Dragon Virus

by Gilman, Laura Anne

  “No problem, miz Taylor.” Jefe was smooth, hands opening, a non-verbal no problemo. I recognized him now: busted for possession when he was twelve, recruited to the Lifers a year later, a few bookings for violent protest, one head-knocking when he tried to bring himself up in the ranks by taking out a Holy Wheels preacher without permission from his jefe.

  Not a bad kid, as Lifers went, but no less crazy for it.

  “Call your boy off, Andrew.” I gave him props for being in control, and let him know I’d ID’d him. Textbook.

  “Ain’t nobody’s boy.” The gun was in Randy’s hand, a snub-nosed, ugly little thing, as like to explode in his palm as not. It wavered, pointed at Andrew, me, Andrew again. Shit.

  “Put that damn thing down,” Andrew ordered him, his voice ice hard. “Stupid fuck. You blow me, you’re down right after.”

  The third Lifer was on his feet now, standing easy, balancing on his heels, arms loose at his sides. Andrew gets stupid, he’ll get dead soon after.

  “Don’t be telling me what to do.”

  “You’re going to act dumb, I’m going to treat you dumb. Lady’s a cop. Pull the trigger on her dog, she’s going to get hard on your ass. And I’m not going to stop her, brother or no brother. You be a fool on your own time.”

  Randy spat something I didn’t recognize: not Spanish, or Spanglish, or any street lingo I recognized. Then a word I did — “Judas.”

  “Randy, listen to your jefe.” A Lifer calling another a Judas was bad, about as bad as it got. If Randy could back up his claim, Andrew was a dead boy. Maybe not now, but soon. All over poor Dolt. I stepped forward, getting into Randy’s peripheral vision, so he couldn’t help but be aware of me. Come on, little boy. Watch me. Watch me.

  It always happens so fast, either fast or not at all. Some people talk about life going in slo-mo, sticky as molasses, then snapping tight into full speed again. Not me. It’s over before my brain processes what my body’s doing. All I have left are visuals. Randy turns, his face a rictus, screaming obscenities, slurs. A drop of froth flies off his lip, his eyes are bloodshot around the brown. His arm raises, the gun’s pointing, my arm’s up, fingers calm around the grip, the cool alloy of the trigger guard...

  I’ve killed before, all clean shoots. Nobody will blame me for this one either, if I can just beat his bullet to the meat...

  Except I’m not going to make it. I know, even as I step forward.

  “Yeaaagh!”

  The noise registers: a shot tight and loud in the enclosed space, the roar of the crowd from the television, a low nasty growl that ends in silence. I’m on the floor, Randy beneath me, scrambling for his gun, trying to get off another shot. “Cuffs!” I bark, but there’s no response.

  No scrabble of claws against metal, no warm little pawlet handing me my gear...

  “Here.” Lianna. I cuff the perp, turn on my knees, and all the air goes out of me all at once. Mr. Griese is there, his wizened arms around Dolt. The stupid canine opens his eyes, whoofs faintly at me.

  We protect and defend our own.

  “Stupid mutt.” I crawl to them, take the dumb mutt into my arms. We’re stained in blood and none of it’s mine. He looks at me, dumb doggie eyes, and I can practically hear him in my head. Pup on the way, y’see. Pup’s gotta have parents.

  o0o

  “The defender knew his stuff.” I dissect trials. It’s a hobby, something to pass the time while you’re waiting to be called. Different when it’s your family involved. But not all that different, really. I admired the guy the PD’s office put up there. No sympathy plea for his client, no excuses, just a blunt retelling of the facts: partnerbreeds didn’t have any kind of real legal status, not like Dragons. Just the courtesy given to a canine companion.

  “So some punk who wasn’t worth one of his fleas could get put away for assault on an officer instead of murder... is it any less murder because Dolt walked on his hands?” Jody, draped in a dark blue maternity dress, hiding from the press, refusing any comfort.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s wrong. He should die, too.” Lianna came with us to the trial, what there was of it.

  The Waves testified, so had Mr. Griese. Lianna we kept out of it. She’s just a kid, even after all this; she didn’t need to be grilled in public. Not when it wouldn’t make any difference. Andrew and his remaining Lifer disappeared by the time the paramedics arrived. Wherever they were, I hope they can’t sleep at night.

  Jody shouldn’t have worried. Jury came back, and the words dripped off their lips: guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Youth and circumstances, no death penalty.

  So a fifteen-year-old boy gets to spend the rest of his life in a brick-walled cell.

  o0o

  There’s a preacher on TV, broadcasting every Sunday morning from one of those scarier-than-thou pulpits, tells us it’s the End of Days, that the monster science has overcome God’s Word, and we’re all going down — way down — in flames if we don’t repent. I caught Jodes watching him one day, her arm around the pup, crying these harsh, silent sobs. Willa patted Jody’s hair, licked her tears, whined and leaned in against her protruding belly, warming them with her utter, inalienable dogness.

  The kidnappings continue. It’s escalating. Last week there were three infanticides on our shift; two were surgical botches.

  There are nights I lay awake and pray for our baby to be a Changeling. At least, that way, she will be safe with us.

  They say the end is nigh. I think we’re living in the aftermath already.

  o0o

  “This is Sara Semith, streaming live from Olympic Village here in Perth, for the 2092 Winter Games, where the unrest that has been simmering for weeks in heated words and protest signs broke out in violence last night.”

  Camera angle cuts to: men in khaki uniforms with the five-loop badges on their berets, carrying rifles, standing in front of low gates where the Olympic logo repeats in more overt glory, tarred now by the graffiti splashed across it, a stylized red symbol as recognizable as the Olympic loops themselves. Maybe even more so. Smoke rises from the immediate background, although it’s impossible to say from where.

  “Olympic security, as well as UN Peacekeepers, are on high alert. Although none of the athletes were injured, several of the houses were set afire, and the residents have been housed in new locations, which have not been released to the public. The teams targeted from the United States to Albania, but the one thing in common is that they all have at least one, and in most cases a majority, of Changed members. Clearly, the Clean Gene movement, frustrated by repeated losses in the American courts, have changed their tactics...”

  Five

  The man’s voice was hoarse, impassioned, and it filled the living room like the smell of rain and brimstone.

  “And the LORD did send a PLAGUE upon us, for our SINS! But we did not SEE it, and allowed the plague to GROW. And now it is UPON us, the cost of our inactivity, the WAGES of our DAMNATION, that our CHILDREN must suffer it, and WE shall suffer for our inACTion at their hands!”

  “Turn that crap off.” Steven’s father paused in the hallway, drawn by the noise.

  “I’m watching!” Steven protested, sprawled out on the carpet, chin on hands as he stared up at the screen.

  “Turn it off! “

  His father never used that tone, not about something as stupid as a ’net program. The Thumper telepreacher paused to gather another breath, and the cablenet winked off, replacing him with a blank screen.

  “I was watching that,” Steven said again, sulky, tossing down the remote.

  “In God’s name, why?”

  A half-hearted shrug. “Dunno. Nothing else on.”

  His father shook his head, exasperated. Pointing out all the things his son could be doing on this clear Sunday afternoon would be a waste of both their time; Steven knew, and chose not to do any of them.

  Steven let his chin sink a little more into his palms, feeling the carpet rub under his elbows, and rolled
over onto his side. He didn’t know why he was being such a brat; he just woke up in a funk this morning and couldn’t get out of it.

  His father’s eyes were deep-set and heavy-lidded, making him look as though he were always about to fall asleep, even when he was totally alert. Steven had learned to watch his dad’s body, not his face, for clues. Body language said he was exasperated, but not pissed. Not really.

  “If you’re that bored, we could move the schedule up and paint your little sister’s bedroom this afternoon,” his father suggested with the air of someone imposing a chore.

  His mother was seven months pregnant and they had finally decided — without any basis except the way the baby was kicking, that it was a girl. Not that it made any difference — they were still going to paint the nursery pale green, same color they had used when Steven was born.

  Same furniture, too.

  All his old stuff, reused. It should have been weird, or pissed him off, but instead it gave him... he didn’t know, some kind of connection to the baby. Like it was his, too. Like he was part of the whole process, instead of just hanging around on the sidelines.

  Steven knew when he was being manipulated. His parents were smart that way. And he was smart enough to see it, and not mind it. Much. Painting was something he was good at — he had the patience to do it right, and a steady hand for the details, and he enjoyed the results. He didn’t get much chance to do it anywhere else. School and sports kept him too busy, and anyway, it wasn’t like he was going to be a professional artist or anything. But this was his gift to his baby sister.

  Her room was going to be perfect for her.

  He grinned at his father, his earlier funk shaken off that easily, and unfolded his legs to stand up. And up, and up: at fourteen, he was already taller and broader in the shoulders than his dad. “I’ll do the ceiling.”

  “Wiseguy,” his dad said, his voice still sharp. But now he was grinning, too. They’d all been grinning a lot, at really stupid things, since his mom got pregnant again. The news had smoothed the lines in his mother’s forehead, tempered his dad’s moods; even the weather seemed better.

  The telepreacher was an idiot, Steven thought, following his dad out into the garage to get the paint and drop-cloths. Babies weren’t suffering, or a plague, or anything like that. They were great.

  o0o

  It took them two weeks to finish the room to Steven’s satisfaction; he kept going back in to add one more detail, one more finishing touch. ““Gilding the lily,” his mother claimed, but his dad seemed to understand, shooing his mother off to rest, or pick out yet another pair of onesies. The baby was going to have a wardrobe like crazy.

  During dinner that Thursday, around sevenish, his mother’s water broke. One minute everything was fine, and then his mother turned pale, and started to laugh, a weird, high-pitched laugh like Steven had never heard before.

  His dad had, though, based on the way he moved.

  “Steven, don’t just sit there gawping! Get the bags!”

  Bags? He stared at his father, who was busy trying to haul his mother out of her chair, then at his mother, who was laughing and crying, and patting her tummy with one hand like she was soothing it, even as his father was lifting her...

  Bags. Suitcases. Baby. Now.

  By the time his parents were to the car, Steven had already loaded the overnight bag and thrown in his mother’s favorite pillow and a couple of books from the nightstand too, just in case. She was still a month from being due. But that would be okay, right? Eight months and a week was long enough for the baby to be okay?

  He didn’t dare ask.

  “Good boy, Stevie,” his mother managed to say in-between the gasping and laughing.

  “I’m sorry, I think I made a mess in the kitchen….”

  He couldn’t believe she was worrying about that, now. “I’ll program the ’bot to clean up, and follow you to the hospital.” They only had the one car, and the rail didn’t get all the way to the hospital yet, but Steven could walk fast and not get tired. “Don’t do anything important until I get there!”

  His dad laughed, but his mom wouldn’t promise anything.

  o0o

  By Sunday, there wasn’t any more laughter.

  His cousin Josh found him sitting on the outcrop of stones a mile from the housing complex where they lived. The other boy stood for a moment, waiting for an invitation. When none came, he folded himself compactly, curled his legs under him and sitting down on a nearby rock. They looked out over the road, two dark figures against the white rock. Traffic passed sporadically below them, the sound of engines competing with crickets’ chirping.

  “Tough break.”

  Steven stared out over the highway, the stone cold under his ass. “Yeah. That’s one way to describe it.” He didn’t believe in breaks. If he did, he might believe he had jinxed everything, they had all jinxed it by being happy, by thinking there was something good coming.

  “What’re they going to do?” his cousin asked.

  “Haven’t a clue.” Steven shrugged. “Maybe send her to Aunt Marty. We’d be able to see her, then, at least.” Marty was his mother’s half-sister, and had always kept in touch with his mother when the rest of the family showed their disapproval of his father by not returning calls or inviting them to family gatherings.

  Josh was his cousin on his father’s side. Everyone on his father’s side was Changed.

  Dusk deepened further into a royal blue before Josh replied.

  “The Wishnen’s did that. Send the baby to relatives, I mean. Kid told them not to come back, when he was old enough. Not a good scene.” Josh played with the frayed end of his jeans. A Jesusfreak had dragged him into a rehab booth last month, left red paint handprints all over his new pair of jeans. His mom was still pissed about that, like it was his fault or something.

  “You think you’re doing a good thing but you’re not. Not really. Everyone ends up hating everyone else.”

  Steven’s hands curled, his fingertips leaving white indentations in his palm. “What do you suggest, then, huh? Drop her in a trash can and pray someone finds her in time?” He forced his hands open, then took off his sunglasses and stared at Josh. The clouded white pupils of his eyes were red-rimmed with stress and exhaustion. “She’s my sister, Josh. I sang to her, every night before she was born. I promised her I’d teach her how to climb trees, and ride a bicycle.”

  He swallowed hard. “I wish my folks had agreed to the amnio scan. I wish we’d known, from the very beginning.”

  Knowing would have kept things from getting better, because better ended up worse.

  Josh gestured helplessly, not knowing what to say. His wings were furled tightly at his back, giving him a hunchback shadow. The last time they had stood on the rocks together, the membranes had been spread out to catch the first autumn breeze. He had looked like a human kite, spindly bones and translucent webbing. He had been laughing like a madman, and Steven had pushed him over the edge, just to see him soar up into the sky, and hear that laughter trail behind him like a tail.

  “Come on, man.” Josh touched his arm gently, as though his thin fingers could make an impression on Steven’s skin. “Let’s go home. Your folks need you.”

  “Yeah.” And that was the worst thing of all. Parents were supposed to be the strong ones. But he was the one who was strong. “Yeah I know. I just... give me a minute, okay? Tell ’em I’ll be there soon.”

  He heard his cousin get up and leave, but the smell of his worry remained. Like anything could happen to Steven out here, anywhere. Unlike his sister, he could take care of himself.

  Finally solitude and silence returned; leaving him alone with the thoughts that had driven him out here in the first place. Thoughts that chased each other in futile circles: never flagging, just... running around in circles until they exhausted themselves.

  “Oh, Bethy,” he finally whispered. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair, baby. I was gonna teach you so much, so many things...”


  He couldn’t teach her anything she needed to know. He didn’t walk in the world she was going to have to live in.

  Eventually he got up and went home. The lights were out, except in the kitchen. He went up the stairs in the darkness, avoiding the step that creaked, and paused outside the closed door, the one with the twining roses painted on it, like something out of a fairy tale.

  He had painted vines along the top of the walls and across the ceiling that day, tiny rosebuds and tinier thorns peeking out from under the leaves. The window had a tiny dragon perched on the edge, and a gnome waited by the closet door. His mother had laughed, and his father had shaken his head — “what if the baby’s a boy?” he had asked.

  “Then I’ll paint a bigger dragon on the ceiling, eating the roses,” Steven had said.

  There would be no dragons for Bethy. Not now.

  He went down the hallway and into his own room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  o0o

  He woke up feeling like he hadn’t slept. The house was still quiet, and he didn’t hang around to make any noise, grabbing a cereal bar to eat on the way to school.

  He met up with Josh and Susan on the front steps, same as always, like nothing had ever changed. Josh met his gaze then looked away. Susan hugged him, hard, but wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  At least they were there. He nodded, not saying anything, and they went inside.

  The entrance hall was a total scene. Mondays were like that, everyone had to tell everyone else about their weekend, the ones who’d spent the weekend together talking louder than everyone else. Josh dodged a freshman, who, jittered by the noise, accidentally released his knees too high and hit the ceiling, coming back down with a meaty thump.

  “Man, that’s gotta hurt,” someone said from behind them.

  “Not really,” the freshman said cheerfully. “Mostly you just feel stupid.” He bent down to rehinge his knees, testing them by bending forward and back, blocking the hallway.