Civil Blood_The Vampire Rights Trial that Changed a Nation

by Chris Hepler

  I crinkle my mouth. "Honey, before I signed up, I couldn't spell the word hematophagic, let alone tell you what it does. I don't come up with bullshit that fancy." I look for a smile among them and get none.

  "Maybe you can, maybe you can't," he says. "Talk motivation. Why help me?"

  I bite back the obvious answer. It's never a good idea to advertise when you're vulnerable. Saying I'm on the outs with F-prot means he could threaten to tell them. "Because it's right," I blurt. "Because you deserve to know who got you into this mess and whoever bit you and whoever bit them and so on back to the first vipe there ever was. I've seen what this shit does to people. It gets their whole lives."

  Lorenz is quiet for a moment, obviously lost in thought. Then, it disappears. "And in return, you want what?"

  "You did mention a reward or something, right?" I say gently. "Am I a sucker for believing that?"

  "That's for people who contact us by the P.O. box. We haven't yet discussed what we're going to do with you. You know where we live."

  "Hey, I'm trying to help you—"

  "You also are in possession of a large quantity of blood," he continues. "And we don't get it delivered to our door very often."

  He stares at me, but I stare back. He wants his moment to scare me. It does but only because if he's not someone I can run to, I have to figure out another plan. As for threat, I don't care if he's a predator; he can join the club.

  "No," I say quietly after a few seconds. "I don't think you will. You went to a lot of trouble to make that video," I say, growing in confidence as my words come out. "You believe in what it says. You want to make a change so you and everyone else like you don't have to go through the killing, the hiding, the... I don't know, the injustice." It feels lame that I can't think of the right words, but Lorenz seems to soften a little. "What I don't get is why you think you can win."

  Lorenz stands so still that I wonder if he is paying attention at all. Then, I see the tightening of his hands, his stare, and I know that inside him, there is a will. It's what brought him through that broadcast when all he wanted, like anyone else with the disease, was to say, I give up. Nothing is worth this.

  "I lost my friends," he begins. I say nothing, out of respect. "It doesn't sound like much, compared to some. But the alcoholics say we all have our 'moment of clarity,' and I had mine with this guy who let me stay over when I was first sick. I don't have much in the way of family, so…" he trails off, focusing on a time long gone. "Mathias, this old university friend, he's got kids… well, just one."

  "Just one… now?" I ask.

  "Yes." Lorenz lets out a heavy breath. "Pretty much says it all, doesn't it?"

  I’d like to maintain a polite silence, but after a moment, I realize he hasn't quite answered my question. "I guess I'd want someone to pay, too."

  Lorenz makes eye contact again. "Until that day, I never knew I could be so completely controlled. Not even by a person. By a virus, a shell of protein. It's like, here's everything that I am… and every few weeks, none of it matters."

  "How do you feed?"

  "I try not to."

  For the first time, I look at the marble and carpet and teak. It's not the softness of an easy life. It's everything Lorenz tries to hold onto. Is VIHPS easier for me because I have so much less to lose?

  "I don't know much about the biology behind this," he finishes, "but I know the law. And I know I can't be weak, or this will keep happening."

  No one in the room speaks for a moment. I clear my throat.

  "Then, your first step should be getting out of this house," I say, "because there's something I have to do over lunch."

  10 - RANATH

  August 13th

  My first impression is that the woman at the counter is dressed oddly for a corporate minder; I’ve been stuck with two over the years, and neither has dressed like she sleeps in Joan Jett's closet. In case you miss the reference, that means her coloring is punk Snow White: ivory skin, black pleather, deep red lip gloss. She has the air of a teen who dresses older for a turn-on or an F-prot who takes a corporate check with one hand and gives the finger with the other.

  "Doctor Cawdor?" she asks and slides off her stool. Standing up, she’s tall enough to seem five years older. Her forehead comes up to my lips; I’ve been a lanky one-point-nine meters since the U.S. went metric.

  "Kern told me I'd be meeting you," she says with a smile, and I do a quick check to inspect my white linen shirt and gray slacks. Everything is in order but a few stray silver hairs I pick off one sleeve—my telltale signature.

  The woman starts toward a table, but I shake my head. I keep my voice tight. "I don't want to stay here. We need to discuss matters in detail."

  She shrugs. "You got a car?"

  We leave the restaurant. I’m pleased to notice she hurries, perhaps from the heat, perhaps from impatience. It’s a good sign—maybe she’s young and hungry rather than young and lazy.

  We reach the underground parking structure, which blocks the heat. My zero-em Chevrolet will be adequate cover from eavesdroppers. We sit inside, and I turn down the seat temperature. She has black gloves on—probably electric coolers, given the weather.

  Screw preambles. "Kern said you have Morgan Lorenz's address."

  "Yes."

  "Have you scouted it?"

  "Not yet."

  "Why don't you start by telling me everything you know about him, his environs, and any observations you made about his personal security."

  I don’t think it’s my imagination when she tenses at those words, but she instantly turns it into a charming smile and blinks thick lashes. "I thought you might have some questions about me first. There's plenty I want to know about you."

  "I vet the F-prot team concerned with Lorenz as a vector," I clarify. I might as well answer the questions I know she’s going to ask. "You are under my supervision and do not need to ask Marcus Kern further questions. If asked, he has no knowledge of this particular activity. No F-prots on my team will be logging hours. We are going dark. Do you understand?"

  The woman's cheeks quirk, and she gives a little nod. "Sure."

  "Humor me, and explain what you think that means."

  She ticks things off on her fingers. "Don't talk anywhere we can be recorded. Comm-apps, phone, e-mail, whatever, they're restricted to messages about when and where to meet, and those will be in code. Nobody and nothing sanctions us, everything goes in the burn bag, on the street we'll pretend not to know one another, but in our hearts, we'll always have Paris."

  She meets my gaze, face all seriousness and innocence. I fish about for what to say. I’m not sure if this is disrespect or just wide, blue eyes and unblinking, deadpan humor.

  I had assumed when Kern called that the new addition to the team was handed down from above, a kind of corporate insurance against any intention I might have to let BRHI swing for ignoring my warnings. But somehow, I doubt this woman would be any easier for them to control. She’s a shit-disturber. The question is, which kind?

  "What else did Kern tell you?" I ask.

  "That he trusts you. That you're the top guy in the field, however one gets that title." She leans toward me. "Now, I'm dying to hear what he found out about me in the last few hours."

  "He said you were on the team in L.A.," I begin, fishing. "And that you'd pulled off some fancy tailing to get Lorenz's address." Her expression is skeptical. "Is there something else I should know?"

  She gives an amused smile, and my shoulders tighten. I’m not sure what I said that she found funny, but I don’t mind having done it.

  "Well..." she drawls, "I'm still a bit shaky on whether you know my name."

  I freeze momentarily, and she laughs. I’ve walked right into it, and for a moment, I am no suave professional. I’m a ninth-grader alone with a crush, missing every opportunity and babbling irrelevancies. But when the joke’s on you, it helps to smile.

  "Hello," I say calmly. "I'm Roland."

  "Call me Infinity.
"

  Now, normalcy returns. It’s back to the dance I’ve done a thousand times. Extroversion is the hallmark of my adulthood. "Mathematician parents?" I ask. "Or car enthusiasts?"

  "Middle name, actually. My real name's Lilith."

  "I revise my guess. Pagan parents."

  "Kind of the opposite," she says briskly. "My dad was unhealthily religious, and by the time I came around, my mom hated my dad pretty badly. As a result, he wasn't present at my birth, and she named me what she wanted."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up family drama."

  "You got a story about your name?"

  "I do," I say, "and one day, I can tell it to you. But today is all about Mr. Lorenz and paying him an unexpected visit."

  I lose a moment, watching her. Her features are sharp, her skin smooth and Eastern European-pale. The pleasant face is made more interesting by the fact she’s meeting my gaze. She doesn’t seem polite, but that’s better than fearful. Most people would have looked away out of habit. She breaks her stare when she has a purpose.

  "Here's the address," she says, pulling a folded-up piece of hotel stationery and putting it in my hand. "I trust it's not going to be just us?"

  "Our standard team is five."

  "Not a lot of backup, don't you think?"

  "Biomancy gives us certain advantages. And we are going to keep knowledge of the operation to a very low number of people."

  She puts a cool, gloved hand on mine. "You still haven't said if I'm going."

  I consider my response and choose to test her. "You're not."

  "And why is that?"

  Part of me doesn’t want to upset her, but if she gets petulant when denied, I need to know. "Guess."

  She regards me, concealing anger well. "Well, if you're anything like my old team, unit cohesion is a big deal. I'm the new girl, and you don't want me fooling around when you've got weapons free. I can assure you I won't, but without seeing what I do rather than what I say, I could be a liability.

  "Then, there's the fact that the Kern guy said you're the top in this field, so ten to one you've got exacting standards, even for the people who pass 'cause you don't get real improvement without constant testing. From your attitude, I'm guessing you want to move on Morgan fast, and you don't have time to give me a proper trial run. How am I doing?"

  She keeps her head in the face of contempt. I give an acknowledging nod.

  "Now, tell me what I haven't hit yet. That little nod isn’t telling me much about your leadership style. And let me tell you, I can critique those plenty."

  "Infinity…" I need to get used to her name. "I'm sure you've had an adequate number of high-risk, successful missions. Kern would never risk your presence otherwise. But this would not be like any capture you've performed. This Lorenz has notoriety. To the masses, he's the world's first vampire."

  "If we're successful, first and only vampire," she corrects.

  Her humor falls flat, but I try not to let it show. "Have you ever had an enemy?"

  Infinity hesitates. "There've been men in my life who were pretty evil."

  "I mean, someone you have tried to destroy." Infinity gives an odd little shrug—perhaps there have been, and she doesn’t want to get into it now. "Morgan Lorenz is now our enemy. If we cannot put a bullet in him, we must make his life such hell that he cannot under any circumstances pay attention to discovering the source of his virus. There will be no mercy toward him, his friends, or anything he owns. Understand?"

  The mischief disappears from her eyes. She seems wary. "Is this like, a crusade for you?"

  Usually, I aim for dispassionate, but clearly, I’ve flubbed it. She deserves a disciplined answer. She needs to understand me. I need to see if she will scare. And why is that?

  "No. He's not a monster, just... the enemy. He's a very important objective." Her expression doesn’t change. "I'm sorry. Am I talking like a robot?"

  The mischief returns. "Beep beep be-deep."

  "The point is, Lorenz is smart, he's charismatic, and he can recruit. He could be the leader of a movement and motivated to infect others."

  Infinity's lips are parted, about to respond with something wry, when her black leather waist-bag suddenly buzzes. "Phone," she says, and I wait. She listens for a moment, thanks someone named Owen and hangs up.

  "Who was that?" I ask.

  "A friend. I've been looking for somewhere to stay while I'm in town."

  "We can compensate you since it's a business trip," I say, and that gets her to put the electronics away.

  "Thanks, but doesn't that break up my alibi?"

  "We have ways," I say. "Now, we'll do a covert photography session this afternoon, and tonight we’ll rehearse how to enter Lorenz's building."

  "When's the real dance?"

  "That depends on how the training goes. I'll meet you again at seven." I wait until she untangles herself from the car. "Oh, one bit of dress code when we meet in public. If you're worried about fingerprints, add a little rubber cement. None of us wear black gloves."

  She stops to stare. "Why?"

  "It makes you look like a hitman." I give the final smile and get one back.

  ◆◆◆

  The assault, which was what it is, does its usual thing. It makes me feel alive.

  We train just as long as is necessary. On the ride to our facility out in Chantilly, I quiz Infinity on all the F-prot calls and hand signals. Her training has been nearly identical to ours. Our practice runs in The Block, a school-like structure and some beaten-on house mockups, are short and high-adrenaline. We spatter wax training rounds against steel targets. It all confirms what I suspected from the girl with the stare: Infinity is deadly, not dangerous. She has more experience being bait, but she’s comfortable kicking in a door and identifying friends and foes even in an unlit house. The decision is unanimous—we will move tonight.

  Infinity and I ride on one bench in the back of the main van, with Olsen and Yarborough opposite us. Each F-prot is clammed up in body armor, taking up enough space with our gear that it behooves Breunig to ride up front.

  He confers with al-Ibrahim to send messages over wireless to guide a second vehicle. It’s just a backup, a self-driving machine that is there solely in case the first one breaks down, or we have to split up.

  There is no fancy fake ambulance, no disguises. Getting close to one target works for an isolated vipe like Davis, but taking on a house-full means we wear bullet-stoppers. Speed and shock will have to get it done.

  If you care, we’re packing M12 carbines, chopped-down versions of the M20A1 rifles American troops used in those central Asian cash-wars. We've got enough ammunition to make Lorenz's living room awfully drafty the next time the wind picks up. The rounds can have overpenetration problems, but too much is better than not enough. Breunig is convinced we’ll face professional security, and even one vipe with a spider-silk vest like ours is serious danger.

  I gave Infinity brief introductions to the team, but far more important are our call signs. We have colors and numbers assigned to the sub-groups, so no witness will be able to say to a cop that one of the guys with guns called another "Roland" or "Infinity" or anything identifiable. Breunig is Black One. I am Black Two, Yarborough is Three and Infinity is Four. Olsen is Red One, and the drivers, human and robotic, are White One and Two. Easy enough to yell a color under stress, and the numbers are not so important.

  The van slows, giving us a clear view of the house. Shielded by tinted glass, Yarborough gets binoculars on the front entrance. Spotting nothing unusual, we then drive half a block down as Ibrahim checks in with the other van. Everything is go. The van circles around, comes to a stop in front of the gates, and the doors swing wide.

  It's fast. Breunig is first out and puts his skeleton key fob against the sensor on the iron gate. I have my stimweb firing in no time. I inhale and send a concealment signal radiating out.

  Almost immediately, I regret it. A wash of feedback fires my adrenaline, and my mouth g
oes dry. I lost it at the tail end; it's not easy concealing auras that aren't mine. What should be as easy as throwing a punch is like throwing a hundred. I can still function, but precision is gone.

  The rest of the hardasses hustle up the driveway, covering each other with their fields of fire. Infinity and Yarborough go for the back door to cut off any escape; I follow Breunig to the front. We stack up to the sides of the door as I make minor adjustments to my stimweb, making an effort to focus. I try the left hand and go slowly and carefully.

  Finding little success, I dig my right knuckle into the center of my breastbone, just a hair off from the acupressure point called the Heavenly Pillar. I feel for the rhythm of my heart and lungs and let them slowly decrease. Qi flows freely as I relax, and I try to conceal us again. Not forceful—this time, it's a persuasion.

  It doesn't work. I'm not exhausted, but I played it too safe.

  "No go," I say. "Ram it."

  Breunig unlimbers the SWAT ram from his back. I cover him as he bashes the door off its hinges in two clean swings. Noisy as hell, but it gets us inside. A wood-and-metal bang sounds from the back door. "Rear door down," we hear, just as we announce our own.

  We go in fast, flooding the dark interior with our bodies. We don't use underbarrel flashlights like the police—it just presents a target if someone is lying in wait. Instead, we're all in night vision goggles; consequently, as I run through the rooms and up the stairs, weapon at the ready, everything is grayish green. And that's what is wrong.

  There are no lights on. Vipes are sensitive to lights, true, but they rarely break the habit of having some around the house. And judging from the room-temperature bulbs that the goggles pick up, these lights haven't been on for hours.

  The house is big, but we clear the rooms quickly. No gunfire. No shouts. No enemies. "We've got nothing," Breunig reports to al-Ibrahim. "Starting to toss."

  "Police band is quiet," comes al-Ibrahim's voice. "Do it now."

  I search. Yarborough and Breunig prop up the front door so it isn't obvious to some passing jogger that the place is being sacked. Infinity meets up with me in what appears to be a study.