Civil Blood_The Vampire Rights Trial that Changed a Nation

by Chris Hepler

  "Well, that's amusingly cryptic," says Kern. "Look. We're not coming to a solution on this, and Campion's still on hold. Take one of these stupid tests down to Eppy, and get yourself screened. I want their report saying you're clear by tomorrow, or else a fantabulous amount of shit is going to hit the fan. And in the meantime, I'm telling the team about her infection because she could try to take them out, and they deserve to know. Do we agree on that, at least?"

  I stare at the cardboard box. Kern has maneuvered me into a question where the only possible answer is yes. It may be out of genuine concern, but con men also do that when they want agreement. It prepares the mark to agree to a more important question. But what does he really need my consent for?

  "One thing," I say. "Campion, the lawyer. Has she talked about settling out of court?"

  Kern looks puzzled, then guarded. "No," he says. "She thinks we can win."

  He can't hide it. "Lies are for targets, Marcus."

  That hits Kern hard. He tries not to show it, but he pauses too long before coming up with what he needs to say. "There are things I can't tell you unless you are completely committed."

  I could make you. A function. A wrist lock. A bullet to the leg. But I have given years of service to BRHI, and if I throw them out in a burst of temper, what do I have left? Not Infinity. No, I am the knight that rides into the valley of Saracens, trusting that my king is not an idiot.

  I snatch up a VAMP box. "You deal with Campion," I say, before I walk out the door. "You will get your clean test, and then I want to know exactly what our strategy is."

  30 - INFINITY

  September 7th

  The two people coming up the driveway look as much like vipes as I have ever seen. They are not the vampires of movies or television or games. There are no sunglasses at night, no out-of-period clothing, no accessorizing canes and rings. Seriously, my leather outfit, now quietly tucked away in a closet, is closer to the cross-media stereotype than anything the newcomers have. The telltale sign isn't clothing; it's the glower. Their faces wear a look that says there's no humor left in life, no friendship that withstands their condition. They are together, but they don't look at one another for reassurance. They're lost in some scene in their minds, more important than anything passing before their eyes.

  I identify the woman first. Morgan said the names of the vipes were Lyman and Deborah. Deborah stands out only in the way that would appeal to a vipe: she looks weak enough to overpower. She's small and mousy, disappearing into her coat, scarf, and toque. Her eyes never leave the street. Despite the weather, she holds herself as if she'll never get warm again. I don't have to guess how Deborah's time since infection has gone.

  Ly doesn't look great either. He's Manson-lite, sporting wind-blown hair and a black, full beard that says personal appearance is his last priority. His blue, quilted coat has stains on it of dubious origin, but none has the telltale brown of old blood. Still, he seems aware of his surroundings, more a predator than the woman in denial next to him.

  "Who are you?" he says, as they come to the door.

  "My name's Infinity. I'm with Morgan," We shake. "Did you find all the exits okay? We're off the grid, and my directions are probably fruity."

  "We got lost a little," Ly says. I nod, then glance over to Deborah. The woman is looking at me like I'm plutonium.

  "Are you..."

  "Yes," I say, and Deborah nearly drops in relief. "Everyone here is one of us. Come on in. Meet the others. Can I take your coat?"

  Ly gives Deborah a glance. "Uh... no thanks," he says.

  "Rough nights, huh? You'll get them back." They hesitate for a second more, and then, Deborah takes her coat off. Ly follows, and soon we are headed into the apartment like any other normal party guests. I lead them upstairs to the dining room table, which is small but extended out by a card table butted up against it. Normal and folding chairs ring it, filled by Morgan and the two other vipes who arrived just before dawn.

  Cass Iver, the first, is a large Anglo who has a biker's blond moustache and the girth of an older man used to being in the saddle. He works at an auto parts store and reminds me of the nameless trucker I preyed on. I can't shake the feeling that there must be legions more like him—men lured in by the code of the road to help vipes claiming car trouble. Whoever infected him had guts or skills—he looks as if he could break a few noses even if he were down four pints.

  The second man, Ferrero, hasn't given his last name, or perhaps not his first, having contacted Morgan over the Net, where he answered to the name "Enigma42." He is younger and darker in complexion, somewhere between Italian and Hispanic. Trying to subtly guess which isn't easy since he apparently speaks both languages. He says he was a chemistry teacher, and his infector had been a student.

  He has money. Cass has money. For now, we can afford things.

  The table in front of them is saturated with food—turkey, vegetable, and pasta dishes Morgan cooked. I demonstrated what I thought were adequate culinary skills until Morgan took over and shooed me out of the small kitchen, claiming there was no room for two. He emerged victorious from a fight with the oven by the time I returned with a bottle of wine.

  "Ly and Deborah, this is Cass and Ferrero. Morgan, you've met over the phone."

  "Welcome home," Morgan says, rising and shaking their hands. "Don't take this the wrong way, but can I get you anything to drink?"

  Ly gives a little chuckle. I can't see Deborah's reaction. But a few moments later, they are seated, drinking from the only glasses the furnished apartment came with. Both are digging in rapidly. "You sure know how to make someone feel human again," Deborah says. "We've been going without food. It's so much money if you don't need it."

  Ly addresses Morgan. "Yeah, drinking, vaping, food, we gave up so much we're coming to you like prisoners. What happened to turning into a bat and getting laid whenever you want?"

  "I would have liked flying," I say. "Or hypnosis."

  Ly points at me. "That's what I'm talking about. My fantasy is not healing bloody noses and being good in gym class."

  Cass looks incredulous. "You don't like the strength? I feel like Superman."

  "We are a long way from Superman. How much do you lift?"

  "I went to a gym to test it out," Cass continues between bites, "and I still don't really know. I tried a bench with free weights, and I stopped at three hundred 'cause my spotter said he'd be no help with anything heavier."

  "Pounds?" says Ly.

  "Kilos."

  "Jesus," Ferrero says. "No wonder gun sales are through the roof."

  Ly smirks. "Well, the day you come up with a practical use for that, let me know." Cass's face falls. "Do you just drink blood, or do you need regular protein for that?"

  "Nutrition's not enough to make a difference," says Ferrero. "If it was, we'd need mouths like a baleen whale."

  "If I could have everyone's attention," Morgan interrupts smoothly, "since we're all together, I'd like to take a moment to address some important issues."

  "You're the boss," says Ly. It appears he speaks for the table. Morgan continues.

  "If you look at us, you would say that we are gathered here together for a reason. And I know what we all are thinking: we are here because of the virus each of us carries. But I don't subscribe to that belief. I have lost my job, my friends… they even got my dogs.

  "A few days ago, when I was covered in blood and hiding beneath a manhole because everybody on the street was staring at me, I thought I had lost my entire life. I injured one man and killed another because of my infection. I told myself I had no control. But that simply is not true.

  "The virus can take many things from us. But we say whether that is the end or just another opportunity to fight back. We can rebuild what it takes away. For every friend we have lost, we will make another. For every enemy who says we deserve death, we will live another day to spite them. I look around at each of you, and I know you are the ones in control. You chose to come here, to say th
at you are still human, and no virus, no corporation, and no court can devalue the person you are.

  "A great man once said that he had a dream of a world in which his children were not judged by the color of their skin but the content of their character. That dream even today is not complete, but it did change the world, and this country is a better place for it. My dream is that we see our trials through to the end and only accept a victory that recognizes in us the same life and liberties any human being ought to have."

  Ferrero is the first one to applaud, and the rest join in. It is a small sound, weak to the ear, but it is what we have. I stand up, and the others follow suit.

  "I guess someone took a public speaking course," Cass jokes.

  "I had time to think," Morgan says.

  "Can we have a toast?" suggests Ferrero. "To seeing our trial through?"

  "To winning," Cass rephrases, and we murmur assent. Glasses ring.

  At that moment, I feel better than I have in years. I don't usually fall for pretty words, but this feels different. I saw Morgan at his worst, and never did he hesitate or seem less than certain of his cause. He is genuine, and now, so am I. That must count for something.

  “But do we know how to do it?" Deborah asks. The room is quiet for a second, and she adds, "I mean, tell us the details. You can't physically be in the court, right? They'd arrest you."

  They all sit down. "We've given that some thought," Morgan says, "and we have a plan."

  31 - KERN

  September 7th

  I put the hardcopy lab results on the safehouse kitchen table. Next to it goes a desktop paper shredder. None of the F-prots move when I drop the news on them. Then, Yarborough, as if it is his job to call everything bullshit, speaks up.

  "Is this a backhanded way of telling us we suck?"

  I keep on my serious face. "There is no team I would rather have sanitizing the scene, but this turn of events is unfortunate in ways I haven't fully comprehended yet."

  Olsen seems angry. "That vipe didn't give her a love tap. He stabbed her in the neck."

  "Staged for our benefit," Breunig says. He and I have conferred, and now we present a united front. "He knew she'd live through it because of her infection."

  "That sounds like one dubious tactic," says Olsen. Her head is in her hands, and she clenches her lopsided hair. Her eyes are closed, recalling. "Not only that, you're saying Infinity was infected before the raid. That means that all of us, Cawdor included, went through training with her and didn't notice a thing?"

  "I said there was a leak," Breunig says. "I just thought it was in management."

  I break in. "I spoke with her superior in L.A. He said there were no signs. But she did have a week or so where she was incommunicado. That must have been her transition period."

  The medic sits up. "I should have had her get tested after Lorenz's house. Fuck, we should have screened her before we even cleared her for the run."

  "She even joked about it," says Yarborough. "'No, no, I didn't get bitten, here. I made soup.' What a cold bitch she must be."

  "I need a shower," says al-Ibrahim. "And a blood screen."

  "That brings me to the other lab results." I offer the paper, and Yarborough steps up to take it and read. "You may want to sit down."

  Comprehension dawns on the F-prot's face. "Okay," he says. "I thought this meeting could not get worse." He hands the paper to Breunig. It does not take long before he wordlessly passes it to Olsen and al-Ibrahim, who looks over Olsen's shoulder.

  "Well," says al-Ibrahim. "I guess that explains why he's not here."

  "I know it's hard to believe," Breunig says. "He was a pro about exposure."

  Yarborough nods. "Dude was ice."

  Al-Ibrahim snorts. "He was single. If DeStard wanted to lick you, you'd find a reason."

  "I am a long way from being Roland," Yarborough says. "Is there a way we can get confirmation on this before we do… whatever it is you want us to do?"

  I maintain eye contact. I have to get this right, or a lot of plans will come to a screeching halt. If Ranath or the rest of them figure out the line I walk, I will not have long to live. "The sample was retested to avoid human error. Getting a second sample from Roland is not in our procedure, for a very good reason. If he were compelled to feed or perceived us as hostile…" I let them think. "I'm sure you know his capabilities better than I do."

  Yarborough looks green. "I'm just saying, maybe the guy has earned a trial, too, you know? This kind of thing has to have happened before."

  "It happened in the early days of the program," Breunig says.

  Al-Ibrahim takes it in stride. "So… what happened to the poor guy? Girl. Whatever."

  Breunig is blunt. "They became a vipe, and to gain allies, they started infecting deliberately. Both had to be terminated."

  "Do we know that she bit him?" tries al-Ibrahim. "I mean, maybe he'd be willing to hunt her down at least."

  Olsen is irritated. "What is up with you assuming her mouth was on him? He was covered in her blood when he was healing her. A bad hangnail could have done it."

  "However he got it, he got it," I say, trying to take control. "All the wishing in the world won't make that go away. Now, before anyone decides to contact him, I should also point out that though he revealed Infinity's infected status, he did not approve of tying her off as a vector. He thought I might be able to arrange something. It was evident that he was emotionally compromised."

  Yarborough leafs through the report. "That really doesn't sound like Roland."

  I warm to the lie. I've rehearsed it. "I'm not saying he wasn't himself. He tried to make it sound logical, and to be honest, he said a lot of the same things you four are saying now. Shouldn't we just talk to Infinity? Bring her in? Restrain her? I know that whole process because four years ago, I went through it with Dr. Ulan.

  "We tried the reasonable solution, and it made things worse. She fed, she infected, and now we are where we are today. Roland understood that for years, but no matter how understandable his new position is, it is wrong." Yarborough starts to say something, but I cut him off. "I can't speak to his mental state, but he's a smart guy. As soon as he found out Infinity was infected, I'm sure he did the math and guessed that he could be positive in days. You know him best. Is he the sort of F-prot who gives up when he's frightened? Or does he get dangerous? Would he infect? Recruit? Train others?"

  The words sink in. I have them.

  Yarborough stares at the lab results, as if he can find a loophole in them. I pray that there's nothing wrong in there. I prepared it to fool Olsen; to the grunt, it should be airtight.

  Breunig is the first to speak. "Roland had a saying. 'Killing's a lot less dangerous than fighting.'"

  "Yeah," al-Ibrahim agrees. "I don't want to fight that guy."

  Yarborough hands the hardcopy back to me, and I know he's on board. I put the report in the shredder. The machine whirs, and then there is nothing left to do.

  "You won't have to," says Yarborough. "I'll start cooking."

  32 - RANATH

  September 9th

  The safehouse looks well-cleaned: if Infinity fed here, I can't tell. It smells more like lemon-scented sprays than a serial killer's den. I do my due diligence with pistol out, clearing every room, just in case she's hiding. But her possessions aren't here. Her mess isn't here. If that weren't obvious enough, there is a note left on the kitchen counter. It's under a little wooden block of some kind, a paperweight perhaps. The note itself is full of cross-outs, but it's legible:

  Roland,

  If you're reading this, you came looking for me. I don't think any kind of threat will warn you off, so let me set something straight here.

  Lying to you feels like one of the worst things I've ever done, but that doesn't mean I won't do it again. I've seen this pattern before. Because I've got a pretty face, guys convince themselves they're in love and forgive me all kinds of things. That is a mistake.

  This little carving is from th
e first commandment I ever broke. It's a graven image of Baal, god of the Canaanites and the princess Jezebel. When I had no future, and no god listened to my prayers, I made this, to keep a secret from my father. It reminded me that even the most powerful men don't know everything. But I have no secrets to hide anymore, so it's yours.

  I appreciate everything you did for me, but I don't deserve it. Let me go. Just because you saved my life doesn't mean you can save me.

  Infinity

  P.S. I vacuumed and cleaned out the sink traps, so don't bother looking for hairs.

  I pick up the lump on the table. It's a cherry-wood tablet, probably ten centimeters long and well-worn. The image is of a man with a scepter over his head and a stalk of grain in his other hand, wearing a sword at his waist. It is cool to the touch, as if it has been washed recently to get rid of any identifying residues.

  What strikes me about it is that it obviously has been made with care. I read the letter again and think of her in high school or college, praying to a dead god. And I consider the question of exactly which secrets of my own I wish to keep.

  I pocket the idol. If it has been washed, there is little I can do to track her with it. I pace through the living room, periodically squatting low to the ground to see if she has missed any hairs. As I work, I review the letter to discern her state of mind. If she is worried about me as a physical threat, she will be careful in her feeding habits. If she is distraught, she is less likely to clean up after herself. That means victims alive and infected.

  And why am I here? Will I really track her?

  I go into the bedroom and pause by the nightstand. Am I clinging to procedure to save me from thinking deeply? I decided long ago that what I do is a public service. Police are ineffectual against a threat like VIHPS; I was not—am not.

  Every time a vipe eluded me, whenever they struck victims while the team was still chasing financial records, whenever I ran down a false positive, I told myself that I would not quit. I had the pride to say the best vipe hunter in the world was staring out of the mirror back at me, and I would not let that standard slip.