Invasive Procedures (13 page)

Yoshida held open the rusty metal door at the bottom of the staircase, and Monica stepped inside. It was like stepping into another world, going
from darkness to light, leaving the grungy, mildew-infested halls of an abandoned retirement home and entering an immaculate laboratory—the kind of lab one would expect to find at a multinational electronics corporation: bright, modern, and static-free. Robotic arms with needle-sharp points at their tips lined a narrow conveyor belt that ran the length of the room. Elsewhere were computer terminals of various shapes and sizes. Miles of cable extended to every machine and device and then to the twenty or so computer servers lined against the wall. The servers hummed quietly and blinked with so many tiny dots of colored light that they looked like boxed Christmas trees.

“Welcome to my office,” Yoshida said, clearly pleased with himself. “Come on, I’ll show you around.” He held the door open long enough for Lichen to enter and then crossed the room to where the conveyor belt ended. When he saw that Monica hadn’t followed, he waved a hand and shouted her over.

Reluctantly, she went to him, eyeing each of the robots as she passed. They stood like frozen little soldiers, each about the length of Monica’s arms, and looked like the kind of machines you might suspect to find on the assembly lines of auto manufacturers, only much smaller.

She found Yoshida standing at a folding table near the end of the conveyor belt. On the table, lined in a neat row atop a piece of felt, lay four small computer chips. Extending from one side of each of the chips were several dozen strands of fiber optics, making it look as if each chip had a spiked haircut roughly two inches long.

“I was going to make the last one earlier,” Yoshida said, “but I thought you might want to see it for yourself. So I waited. You ready?”

“Ready for what?” she said.

Yoshida’s already-stretched-to-the-limit smile widened, and he flipped a switch.

The room came to life. All the robotic arms and drills and machines hummed and whirred and moved into position over the conveyor belt—the army of electronic soldiers were getting into formation. Monica leaned forward and peered down the length of the conveyor belt and saw that the machines and arms at the opposite end were already at work, poking and soldering something on the belt. Then the conveyor belt jerked forward, and Monica stepped back, startled.

As the object moved down the belt, the arms and devices stretched
and poked and did their brief business, then shrunk back out of the way, allowing the next cog in the machine to poke or stamp or do whatever it was designed for.

Finally the object being created came into view.

It, too, was a computer chip, identical to the other four on the table. Yoshida, now wearing white cotton gloves, picked up the chip as delicately as he might pick up a volatile explosive and placed it gently beside the others. He sighed, cocked his head to side, and admired his creations. “They’re beautiful, don’t you think?”

“What are they?” Monica said.

“Well, they’re not exactly ready yet,” Yoshida said. “I still haven’t downloaded all the data onto them. Galen wants to wait until right before the surgeries to do that.”

“What are they?” she repeated.

He looked at her, still all smile, and put his hands in his lab coat pockets. “These, Dr. Owens, are George Galen’s mind.”

Frank followed Agents Riggs and Carter through the halls of the BHA’s underground facility until they reached the locker room. As far as locker rooms went, it wasn’t anything to write home about. Rows of tall metal lockers with thin wooden benches between them.

Riggs made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “This locker room connects to our Level 4 containment area, where the infirmary is housed. All of your patients are waiting in there. Director Irving wants you to treat them with the countervirus as soon as possible, so I’ll shut up and let you get down to business. You’ll need to go in wearing full biogear. Agent Carter here will give you all the equipment you need and then accompany you inside and help out however he can.”

“And the countervirus?” Frank said.

“If our luggage boys followed instructions, your trunk should be waiting for you inside Level 4. Any other questions?”

Frank shook his head.

“Good. And don’t sweat it. We brought you here because you’re the best.” He gave Frank an encouraging tap on the arm and left.

“Well,” said Carter, “let’s get you suited up.”

He led Frank down one of the aisles of lockers. Once he found the locker he was looking for, he stopped and tapped it with his finger. “This
one’s yours. Everything you need is inside. Strip down to your underwear. Put on the suit and helmet. If you have any questions, I’ll be over there changing.” Carter left Frank and went to his own locker only ten yards away.

Frank opened the locker. A black rubber suit hung neatly under a single beam of light. Frank took it out and held it up to his body. Instead of being loose-fitting to allow for air circulation, like the suits he was accustomed to, it was tight, like a wetsuit.

Frank undressed, hung his military uniform on the hooks inside the locker, placed his shoes and socks on the floor of the locker, then stood there in his boxers, not sure how to proceed. The biosuit was a single piece of rubbery fabric, like a glove. As far as Frank could tell, there were no zippers or holes in the back for opening and allowing someone to step into it.

“Stretch the collar,” Carter said, watching from a distance. To demonstrate, Carter stretched the rubbery collar of his own suit, making a wide hole. Then he stepped into the hole and slowly worked the suit up his body and over his shoulders.

It took a little doing, but Frank eventually got his on as well. It fit him like a glove, as if it had been made to his exact size and specifications. He did a few knee bends. The fabric was snug but not restrictive.

The helmet came on next. It slid over Frank’s head easily and connected to two air tanks in the bottom of the locker via a long air hose. Frank opened the air valve, and cool oxygen flowed into the helmet. He slid the air tanks into the backpack clearly designed to carry them and slung the backpack over his shoulders, tightening the straps.

He looked at himself in the mirror hanging at the back of his locker and felt more like a scuba diver than a virologist.

A compartment below the mirror caught his eye. He opened it. Inside hung a contaminant rod, a pistol, four cartridges of ammunition, and a Kevlar vest. He lifted the pistol and pulled back on the hammer. It was light, made of durable plastic, and fit snugly in his rubbery grip. He returned it to its stand and lifted the vest. It was heavy, with a large hump in the back to fit over the user’s air tanks and backpack.

Carter appeared at his side dressed in his own biosuit.

“Why do I need this?” Frank said, holding up the vest and speaking loudly to be heard though the helmet.

Carter pointed to an electronic device on the wrist of his suit. “Hit your comlink,” he said.

Frank found his own and touched it. Carter’s voice became clear and audible inside his helmet. “We wear those vests only when we’re in the field,” Carter said. “Same for the sidearm. Hopefully you won’t need them.”

“I wouldn’t think so. I’m here as a medical consultant, remember?”

Carter shrugged. “I’m not the quartermaster.” Then, eyeing Frank’s suit, he said, “How’s the fit?”

Frank rotated his shoulders. “Feels good.”

Carter did a quick check for leaks, then pressed a button on Frank’s shoulder that sealed the bottom of Frank’s helmet to the neck of his suit, making it airtight.

“Ready?” said Carter.

“As I’ll ever be,” said Frank.

Carter led the way to Level 4, passing through a series of glass doors that required security clearances. Finally they reached the entrance.

INFIRMARY
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
WARNING: LEVEL 4 CONTAINMENT
DO NOT PROCEED WITHOUT
PROTECTIVE CLOTHING

They went inside. The entry room was wide and sterile and lined with medicine cabinets. Frank’s metal trunk sat on the floor near the wall. Carter went to a cabinet and found an injection gun and a handful of syringes. Frank opened the trunk, removed several vials of red countervirus, and gently put them in a pouch on his hip.

“The patients’ rooms are through here,” said Carter, leading the way.

They went to an adjacent room with a line of doors on one side.

Frank walked to the door nearest them and peered through the window in it. Inside, an old man slept on a hospital bed surrounded by a wall of life-monitoring machines. He looked to be in his seventies, with wrinkled, saggy, liver-spotted skin. His jaw was covered with white stubbly facial hair that matched the wispy white hair on his head. He wore a red
hospital Johnnie with the letters
BHA
embroidered over the right breast and a pair of white ankle socks.

“Who is he?” Frank said.

“Name’s Richard Schneider,” said Carter. “He was the second one we brought in. Healers had treated him the night before we found him, so it hasn’t been three days yet. The virus is still in him, spreading through his system.”

“Agent Riggs said the Healers have their own version of the countervirus. Were they scheduled to give it to him?”

“That’s our guess. Mr. Schneider isn’t being too forthcoming with the details, so we can’t be sure. But from what we’ve gathered, Healers typically return three days after giving the treatment to administer a countervirus of their own creation. We’ve got two of our boys watching Schneider’s house in case the Healers come back.”

“What were they treating him for?”

“Parkinson’s disease. It’s monogenetic, meaning it’s caused by a change in the DNA sequence of a single gene. Healers target that type of disease because technically it’s the easiest to cure. Fix the one bad gene and the disease goes away.” He pushed open the door. “Come on, let’s give Mr. Schneider his dose of countervirus.”

As it turned out, Schneider wasn’t asleep after all. His eyes snapped open when Frank and Carter entered, and he sat up in his bed, looking suspicious.

“You can’t hold me here,” he said. “I got rights.”

Carter touched a button on his comlink, and his voice was broadcast from a speaker on his helmet. “Mr. Schneider, this is Dr. Frank Hartman. He’ll be giving you some medication today.”

Schneider scooted to the far side of the bed. “I don’t need any medication. Not from you.”

Now that they were close, Frank could see that the old man’s hands and face were trembling; it was an advanced case of Parkinson’s disease.

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter, Mr. Schneider,” Carter said. “So I’ll appreciate your being cooperative.” He gestured at Frank to proceed.

Frank looked down at the trembling old man and felt increasingly uncomfortable. Not only did he have serious reservations about administering the countervirus before proper testing had been conducted and FDA
approval had been granted, but he also disliked treating patients suffering from so much anxiety.

He hesitated, then removed a vial of countervirus from his pouch and stepped to Schneider’s IV. When it became obvious to Schneider that Frank intended to attach the vial to the IV tube, Schneider pulled the IV needle from his wrist.

“You’re not putting that inside me,” he said, angry now. “You don’t have the right to put nothing inside me. Not unless I say so. I’m in the middle of something. I can’t have you putting stuff inside me right now. You’ll mess it up.”

“Mr. Schneider,” Carter said, remaining calm. “You are making this more difficult than it needs to be.” He gave Frank the injection gun. “You will remain still so that Dr. Hartman can give you this injection, or we will be forced to restrain you.”

“The hell you will. I want my lawyer on the phone. You people can’t hold me here.”

Carter held his ground. “Actually, Mr. Schneider, we can. You have an illegal substance in your body which puts those around you in danger.”

“I took precautions. I hung the plastic like they told me. I stayed in bed. I wasn’t going to get out. No one was in danger. It was only going to be for a few days, until the treatment ran its course, see?” He held his hands out. “Look, I got the Parkinson’s, all right? I need this treatment they gave me. I can’t have you putting stuff in me.”

Frank loaded the vial into the injection gun.

“What’s the matter, you deaf?” said Schneider. “I said I don’t want any of your meds.”

Carter held up a hand to quiet him. “I’m not going to argue with you, Mr. Schneider. Right now, you will follow instructions and remain still. Had you not pulled out your IV, we could have done this the easy way.”

Schneider pointed a trembling finger. “You’re not sticking me with that, you hear? In the IV or otherwise. Not unless you tell me what it is.”

Carter hesitated.

“It’s a countervirus,” said Frank simply. He wasn’t going to lie to the old man.

“Countervirus?” said Schneider, suddenly looking horrified. “You mean it’ll stop the treatment?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pressed himself against the bar on the opposite side of the bed. “You stay away
from me, you hear me? I’ll be cured in a few hours. Once it runs through my system. You stay away from me.”