Darwin's Children

by Greg Bear

  “Were the baths the right thing to do?” Mitch asked.

  “Absolutely,” the doctor said. “She's four degrees elevated. Coming down, maybe, but it could spike again. Keep her cool, but don't wear her down. She's skin and bones now.”

  “She's naturally slender,” Kaye said.

  “Good. She'll grow up to be a model,” the doctor said.

  “Not if I can help it,” Kaye said.

  The doctor stared at Kaye. “Don't I know you?”

  “No,” she said. “You don't.”

  “Right,” the doctor said, coming to his senses. He gave Stella the first injection, a broad-spectrum antiviral with multiplex immunoglobulin and B vitamins. “Used these when measles hit a bunch of old kids in Lancaster,” he said, then grimaced and shook his head. “ ‘Old kids.’ Listen to me. We're talking in tangles. This isn't measles, but the shot can't hurt. It's only good in a series, however. I'll report her arrays anonymously to Atlanta. Part of the field program. Completely anonymous.”

  Mitch listened without reaction. He was almost beyond caring about anonymity. He looked up as the doctor glanced at the NuTest display and said, “Whoops. Shit.” The display was blinking rapidly, reflecting on the doctor's face.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” the doctor said, but Mitch thought he looked guilty, as if he had screwed up. “Can I have some of that coffee?” the doctor asked. “Cold is fine. I've got two more patients tonight.”

  He felt Stella under her jaw and behind the ears, then turned her over and inspected her buttocks. A rash was forming on both cheeks. “She's spiking again.” He turned her over and helped carry her to the bathtub. George had emptied the kitchen ice machine and driven off to get more from the local grocery. They sponged her down with cold tap water. Stella was convulsing by the time George returned.

  Mitch lifted Stella out of the tub by her underarms, soaking his clothes. George emptied four bags of ice into the water. Then they lowered her in again.

  “It's too cold,” Stella shrieked thinly.

  Mitch's daughter seemed to weigh almost nothing. She was ephemeral. The illness was stealing her away so quickly he could not react.

  The doctor left to get another injection ready.

  Kaye held up her daughter's hand. It was pale and blue. She saw small sores between the girl's fingers. With a gasp, she dropped the hand and leaned to lift Stella's foot. She showed the sole to Mitch. Small lesions spotted the flesh between Stella's toes. “They're on her hands, too,” Kaye said.

  Mitch shook his head. “I don't know what that is.”

  George pushed back from the tub and stood, his face showing alarm. The doctor returned with another syringe. As he was injecting Stella he looked at the girl's fingers and nodded. He pulled back Stella's lips and looked into her mouth. Stella moaned.

  “Could be herpangina, vesicular stomatitis—” He took a deep breath. “I can't make the call here with just a NuTest. Treatment with a targeted antiviral would work best, and that requires a positive ID. That should be done in a reference lab, and she should be hospitalized. I just don't have that kind of equipment.”

  “No one will admit her,” George said. “Blanket ban.”

  “Disgraceful,” the doctor said, his voice flat from exhaustion. He looked up at George. “It could be communicable. You'll want to sterilize this bathroom and bleach the sheets.”

  George nodded.

  “There's someone who might be able to help,” Mitch said to Kaye, taking her aside.

  “Christopher?” Kaye asked.

  “Call him. Ask him what's happening. You know his phone number.”

  “His home,” Kaye said. “It's an old number. I'm not sure where he works now.”

  The doctor had dialed up a sentinel CDC report page on his Web phone. “There's no warning posted,” he said. “But I've never seen pediatric warnings for virus children.”

  “New children,” George corrected.

  “Is it a reportable disease?” Kaye asked.

  “It's not even listed,” the doctor said, but there was something in his face that disturbed Kaye. The NuTest. It's got a GPS and a broadband hookup to the Department of Health. And from there, to NIH or the CDC. I'm sure of it.

  But there was nothing they could do. She shrugged it off.

  “Call,” Mitch told Kaye.

  “I don't know who he's working for now,” Kaye said.

  “We have a secure satellite phone,” George said. “No one will back trace. Not that it matters, for us. Our son is already in a camp.”

  “There is nothing secure,” Mitch said.

  George seemed about to debate this slur on his masculine grasp of crypto-technology.

  Kaye held up her hand. “I'll call,” she said. It would be the first time she had spoken with Christopher Dicken in over nine years.

  But all she got was the answering machine in his apartment. “This is Christopher. I'm on the road. My house is occupied by cops and wrestlers. Better yet, remember that I collect strange plagues and store them next to my valuables. Please leave your message.”

  “Christopher, this is Kaye. Our daughter is sick. Coxsackie something. Call if you have any clues or advice.”

  And she left the number.

  35

  OHIO

  The infirmary stood adjacent to the southwest corner of the equipment barn: two blocks connected by a short corridor with barred windows. The bright security lights drew angular trapezoids of shadow over the concrete courtyard between the buildings, obscuring a lone boy. Tall and chunky, about ten years old, he leaned or slumped against the door to the research wing, arms folded.

  “Who's that?” Middleton called out.

  “Toby Smith, ma'am,” the boy said, standing straight. He wobbled and stared at them with tired, blank eyes.

  “You sick, Toby?”

  “I'm fine, ma'am.”

  “Where's the doctor?” Middleton pulled the cart up ten feet from the boy. Dicken saw the boy's pallid cheeks, almost free of freckles.

  The boy turned and pointed into the research wing. “Doctor Kelson is in the gym. My sister's dead,” he said.

  “I'm sorry to hear that, Toby,” Dicken said, swinging out of the seat of the golf cart. “I'm very sorry to hear it. My sister died some time ago.”

  Dicken approached him. The boy's eyes were rheumy and crusted.

  “What did your sister die of?” Toby asked, squinting at Dicken.

  “A disease she caught from a mosquito bite. It was called West Nile Virus. May I see your fingers, Toby?”

  “No.” The boy hid his hands behind his back. “I don't want you to shoot me.”

  “You ignore that crap, Toby,” Middleton said. “I won't let them shoot anybody.”

  “May I see, Toby?” Dicken persisted. He removed his goggles. Something in his tone, some sympathy, or perhaps the way he smelled—if Toby could still smell him—made the boy look up at Dicken with narrowed eyes and present his hands. Dicken gently reversed the boy's hand and inspected the palm and the skin between the fingers. No lesions. Toby screwed up his face and wriggled his fingers.

  “You're a strong young man, Toby,” Dicken said.

  “I've been in the infirmary, helping, and now I'm on break,” Toby said. “I should go back.”

  “The kids are so gentle,” DeWitt said. “They bond so tight, like family, all of them. Tell that to the world out there.”

  “They don't want to listen,” Dicken said under his breath.

  “They're scared,” Augustine said.

  “Of me?” Toby asked.

  The cart's small walkie-talkie squawked. Middleton pulled away to answer. Her lips drew together as she listened. Then she turned to Augustine. “Security saw the director's car go out the south entrance ten minutes ago. He was alone. They think he's skipped.”

  Augustine closed his eyes and shook his head. “Someone alerted him. The governor has probably ordered complete quarantine. We're on our own, for the time be
ing.”

  “Then we have to move fast,” Dicken said. “I need specimens from the remaining staff, and from as many of the children as is practical. I need to learn where this virus came from. Maybe we can get word out and stop this insanity. Have the children in special treatment had contact with the children outside?”

  “None that I've heard of,” Middleton said. “But I am not responsible for that building. That was Aram Jurie's domain. He and Pickman were part of Trask's inner circle.”

  “Pickman and Jurie said the specials should be kept separate,” DeWitt added. “Something about mental disease being additive in SHEVA children. I think they were interested in the effects of madness and stress.”

  Viral triggers, Dicken thought. He was torn between disgust and elation. He might find all the clues he needed, after all. “Who's there now?”

  “There are six nurses left, I think.” Middleton looked away, tears brimming.

  “I'll need specimens from those nurses in particular. Nose swabs, fingernail scrapings, sputum, and blood. I think we should do that now.”

  “Christopher is the point man,” Augustine said. “Do whatever he asks.”

  “I can take you,” DeWitt said. She squeezed Middleton's arm supportively. “Yolanda wants to get back to the kids. They need her. I'm baggage for now.”

  “Let's go,” Dicken said. He walked over to Toby. “Thank you, Toby. You've been very helpful.”

  36

  PENNSYLVANIA

  George Mackenzie shook Mitch's shoulder. Mitch lurched up in the bed. The pastel walls of the tidy bedroom swam around him; he did not feel at all rested. He had fallen asleep without pulling back the covers on the bed, still dressed in his rumpled Mr. Smith suit.

  “Where's Kaye? How long have I been asleep?”

  “She's with your daughter,” George said. He looked miserable. “You've been out about an hour. Sorry to wake you. Come take a look at the TV.”

  Mitch walked into the next room first. Kaye sat on the side of the bed, hands folded between her knees, head bowed. She looked up as Mitch checked Stella, now under the covers. He felt Stella's forehead. “Fever's down.”

  “Broke about an hour ago. I think. Iris brought some tea and we just sat with her.”

  Mitch stared at his daughter's sleeping face, so pale on the sky blue pillow, topped by a damp, matted thatch of hair. Her breath came in ragged puffs. “What's with that?”

  “She's been breathing that way since the fever broke. She's not badly congested. I don't know what it means. The doctor said he'd be back . . .” She checked the clock on the nightstand. “By now.”

  “He hasn't come,” George said. “I don't think he's going to.”

  “George wants me to watch the news,” Mitch said.

  Kaye nodded and waved her hand; she would stay.

  George led Mitch down the hall to the den and the flat wall-mounted screen. Huge faces sat behind a fancy rosewood desk, talking . . . Mitch tried to focus.

  “I am as liberal as the next fellow, but this scares me,” said a middle-aged male sporting a crew cut. Mitch did not watch much television and did not know who this was.

  “Brent Tucker, commentator for Fox Broadband,” George explained. “He's interviewing a school doctor from Indiana. That's where our son, Kelly, is.”

  “Haven't we been expecting this?” Tucker was asking. “Isn't this why we've agreed to put the children in these special schools?”

  “The footage you've just shown, of parents dropping off their children, finally coming forward and cooperating, is very encouraging—” the doctor said.

  Tucker interrupted with a stern expression. “You left your post this morning. Were you afraid?”

  “I've been helping explain the situation to the president's staff. I'm going back this afternoon to resume my duties.”

  “The scientists we've interviewed on this show insist that the children could pose a severe risk to the population at large if allowed to roam free. And there are still tens of thousands of them out there, even now. Isn't it—”

  “I cannot agree with that characterization,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, well, you left your school, and that says it all, don't you think?”

  The doctor opened and closed his mouth. Tucker moved in, eyes wide, sensing a kill. “The public can't be fooled. They know what this is about. Let's look at our forum instant messages and what the public is telling us right now.”

  The figures came up on the screen.

  “Ten to one, they want you to arrest parents who don't cooperate, get all the children where we can watch them, and do it now. Ten to one.”

  “I do not think that is even practicable. We don't have the facilities.”

  “We built the schools and support your work with taxpayer dollars. You are a public servant, Dr. Levine. These children are the result of a hideous disease. What if it spreads to all of us, and there are no more normal children born, ever?”

  “Do you advocate we should exterminate them, for the public good?” Levine asked.

  Mitch watched with grim fascination, jaw clamped, as if witnessing a car crash.

  “Nobody wants that,” Tucker said with an expression of affronted reason. “But there is an imminent health risk. It's a matter of survival.”

  The doctor put his hands on the rosewood counter. “No illness has spread to staff in any of the schools I'm aware of.”

  “Then why aren't you in the school now, Dr. Levine?”

  “They are children, Mr. Tucker. I will be going back to them.”

  Mitch clenched his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms.

  Tucker smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and turned to the camera, which zoomed to a close shot. “I believe in the people and what they have to say. That is the strength of this nation, and it is also the Fox Media philosophy, fair and balanced, and I am not ashamed to agree with it. I believe there is an instinct for preservation at work among the people, and that is news. That is survival. You'll catch more details here, Fox Multicast, and touch your screen to check our expanded coverage on the Web—”

  George turned off the TV. His voice was thin and choked. “Neighbor must have seen you arrive. He told me he's going to turn us in for harboring a virus child. A sick child.” He held up and jangled three keys on a ring. “Iris and I have a cabin. It's about two hours from here, up in the mountains. On a small lake. Real nice, away from everybody. There's food for at least a week. You can mail back the keys. Your girl is doing better. I'm sure of it. The crisis is past.”

  Mitch tried to figure out what their options were—and how adamant Mackenzie was. “She's not breathing right,” he said.

  “I've been out of work for five months,” George said. “We're running out of money. Iris is on the edge of a breakdown. We can't be a safe house anymore. This neighborhood is like Sun City for the wealthy. They're old and scared and mean.” George looked up. “If the feds come here and find you, they'll put your daughter someplace where the care is worse than you can imagine. That's where our child is, Mitch.”

  Kaye stood behind Mitch and touched his elbow, startling him. “Take the keys,” she said.

  George suddenly fell back into a chair and shook his head. “Stay here until dawn,” he said. “The neighbors are asleep. I hope to God everybody is asleep. Get some rest. Then, I'm sorry, you have to leave.”

  37

  OHIO

  The Special Treatment center occupied a long, flat, single-story building with reinforced concrete walls. Dicken and DeWitt walked around the empty school trailers and crossed the asphalt square in the brilliant glow of a dozen intense white security lights.

  The door to the center hung open. A tangle of sheets and rubber mats had been tossed out like a filthy, lolling tongue. Two iron-barred and wire-reinforced windows gleamed like flat, blank eyes on either side. The building looked dead.

  Inside, the air was cooler but not by much, and stank. Beneath the cacophony of stench wavered a weak
chord of Pine-Sol. Dicken did not pause, though DeWitt held back and coughed under her mask. He had smelled worse; the professional refrain of a virus hunter.

  Beyond the security office and the open double gates of the checkpoint, the doors to all the cells stretched down a long corridor. About half, in no particular order, had been opened. No nurses or guards were in sight.

  The body of a boy of eight or nine lay on a mattress in the corridor. Dicken knew the boy was dead from several yards away. He put down his bag of specimen kits, knelt with difficulty beside the soiled mattress, examined the boy with what he hoped was clear-eyed respect, then pushed on the floor and one knee and got up again. He shook his head vigorously at DeWitt's offer of assistance.

  “Don't touch anything,” he warned. “Yolanda said there were nurses.”

  “They probably moved the children into the exercise area. The center has its own yard, at the south end.”

  They checked each room, peering through the observation slit or pushing open the heavy steel doors. Some of the rooms held bodies. Most were empty. A black line drawn on the floor marked the division between rooms equipped for children who need restraints or protection: the padded rooms. All of the doors to these rooms had been opened.

  Two rooms contained bodies lying on cots in restraints, one male, one female, both with abnormally large heads and hands.

  “It's a condition unique to SHEVA children,” DeWitt said. “I've only seen three like this.”

  “Congenital?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  Dicken counted twenty dead by the time they reached the door at the end. This door was a rolling wall of steel bars covered with thick sheets of acrylic.

  “I think this is where Jurie and Pickman ordered the violent children kept,” DeWitt said.

  Someone had jammed a broken cinder block into the track to prevent the door from automatically closing, and a red light and LED display flashed a security warning. Behind thickly shaded glass, the guard booth was empty, and the alarm had been hammered into silence.