by Shanon Hunt
“The fact that you cured the virus doesn’t negate the fact that you created it in the first place,” the dolt said, right on cue. “The virus is still not entirely eradicated. It’s still showing up, destroying neighborhoods.”
“It’s true.”
“And you’re responsible for not only all those lost lives but for the devastation caused by the economic crisis.”
“Indeed, I’ve visited the dregs in every major city in the US and other countries across the globe. It’s truly heartbreaking.” James nodded, encouraging more hostility, more accusations.
If she’d been sitting in James’s chair, she would’ve gotten straight to the point and cleared up every simple-minded notion in the reporter’s feeble brain. Nick Slater wanted justice, but no justice would ever be served. He wanted someone to take the fall, but not a single person would ever go to jail. He wanted to expose and shut down the Colony, but he’d never be allowed to do that.
Their work was too important.
He wasn’t getting it.
She pushed herself off the console table. “This isn’t working.”
But James raised his index finger. One more minute.
She stalked over to the water cooler. Maybe it’d help cool her jets, as Keisha would say.
“Is it okay if I ask you a personal question?” James leaned toward Slater with his elbows on his knees, his eyes wide with an earnest look.
She rolled her eyes at Mia, and Mia winked back. Mia loved watching James work.
“Why did you come here? For the truth, or for the story you’ve been wanting to write for the last, what, four years?”
“Both,” Slater said. “The American people deserve to know where the virus came from. They should know that people are disappearing right off the streets and being used as test subjects.”
Layla felt Slater’s body temperature rise. Finally. Anger was good.
She baited him further. “You just want a story, you selfish prick.”
Slater glared. “No. It’s not about me.”
His rising emotion opened the thinnest crack in his brick brain: Darcy. She tried to push through, but it closed back up.
“It’s about protecting innocent people from unknowingly being subjected to genetic experimentation,” he continued. “Maybe you own government officials and police, but once the people see what you’ve been doing, once they understand that you created the virus, whether it was a mistake or not—that you’re responsible for hundreds of thousands of horrific deaths—you’ll never get another person to step onto your bus. You’ll die out.”
He was full of shit. He didn’t care about these people. He was obsessed with this story. His entire life was meaningless without it. He had nothing back home, nothing except this Darcy, and she was only a fraction of his pathetic self-absorbed universe.
Layla bit her tongue. For James.
James nodded and sat back, crossing an ankle over a knee. He liked to lead people to the right answer. You can’t shove a belief system down someone’s throat, Lay. They have to come to it on their own.
“Ah, you’re an excellent reporter, but you misjudge human nature, especially as it relates to sensationalism.” James reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out his iPhone. He scrolled through and handed it to Slater. “Our colony in Jiuquan was infiltrated by an undercover policeman from Chengdu, who leaked some pictures to the media. Take a look at this image. What do you see?”
The first was a group of people, all wearing black pants and jackets, kneeling in perfect formation. The sun shone brightly overhead. They might have looked like a martial arts team if not for the heavy black hoods that shielded their faces.
“A cult. Maybe devil worshippers.”
“Indeed. That’s what the policeman saw as well. Do you see anything else?”
He swiped to zoom in. “A restaurant?”
“Aha!” James repositioned the image to focus on an A-frame sign with traditional Chinese characters, positioned in front of a double door. “It says, ‘Lunch today: Beef noodle soup, minced pork rice, oyster pancakes, pan-fried buns.’”
Slater shrugged.
Layla exhaled. James was wasting his time.
“Let’s try another one,” James said, grinning. He swiped to the next photo and handed it to Slater.
Layla looked over Slater’s shoulder. The shower image. In it, a man crouched naked in a shower, facing away from the camera. The image was hazy because of the shower steam, but the dark red, inflamed slash marks across the man’s back were clearly visible.
“Jesus!” Slater quailed.
“Yes, the cleanse is a whipping ritual we use to bring our inductees closer to a state of self-actualization. It’s quite popular. But what else do you see?”
Slater shook his head.
James swiped to yet another picture. “And this one.”
It was James’s favorite. He’d had the image blown up and hung in his office as a daily reminder of the state of the world. In the image, people gathered on a busy city street, many of them dressed in the same black outfits with hoods. One man dressed in the garb held a sign.
“The sign says ‘Please Take Me.’ After the pictures leaked to the media, thousands of people stormed the Colony, rattled the gates, and begged to be let in. The Colony police had to turn them away. We didn’t have the infrastructure to take so many desperate, hungry recruits.”
Slater’s face fell as the realization hit him. “The economic crisis. They were starving.”
Layla glanced at Mia to see if she noticed Slater’s change in posture. Mia shifted slightly, a new look of curiosity on her face.
James continued. “See, when people saw the pictures on the TV, they didn’t see a group of people suffering in the sweltering heat. They saw food. And they’d gladly have taken a whipping for the opportunity to take a hot shower. Most people don’t even have access to cold fresh water.”
James didn’t look up from the image of the man holding the Please Take Me sign, and Layla’s heart broke when she saw tears well up. “I took this picture myself. I was called over to Chengdu to assist with damage control. I had an escort take me through the streets so I could see what it was really like. There was no good drinking water. I offered a bottle of water to a woman with four kids. She thanked me over and over again and allowed each of her thirsty children to drink from the bottle, taking none herself. Then—” He choked up and took a moment to collect himself. “Then she begged me to take her children so they could live. ‘Take them to your paradise,’ she said. To this day, I wish I’d been able to do something for her.”
Layla pushed her mind into the reporter’s head. The words she could pick up filled her brain like a radio with a bad signal: Reese’s little girl … give her up … better life.
He was cracking. His mind was opening. James was working his human magic. Despite her animosity for the reporter, she wanted to grin with pride. James was truly brilliant.
But just as she was embracing this glimmer of hope, Slater’s heart hardened. His muscles tensed, and darkness clouded his face. She heard the voice of a woman: Find them, Nicky. Do your fucking job.
Darcy.
Slater walked over to the whiteboard. Layla saw his drawing before he even popped the cap off the marker. A tombstone. On it, he wrote three names: Vincent Wang, Peter Malloy, Daniel Garcia.
“They were killed because they knew the truth.”
Slater was wearing thin. His haughty idealism about truth for the deserving American people was abating, and he was grasping at straws to keep his outrage alive. But the wrath he wanted to feel for Darcy’s sake wasn’t in his heart.
Time to enter the discussion.
“They weren’t killed because they knew the truth.”
He wheeled from the whiteboard, popping the cap of the marker back on with a vicious snap.
She gave him a tight smile. “They were sacrificed because they didn’t understand the importance of our work.”
; 81
March 2024, Mexico
So snooty Allison Stevens, who’d changed her name here to the twee, airy-fairy Layla, had finally come out of her huff and joined the conversation. In that moment when she’d looked down at him as he lay incapacitated on the floor of her sim, Nick had decided he was going to make sure she rotted in prison.
Judging by her hostile tone, she obviously didn’t think much of him, either.
She snatched the marker from his hand and moved to the whiteboard: 23,000+
“That’s the number of offers we’ve made to homeless people, drug addicts, and people infected with HIV and other diseases, worldwide.”
Another number: 0
“Of those who’ve signed a contract to stay, that’s the number of people who’ve asked to break their contracts.”
33%
“That’s the percentage of people who have received medical treatment, rehabilitation, and education, and have reentered society to help others in need. And the rate is increasing every month.” She whirled around and glowered. “Name me one social services program on the planet with that success rate. Well? You’re a journalist. You’re one with the people. How are the people doing out there in your dregs?”
Nick held his poker face. Sure, those would be impressive statistics if they were true. But there wasn’t one goddamned positive word he was going to believe coming from this loony bin. All he wanted was to keep them talking, to create just enough tension to reach them at an emotional level. Because once an interviewee succumbed to their emotions, they spewed like a volcano.
James leaned forward as if he might cut Stevens off, but she was too quick.
“No one out there is curing diseases,” she said. “No one is curing the virus. No one is taking care of the most vulnerable in society. No one but us.”
Yeah, taking care of people by stealing them from the streets. Taking them from their families, just like ol’ Red had told him about Reese’s little girl.
Stevens grabbed her phone from the table and furiously tapped and swiped, leaving Nick to wonder if her bullshit spiel was over. He hoped so; he had more questions for James. He swiveled back toward James but jolted when he felt a hand on his knee.
Stevens crouched in front of him and offered her phone. When she spoke, the shift in her tone was such a one-eighty he almost fell off the chair. “This is Tiffany.” She looked at the picture with tenderness in her eyes. “She’s Reese’s little girl.”
He recoiled as if she were a rattlesnake. What the fuck? Had he said the name out loud?
She didn’t move from her crouched position, looking up with an earnestness that just minutes ago he would have thought her incapable of. “Red’s buddy? From Skid Row?”
He couldn’t avert his eyes from her face. How did she do that? Could she read his mind?
She picked up his limp clammy hand and wrapped it around her phone.
He reluctantly looked down.
“Not the little girl you were imagining, I know. She’s seventeen. She arrived here about three months ago, and I’ve taken a personal interest in her because I was touched by her story. When she was twelve, she was coerced into joining a prostitution ring that catered to deviants in the wealthy areas of LA. She was practically enslaved, unable to escape. Even her father couldn’t protect her. But we rescued her.”
Nick was transfixed by the picture. The eyes of the young girl were empty. Utterly lifeless.
“At first, Tiffany slept under her bed every night. She could barely talk to anyone. Now she’s confident and healthy. She’s in the education program, showing an aptitude for math. After her induction, I hope to recommend her for work in our bioanalytics group.
He looked up in surprise.
“And yes, to answer your unasked question, she will participate in our genetic research, as does everyone.”
He leaned back. Her mind-reading magic trick had jarred him, but her sappy human-interest story wasn’t going to deter him from writing the real story here: the heinous exploitation of young, innocent, vulnerable people to test genetic drugs. Their colossal fuck up cost the lives of millions. Precious Tiffany would be a big hit with NPR, but he wanted his Pulitzer Prize.
As she noted his reaction, her expression clouded over and chilled to become the cold, hostile glare that, frankly, he liked better. It was more believable. She collected her phone and stood, giving James the slightest headshake.
She strode to the door, glanced back at Mia, and left the room.
82
March 2024, Mexico
James pushed up his glasses thoughtfully. Layla had been a nay vote before they even talked to the reporter. She’d grown increasingly intolerant of present-day troglodytes, as she called them, but she’d seen something in this reporter. She’d made it past his defensive, distrustful exterior. But then, somehow, she’d lost him.
He glanced at Mia, who was already rising from her seat. Mia had always been his steady right hand, unemotional in both business decisions and character assessments. I call ’em like I see ’em was her mantra, and he weighted her opinion heavily.
She subtly shook her head and followed Layla out the door, leaving him alone with Nick.
A no from Mia, too.
But he wasn’t ready to give up on Nick Slater. A man with that much passion for truth, someone who would chase a story for four years, despite James’s many attempts to stop him—doggedly pursuing answers even now, with his own life on the line—could be a valuable ally on the outside. If he was going to convince Nick Slater to walk away from his story of a lifetime, he needed to find common ground.
He moved into the chair closest to Slater. “Mr. Slater, I’m going to be honest with you, because I hope you’ll be honest with me. I don’t want to take your life.”
Perhaps the openness of the threat reminded the guy that this wasn’t his interview, that he didn’t have the upper hand, because fear coiled in Slater’s expression.
“I’ve watched you for years, off and on, through the eyes of operatives who work for me in the field. I’ve seen your obsession. I’ve read your blog. I understand how deeply important this story is to you.”
He expected Slater to launch into another first amendment rant, but he remained impassive. Good. Maybe he finally stopped composing story headlines and was ready to listen.
“Your being here puts us in an awkward position. Our work has never been more critical than it is right now. We’ve made tremendous progress in our reversion cure, but the fact is, there are still thousands of praefuro out there that must be found. Keisha and others like her are the only ones who can find them, and soon we’ll be able to send hundreds more into the world to help. I’m sure you can appreciate that we can’t risk a story that could slow or stop that work.”
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the small Ziploc he stashed there for this moment. He slid it across the table.
Slater glanced down. Recognition registered on his face, but he didn’t move to take it.
“We’re sorry about the cops. Agent Malloy and Agent Garcia came to us. They pulled guns and threatened our work. They didn’t allow us the conversation you’re having right now. So yes, they died in vain. But no advancement in science or society was ever made without sacrifice.”
He took a deep ragged breath in the face of Slater’s statue-like posture. The hostility and goading he witnessed minutes ago, characteristic of a cop trying to extract a confession from his suspect, had abated. Maybe Slater just wanted his big story, or maybe he’d taken a turn.
“You’ve been looking for Allison Stevens for a very long time. I’ve seen the diagrams on the walls of your apartment. I know you believe she’s the glue that holds your story together. So now that you’ve found her, I’ll give you the story. The truth.”
After a slight nod of assent, Slater didn’t move a muscle over the next thirty minutes as James poured out her story. He didn’t flinch while James explained how Allison had been framed, victimized, and kidnapped b
y Austin Harris, nor did he cringe when James described how he himself had coerced her into taking a genetic drug to erase the memory of her twenty-nine years, stripping away her entire world and leaving her with a blank slate and a new identity. More remarkably, Slater held his stony expression as James described in detail how she’d willingly accepted the implantation of a genetically engineered embryo and how that embryo mutated into a fetus that enslaved her mind, turned her into a killer, and drove her to try to take her own life—all while James stood idly by.
“Allison Stevens knows sacrifice.” James hung his head. His beautiful girl. She was so strong. “She’s sacrificed enough for ten lifetimes.”
On that devastating night, when he’d released "A Desperate Warning to the World," he’d vowed to never let her suffer another day for the rest of her life. Still, she’d suffered with months of reversion therapy that nearly killer and even more months of recovery and rehab. Now, as he took a moment to collect himself, he was again reminded of her indestructible spirit. She was nothing short of extraordinary. “And despite everything she’s been through, she wakes up each day with purpose. Nothing is more important to her than bringing the last praefuro home. She is the one who will eradicate the virus. She’s humanity’s only hope.”
He dropped his head into his hands. He was tired. Tired of cleaning up the worldwide calamity and economic devastation that Stewart had caused. Tired of harboring the good work of the Colony as if they had something to be ashamed of. But mostly, he was tired of being perceived as the villain. All he’d ever wanted to do was help people, to help the human race.