“Now,” Darwin continued, “what happened among the people of that day? Some saw those tiny, almost invisible snakes; others did not. Those who saw them proclaimed, This proves the unshakable word of Mother Church. Those who saw nothing said, The scriptures cannot be taken literally—believers must find the truth in their own hearts. And so the Schism split the world, pitting one camp against another.”
“Yes, Mr. Darwin, We know all that.”
“So, ma’am, you must also know what happened in subsequent generations. The rift in belief created a similar rift in the population. Papists only married Papists. The Redeemed only married the Redeemed.”
“Of course.”
“Consequently,” Darwin stressed the word, “those who could see so-called snakes in their blood only married those of similar condition. Those who saw nothing married others who saw nothing. Is it any wonder that, generation by generation, snakes became more and more visible in Papist blood? And less and less likely to be seen in the Redeemed? It is simply a matter of selective breeding, ma’am. The Papists are not different from us because the Virgin put her mark on them; they are different because they selected to make themselves different. To emphasize the difference. And the Redeemed have no snakes in their blood for the same reason—simply a side effect of our ancestors’ marital prejudice.”
“Mr. Darwin!” Anne said, aghast. “Such claims! No wonder you have angered the Papists as much as your own countrymen. To suggest that God’s sacred sign is a mere barnyard accident . . . ” The Queen caught her breath. “Sir, where is your decency?”
“I have something better than decency,” he answered in a calm voice. “I have proof.”
“Proof? How could you prove such a thing?”
“Some years ago, ma’am,” he said, “I took passage on a ship sailing the South Seas; and during that voyage, I saw things that completely opened my eyes.”
“More pigeons, Mr. Darwin?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “The birds of the Pacific Islands are hardly fit study for a scientist. What I observed were the efforts of missionaries, ma’am; both Papists and the Redeemed, preaching to the natives who lived in those isles. Have you heard of such missions?”
“We sponsor several of those missions personally, Mr. Darwin.”
“And the results, ma’am?”
“Mixed,” Anne confessed. “Some tribes are open to Redemption, while others . . .” she shrugged. “The Papists do no better.”
“Just so, Your Majesty. As an example, I visited one island where the Papists had been established for thirty years, yet the local priest claimed to have made no true converts. Mark that word, true. Many of the natives espoused Papist beliefs, took part in Papist worship, and so on . . . but the priest could find no snakes in their blood, so he told himself they had not truly embraced Mother Church.”
“You would argue with the priest’s conclusion?”
“Certainly,” Darwin replied. “In my eyes, the island tribe was simply a closed population that for reasons of chance never developed serpentine analogues in their blood. If you interbreed only white pigeons, you will never develop a black.”
Anne said, “But—” then stopped stone-still, as the words of a recent mission report rose in her mind. We are continually frustrated in our work on this island; although the people bow before God’s altar, their blood continues to show the serpent-stain of the Unclean . . .
“Mr. Darwin,” Anne murmured, “could there possibly be islands where all the people had snakes in their blood regardless of their beliefs?”
“There are indeed, ma’am,” Darwin nodded. “Almost all the island populations are isolated and homogeneous. I found some tribes with snakes, some without—no matter which missionaries ministered there. When the Papists land among a people who already have analogues in their bloodstream, they soon declare that they have converted the tribe and hold great celebrations. However, when they land among a people whose blood is clear . . . well, they can preach all they want, but they won’t change the effects of generations of breeding. Usually, they just give up and move on to another island where the people are more receptive . . . which is to say, where they have the right blood to begin with.”
“Ah.”
Anne lowered her eyes. Darwin had been speaking about the Papists, but she knew the same was true of Redeemed missionaries. They tended to stay a year in one place, do a few blood tests, then move on if they could not show results—because results were exclusively measured in blood rather than what the people professed. If missionaries, her own missionaries, had been abandoning sincere believers because they didn’t believe the conversions were “true” . . . what would God think of that?
But Darwin hadn’t stopped talking. “Our voyage visited many islands, Your Majesty, a few of which had never received missionaries of any kind. Some of those tribes had serpentine analogues in their blood, while some did not . . . and each island was homogeneous. I hypothesize that the potential for analogues might have been distributed evenly through humankind millennia ago; but as populations grew isolated, geographically or socially—”
“Yes, Mr. Darwin, We see your point.” Anne found she was tapping her finger on the edge of the table. She stopped herself and stood up. “This matter deserves further study. We shall instruct the police to find a place where you can continue your work without disturbance from outside sources.”
Darwin’s face fell. “Would that be a jail, ma’am?”
“A comfortable place of sanctuary,” she replied. “You will be supplied with anything you need—books, paper, all of that.”
“Will I be able to publish?” he asked.
“You will have at least one avid reader for whatever you write.” She favored him with the slightest bow of her head. “You have given Us much to think about.”
“Then let me give you one more thought, Your Majesty.” He took a deep breath, as if he was trying to decide if his next words would be offensive beyond the pale. Then, Anne supposed, he decided he had nothing to lose. “Papists and the Redeemed have been selectively breeding within their own populations for five hundred years. There may come a time when they are too far removed from each other to be . . . cross-fertile. Already there are rumors of an unusually high mortality rate for children with one Papist parent and one Redeemed. In time—millennia perhaps, but in time—I believe the two populations may split into separate species.”
“Separate species? Of humans?”
“It may happen, Your Majesty. At this very moment, we may be witnessing the origin of two new species.”
Queen Anne pursed her lips in distaste. “The origin of species, Mr. Darwin? If that is a joke, We are not amused.”
###
3. The Efficacy of Trisulphozymase for Preventing SA Incompatibility Reactions in Births of Mixed-Blood Parentage:
The hearing was held behind closed doors—a bad sign. Julia Grant had asked some of her colleagues what to expect and they all said, Show trial, Show trial. Senator McCarthy loved to get his name in the papers. And yet the reporters were locked out today; just Julia and the Committee.
A very bad sign.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Grant,” McCarthy said after she had sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. His voice had a smarmy quality to it; an unpleasant man’s attempt at charm. “I suppose you know why you’re here?”
“No, Senator.”
“Come now, Doctor,” he chided, as if speaking to a five-year-old. “Surely you must know the purpose of this Committee? And it therefore follows that we would take great interest in your work.”
“My work is medical research,” she replied tightly. “I have no political interests at all.” She forced herself to stare McCarthy in the eye. “I heal the sick.”
“There’s sickness and there’s sickness,” the senator shrugged. “We can all understand doctors who deal with sniffles and sneezes and heart attacks . . . but that’s not your field, is it?”
&nb
sp; “No,” she answered. “I’m a hematologist, specializing in SA compatibility problems.”
“Could you explain that for the Committee?”
The doctor suspected that every man on the Committee—and they were all men—had already been briefed on her research. If nothing else, they read the newspapers. Still, why not humor them?
“All human blood,” she began, “is either SA-positive or SA-negative—”
“SA stands for Serpentine Analogue?” McCarthy interrupted.
“Yes. The name comes from the outdated belief—”
“That some people have snakes in their bloodstream,” McCarthy interrupted again.
“That’s correct.”
“Do some people have snakes in their bloodstream?” McCarthy asked.
“Snakelike entities,” another senator corrected . . . probably a Democrat.
“Serpentine analogues are not present in anyone’s bloodstream,” Julia said. “They don’t appear until blood is exposed to air. It’s a specialized clotting mechanism, triggered by an enzyme that encourages microscopic threads to form at the site of an injury—”
“In other words,” McCarthy said, “SA-positive blood works differently from SA-negative. Correct?”
“In this one regard, yes,” Julia nodded.
“Do you think SA-positive blood is better than SA-negative?”
“It provides slightly more effective clotting at wounds—”
“Do you admire SA-positive blood, doctor?”
Julia stared at him. Mentally, she counted to ten. “I am fascinated by all types of blood,” she answered at last. “SA-positive clots faster . . . which is useful to stop bleeding but gives a slightly greater risk of stroke. Overall, I’d say the good points and the bad even out. If they didn’t, evolution would soon skew the population strongly one way or the other.”
McCarthy folded his hands on the table in front of him. “So you believe in evolution, Dr. Grant?”
“I’m a scientist. I also believe in gravity, thermodynamics, and the universal gas equation.”
Not a man on the Committee so much as smiled.
“Doctor,” McCarthy said quietly, “what blood type are you?”
She gritted her teeth. “The Supreme Court ruled that no one has to answer that question.”
In sudden fury, McCarthy slammed his fist onto the table. “Do you see the Supreme Court in here with us? Do you? Because if you do, show me those black-robed faggots and I’ll boot their pope-loving asses straight out the window.” He settled back in his chair. “I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of your situation, Dr. Grant.”
“What situation?” she demanded. “I am a medical researcher—”
“And you’ve developed a new drug, haven’t you?” McCarthy snapped. “A new drug. That you want to loose on the public. I wonder if the person who invented heroin called herself a medical researcher, too?”
“Mr. McCarthy, trisulphozymase is not a narcotic. It is a carefully developed pharmaceutical—”
“Which encourages miscegenation between Papists and the Redeemed,” McCarthy finished. “That’s what it does, doesn’t it, doctor?”
“No!” She took a deep breath. “Trisulphozymase combats certain medical problems that occur when an SA-positive father and an SA-negative mother—”
“When a Papist man sires his filthy whelp on a Redeemed woman,” McCarthy interrupted. “When a Papist fucks one of the Saved! That’s what you want to encourage, Doctor? That’s how you’ll make the world a better place?”
Julia said nothing. She felt her cheeks burn like a child caught in some forbidden act; and she was infuriated that her reaction was guilt rather than outrage at what McCarthy was saying.
Yes, she wanted to say, it will make the world a better place to stop separating humanity into hostile camps. Most people on the planet had no comprehension of either Papist or Redeemed theology; but somehow, the poisonous idea of blood discrimination had spread to every country of the globe, regardless of religious faith. Insanity! And millions recognized it to be so. Yet the McCarthys of the world found it a convenient ladder on which they could climb to power, and who was stopping them? Look at Germany. Look at Ireland. Look at India and Pakistan.
Ridiculous . . . and deadly, time and again throughout history. Perhaps she should set aside SA compatibility and work on a cure for the drive to demonize those who were different.
“A doctor deals with lives, not lifestyles,” she said stiffly. “If I were confronted with a patient whose heart had stopped beating, I would attempt to start it again, whether the victim were an innocent child, a convicted murderer, or even a senator.” She leaned forward. “Has anyone here ever seen an SA incompatibility reaction? How a newborn infant dies? How the mother goes into spasm and usually dies, too? Real people, gentlemen; real screams of pain! Only a monster could witness such things and still rant about ideology.”
A few Committee members had the grace to look uncomfortable, turning away from her gaze; but McCarthy was not one of them. “You think this is all just ideology, Doctor? A lofty discussion of philosophical doctrine?” He shook his head in unconvincing sorrow. “I wish it were . . . I truly wish it were. I wish the Papists weren’t trying to rip down everything this country stands for, obeying the orders of their foreign masters to corrupt the spirit of liberty itself. Why should I care about a screaming woman, when she’s whored herself to the likes of them? She made her decision; now she has to face the consequences. No one in this room invented SA incompatibility, Doctor. God did . . . and I think we should take the hint, don’t you?”
The sharp catch of bile rose in Julia’s throat. For a moment, she couldn’t find the strength to fight it; but she couldn’t be sick, not in front of these men. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to breathe evenly until the moment passed. “Senators,” she said at last, “do you actually intend to suppress trisulphozymase? To withhold lifesaving treatment from those who need it?”
“Some might say it’s a sign,” McCarthy answered, “that a Redeemed man can father a child on a Papist without complications, but it doesn’t work the other way around. Doesn’t that sound like a sign to you?”
“Senators,” she said, ignoring McCarthy, “does this Committee intend to suppress trisulphozymase?”
Silence. Then McCarthy gave a little smile. “How does trisulphozymase work, Doctor?”
Julia stared at him, wondering where this new question was going. Warily, she replied, “The drug dismantles the SA factor enzyme into basic amino acids. This prevents a more dangerous response from the mother’s immune system, which might otherwise produce antibodies to the enzyme. The antibodies are the real problem, because they may attack the baby’s—”
“So what you’re saying,” McCarthy interrupted, “is that this drug can destroy the snakes in a Papist’s bloodstream?”
“I told you, there are no snakes! Trisulphozymase temporarily eliminates the extra clotting enzyme that comes from SA-positive blood.”
“It’s only temporary?”
“That’s all that’s needed. One injection shortly before the moment of birth—”
“But what about repeated doses?” McCarthy interrupted. “Or a massive dose? Could you permanently wipe out the SA factor in a person’s blood?”
“You don’t administer trisulphozymase to an SA-positive person,” Julia said. “It’s given to an SA-negative mother to prevent—”
“But suppose you did give it to a Papist. A big dose. Lots of doses. Could it destroy the SA factor forever?” He leaned forward eagerly. “Could it make them like us?”
And now Julia saw it: what this hearing was all about. Because the Committee couldn’t really suppress the treatment, could they? Her results were known in the research community. Even if the drug were banned here, other countries would use it; and there would eventually be enough public pressure to force reevaluation. This wasn’t about the lives of babies and mothers; this was about clipping the devil’s horns.
Keeping her voice steady, she said, “It would be unconscionable to administer this drug or any other to a person whose health did not require it. Large doses or long-term use of trisulphozymase would have side effects I could not venture to guess.” The faces in front of her showed no expression. “Gentlemen,” she tried again, “in an SA-positive person, the enzyme is natural. A natural component of blood. To interfere with a body’s natural functioning when there is no medical justification . . . ” she threw up her hands. “Do no harm, gentlemen. The heart of the Hippocratic Oath. At the very least, doctors must do no harm.”
“Does that mean,” McCarthy asked, “that you would refuse to head a research project into this matter?”
“Me?”
“You’re the top expert in your field,” McCarthy shrugged. “If anybody can get rid of the snakes once and for all, it’s you.”
“Senator,” Julia said, “have you no shame? Have you no shame at all? You want to endanger lives over this . . . triviality? A meaningless difference you can only detect with a microscope—”
“Which means they can walk among us, Doctor! Papists can walk among us. Them with their special blood, their snakes, their damned inbreeding—they’re the ones who care about what you call a triviality! They’re the ones who flaunt it in our faces. They say they’re God’s Chosen. With God’s Mark of Blessing. Well, I intend to erase that mark, with or without your help.”
“Without,” Julia told him. “Definitely without.”
McCarthy’s gaze was on her. He did not look like a man who had just received an absolute no. With an expression far too smug, he said, “Let me tell you a secret, Doctor. From our agents in the enemy camp. Even as we speak, the Papists are planning to contaminate our water supply with their damned SA enzyme. Poison us or make us like them . . . one way or the other. We need your drug to fight that pollution; to remove the enzyme from our blood before it can destroy us! What about that, Dr. Grant? Will your precious medical ethics let you work on a treatment to keep us safe from their damned Papist toxins?”
Galileo's Children: Tales of Science vs. Superstition Page 20