By Orson Scott Card from Tom Doherty Associates
Empire
The Folk of the Fringe
Future on Fire (editor)
Future on Ice (editor)
Invasive Procedures (with Aaron Johnston)
Lovelock (with Kathryn Kidd)
Maps in a Mirror: The Short Fiction of Orson
Scott Card
Pastwatch: The Redemption of Christopher
Columbus
Saints
Songmaster
Treason
The Worthing Saga
Wyrms
THE TALES OF ALVIN MAKER
Seventh Son
Red Prophet
Prentice Alvin
Alvin Journeyman
Heartfire
The Crystal City
ENDER
Ender’s Game
Ender’s Shadow
Shadow of the Hegemon
Shadow Puppets
Shadow of the Giant
Speaker for the Dead
Xenocide
Children of the Mind
First Meetings
HOMECOMING
The Memory of Earth
The Call of Earth
The Ships of Earth
Earthfall
Earthborn
WOMEN OF GENESIS
Sarah
Rebekah
Rachel & Leah
From Other Publishers
Enchantment
Homebody
Lost Boys
Magic Street
Stone Tables
Treasure Box
How to Write Science Fiction
and Fantasy
Characters and Viewpoint
Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show at oscigms.com
INVASIVE PROCEDURES
ORSON SCOTT CARD
& AARON JOHNSTON
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK
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Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.
INVASIVE PROCEDURES
Copyright © 2007 by Orson Scott Card and Aaron Johnston
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book,
or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Beth Meacham
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Card, Orson, Scott.
Invasive procedures / Orson Scott Card and Aaron Johnston.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates Book.”
ISBN: 978-1-4299-6656-6
I. Johnston, Aaron. II. Title
PS3553.A655I58 2007
813'.54—dc22 2007017306
First Edition: September 2007
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Peter Johnson,
friend and fellow storyteller
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
1. Healers
2. Recruit
3. Transplant
4. Countervirus
5. Wyatt
6. Scripture
7. Core
8. Patients
9. BHA
10. Yoshida
11. Level 4
12. Control
13. Irving
14. Arena
15. Escape
16. Healer
17. Site
18. Blood
19. Darkness
20. Interrogation
21. Heart
22. Prophecy
23. Supplies
24. Rescue
25. Trail
26. Contact
27. Fever
28. Prophet
29. Fire
30. Vessels
31. Infiltration
32. Dispersion
33. Agent
Afterword
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
by Aaron Johnston
This novel is based on my screenplay adaptation of Orson Scott Card’s short story “Malpractice,” which was first published in Analog Science Fiction in 1977.
Scott and I were working together at the time, developing some of his literary properties for the film industry, and we both agreed that “Malpractice” was a short story worth exploring. We exchanged countless e-mails—the sum of which, should they ever be compiled and printed, might actually exceed the length of this novel—to discuss how best to expand the story into a feature-length narrative. Later, when we began to expand the story a second time into this novel, we wrote another volume of e-mails with additional story possibilities. Occasionally Scott would fly out to Los Angeles for business, and we’d pass an afternoon rehashing it all and filling our stomachs with gourmet ice cream.
In addition to our time collaborating, several books were particularly useful in writing this novel. Richard Preston’s The Hot Zone gives the true account of a highly contagious, deadly virus that appeared in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., in 1983. It also happens to be one of the most terrifying books I’ve ever read. My hat goes off to the military staff at the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID), at Fort Detrick, in Frederick, Maryland, who do more than we know—and probably want to know—to keep us safe from deadly biological threats.
I was also fascinated by Beating Back the Devil: On the Front Lines with the Disease Detectives of the Epidemic Intelligence Service, by Maryn McKenna. The BHA is loosely based on the EIS, but our fictitious agency doesn’t do justice to the true heroism and selfless service given by the men and women of the real federal organization. When the rest of the world flees an outbreak, the EIS runs to it.
Beth Meacham, our editor at Tor, contributed substantially to our work—she is a good friend to us and every writer she works with. Thanks also to Barbara Bova, our agent, for giving tireless encouragement, not to mention many good suggestions.
Dagen Merrill, one of the most talented film directors I know, was integral in adapting the original short story to a screenplay. It was he who suggested that the Healers be genetically modified giants, and therefore deserves credit for many of the story’s best scenes.
Thanks to Chris Wyatt, a producer on Napoleon Dynamite—a film that makes me laugh just thinking about it—for reading the screenplay and for giving smart notes. Chris knows suspense as well as he does comedy and his insight was invaluable. I’m also grateful to Captain Ben Shaha, currently serving a second tour in Iraq, who gave me a basic understanding of military weaponry. Jonathan Frappier shared what he had read of the homeless in Los Angeles, and his findings guided me further in my research.
Kathleen Bellamy, Orson Scott Card’s assistant, made sure that the manuscript shipped when it needed to, and helped me, a first-time novelist, understand the many steps of the publishing process.
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Other friends and family members read the screenplay and novel in various stages of completion and gave suggestions and encouragement throughout the process. Particular thanks go to Eric Artell, Ian Puentes, Sara Ellis, Emily Card, Peter Johnson, Karl Bowman, and my parents, Dave and Marsha Johnston.
My wife, Lauren, deserves the greatest credit because she was kind enough to read every draft and every page—often several times each—and lovingly tell me what did and didn’t work. A more supportive and patient wife the world has not known. And to Luke and Jake, my two rowdy boys, who were understanding enough to let me work when they would much rather have had me by their side, on the carpet, playing Thomas the Tank Engine—Boys, I’m ready now with my train if you are.
February 6, 2007
1
HEALERS
Dolores never met a Healer she didn’t like until the night they took her away. It happened at the playground on Santa Monica Beach at about two o’clock in the morning. Dolores slept in the metal tube that connected the jungle gym to the swirly slide. For a homeless woman of forty, it wasn’t that bad of an arrangement. She had privacy here, and the garbage cans at the playground usually had enough juice boxes or snack packets to tide her over until morning.
A passerby would, no doubt, think Dolores older than her forty years. Time on the street had a way of aging a person in much the same way war did. Her greasy brown hair hung in knotted clumps beneath a black knitted cap. Her eyes were gray, distant, and tired. Years of wind and sun had leathered her face and left dark circles under her eyes. Beneath her heavily soiled trench coat were several layers of other clothing: T-shirts and sweatshirts and all kinds of shirts—far more than normal people would wear but just enough for someone who slept out in the cold.
Tonight the cold was especially cold, the kind that snaked its way into Dolores’s metal tube and then into the holes and folds of her clothing. It was a cold that had kept her up all night. And by the time the uninvited drunk man arrived, Dolores was in a particularly sour mood.
He stumbled into the playground, smelling like a vat of cheap liquor. From where she lay, Dolores couldn’t see him, but he was making plenty of noise and sounded like trouble.
Go away, she wanted to scream. Take your booze smell and the vomit smell that’s bound to be right behind it and go away.
Instead he collapsed onto the slide, and the metal rang with the sound of his impact.
Dolores inchwormed her way to the end of the tube and looked down. There he was, sprawled on his back in the sand, his arms spread wide, his mouth slightly agape. He must have slid right off the slide after falling onto it.
Dolores shook her head.
Whatever you been drinking, mister, you must have burned a lot of brain cells, because no poorly buttoned flannel shirt and holey pair of blue jeans are going to protect you from this wind. You need layers, peabrain. Layers.
She wriggled back inside the tube. Not dressing for the weather was about the stupidest, most inexcusable reason for dying Dolores could think of.
She was debating whether to move elsewhere for the night just in case drunk man here woke up and caused trouble, when she heard voices.
“Here’s one, sir.”
It was a man’s voice, strong, probably a cop. Good. Get that stinking heap away from my slide before he throws up.
“He’s drunk, sir.”
Of course he’s drunk. You got a clothespin on your nose?
“He’ll do,” another man said. An older man, by the sound. And quieter. Like somebody used to being obeyed without having to push. The kind of person who shouldn’t be in an empty playground on the beach after dark, in the winter.
She knew the smart thing to do. Lie low, don’t make a sound. They obviously hadn’t noticed her. And that was always a good thing.
“Help him to the van,” the older man said.
The van? Cops don’t take drunks “to the van.” They either book them or roll them.
So who were these guys? She had to get a peek. If she moved really slowly, she could keep silent. Then again, if she moved too slowly, they’d be gone before she got to the end of the tube where she could see. So she needed just the right balance of speed and stealth.
Got it wrong. They must have heard her, because someone started climbing the ladder.
Dolores’s grip tightened around her tennis racket. She’d never be able to swing it, of course. There wasn’t room. But she could at least raise it warningly if she had to.
A face appeared. “Hello there.”
It was the old man. White hair. Trim white beard. And a smile so wide, you’d think he had just walked into his own surprise birthday party.
Dolores kept silent. If she ignored him, he might think her crazy and leave. Always better not to take chances with a stranger than to open one’s mouth and let them hear the fear in your voice.
“A little cold to be sleeping outside, don’t you think?” the old man said, lifting a hood over his head as the wind picked up.
It was the hood that gave him away. He was a Healer. Only Healers wore capes with hoods like that. It was their calling card. Dolores thought the capes and hoods rather silly-looking but understood that they were more functional than fashionable. The cape was like a flag, a neon sign, drawing anyone who needed a Healer directly to one. It said, Hey, I’m a Healer. Come to me if I can help you, and I gladly will.
They were the Good Samaritans of the street. Healers made it their mission to give out free food and to treat people who were sick or injured—getting in trouble sometimes because they had no medical licenses, but not in really bad trouble because nobody could ever prove that they were actually practicing medicine and because they only helped the homeless anyway, people who couldn’t help themselves or get help anywhere else.
The only thing odd about this Healer, however, was his age. Dolores had never seen an old Healer before. The ones she had seen, strolling along the Third Street Promenade helping the homeless there, were all young, healthy, bodybuilder types. Big guys. Always guys. And always big. Muscle big. Don’t-mess-with-me-because-I-can-break-your-face big.
But this Healer was anything but a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, though he didn’t look particularly weak.
“You’ll freeze to death if you stay out here,” he said, still smiling.
Dolores kept her expression blank but was inwardly happy to see him. Free food was free food.
The only catch was that Healers could talk your ear off if you let them. Wellness of the body and soul and all that, helping the species reach its potential. Whatever. Dolores didn’t care what religion they were preaching. She just listened and pretended to care, until they gave her the food. Then she’d politely thank them and be on her way.
“I’m George Galen,” he said. As if that was supposed to mean something to her.
Maybe he was waiting for her to tell him her name, but she wasn’t about to, so she got to the point instead. “You got any food?” she said.
“We do,” he said. “Sandwiches in the van.”
“I ain’t in the van,” she said. “Fat lot of good your sandwiches do me.”
His smile widened. “Turkey or ham?”
“Turkey,” she said.
Galen looked behind him and called down the ladder. “She wants a turkey sandwich, Lichen.”
Dolores craned her neck a few inches, just enough to see who it was he was speaking to.
A young Healer—the normal kind of Healer, with big bulging muscles and wearing one of those capes over his shoulders—nodded and hurried away. Another Healer had an arm around the drunk man and was helping him hobble away from the playground.
Galen looked back at her, gesturing to the Healer who had run off to fetch the sandwich. “Lichen is one of my young associates.”
“Lichen? That’s his name? What, he from Europe or something?”
Galen laughed. “No, no, I gave him that name. He is like lichen, able to grow strong even when the wind blows hard.”
Galen didn’t look fazed.
They waited there in silence a moment until Lichen came jogging back with a sandwich in a small plastic bag. He handed it to Galen, who handed it to Dolores.
She unwrapped it and began to eat. It was good. The Healers always had good stuff. Turkey, yes, but lots of lettuce and tomato, too, and sprouts, and mayo—a real sandwich, the kind somebody might pay for, not the slapped-together crap that homeless people usually got. “Thank you,” she said. She might be gutter trash to most people, but she still had manners.
That didn’t mean she was a pushover, though. “I’d rather skip the sermon if you don’t mind,” she said.
Galen tilted his head back and laughed again. As he did, Dolores saw a glimpse of the gold ribbon stitched on the inside band of his cape collar. All Healers had some color there, she had noticed, usually red or blue.
It surprised her to see a Healer laughing. All the ones she had ever talked to were stiff as boards and always spoke in reverent tones, like the street was a chapel getting ready for mass.
“I’m not here to give any sermons, ma’am.”
She nodded. “Good to hear.”
“You’ve heard our message before, I take it?”
She took another bite. “I could give it myself. Keep the body and soul pure. Yadda yadda yadda.”
He laughed again. He was a jolly one, there was no questioning that. She even smiled back this time. The street had given her edge, but the charm of this George Galen was melting that away like warm sunshine. She even considered apologizing for not wanting the sermon.
He beat her to the punch.
“You have my apologies,” he said, “if my Healers preach a little overzealously. I hope they’ve treated you well otherwise.”
“Oh, they’re always nice. I had me a bad sore on my foot a few weeks back, and one of them gave me some ointment and a nice bandage.”
“And it helped, did it?”
“Healed up nice and quick.” She wadded up the empty sandwich bag. “That was good.”
“I have plenty more where that came from.”
The edge came back instantly. Dolores didn’t like the sound of that last statement. It sounded like those strangers who offered candy to children. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
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