Pathological

by Jinkang Wang

  Xue Yu said, “Yes, there’s been an increase in their population this year, perhaps because of a decline in their predators—hawks and foxes. Or it may have to do with the reduction in the plague. The Tibetan herders have been educated, and now they pay attention to the plague warnings. As soon as they see a dead marmot or pika, they’ll cover the body with stones, then report it to the epidemic station so they can come and disinfect it. This has made plague less likely to spread between animals. And once we’ve sprayed this place with the mild plague bacillus, the symptoms will be brought completely under control, which might mean these two animal populations will keep increasing. That’s not necessarily a good thing, because they could cause quite a lot of damage to the vegetation cover on this plateau. We’ve suggested human intervention to increase the numbers of their natural predators too. The natural world is so interconnected that tugging at one strand is sure to disturb many more.”

  Three lightweight Z-11 helicopters landed nearby. A dozen workers in white uniforms jumped out and began measuring wind speed, temperature, humidity, and brightness. Xue Yu and Commander Zhang ran over too. Xiaoxue stood to one side with her arm around Mother Mei, away from the air currents streaming from the helicopters. Today they would commence the first large-scale open-air dissemination of pathogens ever to be carried out in China, and indeed the world. Walt Dickerson’s idea of half a century ago would finally come to fruition. Before this, the dispersal of mild smallpox virus in Nanyang had been a success, but on a small scale, and it was never made public. Thinking back to those times, Mei Yin, now sixty-two, felt something stir inside her. They’d accomplished so much . . .

  Xiaoxue’s cell phone rang; it was Uncle Sun Jingshuan. He was calling from Beijing Airport. He and his wife, He Ying, were taking their daughter, Jiaojiao, to Japan on vacation, and Jiji was going with them. Uncle Sun said, “We’re taking off soon, I’ll have to turn my phone off in a minute. I wanted Jiji to say good-bye to you.”

  Jiji said good-bye to his mother and grandmother, and Xiaoxue couldn’t help nagging him a little. “Be careful, listen to the grown-ups.” Jiji said impatiently, “Yes, yes, I know.” Then Uncle Sun called for Jiaojiao to say good-bye as well, but there was just a long silence, after which he chuckled. “Jiaojiao’s too shy to talk on the phone. She says she and Jiji are like brother and sister, so how could she call Xiaoxue ‘Sister’? I said, ‘If you call her Auntie Xiaoxue, then what does that make me?’”

  Mei Yin and Xiaoxue both laughed at this, thinking it really was a puzzle—given that Mei Yin and Sun Jingshuan had once been married, Jiaojiao was technically a generation older than Jiji, but in fact she was only two years his senior, so they could hardly ask Jiji to call her “Aunt.” Xiaoxue laughed. “Don’t give her a hard time, we’ll answer to anything. I can be Jiaojiao’s big sister, and she can be Jiji’s big sister. Doesn’t that work?”

  Only now would Jiaojiao take the phone and say good-bye to “Sister Xiaoxue” and “Auntie Mei Yin.”

  He Ying asked after them too, chatting with her husband’s ex-wife for a while. It was a happy phone call, but Xiaoxue couldn’t help feeling sorry for her mother. Now Uncle Sun had his cozy little family, but Mother Mei was all alone. Her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson were all with her, but none of them could replace a husband. How her Mommy had suffered in this life.

  Xiao Yan and a cameraman came over, wanting to interview the two of them. Xiao Yan faced the camera and said, “And now, as we prepare to spray the attenuated plague bacillus over the infection zone, I’m reporting live from the scene. As we know, plague is a highly contagious disease, with a very high death rate. After smallpox was eradicated, plague took its place as one of the most feared infectious diseases. In the fourteenth century, the plague caused the deaths of one in three people in Europe; and at the moment, plague is present in nineteen of China’s provinces, in 286 counties—that’s 444,017 square miles, or twelve percent of the country’s land. The Qinghai-Tibet Railroad cuts through this plague zone, and in order to ensure the train doesn’t help spread the disease, the central government has established epidemic observation stations in Nagqu, Damxung, and other areas. But that is purely a preventative measure, whereas today we’re going to actively attack the source of infection.”

  She held the microphone in front of Mei Yin. “Ms. Mei, this is a historic moment. Everyone knows that you’re the driving force behind this innovation, and that you spent almost eight years in jail for it. At this moment, do you have anything to say to the public?”

  Mei Yin said calmly, “This isn’t really that historic. We’re only spreading the plague antigen, which modern society has had for a long time. All we did was strengthen it so it would be able to survive in the wild. We’ve gone from injecting it into people to disseminating it in the open, so it can thrive and take the place of the original virulent strain of the bacillus, leaving long-lasting immunity in its hosts. If we succeed, this one dose ought to control the plague in this territory forever. This is only the first step in reforming the Qinghai-Tibet plague zone. The large-scale program of outdoor testing has also been successful; both China and the international community will extend the program to cover anthrax, Ebola, Lassa fever, and so on.”

  “Ms. Mei, in recent decades, natural sources of infection seem to be rapidly expanding. Many scientists have advocated direct measures to stop these pathogens.”

  “I’m afraid that’s just an idealistic dream.”

  “Why?”

  “As modern society spreads itself into wilderness regions, the growth of infection zones is inevitable. In the past, geographical divisions meant that many ecosystems were completely isolated. After civilization broke down these barriers, though, the ecosystems began to collide. The big outbreaks throughout history, such as smallpox, the plague, Spanish flu, Ebola, yellow fever, Lassa fever, syphilis, and AIDS, were all the result of these collisions. The clashes weren’t all bad, however, and the smaller ecosystems combined into a larger one, a global one, within which human beings and pathogens reached new, higher degrees of equilibrium. The process is irreversible. All scientists can do is monitor it and try to reduce the violence of the collisions, so all life-forms can coexist within the same circle, harmoniously. That’s what we’re trying to accomplish here today.”

  “When you talk about a global, unified ecosystem, in which human beings and pathogens will find new equilibrium, does that mean there won’t be any more serious human epidemics?”

  “No, in the natural world, disequilibrium is absolute while equilibrium is only relative. We’ll never get rid of infection altogether, but when human beings and pathogens coexist in the same environment, they can evolve in concert, and the outbreaks that do take place will have minimal impact.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better if science eradicated all pathogens, just like we got rid of smallpox?”

  Mei Yin and Xiaoxue exchanged a wry look. Xiaoxue said, “Xiao, your thinking is twenty years out of date! The cost of such a victory would be far too high, so we’ve given up seeking it.”

  Commander Zhang came running over. The spraying was about to start. Although Mei Yin had no official designation beyond being a member of Director Xue’s family, the commander knew how important she was to this project. He gave an exemplary salute, and said, “Professor Mei, we’re ready to start. Please give the order.”

  Mei Yin was a little uneasy at this show of deference, and quickly replied. “Please, go ahead. You don’t need me.”

  Commander Zhang saluted again and jogged back, setting off a signal flare. The three Z-11s set off together, flying at the same height, dispensing the aerosol containing the mild plague bacillus. Such sprays would usually be colorless and odorless to prevent enemy detection, but this was, in a sense, the opposite of biological warfare, and the mist had been dyed a bright red to make the results more obvious. There was one other difference in this scenario: none of the people on the ground wore protective suits, only masks.

  Beh
ind the helicopters trailed three long red dragons, which twisted lazily in the wind, wriggling and stretching, their tails mingling, diffusing, growing pale, and finally vanishing into a faint red fog that covered almost four hundred square miles of plateau grasslands.

  Xue Yu once again looked at the marmots through his binoculars. Their heads were arched upward, their front paws hanging down, watching the three helicopters intently, but the pinkish mist that enveloped them seemed of no interest to them. They had no idea that the cloud was protecting them from a virulent plague.

  The three Z-11s had finished their task, and flew straight back to base. The Black Hawk prepared to leave too. Before Xiaoxue boarded, she got a phone call from Uncle Sun. Their short flight to Japan was over, and the four of them had already landed in Tokyo, where they were staying at the Yaesu Fujiya Hotel. Uncle Sun said he’d told the two kids to have a shower and go to bed early, so they’d be full of energy for sightseeing the next day. Xiaoxue replied, “We’re going to finish up here, and should be back in Beijing tomorrow. Hope you have a great time in Tokyo.”

  Then He Ying took the phone and said, “We’d planned to come back before New Year’s Day, but the kids wanted to see a few more places. So we’ll celebrate the New Year in Japan. I’ll wish all of you a Happy New Year in advance. Tell Sister Mei.”

  “Thank you. Don’t spoil Jiji, he’s born in the year of the monkey, so he’s very mischievous. Thank you for taking care of him.”

  “No need to thank us. He and Jiaojiao are having a great time together. All right then, good-bye.”

  Winter 2029—Pakistan-Afghanistan border

  He Zhichao stepped up his preparations when he got back to Beijing. They had enough supplies of perfume, and the paper flowers would be easy to make. The main issue would be the granules of scent, made of a nanotech material able to absorb several times its weight in perfume, then release all of it when crushed. He’d done all the groundwork for this beforehand, and this too would be quickly prepared.

  Hanako Advertising was very efficient, and a few days later Mr. Sasaki called to say their request to use the airspace had been approved for the evening of January 3. The airships were arranged too, as Japan led the world in dirigible technology, and they’d found it easy to hire three from the Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency and the Japan Agency for Marine-Earth Science and Technology. Each airship was 154 feet long and 40 feet wide, and weighed over a thousand pounds. They’d all arrive in Tokyo in a couple of days, to be decked with colored lights and put through a trial flight.

  As for the scattering of the paper flowers, their tests showed it would be easiest to do manually. According to Japanese airspace regulations, however, the airships couldn’t have any foreigners on them as they flew over Tokyo. He Zhichao said this was no problem—Hanako could hire Japanese workers to throw the flowers from the ships. Sasaki asked the weight and volume of the blossoms, so they could provide a dummy cargo for the trial flight.

  Then Sasaki said, “I have a suggestion. Would it weaken the efficacy of the scent if the flowers were delivered a day early? We’d be in less of a rush.”

  “I don’t think that would be a problem. Let me check with my boss and I’ll get back to you.”

  He Zhichao phoned Bin Talal. No one answered the Riyadh number, so he tried his cell. When Bin Talal answered, He Zhichao said, “Sorry, I tried your other line but couldn’t get through. Give me the number of where you are and I’ll call that.”

  “Don’t bother, we’ll talk on my cell. I’m in Afghanistan now, not Saudi. I have a perfume factory here too.”

  He Zhichao reported on the progress in Japan, and Bin Talal said, “Very good. I’m satisfied with your work.”

  “Hanako asked if we could send the paper flowers to Japan a day early. I said it shouldn’t be a problem, the materials are all ready.”

  Bin Talal hesitated. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I was going to talk to you about this. You know how crucial this advertisement is to the company’s survival. I wanted to add a special ingredient to the perfume, which I’m manufacturing in Afghanistan. I need you to send the flowers and granules to Kabul by December twenty-fifth, so the special ingredient can be added before shipping them back to Japan. It’ll be tight, but I guarantee they’ll get there by the third.”

  This sudden change in plans left He Zhichao dumbfounded, and he groaned inwardly. Why ship everything all the way to Afghanistan for some “special ingredient”? He was sure Bin Talal had some technological secret he wanted to keep to himself—and to think He Zhichao had gone the extra mile for him. Besides that, he had a strong suspicion that this had been the plan from the start, and Bin Talal had been lying to him. Still, he had to obey the boss, and could only ask, “Is this necessary?”

  “I believe so. You know very well what was in those samples we gave Hanako.”

  He Zhichao blushed. Having been the chief technological officer at God of a Hundred Flowers, he’d been able to design a world-class scent for Heavenly Fragrance, but still not one quite as good as Dior’s. In order to make an impression on Hanako during the negotiations, the samples of their product that he’d given them had actually been Dior Poison. Unaccustomed to such tactics, the Japanese had never suspected him. But when the flowers showered down during the ad campaign, of course, they would be using Heavenly Fragrance’s actual perfume. Chastised, He Zhichao only said, “Mr. Bin Talal, what’s the special ingredient? I’m not trying to steal any trade secrets, I just want to remind you not to get into any other trouble. I know Afghanistan is the world’s leading opium producer, but I hope it’s not that.” He was teasing, but there was a barb in the joke.

  Bin Talal said, “It’s legal, don’t worry about that. And don’t forget, I hold fifty-one percent of the company’s stock.”

  This woke He Zhichao up. That’s right, the company was Bin Talal’s private firm, and he wasn’t going to play around with his own $40 million. As for himself, if Heavenly Fragrance went bankrupt, he’d stand to lose $19.6 million—cash that was really Bin Talal’s. He’d only be losing a gift promised by Bin Talal. This calmed him down, and he said, “Okay, I’ll make the arrangements. I’ll get everything to you by the twenty-fifth, and expect the goods to arrive in Tokyo by the third of January.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “We said they’d be coming from Beijing, and now suddenly they’re being sent from Kabul. Do you think Hanako will mind?” Bin Talal seemed to consider the question too, and he quickly answered, “I’ll find a Kabul-to-Tokyo flight that goes via Beijing. I’m guessing they won’t pay too much attention to the origin.”

  He Zhichao smiled coldly. Bin Talal was smart, but why this insistence on sending the goods to Afghanistan? What was his blind boss playing at? Damn him, it was his money, anyway. In a level voice, he said, “As you wish.”

  At the other end of the line, Bin Talal smiled as he hung up. The Chinese man was clever, maybe too clever for his own good, but in this show he was destined to play the part of the clown. The secret ingredient in these paper flowers would be neither perfume nor opium, but something far worse. After this strike, Heavenly Fragrance Cosmetics Inc. would no longer exist, and He Zhichao’s $19.6 million in shares would vanish into thin air.

  It was getting late, and the cave was growing dark. His cell phone would be out of power soon. He left the inner cave, ordering an underling to start the generator. Someone answered in the darkness, and the sound of a motor started up. The lights on the cavern roof came on, shedding a faint yellowish light that slowly grew brighter, revealing the biological reactors, centrifuges, and freezers lined up in the center of the cave, as well as four white-haired crippled men. Zia Baj returned to his inner cave and plugged his cell phone into its charger, then walked toward the four men.

  This cave was the same one that Abu Hamza and Mohammad had met in decades ago. When Zia Baj left America, he’d fled to several countries in Central and West Asia, changed his appearance through facial surgery, pretended to be blind, asked va
rious village elders for help, and in the end managed to evade the pursuing US intelligence forces. He eventually came to this cave to lie low, and Bin Talal was born. He was far from civilization here, with no electricity, telecommunications, or roads, so everything had to be transported by mule. He had four people working for him: Ahmed, who was blind in one eye; Ismail, who’d lost his left arm; Jamal, whose testicles had been smashed; and Tamala, whose right leg was missing—this last was the shorter tour guide who’d led Mohammad here, all those years ago. Their loyalty was beyond question. All four had been fierce warriors, back in the day, and now that they were old and had sustained injuries on the field, they’d put down their rifles and come to serve him for poverty wages. They were uncultured men, elderly and slow-witted—from an intellectual standpoint no better than four mules. And yet, from such unpromising material, Zia Baj had built a crude biological weapons factory. Given the conditions, he’d only been able to use the simplest method of cultivating the smallpox virus—starting with natural animal blood serum, and adding low-concentration chemical mutagens during the process. The smallpox virus couldn’t be tested on animals, which only left themselves as test subjects. They’d all been immunized, so they could test the virulence of each batch by exposing themselves, and measuring the level of antibodies in their blood.

  In the end, he’d created vast quantities of the smallpox virus. All in all, biological warfare was an excellent weapon for the poor man: affordable and simple to make. Mass production was possible even in the impoverished hills of Afghanistan.