Vampire Redemption

by Phil Tucker

  At the General's request, McKnight and Fred went upstairs and returned five minutes later with Dominique. She had showered, and walked unassisted, dressed in the same clothing the folks from McCance had provided her. Lee vacated his armchair for her and she sank into it gratefully. Selah stepped up and squeezed her hand. Dominique looked up and smiled tightly, her gaze still slightly vague.

  "Dr. Sanderson," said General Adams. "Thank you for all you have done. I understand you were injured during your escape from the lab. How are you feeling?"

  "Much better, thank you," said Dominique. "I think my concussion is disappearing. I'm still having some trouble remaining focused, so bear with me if I lose my train of thought."

  "Of course." Sam stepped up and handed Dominique a glass of water. She smiled at him and took a sip. "We need to produce a viable sample of the vaccine. What do you need to make that happen?"

  Dominique frowned as she thought this over. "A sample? I would need a fully-equipped lab. Preferably a couple of helping hands. What time frame are you looking at?"

  "We need the sample as soon as possible. Each week puts us deeper in the hole. We have at most a month to disseminate the vaccine to the public, at the very latest."

  "I would need a week, minimum, to create the vaccine itself. That's assuming the lab has the right equipment. I can provide you with a detailed list of what I'd need, but..." Dominique shook her head. "It's a pretty specialized process, made all the more complicated by the fact that we don't really understand why Selah's blood does what it ... does. We've also done no trial runs, no controlled tests, nothing." Frustration began to rise in her voice. "This is going to be incredibly risky. There's no guarantee that it would work on the first try. Usually it's a question of trial and error till we get it right."

  The General shook his head. "We don't have time."

  Dominique shook her head right back. "The urgency of the deadline has no influence on whether the hemaglutinin proteins we'll be producing will bind with a patient's antibodies, or determine what kind of response such a binding might induce. We're operating beyond our range of knowledge here. Nobody has ever worked with material like this. It could sicken the patients, or even kill them. We simply don't know."

  Selah stirred restlessly. She had thought this a sure thing.

  "Dr. Sanderson. I hate to say it, but we simply don't have a choice. We're out of time and this is the only possible solution we have." The General spoke in measured, guarded tones. "If we don't produce a vaccine, then either the Blood Thralls wipe out our civilization, leaving behind a barbaric wasteland for the vampires to rule, or the Miami vampires defeat them and become so entrenched and socially acceptable that we will never be able to dislodge them. This simply has to work."

  Dominique opened her mouth to complain, and then settled for shaking her head again. "Look, I'll do it. I'll do my best. We came up with a theory at the USAMRIID, but I have to tell you upfront we don't understand why the theory works. It's based on observations of how Selah's blood reacts to vampiric contamination, but even those observations were more speculations than definite fact." She took a sip of her water and then set it down on the coffee table. "To be honest, we don't know for sure that what happens when Selah gets bitten can even be explained through pure science. I never thought I'd say this, but there you have it. There may be something going on that defies our understanding."

  "Dr. Sanderson--" said the General.

  "I said I'd do it. I'm just making sure you all understand what's going on here. Far more takes place then a simple immune system response. It's not like Selah gains the ability to bend iron and leap tall buildings with a single bound because she has the right T-cells. Her very genetic makeup responds somehow, reconfigures itself, while the vampires who drink from her... Who even knows what happens biologically to the vampires to explain the resurgence of emotion and deprivation of their powers.

  "What we're going to try and do with this vaccine is ignore all that. Focus on the one aspect we've been able to tease out of this process and emphasize that in the hopes of providing an immune response that will allow a person to reject infection. Will it work? We don't know. Is there a chance? Sure. But there's also a chance the subject will die as their immune system runs amok. We were actively debating the possibility of the subject developing an auto-immune disease as a result of the inoculation."

  Dominique sat back and surveyed them all. "To develop a working vaccine that can be mass produced within the week? That would require that all of our assumptions and conclusions be correct, and that everything reacts as we hope it will. Is it possible? Sure. Is it likely?" She looked at Selah. "No."

  Everybody sat in silence. Ethan was the first to move. "We need to arrange this hit."

  Chico blew out an exasperated sigh. "We're not going to solve a war with more violence. Somebody will simply take Plessy's place."

  "But that will buy us time."

  McKnight shook her head. "That's not the issue. The Blood Thrall advance is the issue."

  Ethan smiled and spread his arms open wide. "We need to focus on what we can do. We can take a hit out on Plessy."

  "Toward what end?" McKnight shook her head disdainfully. "So that we feel better about ourselves for having done something while we drown in a plague of vampires?"

  "We're not asking you to be involved," said Ethan, an edge to his playful smile. An infuriating smile.

  Chico raised his hands, "Guys, enough, come on."

  "I'm just saying," said Ethan. "It's a clear and viable option. We could be in Miami or DC in two days and ready to go."

  "What we need," said the General, "is for Dominique to provide us with a list of equipment or name some labs that would suit her. So get some rest. Sleep, and tomorrow morning, we'll plan our next move. Whatever is going to happen next will happen fast. We're going to do our best to stay ahead of events and steer them in the direction we wish them to go. Understood?"

  People nodded, and then the general closed down the line. A moment of hushed stillness, and then Ethan hopped off the counter. "All right. I'm going to cook up a large pasta carbonara. It's my specialty. You guys hungry?"

  Selah's stomach gurgled at the thought of hot food and she nodded. McKnight did so almost reluctantly, but Dominique had fallen asleep again. Selah looked over to Lee, and realized that he had disappeared. Ethan entered the kitchen and began to rifle through the fridge, and Chico stepped up to crouch by Dominique and talk softly to her. Selah turned and began to head out of the room, but Dominique stopped her with a light touch.

  "Don't," she said. Chico fell silent. Dominique shook her head. "There's nothing you can do to help him. Nothing anybody can do. He just needs time."

  Selah opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. She nodded. Dominique smiled sadly, and reached out to squeeze her wrist. Selah bit back her protests and sat down. Some things, it seemed, would have to wait.

  Chapter 20

  Plans were set in motion early the next morning. With crisp mountain sunlight coming in through the windows, they ate a light breakfast cooked up by Ethan and listened as General Adam ordered his thoughts and told them what he thought was best.

  Selah, Dominique, and McKnight would head out with Chico to Brightstar Labs in Iowa, a private research lab that had granted Dominique access to whatever she needed. Lee and Gordon would check themselves into a medical clinic an hour away from Brightstar, where Dominique could keep an eye on them and ensure that their withdrawal symptoms and treatment were handled correctly. Ethan, Fred, and Sam were to head to DC.

  "You're going to do it," said Selah, a bite of crepe lifted to her mouth. General Adams frowned and didn't answer, so she looked over at Ethan. He was wearing a black apron with vertical white stripes down its front and was about to pour more batter into the crepe pan. He raised his eyebrows, affecting an innocent expression that was belied by his self-satisfied smile. "You guys are going to try and hit Plessy."

  Fred looked beautiful in her sky blue fle
ece pajamas, somehow exuding elegance and class as she sat back at the round breakfast table, one leg crossed over the other. "Selah. Plessy must be stopped."

  Selah turned back to General Adams. "This isn't right. We shouldn't fight them like this. We'll hand them all the ammo they need to paint us as a terrorist cell or something."

  "They're not executing the strike straight away," said General Adams. "They're going to get into position. If your vaccine falls through, we'll have no other choice."

  Selah frowned and bit down hard on her wedge of crepe. She almost resented that it was delicious. Ethan was making a huge fuss about cooking for everybody and his smug attitude made her want to slap him. "Fine. It won't be necessary. Our vaccine is going to work."

  Ethan raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, and flipped the next crepe. Fred bounced her foot, and sipped on her freshly squeezed orange juice. Sam leaned back, chewing slowly on his bite of crepe, and studied the ceiling.

  They headed out about a half hour after. Gordon was doing much better, but the combination of the awkward pain from the broken clavicle and the nascent withdrawal had him morose and taciturn. Lee was in poor shape and only came down when it was time to drive. He ducked into the back of the car, hunched and refusing to talk to anybody, and slumped over to stare out the window. McKnight took the wheel and Selah and Dominique got into Chico's car, a brand new Honda Civic that fairly crackled with new tech.

  Ethan and his team waved from the door, and they were off. It was a long drive, but the company was good. Dominique explained in greater detail what was involved in creating the vaccine, and Chico in turn filled them in about his flight from LA, the things he had seen, the horrors he had witnessed. The countryside rolled by, and soon the mountains were lost behind them. There was plenty of traffic streaming east, escaping the encroaching wave of Blood Thralls, and progress was slower than they had anticipated. McKnight drove close behind and Chico placed the Civic on autodrive for long stretches, leaning back and relaxing as the car navigated itself.

  They stopped for lunch at a rest stop diner, where they loaded up on grilled cheese sandwiches and drinks. Lee and Gordon chose to remain in the car, both of them claiming they weren't hungry, so that Selah, McKnight, Dominique, and Chico enjoyed an impromptu picnic in the sun, sitting on the broad wedge of grass that separated the parking lot from the rest stop itself. Selah lay back, enjoying how the grass tickled the nape of her neck, and drank in the sun. It had been too long since she had simply allowed its rays to sink into her skin, which had grown ashen and dry. She would need to get some basic necessities, she decided. Shea butter, moisturizers. She tuned the others out and ran her hand slowly over her scalp. Her hair was growing out. She'd need to make some call about what to do with it soon if she wasn't to grow out a mini-fro.

  McKnight forced them to get back in the cars and they were off once more. Selah pulled out Jane's Omni, and after excusing herself, she slipped on the Goggles and FingerTips. She logged into her Glade, and checked into the CNN news room. The shock was less the second time round, but she stopped in surprise at the sight of a familiar face. Fernanda, the reporter she had met in LA, was frozen in one of the screens, ready to give a report on student unrest in DC. Selah walked her FingerTips over and activated the video feed.

  Fernanda looked fresh, beautiful, her hair grown long, black undulating waves curled behind her ears, her expression grave and forthright as she told Selah about the recent disturbances on the DC Mall as a few hundred students had gathered to protest the government's decision to work with the Miami vampires.

  Selah shivered. The last time she had seen Fernanda had been in the LA Observatory. That final nightmarish night before the Blood Thralls had burst the Wall and the war had begun. Fernanda had been ordered by Arachne to interview Selah, extract a confession for the murder of Colonel Caldwell, and Selah had managed to convince her to escape and warn Chico of the impending crisis. She stared up at Fernanda's smoothly professional manner, so at odds with the panicked terror of that last night. She'd made it out. Had returned to work. Had probably filed a hell of a report too. The report finished and several related videos appeared, prompting Selah to learn more about the subject. Instead, she smiled with muted happiness for the reporter and moved on.

  There was too much going on. She left the CNN room and toured a constellation of private news sources, from top profile video bloggers to Aggregate Response Visualizations. The war was endlessly complex and the US military was struggling vastly to contain it. Dispirited, Selah retreated to her Garden and stepped into the sterile space. She could rebuild it anytime she wished to, but that desire was wholly absent. The vampires in Miami had wiped it clean, and with it, severed her connection to her old life, the Selah from Brooklyn. She toyed with the idea of summoning an archived copy of the Garden, but didn't. That wasn't her any longer.

  Instead, she began to browse the mass of messages and activity that had been piling up ever since she published that first video recording in Magnum, the Miami nightclub. She summoned an organization program and had it sort the friend requests into an artificial set of tiers, based both on proximity to people she knew, their own personal importance index, and the level of intimacy they were requesting. That took a good fifteen minutes, though in the end she didn't accept any of them.

  She turned her attention to the million plus notifications of references to her account. These ranged from mash-ups of the videos she had published to extended essays speculating on what had happened to her in Miami and LA. She dipped in and browsed fifty or so connections to get a taste and found everything from bizarre fan fiction to political screeds. She turned then to another window and checked who was tracking her Garden. She blinked. Everybody was, it seemed, from CNN to classified links to different US government bodies. News groups, conspiracy theorists, even groups located within Miami.

  She suddenly felt nervous. Anything she said or did or posted would instantly be picked up across the whole web. The pressure was suddenly enormous. People were reviling her, cheering her on, demanding she explain her actions, celebrating her as a heroine for more causes then she could count. Her silence seemed to have goaded them on more than anything she could have said; a quick check showed that she had only posted a half dozen items since she had arrived in Miami. The first was a photograph of houses lining the approach to the Miami Wall. A recorded caption blinked beneath it, and when she played it, she heard her hushed voice say, "Edge of the world. I'm going over, and I might never stop falling." She smiled, remembering how nervous she had been. Terrified. How dramatic.

  Then there was a seven-second clip. Curious, she played it and immediately saw a shot of her face inside a car. She looked so young, so nervous, filled with bravado: "Going to South Beach. Fuck the law!" She blinked. It had over two million views.

  The next item was her Magnum 360 degree recording. She didn't bother playing it. That had gone massively viral, over five million views. Selah couldn't believe it. There were tens of thousands of recorded reactions, endless copies made and then edited.

  The next item was the message that hung in the empty space of her Garden. Turning to it, she read the words again:

  I am alive and well. The bastards that did this are going to pay.

  This one had received another million plus views, along with a huge response. She pulled out some stats. The avalanche of connections had started with this posting, sparking off conjecture and theorizing across the net. She shook her head. Ridiculous.

  The next item hadn't been posted by her, but it had been tied so firmly to her Garden that it might as well have been. It was the video of her rescuing Cloud from the cage fight, and that had over seventeen million views. She hesitated then played it again. The memories came rushing back. She stopped it when she saw herself appear, almost too fast to follow on the high definition film. Her impossible rescue. It was here that the attention to her Garden had gone critical.

  Then, nothing for almost three weeks. Endless public activi
ty, especially related to Sawiskera's death. Then her public posting from LA. Her message to her grandmother, accidentally posted for the world to view. She couldn't take it any longer. A feeling of claustrophobia was starting to build in her chest, in her throat, so she pulled off the Goggles and squinted against the bright sunlight. Stared out the window, mind racing. She had posted four items, plus the rescue footage, and that had set off a wildfire. She looked down at the Omni and quickly logged off, suddenly terrified of posting something by accident.

  Chico was slouched back, watching the car drive itself, half dozing in the sunlight that poured through his window. Selah stayed quiet. She couldn't begin to phrase to them the tight panic that was swirling in her chest. Everybody was watching her account. Cloud was right. Holy crap, Cloud was right. She needed to think really hard before posting her next item or video. What she said next could set off who knew what kind of reaction. She rubbed her face again, a sense of surreal disbelief swamping her. The Selah those people saw, the Sawiskera-killing Selah, the girl turned king-slayer who showed impossible vampire powers only to appear as human once more with that cryptic message on the eve of the Second War--that girl wasn't her. The girl was ... What? A creation, a cipher, a social construct, a projection from millions of minds. It had nothing to do with her.

  They drove on. The sun rolled across the sky and the highway remained broad and immense, flung across the country like an endless spear tossed at the eastern horizon. Soon they were driving through fields of corn that stretched impossibly far around them, and for a while Selah slept. It seemed as if the War and Plessy and Theo and all the bad madness of it were suspended while she rolled across the earth in the car, a time-out that allowed her to lower her walls and breathe deeply for the first time in ages.

  When she awoke, they were pulling up outside the Holyoke Private Clinic. Yawning, sitting up, she looked around. They were in a small town, and the clinic was an unprepossessing building, a single-storied complex with large tinted windows, surrounded on all sides by a parking lot. Behind them, a highway was filled with rushing cars, but here, everything seemed still and calm. They parked next to each other and Selah got out, stretching with her hands on her hips. She walked over to the Subaru and pulled open the back door, then recoiled in shock. Lee was curled up on the backseat, knees under his chin, face pressed into the fabric of the seat.