Invasive Procedures

by Aaron Johnston

  They were both malnourished. Nick, like Jonathan, had a few needle marks on his arms, but far fewer than Jonathan, and his looked healed—he hadn’t shot up for some time now, apparently. Hal checked out fine except that his hands shook slightly. If he was indeed an alcoholic, he was eager for a drink.

  “You are finished?” Lichen asked her.

  “Yes, and I would like to see my son now, please.”

  “Of course. I will take you to him.”

  “I remember the way.”

  Instead of responding he went out the door and held it open for her. She understood. He was going to take her there whether she wanted an escort or not.

  They walked the halls in silence. Finally Lichen said, “You are not happy here, I see.”

  That caught her off guard. Of course she wasn’t happy. “You’re keeping my son and me prisoner. How can I be happy?”

  “What you see around you you do not yet understand. What may appear evil to you is good, the wisest of wisdoms. Once you understand what the prophet is giving to the world you will be happy. You will feel peace as our brothers and sisters find an end to their suffering.”

  Monica could tell he was trying to calm her, but his words had the opposite effect. The more he spoke the more unsettled she became.

  “My words frighten you, I think,” he said.

  Her face was giving away her true feelings. She looked forward and said nothing.

  “What I mean to say, Dr. Owens, is that you and your son are safe here. No one will harm you.”

  “Then why threaten me? Why threaten those people back there? Why hold my son as a hostage, force me to do whatever you ask?”

  Lichen nodded, appreciating the question. “All will become clear shortly. You will see how your mission here is a chosen one.”

  “What does that mean?” she said. “Why have you brought me here? Galen said he needed a heart transplant. Am I supposed to give him one?”

  “That is for the prophet to explain.”

  She was frustrated now. He was either cryptic or evasive or both.

  “What about the others? Byron, Dolores, and the others? What about them? What does Galen want with them?”

  “They are the vessels.”

  This was hopeless. “Vessels for what?”

  He stopped walking. “We have arrived, Doctor.” He pointed to the door.

  Without realizing it, she had walked all the way back to Wyatt’s room. She could hear the video game and laughter inside. She opened the door. An Asian man in a white lab coat was sitting on the floor beside Wyatt. Each of them held a game controller and was laughing at the monitor. Monica was furious. A stranger alone with her son.

  The man smiled, set down the controller, and stood.

  “Mom,” Wyatt said, running to her.

  “Forgive me for startling you, Dr. Owens. I am Dr. Kouichi Yoshida. I figured that since we’ll be working together so closely, we should get to know each other. I knew you’d come back to see Wyatt, so I waited here.”

  “Dr. Yoshida knows how to play Potato Commandos, Mom.”

  Monica put a protective arm around Wyatt and studied Yoshida. The man looked perfectly content. If he was being held here, he didn’t seem distressed about it. Plus, she had found him here alone, unescorted, which meant Galen didn’t feel the need to monitor him too closely. He wasn’t being held against his will.

  “What are you a doctor of?” she asked.

  “Neurophysiology,” he said, pointing to the side of his head. “I study brain function and neural interaction, how we make and record memories, how groups of neurons communicate with one another and respond to certain stimuli. That sort of thing.”

  She didn’t blink.

  Yoshida waited, then said, “From the look on your face, I can see that you have a lot of questions.”

  “You could say that,” Monica said.

  He gave a little laugh. “Well, I’m your man. If you have questions, I can answer them. No one understands the mind of George Galen better than I do.”

  9

  BHA

  The elevator doors slid open, and Frank stepped out into a brightly lit chamber. Agents Riggs and Carter followed. A guard in a tight-fitting black uniform greeted them and pointed to spots on the floor where red footprints were painted. “Stand here, please.”

  Frank aligned his feet with the footprints, then watched as the guard unstrapped a long baton from his hip and twisted the handle. The baton hummed to life and glowed white, looking to Frank like a handheld bug zapper.

  “Contaminant rod,” said Carter, extending his arms and allowing the guard to scan him. “It looks for any biohazards you might have accidentally picked up in the field.”

  The guard scanned Carter and Riggs fairly quickly before turning to Frank. “Arms out, please.”

  Frank remained still as the guard slowly and methodically scanned him. The guard paid special attention to the creases and folds of Frank’s uniform, as if expecting to find some secret stash of hazardous material wedged there.

  “You boys don’t take any chances, do you?” Frank said.

  “We can’t afford to,” said Riggs. “You of all people should understand the importance of containment.”

  The guard turned off the baton and told them they were clear to proceed inside.

  Frank followed the agents down the chamber to a dead end. Carter swiped a card through a reader, and a small window on the wall slid open, revealing a keypad and monitor. He entered a code and then stood motionless as a red light emitted and scanned his face. There was a beep as identification was verified, and then the wall split, revealing an expansive room on the opposite side where hundreds of people moved about; bustling to workstations; speaking into headsets; monitoring large, high-definition video screens. The scene reminded Frank of a big-city newsroom—loud, urgent, and a blur of motion.

  BHA headquarters.

  They descended a short flight of stairs as the door sealed shut behind them. Carter pointed to a wall where a computer-generated map of Los Angeles County appeared. “The blinking lights represent the places where Healers have attempted gene therapy, those addresses in the book.”

  Frank counted eight lights.

  “We’re looking for any patterns in the distribution of the addresses,” said Riggs. “We’re hoping they can give us some idea as to where Healers may go next.”

  They reached the main floor and weaved through the commotion until they arrived at a row of offices at the rear of the room. Riggs stopped at a door labeled EUGENE IRVING, DIRECTOR. “Director Irving asked to meet you and welcome you to the agency.”

  What was that in his tone? Frank wondered. Sarcasm?

  Inside, the secretary greeted them with a whisper and told them to go through a second door to Irving’s office, where he would be waiting.

  Riggs tapped the door twice before entering.

  Director Eugene Irving, a thin man with slick black hair and a suit to match, was hunched over his desk, examining some documents with a much younger agent. Frank recognized Irving from the photos he’d seen of him in the press and thought he looked much older in person—in his late fifties, perhaps, with pale skin, a long neck, sharp jaw, hollow cheeks—like a man who had just recently gone on a crash diet and was in need of some electrolytes.

  Without looking up, Irving waved them to the empty chairs opposite his desk.

  “And this is all from a single hospital?” Irving said to the young agent.

  “Children’s Hospital on Sunset, sir.”

  The young agent was portly with short auburn hair that stuck up the front—whether by design with the help of hair gel or simply because of a cowlick, Frank couldn’t tell. He wore a gray suit with a black necktie so narrow that it only barely covered the line of buttons down his white oxford shirt. A BHA ID tag was pinned to the breast pocket of his suit coat.

  Irving looked at Frank and gestured to the young agent. “This is Agent Marcus Atkins,” he said. “One of our analysts.
Recently he’s been spending his time studying hospital databases. Atkins, this is Dr. Frank Hartman from Fort Detrick, the virologist.”

  Agent Atkins nodded. “Pleasure.”

  “Why hospital databases?” Frank said.

  Atkins brightened at the question. “Well, since we learned that it was the Healers making the virus and that they were using it to attempt to cure genetic diseases, we’ve wondered, How do Healers identify potential patients? How do they find someone with a genetic—” He stopped midsentence. “You know who the Healers are, right?”

  “He’s been briefed, Marcus,” said Riggs.

  Atkins blushed. “Of course. Excuse me, Doctor.”

  “No problem,” said Frank. “Please, continue.”

  Atkins cleared his throat. “Well, we’ve been wondering how Healers find people who suffer from genetic diseases. How do they know, for example, who, if anyone, on your block has Parkinson’s disease or sickle-cell anemia or cystic fibrosis? They’ve been operating in secrecy, after all. It’s not like they’re knocking on random doors asking if there’s a genetically diseased person inside.”

  “Get to the point,” Irving said, rubbing his eyes.

  Atkins turned a deeper shade of red. “Right. Anyway, Healers have obviously found a way to identify who needs gene therapy. So we examined a few hospital databases and discovered that one of them, at least, had been hacked.”

  Director Irving cut in. “Someone’s been cracking the system and downloading patient information.”

  “Stealing medical records?” Frank said.

  “Not just any medical records,” said Atkins. “All the records downloaded belonged to patients with a diagnosed genetic disease, precisely the type of people Healers would want to contact.”

  Director Irving handed Frank a slip of paper. “These are the names that were downloaded.”

  Frank scanned the list. There were a dozen names in all. “So these could be potential targets for a Healer?”

  Atkins shrugged. “Maybe. Who knows? It might not even be the Healers hacking the system.”

  “It’s worth following up on,” said Carter. “We should contact these people, see if any Healers have come by. If so, we can be fairly confident that it was the Healers who hacked the database.”

  “Or,” said Riggs, “we don’t contact these people but instead post a few agents at these addresses and have the agents watch for any suspicious activity. That way, if a Healer does show up, we can take him on-site.”

  There was silence as Irving considered this. Then he asked for the list, and Frank returned it to him. Irving gave the list to Atkins. “I want a team at each of these addresses. Don’t talk to these people. If they know we’re looking for Healers, they might warn the Healers and tell them to steer clear. The moment our boys see anyone who could possibly be one of these wackos, they call it in and we rush the place.”

  Atkins nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then he hurried out of the room.

  Irving leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Word on the street is that you have this virus of ours licked, Frank. You don’t mind if I call you Frank, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. So, this countervirus of yours, it’s the answer to our prayers?”

  “As I explained to Agent Riggs and Agent Carter,” Frank said, “the countervirus has not yet been tested on human subjects.”

  Irving shrugged. “There’s always a first for everything. Riggs and Carter have told you about the crowd we have in our infirmary?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want the ones still infected with the virus to be treated immediately. After you’ve had a chance to settle in, that is.”

  “Of course.”

  Irving swiveled in his chair and picked up an ink pen off his desk, twirling it in his fingers. “We’re taking a giant risk on you, Frank. I’m not one to let outsiders in here to fiddle with our business. Makes me nervous.”

  “I understand, sir. I’ll do my job and be as unintrusive as possible.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Irving. “We take our work very seriously. These Healers are keeping us up at night. They’re very disturbing people.”

  “I agree, sir.”

  “You’ve seen their little book of scripture, then, I take it?”

  Frank nodded.

  “Quite the read, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the piece of this puzzle I find most surprising, in fact.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Because it puts the Healers way outside the mainstream, sir. Normal people would shy away from this kind of thing. New scripture. Prophecies and prophets. It’s all very mystical. People typically find that off-putting, frightening even. I find it hard to believe that anyone would allow a Healer to treat them.”

  “Oh, I agree. But keep in mind who these patients are, Frank,” said Irving. “We’re talking about genetic diseases. Most of these people have already been through the wringer. They’ve tried every medical option, seen every doctor, taken every drug. And nothing worked. They’re out of options. But the pain is still there. They still suffer. So when a Healer comes along they think, What have I got to lose?”

  “Well that’s just it, sir. They have a great deal to lose. Healers aren’t offering a bottle of Tylenol. This isn’t some proven treatment that four out of five doctors recommend. It’s a virus, completely without credentials, as far as I know. Not to mention extremely dangerous.”

  Irving set the ink pen back on the desk and looked at Frank intently. “Have you ever known someone with a genetic disease, Frank? Intimately, I mean. A loved one? A friend?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I suspect you’ve never had them open up to you, tell you what it feels like to be stuck with something medicine can’t fix? Never had to watch them wiggle in pain? Never wondered to yourself why there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you’ve never seen true desperation, Frank. You’ve never felt as helpless as these people and their families do.”

  Frank tensed. Was Irving needling him? Surely the BHA had researched Frank’s service records before giving him access to their operations. Irving must know that Frank had suffered a great loss, that Frank had experienced true desperation, that Frank knew exactly what it felt like to watch someone dear to you suffer. Rachel hadn’t had a genetic disease, but leukemia was just as severe a diagnosis. Was Irving so callous a person that he’d wave Frank’s loss in front of him just to make a point? Or had he truly never seen Frank’s files? Either way, Frank wouldn’t let the man rile him.

  “I see your point, sir,” said Frank. “I merely meant to suggest that it’s surprising a street medicine engineered by a fringe religion could proliferate at all.”

  Irving surprised Frank with a laugh. “Street medicine. I like that.” His laughed tapered, then he stood and came around the front of the desk, his hands in his pockets. “Don’t get me wrong, Frank. I’m not defending these Healers. I think they’re as cracked as you do. They wear black capes, for crying out loud. First time I saw photos, I thought we were dealing with vampires.” He laughed again and looked to Agents Carter and Riggs, who took his glance as a cue and tossed in a few laughs of their own. Frank merely forced a smile.

  “My point,” Irving said, “is this. Don’t concern yourself with the psychology of these people. That isn’t your job. You’re here as a medical advisor. I will value your counsel on that subject and that subject only. I want to make that point very clear.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And you will operate within the parameters that I define, and not interfere with any other aspect of this agency. I can’t afford to have someone telling us how to do things around here. That’s my job. I was appointed to this position by the president for a reason. Do we understand one another?”

  “Completely, sir.”

  “Excellent.” He clapped his hands together. “Then le
t’s get to it.”

  Frank followed Carter and Riggs out of Irving’s office and into a bright cylindrical corridor.

  “He likes you,” said Carter.

  “Who?” said Frank. “Director Irving?”

  “No question,” said Riggs. “He only had to tell you once that he was a presidential appointee.”

  “First time I met him,” said Carter, “he told me four times in as many minutes that he was a personal friend of the president.”

  “He seemed pleasant enough,” said Frank.

  They reached a set of closed doors. Carter swiped his card through the reader, and the door opened.

  “You caught him on a good day,” said Riggs. “He threw a stapler at me once.”

  Frank looked to Carter for confirmation, who nodded solemnly and then led them out onto a loading dock. A sleek subway car waited on a track in front of them. It extended down a dark tunnel to the right and disappeared from sight.

  “How big is this place?” Frank said with wonder.

  “We’ve just left the Command Center,” said Riggs. “This will take us to T4, our operational facility. The nuts and bolts of the BHA.”

  “Where the real work is done,” Carter said with a wink.

  A uniformed guard slid open the subway car door and motioned them inside. Frank and the two agents each found a seat and fastened their safety harnesses. The guard slid the door closed and went to a computer console on the loading dock. A female automated voice sounded inside the car. “Please be seated. This train is about to depart.”

  With a slight jolt the subway car pulled away from the loading dock and then quickly picked up speed down the track.

  Riggs said, “T4 houses the infirmary and our Level 4 containment site. We keep them as far away from the Command Center as possible as a safety precaution.”

  That made sense to Frank. In fact, if he had his way at Fort Detrick, Level 4 would be a separate building on the most isolated plot of earth on base, thus minimizing the risk of an outbreak should, heaven forbid, containment fail.

  The subway ride lasted a good ten minutes, and since the car had moved at a brisk clip, Frank figured they were well outside the city by now. The loading dock they stopped at was identical to the one they had left, and if not for the change in guard, Frank would have thought the car had simply traveled in a huge circle.