Adopted Son (27 page)
In one small section of the Center are the epidemiologists. Their job is to track the propagation of the disease. They look at census data all day, examining which populations are the most vulnerable, and develop trends in the spread of the disease. All this is fed into the giant political machine to be used for budgets and planning, but the epidemiologists themselves don’t receive much respect around the halls of the NIH. They aren’t biologists after all, they aren’t doctors after all. Very few of them have PhDs. But despite their status as second-class scientists, a breakthrough is about to occur.
It starts one day, as all days start, with the crunching of numbers and the development of models. Hal Sportman sits at his computer like he does every morning, entering numbers. He sits with his face up close to the screen on account of his bad eyes. He is running a program that uses historical data to develop trends. All of the information has been entered. Every case (statistically speaking) of HS has been added to the database. He hits the enter button to start the simulation. After a few seconds of whirring a map of the world appears on the screen, with everything in green. Green represents the human population. The date begins to move forward and red spots appear on the map. The red spots represent alien populations. As the date ticks forward and the computer processes the data in its database more and more of the world turns red. It reaches today’s date, and almost one tenth of the globe is covered in the red stain. Then the simulation starts and the computer begins to divine the future based on what it knows of the past. The red blotches spread and slowly cover the world. The simulation shows that within seventy-five years, the human race will effectively be extinct.
Hal squints at the screen to check his model. There seems to be an error. There is still one small spot of green on the globe. Way out in the Pacific Ocean. He checks the map, it is the small island of Niue that remains green. There must be an error in the simulation, or a lucky accident of the Monte Carlo code. He runs it a second time, again Niue remains free of the red plague that engulfs the rest of the planet. He reaches across his desk and pulls out a very lengthy computer printout and begins scrolling through the data by hand to find the error. The process takes him hours. Hours of sitting and making little marks with his red pencil against the giant accordion of paper. But the work pays off, he finds something. His model isn’t defective.
That afternoon, his number checked and rechecked, he enters the office of Dr. Nancy Collins to give her the news.
“Dr. Collins, I’ve found something important,” he says, bursting in through the closed door. She is meeting with some vendors who want to supply new reagents. They are not pleased with the interruption. “I’ve found an immune population.” He drops the large printout on her desk.
“What are you talking about? Who are you?” she says. She remembers a day not long ago when she knew all of the people on the HS project. Now it is rare that she recognizes the people who greet her as she walks the halls.
Hal spoke very hastily, a characteristic that most people found annoying. “Hal Sportman, I’m an epidemiologist. I was doing some simulations to show how the number of cases of HS will increase over time, but the model is based on the number of current cases, you see, the number of current cases, that’s where the simulation failed, because there has never been a case of HS on Niue, so a multiple of zero is still zero, there has never been a case on Niue do you see?” he said in one breath.
“Huh?”
“Ok, ok,” he said trying to catch his breath and contain his excitement. He slowed down and tried to speak more clearly. “I’ve got a statistical model that references our database of all known cases of HS. I’ve just noticed that there has never been a case on Niue Island. That implies that the native population has some sort of resistance or something because it doesn’t make sense otherwise.”
“Niue, I don’t even know where that is. There can’t be many people there, maybe they’re just lucky.”
“No, no, they can’t be that lucky. Global HS infection rates are near ten percent. With their population they should have at least two hundred cases, but they have zero. And it’s not just missing data, they’ve been reporting zeros. I’ve done some research, and they are a pretty isolated population, maybe they’ve got some sort of genetic resistance or something.”
Nancy looked at his map and started at the small green dot. It would make sense that some population was immune. One of the great frustrations with the HS research was that no immune population had yet been found, the virus was too universal. If an immune population could be found and studied, a vaccine could be developed based on the immunity factor. “We’ve got to get this information to Dr. Mensen right away,” she said. “You call the CDC and confirm these numbers, I’ll take this up the chain ASAP.” She turned to the vendors, “I’m sorry gentleman, I’ve got to go.” The vendors frown in disappointment.
Two weeks after Hal Sportman’s discovery. On a deserted street in Muscat, Oman
Wind is blowing. It is a hot wind that comes south from the Rub al Kaliq. It is a dry wind. Autumn has arrived in this desolate place, and what few leaves there are have scattered themselves through the streets. A figure is walking down a deserted road. The figure is wearing the black burqa veil required of all women in this Muslim nation. The street is empty as the figure moves silently past whorls of leaves and paper. It floats rather than moves, its legs are covered in thick wrapping, leaving the impression of sliding rather than walking. The figure stops only once in its travels. It pauses to look at a wall covered in graffiti. It is Arabic, of course, but when translated the words ominously cry out, “They Are Coming!” The figure continues down the deserted avenue. There are very few people left in Oman these days. Birth rates have dwindled to almost zero and the majority of infants bearing the so-called “Face of the Devil” are left to die in the trash. There is no one left to perform basic services, and so a good percentage of the remaining population has left to find greener pastures in other parts of the Middle-East.
There are a few who stayed of course. Those too infirm or scared to leave, the religious police, opportunists and speculators. Parts of the city aren’t as deserted as this. A few places still have some modicum of a normal life. Women still peruse the shops of the souk, men still gather in the coffee houses to chew qat and boast of their accomplishments. Few travel here though. This is the Rub al Jardon, where the demi-men live in hiding and scrabble an existence from what they can steal.
With a quick glance to ensure privacy, the figure moves into an alley of bleached stone. A rotted wooden door stands at the entrance to a small basement. Further down the alley a pile of garbage stirs. Through the veil the figure can see the masked man who waits and guards. After a nod, the figure enters the door stealthily and proceeds down a dusty, unlit corridor to a large room. The figure removes his veil and allows his bright head to shine in the dim lighting. This is one of the few places where he can be himself. The crowd sits on ornate yet ratty rugs strewn across the dirt floor. They take up every available inch of space. Their bare feet rubbing up against the qat leaves that have been scattered about for their pleasure. No one is chewing though. They are all listening. Listening to one man; the stranger, the leader, the one who walks taller than most. The one known as Trinity. He wears a dark blue robe emblazoned with three white stars. He is speaking.
“Brothers do not be taken in by the lies that these monkeys have told you all your lives. They call you rats, they call you devils. Yet you listen to them. You hide in the shadows, hide under veils, you let them beat and murder you. You must not do this. You must reclaim your heritage. You must reclaim your birthright. You must reclaim your destiny. Brothers, I was once like you. I was afraid, I was told that I was inferior, that I was a freak, that I was a mistake, that I was a pathetic wretch who had no choice but to beg God, the monkey god, for mercy. I hid my head in shame. But no longer my brothers! I have seen the light, and it burns ever so brightly. I saw the light in a glow of fire. I have walked through fire. I have seen my compatriots, by brothers, killed by the hundreds just because they had the audacity to be alive. I ran from the monkeys, I hid from the monkeys. I spent a long time just like you, here in the lightless places, cold and alone in the dirt.” He reached down and picked up a handful of dirt, letting it slowly slip through his fingers.
“But I had a revelation my brothers. For so long I tried to be like them, to be a pale imitation of them, accepting of my lot as a second-class citizen. But I say I had a revelation! Yes, I saw my god. And my god isn’t the monkey god, he doesn’t call himself Allah or Yahweh. No, my god is real, and he comes from the stars, the Pleiades to be certain. Yes, and he speaks. We all heard his words four years ago. He said, “We Are Coming!” Yes my brothers, our father is returning to reclaim us. No longer will we live like this. We are part of a great galactic civilization that exists on a thousand worlds. Worlds of peace and beauty and unity. Worlds where we can live unashamed of who we are and what we represent. This is why the monkeys hate us. We threaten them, we are more powerful than they are. I know this sounds absurd to people like you who’ve lived in filth all your lives, but I tell you it’s true. We will overcome and we will prevail!” A muted shout comes over the audience. The crowd has never heard anyone like this before. He represents strength, and self-pride, and purpose. He represents what they all lack– a sense of value.
“My revelation in the swamp guided me and I have since traveled the world to spread the message. I left the United States where we are nothing more than research subjects in prison hospitals. I traveled through Europe where the first of us was so brutally murdered. I traveled through Asia where we, who should be kings, beg in the streets like dogs. I traveled through the concentration camps of Africa, where thousands die of disease and starvation. Now I have come here, to a place where very few of my kind are even allowed to live. You are all lucky in a way to have survived this long. It is unfortunate that people so young as you have seen so much death.”
“But that changes and that changes today. We are the Spearhead. We are here to provide the beach. Our fathers are coming to reclaim us, and we shall give them the Earth as a present. We shall beat these monkeys. We shall overcome our adversity. We shall wipe our oppressors off the face of this globe and erase all knowledge of their petty and simple civilization.”
“You must stop worshiping these monkey gods and stop pretending to be monkeys. This only demeans you. You must stand up for your rights. From now on we take back what is ours. My associates will provide you with weapons and training, the means to defend yourselves. When the monkeys kill one of you, you kill two of them. When they murder a child, you execute the parents. We shall overcome. Their numbers are dwindling while we increase in strength every day. We shall prevail. Now is the time to fight. The jihad against the monkeys and their oppression begins today. We will win because right is on our side, our fathers are on our side, and because God himself is on our side!”
The crowd was unsure how to react. They liked what Trinity had to say, but they didn’t trust their abilities. This wasn’t a surprise to the Spearhead of course. As much as every person in the room hated the monkeys that had abandoned and hated them, and even though everyone knew someone who had been killed because of his species, they still maintained the mentality of the slave. Franklin had to prove to them they were not slaves but masters, that they had the power to change their destiny. Only then would they follow his banner with the fervor he needed of them.
“Now brothers, let me show you how powerful we really are.” He pointed to a back room. Two of his bodyguards, rifles slung over their shoulders, disappeared into the darkness, appearing seconds later with a scared and disheveled looking human. He had been badly beaten. One eye was swelled shut and his shirt was stained rusty-brown with blood. The two bodyguards pushed the man to his knees before Franklin. He was hard to recognize since his head and beard had been shaved. His hands were tied behind his back. The crowd watched with eyes wide open. “This is Tarek ibn-Sanaa.” He is the local leader of the religious police. “He is the one who has given orders to cut you down on sight. He is the leader of the monkeys in this area. He is our hated enemy. Let him be the first sacrifice to our new era!” He pulled a long, curved dagger from his vestments. A bodyguard grabbed the man’s jaw and pulled his head back. “The Spearhead now makes the first gift of blood to our fathers.” He slashed the man’s throat from ear to ear. The lifeless corpse collapsed to the dusty floor. “Now who will fight in my jihad?”
Slowly, one by one, and hesitantly at first, the converts stepped forward and crowded around the body. The first few began to poke at it, still scared that somehow it might be dangerous. It did not stir. Franklin looked at his two guards with apprehension. The reaction of the crowd would determine whether he had won them over to his cause.
A young man of about twelve was the first. He leaned over the corpse and spit. Soon the rest were doing the same. A cheer of joy came over the group as they began to kick the body and beat it with their shoes.
Niue, South Pacific. Eight months after Hal Sportman’s discovery.
A stiff breeze is blowing. A stiff breeze always blows here. It’s the trade winds. A constant, non-ending flow of air that covers the island from North-West to South-East. It makes it hard to work on the beach, papers fly everywhere. There is even a dearth of rocks to keep things weighted down. Nancy sits on the front porch of what could only sympathetically be called a shack. It is a wooden hut really, but it serves her purposes, at least for now. She sits behind a table sipping from her water bottle. Below her on the sand is a makeshift clinic. About a dozen native fishermen stand in line waiting for their turn to give blood. Two local nurses, impeccably yet most incongruently dressed, are taking samples in little vials and marking them. Nancy is supervising. It isn’t as hot as she expected it to be here, and the wind could be pleasant if it stopped once in a while. There is a hand at her shoulder. She turns her head to see her research associate standing behind her. “Hey Frank.”