The Patron Saint of Plagues

by Barth Anderson

  Muñoz checked his phone, realized it was all in Farsi, then gave his number from memory, frowning in confusion.

  Stark tapped in Muñoz’s number so that it would ring differently if Muñoz called him. He looked up to see if Muñoz had seen what he had done, and the younger doctor nodded. “Call me if you bump into anything of interest, Doctor.”

  Muñoz looked back and forth between the phone and Stark. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

  “I can’t really answer your question.” Stark resumed the boost’s descent, and a moment later, they were spilled out on the street where Stark was to meet the volunteers in the National Institute’s clinic. “Are you coming with me?”

  “Actually,” Muñoz said, “I was hoping you would come with me.” He took a few steps, looked back at Stark, then walked into an adjacent clinic where his own Joint Operations offices and “fever rooms” were located.

  Stark glanced at the doors to the Institute, anxious that the volunteers were waiting for him, then followed Muñoz into the Joint Operations offices, a bustling hub that coordinated the perimeter clinics with La Alta’s medical line of defense.

  It seemed more newsroom than medical staff, Stark thought, as doctors, clinicians, and communications specialists hustled around him.

  Through the crisscross, Stark could see why Muñoz had brought him here.

  Beyond the triple-coated, plasceron “glass” of the Joint Operations’ assay labs, or “fever rooms,” sitting on an exam table in a red-and-black antiviral suit, was Sister Domenica.

  TUESDAY, MAY 24. 12:06 P.M.

  EVER SINCE DOMENICA’S ARRIVAL in La Alta, she’d sequestered herself in the Convent of Guadalupe. Stark felt a pulsing dread as he wondered what she was doing here, in Muñoz’s fever room. “Is she all right?” Stark said.

  “She’s fine. I promise. We just needed a safe place to talk with you.” The panic that had turned Muñoz icy and silent when the sabihonda said his name was starting to dissolve, and he spoke kindly now.

  Stark said. “‘We’?”

  “She has a request, Henry David. Well. We do.”

  Muñoz led Stark into the clinic and Domenica looked up as she heard the assay lab lock open. Her ominously dark eyes gleamed at Stark from within the helmet. “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Stark,” she said, standing. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  It had been refitted for bloodwork and immune-system assays, but the clinic had originally been a veterinary hospital. Posters of puppies and kitties yapping and meowing were on the walls, and, as Stark approached Domenica, Muñoz walked around the room, touching each to render them silent.

  The last time Stark had seen Domenica, she was giving final orders to Old Antonio and a group of street fighters four days ago. It was surreal, seeing her painted in red and black. “Please, sit.”

  Domenica wasn’t accustomed to the biohazard suit and it kept bagging at her legs as she tried to adjust her position. Muñoz came to stand next to her, offering his hand. “This thing,” she said, frowning down at the suit. Then she looked up at Stark, and the deep, foreboding gaze returned. “I asked Dr. Muñoz to bring you here because he and I have grown close in recent days.” She turned her face to Muñoz as if she were going to speak with him, but said, “We want to ask a favor of you.”

  “Name it, Sister,” Stark said with a shrug. “I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

  “I was hoping you’d see it that way,” Domenica said. She seemed swallowed, digested. Muñoz had hinted yesterday that something psychological and physiological were clashing inside the woman—probably due to a botched “faith lift.” Whatever Sister Domenica was confronting, something in those haunting eyes told Stark that she was staring so deeply inward that she might never look away. “I hear the Outbreak Task Force is divided,” Domenica said, “over the immune-system-recoding procedure.”

  “Yes, you could say that,” Stark said, feeling that he was about to receive another lecture on the morality of the recoding project. “Dr. Khushub doesn’t think it will work, but she’s on board out of duty, or maybe out of friendship to me.” Stark added hastily, “But even Isabel agrees that this is the best chance for a ‘cure.’”

  “In that case,” Domenica said. “I want to make an appeal.”

  Stark mentally arranged his arguments, ready to defend the procedure. “Go ahead.”

  “I want you to allow me to be your first volunteer.”

  Horrified, Stark stepped backwards into a countertop, his hands colliding with neatly arranged infrared thermometers and one-touch blood scanners. The cold resolve and disaffection he’d been relying on so heavily these days began to wither, shrinking beneath the glare of her intent. “That’s just—you understand what the procedure would do?”

  Domenica said nothing, and her dark eyes gave nothing away. Muñoz, however, slowly nodded.

  “You want to do this, Domenica?” Stark said.

  “Of course I don’t want to do this,” Domenica said, scolding. “But I should be the one to perform this service, not women who have no idea what’s happening here.”

  “And what is really happening here, Sister?”

  “I’ve been putting my life on the line already,” Domenica said, a pinch of bitterness in her words.

  “Sister,” Stark hissed at her, mortified to hear that very secret piece of information spoken aloud.

  “It’s OK,” Muñoz said to Stark. “This is a level-six hot lab.”

  Stark relaxed and apologized. Even if their biohazard suits were bugged, they were safe in here—basic turn-of-the-century antiterrorism protocol made certain that nothing—microbes or information—could get out.

  Domenica turned her attention back to Stark. “All I’m saying is that you should select a volunteer who knows what’s at stake.”

  “A compelling argument,” Stark said. He thought for a long moment, seriously weighing Domenica’s appeal. The pros and cons balanced for a brief moment, but then he said, “No.”

  “No? No what?”

  “No, I won’t accept you as a volunteer,” Stark said.

  Muñoz sounded surprised. “What?”

  “We intend to create a viable immunocyte,” Stark said, looking at Muñoz sidelong, “not a martyr.”

  “Well, what you ‘intend’ is irrelevant,” Domenica said. “You will create a martyr. What you have to decide is if the first volunteer will be Holy Renaissance, or … someone else.”

  Mexico and her symbols, Stark thought. The Virgin of Guadalupe. Hidalgo’s torch. The boy martyrs who killed themselves rather than be taken alive when the US sacked Mexico City in the 1800s. Domenica was right. If Isabel and Jarum successfully created a recoding matrix, whoever died in this procedure would be immortalized in Mexican myth. Stark admired Domenica, and Muñoz, too—perhaps more than any other people on earth. They didn’t have to be neutral—and they refused to be. “You’re assuming too much about my politics. I sympathize. Believe me. I do.”

  “I know you better than that,” Domenica said. “You more than sympathize. I saw your eyes when you walked through our safe house, when you met Old Antonio. I know you appreciate a spirited struggle against superior force.”

  Stark laughed. That’s exactly what he had told Pirate upon entering the safe house. But he fell quiet.

  Domenica said, “Do you know why old Antonio carries that unlit cigarette wherever he goes, Doctor?”

  “No matches?”

  “He rolled it at the beginning of the dengue outbreak,” Domenica said loudly, speaking over Stark’s glibness, “and promised his Purépecha elders that he would smoke that cigarette when Orbegón fled Mexico and a new world began.” Domenica lowered her voice in a dramatic, conspiratorial whisper. “If I told you Los Hijos de Marcos and Old Antonio’s contralunas are poised to take the capital, I think that would fill you with pride, Henry David Stark.”

  “Maybe,” he said. She’d pegged him pretty well. Nothing would give Stark greater pleasure than to
watch Mexico rise up and destroy Orbegón, Cazador, and Rosangelica—their Kafka-like suspiciousness; their cruel efficiency; their faith lifts, spas, and work ranches; their beloved war in Texas. “Look, I’m no Mexican. I’m just a doctor. This is your fight, not mine,” Stark said. “I’m here to stop Joaquin Delgado, and after that, I plan on going home to harvest spinach before the summer heat.”

  Domenica stood, stepping with confidence this time, and stood before Stark, placing a hand on his arm. Her eyes were so expressive, so penetrating, that he wanted to step away, but the counter was already at his back. “Pedro says you know,” she said with reprimand and supplication in her voice. “Pedro told me you know about the Tripe Soup recipe.”

  The EIS Report. Sanjuan’s gift to Orbegón, for which he probably paid with his life. Stark felt Muñoz’s surgical stare on his skin again, and he thought he understood it a bit better now. If Stark were in Muñoz’s shoes, he might be parsing the foreigner’s loyalties, too.

  “You know what this government is capable of doing to las indígenas, the people who are close to the land,” Domenica said. “You can’t not side with us, Henry David.”

  Stark’s mouth parted and he slowly shook his head, but in dismay, not in refusal. He felt checkmated, the board a locked grid of powerless pieces. He imagined his grandfather scolding him in disgust, as he said, “I can’t.” He clasped his hands. He shut his eyes. “If I interfere, and Cazador or Rosangelica get wind of this, they will interfere with me, and Mexico can’t afford any more interference from the Holy Renaissance.” He raised his hands as if warding off more argument, though Domenica and Muñoz were both silent, fixed as fence posts. “Domenica, I want you to leave. I need to talk to Pedro in private.”

  “I’m sorry, Domenica,” Muñoz said to her back, from across the lab. He gave Stark a biting, disappointed look and Stark could tell he had been thoroughly diminished in Muñoz’s esteem. “I’ll contact you at the convent later.”

  Domenica watched Stark for a long moment with those deep-seeing eyes. “You can change your mind,” she said to Stark, “and I expect you will.”

  Once Domenica had left the lab, Stark turned on Muñoz with anger. “Why did you do that to me? Why did you put me on the spot like that?”

  Muñoz hesitated, but raised his eyes and answered, “I wanted to see for myself where you really stand.”

  “We don’t have time for political games, Pedro.” Stark shook his head in disbelief. “Rosangelica’s or yours.”

  “Dr. Kushub was right about you.” Muñoz nodded, appraising Stark.

  Stark was so furious he lapsed into English. “The hell that mean?” He caught himself, and in Spanish, he said, “What do you mean by that, sir?”

  “You are a completely amoral person.” Muñoz folded his arms, defiant, like he was preventing Stark from entering a gate at his back. “She’s right. You’re so amoral that you’re completely opaque to me.”

  Stark’s mind went blank with confusion. Me? Amoral? Bela said that? He tried to rally an angry retort, but, just then, Muñoz stiffened as if yanked to his feet by his collar. He stood still, in a pose of listening. That damn pilone makes puppets of all of em. Even Pedro. Annoyed, he said, “What is it now?”

  The red light over the hot-lab door lit up and another alarm light went on over the receiving desk table in the office outside and, simultaneously, a computer beside Muñoz stopped scrolling chicken reports and read ALERT. Outside, in the offices, the medical staff was looking in at Muñoz and Stark, waiting for an explanation.

  “It’s a compromise! Where?” Stark demanded, ignoring the alarm, the curious faces, and that last stab of a comment from Muñoz. “Where is it?”

  “Damn.” Muñoz’s eyes refocused and blinked at Stark. “There’s been an accident in La Baja. Perimeter Clinic Four. It’s been shut down. A doctor was infected.”

  Stark’s stomach clenched, threatened to squeeze its contents up and out of his throat. An accident? Hope he right about that. But that thought died an early death. Stark was about to remove his cell phone from his back pouch, then thought better of it. Muñoz, Connected, could tell him everything more quickly. “A doctor was infected?” he shouted over the alarms. “Who? A coordinator? Who?”

  Muñoz’s eyes scanned the empty air. “Head doctor—Dr. Filomena Garcia de la Costa—she has it—Big Bonebreaker. Confirmed.” As soon as Stark wondered if there were indications that it was Generation One, Muñoz said, “Mouth pustules. Garcia has mouth pustules, Henry David.”

  “Have they quarantined the clinic?”

  “Damn!” Muñoz growled, snapping his head to the side in anger. “No. Dr. Ramos has initiated Retreat Procedure.”

  What the hell? Stark shouted, “What Retreat Procedure? Why? To where are they retreating?” He dragged Muñoz by the shoulder to the hot lab’s exit.

  “Federal docking bay. Perimeter Four staff have been ordered to the Joint labs there.”

  “Why?” As they ran out of the Joint Ops offices, Stark instinctively grabbed a push pack loaded with omnivalent vaccine, bleach, and infrared thermometer, then seized Muñoz by the arm again. “Tell me who ordered a protocol change.”

  Muñoz shouted, “Would you shut up? Let go of me! I’m trying to find out!”

  “Well, tell me what’s going on! You have to be my sabihondo, Pedro,” Stark said as they ran down the crowded street to the boost. “Contact Francisca de Verano. She’s the phlebotomist for the Federal Cloister’s docking bay. She’s one hundred percent. No infections have gotten by her. Tell her to meet me there but not to take a blood draw from Garcia until I arrive.”

  “She’s on her way,” Muñoz said, stopping suddenly and rising on tiptoes to avoid a toddler who’d broken free from his mother.

  “Why did they retreat?” Stark said, more to himself than Muñoz. “I gave specific orders to quarantine in this situation! Isn’t anyone paying attention to my script?” Stark was so angry he could see his facial hair on his cheek flexing with his pulse. “Call her, Pedro,” Stark said. “Call—I mean—‘node’ Ramos or whatever it is you do with that oyster in your brain. Tell her to stop the retreat, get back to the Perimeter, and quarantine her staff!” He pushed past four young men with baby carriages strolling with maddening slowness from the elevator and impatiently guided Muñoz in. He immediately hit the CERRADO button, and the boost doors slid shut over the angry faces of teenagers waiting to board outside. He and Muñoz found themselves between a group of ladies with cello cases and clamp masks. “Tell Ramos that no one can leave Perimeter Clinic Four until I say so! The virus has to be contained there! Anyone with anything like any symptoms we ever heard of!”

  The women with cellos edged as far away from Stark and Muñoz as they could manage in the cramped boost.

  “It’s too late. They closed the gap and re-formed the perimeter line immediately.” He shot Stark a look of apology. “The pilone. We’re too efficient for our own good. Most of the Perimeter Four staff has already been processed out of their Joint labs and moved up.”

  “Moved up? Where, here? Tell them to stop what they’re doing!” Stark said in frustration, desperation. He felt like his guts, his very innards, were spilling out of his body, through his fingers. Who could have done this? Who could have given such orders?

  The certainty of the answer almost strangled his raging anger.

  Joaquin could have changed the protocol if he had access to a perimeter-clinic computer. Maestro knows code.

  Was this it? Was this the moment Stark had been waiting for? If it were really Joaquin, he wondered if it was time to shift into the “Joaquin script” now, the script of responses that Stark had kept mentally, preparing for the day when “Patient Minus One” finally emerged from the chaos and murk of the hot zones.

  “Pedro, when we get to the docking bay, double-check that basic handling protocols were followed in this retreat. You’re going to be the one to determine how this happened. Read the logs before they were uploaded on the pilone
net. Find out if any new doctors were added to the roster recently.”

  Muñoz’s eyes burned as he realized what Stark was suggesting.

  And I gonna make sure we get blood samples, he thought. Big ones.

  The boost dove into a palm-lined esplanade, and when the doors slid open, Muñoz and Stark dashed out, shouting through their suits’ speakers for a passing tram to wait. They leapt aboard and the tram picked up speed in the open ground of the esplanade, scattering a flock of doves. The phlebotomist would do this the old-fashioned way, Stark decided, watching the flock’s shadows soar up the giant sandals and hem of the enormous Jesuchristo statue’s robe. He would see to it that the patient gave up a barbaric, full pint of blood to make certain they had ten times as many samples as needed, in case Joaquin was responsible for this infection, in case he had emerged at last, and the infected doctor had Generation One.

  This my Holy Grail, at long fucking last? Stark wondered, watching the flock vanish against the enormity of the scabbard high overhead. Or we just seeing the beginning of the end for La Alta?

  Stark resisted barking more questions and orders at Muñoz, since they couldn’t do anything else until Muñoz had determined what really happened. As the tram rounded a bank of palm trees and entered the docking-bay tunnel, Stark could see thirty or forty septic troops barring the way and a swarm of antiviral suits beyond. His breath felt like lead in his lungs.

  Stark and Muñoz jumped from the tram and presented their credentials to a soldier with a Sangre de Cristo rifle on his shoulder. “We’re with the Outbreak Task Force,” Stark shouted. “We need to get into the dock!”

  “Talk to Captain Berenguer,” the soldier said, waving Stark toward the heart of the commotion. “The docking bay is under his jurisdiction since they just brought an infected doctor up here.”

  Stark flashed his credentials. “Does anyone else have the virus?”