Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  “I just wanna go home, man.”

  “We’ll scan you out as soon as you take a quick detour.” Cole nods to his phone on the side table. “Leave it.”

  Karen wheels Cushing through the ER, passing several colleagues who are too exhausted at this hour to take notice. Cole leads them to an exit in back of the building. The night air is ripe as they stop by overflowing garbage bins.

  “Between the trash and the piss smell, I can tell you’re trying to impress me,” Cushing says.

  “We don’t know each other,” Cole says.

  “Though I’m clearly at a deficit.”

  “I’m not out to prove that you have sepsis or leukemia or are in liver failure. What I really want to know is, how did you get a clean MedID?”

  Cushing sniffs. “Luck?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you know how to manipulate the system.”

  “This is bullshit.” Cushing tries to stand but he’s weak and settles back into the chair. “Take me back. Scan me out.”

  Always direct, Karen says, “Maybe you know someone who cleans MedIDs as a hobby?”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re progovernment, rah-­rah-­who-­needs-­civil-­liberties assholes. You gonna call the Feds? Based on a hunch?”

  Subtly, Karen nods to Cole.

  “Like I said, we don’t know each other,” Cole says. “Maybe we’re after the same thing.”

  This disarms Cushing, who is momentarily speechless. “Then what do you want?”

  “What if I could get you the treatment you need. For whatever disease or infection you have. Off the record. Privately. At no cost.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I want to know how you have a clean MedID.”

  Cushing looks back and forth between them, glances at the building. “You recording this? There cameras out here?”

  “It’s just us. This isn’t a planned meeting. It’s a chance meeting.”

  “How do I know you’re not full of shit?”

  “You don’t. But then again, I don’t know that I can trust you either.”

  “Trust me with what?”

  “You first.”

  Everyone waits. Finally, Cushing speaks, almost whispering. “I used to work for the MedFuture Corporation. Started there maybe ten, twelve years ago now. Right before the biochip went public.”

  “What did you do for them?” Cole asks.

  “I was a programmer. Software design and management.”

  “So you know your way around a MedID chip?”

  “You could say that. I learned how to program and finesse the codes. Then I moved up and taught the newbies.”

  “But isn’t the basic information on the chips hardwired? Unalterable?”

  “Nothing’s perfect.”

  “So you know how to adjust the encrypted information? Change numbers? Erase medical history?”

  Cushing’s eyes dart to Karen.

  “Neither of us has any interest in exposing what you share,” Cole says.

  Firmly, quietly, she adds, “I don’t believe in the system. Never have.”

  “Huh.” Cushing takes a minute. “And I get what? Private health care?”

  Cole nods. “Tell us more.”

  “All right. Look, the system isn’t perfect. With millions of citizens, the government doesn’t have the capacity to track inconsistencies. They rely on ­people like you to do that for them. Let’s say you input all of your theories about my leg, my platelet count, whatever else, into my MedID file. You scan it and it goes into the massive cloud at the Federal MedID Database. But no one actually looks at it unless they’re tracking me individually, have me flagged. They don’t have a dedicated staff tracking everyone in the U.S. population with a MedID. It’s too overwhelming.”

  “So there are holes in the system,” Cole says. “But I still don’t understand how you get a clean MedID number with a clean history when, clearly, you don’t have either.”

  Cushing takes a deep breath. “I wipe it. Rewrite it. Resend the clean file to the Fed Database. And no one’s the wiser. It’s not a foolproof system, not yet.”

  “So you know how to decode the encrypted information?” Karen asks.

  Placing a finger to his lips, Cushing says, “Shhh. The government doesn’t care about one man. So what if I’m changing my own information? It allows me to work in this shitty economy. It allows me to travel or move anywhere I want to. Having an eighty-­three is like being a celebrity. I can be anything I want to be. The minute the system realizes I’m a sixty-­two, my life ends. I can’t even get a date. Women think they’ll be widowed by retirement age, and that’s not a selling point. With the war and election going on, the Feds don’t have time to worry about those of us that don’t pose a threat to national security.”

  “You ever do pro-­bono work, Mr. Cushing?” Cole asks.

  Cushing’s features lift with curiosity and, perhaps, amusement. “For a good cause, sure.”

  “Let’s schedule a follow-­up appointment for that leg,” Karen says. “Off the record. Maybe a home visit. Is the contact information on your chart accurate?”

  “It is.”

  “We’ll be in touch, then,” Cole says.

  They discharge Cushing and return to the ER pit, finish up their shift. They need to vet him—­if he checks out, and Steven agrees, they’ll ask him to join Project Swap. The solution seems so obvious now. They can have good intentions and Harvard medical degrees, but if they don’t have a key player with technological insight, they simply won’t be able to change the system, much less save lives.

  IN THE QUIET of Safe District 149, in the middle of the night, Lily wanders through her darkened house. Cole is, supposedly, working the overnight shift. Since Kate died, he’s gone all the time. And when he is home, he’s distracted, distant. A few times he told her he had to cover a shift, but she called the hospital and he wasn’t there. She even tried to geolocate him, but his phone was off. Her imagination stirs, thoughts make her stomach burn. Could he be having an affair? Despite being with the kids all day, she’s never felt so alone.

  And angry. At first she didn’t recognize the feeling—­knots in her back, tension headaches, irrational feelings, and irritability. It’s been building for years, she knows. She’s angry at the terrorists, at Sebastian for not saving her sister, at Kate for being so goddamned career-­driven. And now Cole. Poor Ian is keeping his distance. The other day after going through a box of Kate’s clothes, she began to wail. Scream, really. She hadn’t known Ian was standing only feet away, had crept up on her. He’d rushed away without a word. She’s scaring her son. She’s scaring herself.

  In Cole’s office, the lamp illuminates when it senses her. Maybe there are answers here. She voice-­commands his computer on but it doesn’t work. She tries again. He turned off her access! Dammit. What is he hiding? The room is orderly, as always. For the first time in their marriage, she rifles through his things, searching for evidence of betrayal. An empty notebook on the desktop, framed family photos. Old medical books, pens and paper clips. Her knee knocks into something under the desk. It’s a small paper shredder that empties into a trashcan, filled to the top with white strips no larger than a quarter inch.

  Sinking to the floor, she dumps the tangle of paper. An hour passes as she sifts through it, sweats over these puzzle pieces. It’s useless. The white shade on the office window begins to glow with morning light. From down the hall Talia stirs with her groggy morning cry. Exhaustion, so complete, makes her wonder for a moment what would happen if she didn’t go to Talia. If instead she curled up right here and slept.

  Her glazed eyes stray from the shreds. Again she focuses on the notepad on the desk. She bolts to standing and finds a pencil. With a light touch, she shades the top sheet of paper. There’s indentation, Cole’s writing. She stares at it.

  P.S
. to date:

  Sarah Hudson 83—­Hazel Berman

  Lucia Simpson 80—­Rayna Stillman

  Mark Hammond 79—­Derrick Degas

  Beatrice McGinnis 86—­

  The list is long, probably fifty names. She guesses the numbers are MedIDs, but why are two names next to one number? He has electronic files for all his patients. Why handwrite and then shred it? None of it makes any sense.

  Talia’s cry is louder now, impatient, angry. It’s exactly how Lily feels.

  September, 2032

  Chapter 43

  JONATHAN HAS BEEN PATIENT. He’s waited for the right time to talk to Hannah alone, away from Reverend Mitchell. Even now her driver sits outside the Hudson’s gate, probably reporting on every step she takes. Since Huan Chao made it clear to him that he will carry out his new assignment—­or face consequences—­Jonathan can’t help but wonder what Hannah knows.

  They lie on Jonathan’s carpeted floor listening to a DJ spin in a club halfway around the world, the video feed lighting up an adjacent wall so it feels like they’re part of the crowd. His hands drum to the beat but he barely hears the song. Being with her demands all of his senses.

  Without warning, Hannah explodes into giggles. He props himself up on his elbows.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I gave it a try, but this is so not me. Look how serious they all are!” She points to the clubbers.

  Hundreds of bodies move in unison, arms akimbo, hair tossed wildly. True enough, there’s not one smile on the faces that fill the wall.

  “It’s dancing. Dancing! Shouldn’t they look happy?”

  “So what music do you like?” he asks. “What makes you dance?”

  She grins, taps her temple with her finger. “I only dance mentally.”

  It’s his turn to laugh. They face each other, the smiles slipping away. Jonathan replaces the pounding music with a playlist of acoustic artists. The energy in the room mellows. And in the quiet, he decides to ask the one question that’s been plaguing him.

  “Did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Did the Reverend send you that day? To the funeral?”

  Her lips part then pinch. He watches her neck as she swallows.

  “You weren’t friends with someone at that funeral, were you? He sent you to find me. To bring me back.”

  “Yes.” She avoids his gaze.

  “Did he tell you why?”

  She shakes her head. “I run his errands. Send messages. Meet ­people. He never tells me why, never involves me in BASIA’s mission. It’s probably better that way.”

  “Guess it helps you sleep at night.” The edge in his voice is stronger than he intended.

  “I don’t sleep.” She turns away. “I’m sorry, Jonathan.”

  “You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”

  “So much.”

  “Do you know what he’s capable of?”

  “Of course I know.” She jerks around to face him. “It’s why I’m here! I’m proof of what he’s capable of. Collateral damage in the war of Armageddon.”

  “And his future bride.”

  She stands, ties her rope of hair into a bun as she goes to the window and stares out.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “No.” It’s a whisper. “I miss my parents. I miss the farmhouse I grew up in. How simple everything was. I miss my sister and brother.”

  Her back shakes as though she’s hiccupping. He realizes she’s crying.

  “Hey.” Shit. He doesn’t have a tissue and he has no idea what to say. Slowly, he ambles over to her.

  “Sorry.” With the back of her hand, she wipes her cheeks.

  “Where are your brother and sister?”

  “I don’t know. Charles is trying to find them for me.”

  Bullshit. A man that powerful could find anyone. “Want me to try?”

  “How?”

  He waggles his fingers at her. “Magic.”

  This seems to calm her, and she eagerly sits back down with him on the carpet. He changes the smartwall, gesturing, turning it into his own private search engine. Hannah shares all the details she can remember. Joe, Jr. and Mary, how old they must be now, hair and eye colors, though with ten years since she’s seen them, she doubts her memory.

  As the minutes tick by, he considers telling her about his plan to steal the MedIDs for Project Swap. They could all get out of here and start a new life. He steals glances at her. There’s a tiny white scar on her cheek and her earlobes are double-­pierced with no earrings. He has a constant urge to touch her.

  An hour later he still has no solid leads on her siblings. He rubs his eyes. “I’ll find them. Everyone has an e-­trail. Tomorrow I’ll check the national education database. It’ll just take a few more hours.”

  “Thank you.” Hannah moves closer and kisses his cheek.

  Without thinking, he turns and presses his lips against hers. She leans into him, slides a hand down his arm. He takes her hand in his. The feeling is electric. Suddenly she pulls away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “No.” Hannah looks at her lap. “Don’t be. You make me feel normal.”

  “You are normal.”

  “I’m many things, but normal isn’t one of them.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well. My parents martyred themselves. I’ve lost my brother and sister. I was given—­like a cow or something—­to Charles. I live in that big mansion like I’m privileged, but none of it’s mine. I don’t know who I am anymore. If I was set free in the world tomorrow, I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t know the first thing about normal, Jonathan.”

  “If you had a way out of the Reverend’s world, would you take it?”

  “I can’t even imagine that.”

  “There’s always a way out.”

  She stands abruptly. “It’s late. I should go.”

  Maybe it’s better this way. He’ll tell her after he figures out how to steal the chips. It’s after midnight when he sneaks her out of the house. Thankfully, Steven’s asleep. It would be disastrous for their paths to cross now that Steven knows her connection to BASIA. Down the lamplit driveway they walk to the gate and the waiting car. He grabs her hand and squeezes it.

  “There’s always a way,” he says.

  Hannah slips into the backseat and the car pulls away. He watches until the taillights disappear. It’s a tangled mess he’s in, but he’ll work it out. He’ll do everything he can to hang onto her.

  Chapter 44

  FLOODLIGHTS ILLUMINATE THE training field behind BASIA HQ. Standing amid his regiment, Sebastian’s breath vaporizes in the unseasonably brisk air. Recently, night drills have become routine. There’s a new urgency in the tasks they’re given, reiteration of significant psalms, a push to hone skills, whether it’s hand-­to-­hand combat or—­Sebastian’s specific talent—­sharpshooting. They’re watching each and every soldier, and he needs to be among the best.

  Summoning his fury over Kate and his frustration over the web of politics he has yet to untangle, he pushes his body harder. Running through tires, climbing ropes, hurdling obstacles. After three months he still hasn’t penetrated Mitchell’s inner sanctum or attained clarity on their mission. Only one thing is obvious: that the attack will include thousands of soldiers from different BASIA regiments throughout the country. Several days coming up—­Election Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years Eve/Day—­could provide a meaningful platform for Mitchell. Initially, Sebastian hoped Taylor would be his way in, but she’s provided no insight into her father, much less Mitchell. The only thing she’s given him is a boatload of guilt, for enjoying her company. Coffees have led to dinners and late night conversations. The relationship is platonic, but the pull is there. At times she reminds him of Kate.
Her fierce independence and her hope that she can change the world. Maybe that’s why he keeps going back, aside from his assignment.

  Hours pass, the stars fade and the sky turns gray-­blue as the soldiers file into buses with blackened windows. Sebastian sits next to a man he’s watched in the field. The guy’s a talker. They begin the trip back to Boston. Sebastian’s body sinks into the faded seat, his energy spent. He stares out the window at the orange leaves that glow in the morning light. Earlier in the week, Renner called him to download information on the encrypted emails that Mitchell’s been having him send to anonymous I.P. addresses. Some appear to be directions, one reads like a cookie recipe, a few are psalms. The messages are with analysts, who are working to trace the addresses, crack the codes, and attempt to piece together a clear picture.

  As the bus bounces over potholes, his body jostles against the man next to him. The talker is forty-­something, medium build, thinning hair, who looks like he was in finance in another life. They’ve met before, and though Sebastian’s weary, this is no time for sleep.

  “It’s Joe, right?” He extends his hand.

  “Yup. Joe Shonkoff.” The man’s grip is firm. “Will Anderson?”

  “Good memory. You working tomorrow?”

  “You mean today? Yeah.”

  “Right. It’ll be a long one.”

  Joe sighs. “They’re all long.”

  “Amen.” Joe gives him a long look, so long in fact Sebastian has a hard time not looking away. “What’s up?”

  “You got a family?”

  “No. You?”

  “I do.” Joe gazes out the window. “They know what it’s all about. They know what we have to do.”

  “Right.” Sebastian nods. “I just figure, why bother when I have one foot out the door?”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “You been with BASIA long?”

  “Long enough.” Joe glances at the soldiers sitting across the aisle from them, in the seat behind and in front of them. Most of the men and women are sleeping or staring off.

  “Things are getting intense the past few weeks.”