relief to leave the room. As she moved into the corridor and readjusted her mask, she could hear Jack and Marion begin talking, quietly and urgently, and she felt a little shudder of fear. Were they talking about Seth? Or about her?

  It wasn’t the most direct route to the car park, but Tricia decided to take the exit through the residential wing, past Seth’s suite. She wasn’t sure how he could help her, but she felt a complicity with him. She could think of no one else to ask. And she needed to ask …

  The door to his anteroom was ajar, and she knocked gently and pushed it open. ‘Seth?’

  There was a rustling, then a voice from his bedroom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s just me,’ she said, and realised she hadn’t prepared an explanation as to why she was there. She stood their awkwardly, out of place and wrong-footed.

  He came to his bedroom door. ‘Hey, Tricia. What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to wish you luck on the trip.’ Even to her own ears it sounded ridiculous. She’d crossed half the house to tell him that?

  ‘Yeah? That’s nice. I should bring you back a souvenir.’ She couldn’t tell if he was joking. He was unsmiling.

  She noticed the suitcase, open and empty on his bed. A notebook, the old-fashioned paper sort, was peeking out from under a pillow. And, on the floor, a piece of loose paper. She picked it up and handed it to him automatically, but his face was for a moment fearful and suspicious. She glanced back at the paper before he could stuff it into his pocket. It was covered with columns and rows of capital letters.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked. ‘You seemed a bit distracted at dinner.’

  ‘I’m fine. Are you fine?’

  ‘Yes. Well, no.’

  ‘What?’

  She turned to leave. ‘Sorry, I really have to head off …’

  ‘Okay.’ His voice was almost amused.

  No. She had to know. She spun back. ‘Seth, can you tell me what happened to the woman who had my job before me?’ She blurted it out, without thinking too deeply if she should.

  ‘Caroline? Why?’

  ‘I just wondered. Did she do something wrong? Did she get caught?’

  ‘Why are you asking me this?’

  ‘No, I thought … I want to make sure I don’t make any mistakes. Any more mistakes.’

  ‘Have you made a mistake?’ His manner was growing more chilled. She began to regret the conversation.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘My mother’s the one you should be talking to, not me. She’s your boss, after all.’

  ‘I thought that maybe you – oh, I don’t know what I thought. Never mind.’

  He stood next to her, tall and solid. His voice was his father’s, but his eyes flashed with Marion’s intensity. ‘You thought what? That you could talk with me behind my mother’s back? Is that it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Because you know no one is more loyal to her and to my father and to the church and to Capricornia, don’t you? No one is more loyal than I am.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you weren’t.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, Tricia. Because loyalty is important.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I am loyal, too.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Now Tricia was frightened, regretting her inability to say the right thing, ever. She’d misread him and now she’d ruined everything.

  ‘Of course. Completely. I …’

  She didn’t finish. She was running now, down the corridor to the exit. Escaping to her car, to her little house. Seth would tell Marion and it would be over. Everything that mattered, gone.

  Sydney

  Juliette, Shadrack and Goblin were waiting on the front verandah when the Auto2 turned into the driveway, and Charlie couldn’t think of a collection of organisms more delightful to be greeted by.

  ‘We’re here, Brigid!’ She had to touch her knee to get her attention, so engrossed was she in subvoccing on her newly replaced vocomm. She was talking to Seth, dictating notes, alerting her contacts. She looked up, dazed, and realised they’d arrived.

  Charlie, restraining the desire to leap from the car to give each of welcoming party a hug, instead walked to the other door to help Brigid out. Shadrack and Juliette joined her, and Brigid was inundated with assistance. Goblin, slower than ever, was so happy to see Charlie his tail was on the verge of flinging itself into orbit.

  Conversations overlapped as they made their way into the house. Shadrack had been incommunicado the entire time Charlie had been away, writing his book and spending his days with Goblin. Juliette had come over to tell him the news about the two women as soon as she’d heard and had gone overboard restocking the fridge. Charlie caught Juliette’s stare of concern at the state of Brigid’s face, with its technicolour bruises. Brigid managed a wry smile in return.

  Once inside, Shadrack immediately set to opening a bottle of Champagne in celebration, but Juliette was concerned that Brigid might be overtired, and perhaps should go straight to bed. (She’d chivvied Shadrack out of the guest room and changed the sheets in preparation. Shadrack was sleeping in an ancient single bed in one of the odd-shaped kids’ bedrooms upstairs.)

  ‘No, no wine for me,’ Brigid told them. ‘But not because I’m going to bed. I’ve got to do a webcast.’

  ‘We have to turn the attic into a studio,’ added Charlie.

  ‘Why?’ asked Juliette.

  ‘We’ve got a government to bring down,’ said Brigid with a grin.

  With Brigid ensconced in the attic and provided wi
th all the electronics she needed, Charlie walked from room to room, shadowed by Goblin. She was conscious of Richard’s absence. He’d taken his clothes, some books and most of his artworks, but left pretty much everything else, including a sense, she admitted to herself, of liberation. His departure had seemed slightly theoretical until now, but the evidence was before her.

  She became aware of Shadrack standing in the doorway.

  ‘He really is gone,’ she said.

  ‘He really is,’ said Shadrack. ‘Are you okay?’

  She thought about it. ‘Better than I thought I’d be. Pissed off, definitely. Heartbroken? No.’

  ‘It was a shit move. I’m sorry you had to go through that.’ He nodded and turned, leaving her to it, then paused. ‘You know, when he told me, I confess I was a bit pleased. In an appallingly self-interested sort of way.’ He looked at her, clearly trying to read her face. ‘Too soon?’ he asked when she said nothing.

  ‘Not too soon, Shadrack. Too late. Way too late.’ She meant it. Almost.

  Over their wine, Charlie told Shadrack and Juliette about her synaesthesia and her suspicions of a new infection, and they discussed the implications of the vaccine failing. They all understood the urgency of finding out if resistance was forming, and Charlie half-heartedly argued that she should get to the lab and begin the tests before easily agreeing that she should stay home instead. What she really needed was nothing more than her own bed. The next day, Charlie and Juliette would start researching her strain together.

  Charlie excused herself and headed up the stairs with a sandwich for Brigid. She found her standing slumped at the attic window, gazing out at the late afternoon light. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’ She put the plate on the desk and walked over to Brigid, who hadn’t moved.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She turned, and half nodded, half shook her head. ‘I’ve seen the footage. It’s horrible, Charlie. I can’t show it all. I can’t even watch it again.’

  Her eyes were exhausted. Charlie squeezed her arm, careful to avoid injury sites. ‘But you’ve got enough you can show? Enough for us to get the message across?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve got that. I’ve definitely got that.’ She stretched herself up to her full height, determination filling every cell of her being. ‘Thanks for the sandwich.’

  Charlie was so impressed by Brigid. Her strength, her commitment. Her bravery. She also knew her well enough not to say anything about them.

  ‘Good luck, Brigid.’ She closed the door quietly behind her.

  Six o’clock was the hour Brigid had announced to the world her ‘regime-shattering exclusive, featuring a top-ranking whistle-blower’ would be webcast. As the time approached, the other three settled down to watch on the lounge room smartwall, which was currently displaying a live geostationary satellite feed of the Earth spinning below. Brigid would be doing her webcast live to camera, with a feed from Seth Effenberg in Wellington. Juliette, absorbed by Brigid’s facial injuries, had offered to do her make-up, but Brigid was adamant. If she was right that her assault had been a warning about continuing her investigations into the Effenberg government – or, worse, an attempt to kill her to stop her – she wanted the world to see it. No make-up. And she’d wanted to be alone in the makeshift studio she’d set up, back in her own adrenaline-fuelled journalistic comfort zone.

  ‘Have you seen the footage?’ asked Shadrack, slicing up the brie Juliette had brought.

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘Brigid’s only just decrypted and watched it. I don’t know what it shows. Half of me doesn’t want to.’

  ‘How do you think it’ll affect things in Capricornia?’ asked Juliette.

  ‘I don’t know. A lot depends on what Seth Effenberg says, I suppose,’ Charlie answered. ‘Mind you, people there seem pretty immune to what is done in their name. Either in denial, or worse. They mightn’t want to know.’

  ‘The history of our species,’ said Juliette.

  ‘It’s possible most of them won’t even see the webcast. If the CSSA knows about Brigid’s escape to Sydney, they might well have twigged something’s up, and’ll block access there,’ said Shadrack.

  Charlie was alarmed. ‘After all this, and it mightn’t even be seen?’

  ‘Digital borders are porous,’ he said, ‘and nothing disappears from the net. Word will travel fast, I’m sure. Just don’t expect an uprising overnight, especially with this mob. It’s a self-selecting population of authoritarian personalities. They don’t operate on reasoning but on the feels. Don’t get your hopes up that they’ll take much notice of actual evidence.’

  Charlie raised a wry eyebrow to Juliette. ‘Shadrack’s obsession.’

  ‘Show me where I’m wrong,’ said Shadrack. ‘The average amygdala size in immigrants to Capricornia –’

  ‘– Shh, it’s starting,’ Juliette interrupted. Grandfather, preprogrammed, had switched the image on the wall. Replacing the Earth was Brigid, sitting at a desk with a simulated bookshelf behind her. Charlie wouldn’t have recognised Richard’s former studio, thanks to Brigid’s technical wizardry.

  In the attic, the red light on the recorder illuminated. She gazed steadily into its eye.

  ‘Hello. I’m Brigid Bayliss. Welcome to this special edition of The Bayliss Briefing, coming live from Sydney, Australia.’

  Below the sightline of the camera, her finger tapped her keyboard, and her intro theme and graphics played. She breathed deeply, then proceeded.

  ‘Two things you might be wondering. Why Australia rather than Capricornia, and why does my face look like it’s been run over by a bus? The answer to both is the same. I’ve fallen foul of the Effenberg regime. I won’t be returning to Capricornia, and when you hear what I’m about to reveal you’ll understand why.

  ‘Later in the program, I’ll be interviewing Seth Effenberg, Minister for Health in the Effenberg Government, and son of President Effenberg. It’ll be a live feed from Wellington, New Zealand, where Seth Effenberg has today secured political asylum. Yes, that’s right. I can exclusively reveal that the Golden Boy of the Effenberg dynasty has defected from the Republic of Capricornia. If President Effenberg is watching this, it’s likely the first he’s heard of it.’ A wry pause. ‘Oh to be a fly on the wall.

  ‘But before I talk to Seth, I want to show you footage that he obtained, by stealth, from a secure medical research facility in Rock-hampton. I must warn you, what you are about to see is deeply distressing viewing. But it’s viewing you need. I need. We all need to be wrenched out of our complacency.’

  She tapped another key and watched on her monitor as the edited footage began playing, with the narration she’d recorded earlier. She reconnected with Seth on another monitor.

  ‘All set, there?’

  Seth nodded. ‘I’m not going to pretend this doesn’t scare the crap out of me, Brigid.’

  ‘You’ve done the hard bit,’ she reassured him. ‘You’ve got asylum. You’re safe.’

  ‘I know. I’m not regretting anything. But after a lifetime, this doesn’t come easily.’

  ‘This is the right thing to do, Seth. It really is.’

  ‘Let’s just get it done.’ He set his jaw, just as his father might. ‘I’m ready.’

  Brigid checked the main monitor. ‘Fifty-three seconds till you’re live.’

  ‘Yep,’ he said. She’d never seen him more focused. Grunge-Jesus had long departed.

  The video was clearly taken from CCTV footage, the camera stationary and positioned over three small, clear-sided cots. The one on the right was empty, but the other two contained babies, swaddled in white. Electrodes were attached to their naked scalps.

  ‘Jésus, what is this?’ murmured Juliette.

  Brigid’s voiceover was quiet, matter-of-fact. ‘According to the official Health Department documents Seth Effenberg has provided, four hundred and five babies, recently infected by Toxoplasmosis pestis, have been admitted to the facility. They are being “cured” of their symptoms, be they synaesthesia
or the left temporal lobe changes associated with the loss of religious belief. Of course, it’s the loss of religious belief and weakening of political conservatism that most concern the Effenberg regime because, without them, the government might well collapse.’

  ‘Bit like what you did with Richard, suppressing his synaesthesia. Except presumably permanent,’ Charlie said to Shadrack.

  Shadrack frowned. ‘Hardly like it. That was with informed consent.’

  She tossed him a look.

  Brigid’s voiceover continued. ‘Unfortunately, in thirty-six cases, according to official records given to me by Seth Effenberg, this has happened.’

  The baby on the left began to twitch, its legs jolting free of its blanket. The twitches grew and the tiny muscles spasmed. The baby’s head was flung back and its whole body began to buckle. It was a generalised tonic-clonic seizure. An alarm must have rung because medical staff poured into shot, obscuring the camera’s view of the crib. Among them was someone Charlie recognised. Falsworth. Effenberg’s ‘scientific advisor’. So this was his reward. Experimenting on babies.

  The footage stopped and was replaced on the screen by Brigid’s grim face. ‘There’s more,’ she said, ‘but I’m going to spare you. That baby died. Thirty-six babies have died in the last eighteen months. Babies forcibly taken from their parents once it was discovered they were infected. Unclean. Babies who were experimented on in a state-run attempt at mind-control.’

  Charlie, Shadrack and Juliette had fallen silent. Charlie imagined the tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of Brigid’s followers also watching, also silenced. Would it be enough? Would it shock Australia out of its complacency and make it act against its bastard spawn? She looked across at Shadrack and Juliette. Shadrack’s face was expressionless. Juliette was crying.

  ‘Seth Effenberg, welcome to the program.’

  Seth’s face, pale and shining despite his TV make-up, nodded onscreen. ‘Thanks, Brigid.’

  With the softly reassuring tones that had become her interviewing trademark, she drew out his story. He’d arrived the previous day with his government aides in Wellington, officially for trade talks.