Nation of Enemies (2 page)

 

Chapter 2

Washington, D.C.

A
WAITER
SWIN
GS
by and hands Senator Richard Hensley another scotch on the rocks. It helps to override the anger that has settled in Richard's gut, loosens him up enough to mingle at this fund-­raising gala. Between tuxedos and gowns, he watches fellow senator James Gardiner, the newly nominated Liberty Party presidential candidate. Richard runs a hand through his thick white hair. Gardiner is ten years his junior and has barely dipped his toes in politics, yet somehow he may lead the country in a matter of months. It's tough for Richard to stomach.

Second place is unacceptable, and yet here he is. A month has passed since he lost the nomination to Gardiner by a handful of votes. After years of public ser­vice—­years of ushering through the MedID to protect these evidently ungrateful citizens. The wealthy hide out in Safe Districts, and the middle class has fled to the countryside, while the low-­income population remains in what's left of city housing. Agriculture is the only sector that's seen a boon in a decade. Fortunately, the largest corporations have survived by increasing security to keep their buildings and employees safe. But for the most part Richard's hometown of Boston has been reduced to piles of bricks. And though the New York City buildings still pierce the sky, firefighters can't keep up with the blazes that are set daily. Chicago is burning as well, and from the air, Los Angeles sparkles, the sun glinting off the shards of glass from incessant looting.

After the Planes Fell, every religious fanatic and mentally ill citizen was emboldened. They come from all sides, with different agendas—­though one of the shared themes is restoring their lost civil liberties. If it was just one effort, it would have been more predictable, easier to fight. But the attacks don't stop and law enforcement can't keep up. The lack of courage in the citizenry is disappointing. If it wasn't for Richard's MedID program, all hope and control would be lost. He'd been foolish to expect gratitude in the form of the nomination. He drains his glass, enjoys the burn that travels down his throat.

For two weeks following the results, he shut himself away from the world and considered his options. But the private sector doesn't appeal to him and he's far too young to retire. Politics course through his veins, a calling passed down from a father and a grandfather who were senators until their dying days. To walk away is unthinkable. So when he received the call, he had no choice but to accept.

His rival appears to have similar style and grace, floating seamlessly through the sea of party supporters. They lock eyes. Richard smiles and holds up a hand in greeting. After all, they must appear cordial now that he's Gardiner's running mate.

­Couples crowd onto the dance floor. An old pang grips him as he feels for the ring he still wears, turning it around his finger. Norah would have shone on that floor. She would have propped him up tonight, slid her arm into his and fortified him. He drains his drink, checks his watch. A familiar hand swoops in and plucks the empty glass from his hand.

“Did they teach that at Yale, Carter?”

“No sir.” Carter grins. “When I was President Clark's personal aide, I became intimately familiar with the importance of refreshments at such events.”

“I won't argue with that.”

Landing Carter as his chief aide was a godsend. It came as a surprise that the President was willing to part with him, though he obviously realized it was for the good of the party. Now, Carter rarely leaves Richard's side. He's a constant, competent presence who has been steeped in this world for over ten years, since he was a White House intern. Carter's eyes stray over his shoulder. “Senator, the President's heading your way.”

Turning, Richard regards President Clark. He's an imposing presence, standing at six-­five, with broad shoulders and a shaved head. His face softens when he smiles, but that's the only softness he displays. In his two terms as President he's provided great strength to the country in the face of the war, a true Commander-­in-­Chief. Richard extends a hand and the two men shake in greeting. “Mr. President. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Always.” President Clark says it with a charming grin, but it falls away quickly.

“Evening, Mr. President,” Carter says.

“Good to see you, Carter.” The President raises his glass to them and drinks.

Richard's aide excuses himself and disappears into the flow of partygoers. Secret Ser­vice agents for both men linger a few feet away, their eyes on the crowd.

“You should have won the nomination,” President Clark says.

“That was certainly my opinion, Mr. President.”

“Everything can change in an election year. For better or for worse.”

“I'm sure James Gardiner will be the man to make those changes. For the better.”

“Don't be so sure.” President Clark glances around them. “Up to now it's all been campaign rhetoric. Bipartisan bullshit. Promising an end to the war.”

“It's all anyone wants.”

“Indeed. But this is no time to change a system that's in its infancy. If he has his way, Gardiner will phase out the MedID.”

“I'm well aware.” Richard's cheeks flush and he sips his scotch.

“Polls indicate ­people believe our country has changed for the worse in the past four years. That the War at Home has gone on too long. But after almost eight years in the Oval Office, I can tell you honestly, the country has never been stronger. And that's in great part because of your efforts.”

“Thank you,” says Richard. “Truth is, I expected more voter support after introducing the MedID.”

­“People are shortsighted,” President Clark says. “They can't see potential.”

Several religious groups have labeled the MedID the “Mark of the Beast,” the beginning of Armageddon. But it's meant to root out terrorists and individuals who have a reason to stay off the grid. Of course, they're the only ones who don't have MedIDs! A decade ago, with the wave of random school shootings, suicide bombings, and Chris­tian martyrs, citizens were clamoring for the government's help. Richard delivered. And After the Planes Fell, those same citizens felt reassured by the MedID. Over the years, they've spent billions on the system, and there's quantifiable proof that MedID works. Law enforcement uses it to track suspects and to identify those who don't want to be found. Because of the mandated physician chip updates, health care has become streamlined. The workforce is strong. Ever since employers started hiring contract workers and scanning their MedIDs, productivity rates have spiked. No one takes sick days anymore. Those with clean MedIDs praise the system, and anyone with a score below a 75 cries foul. They're angry, desperate. But for things to change, a segment of the population will suffer. It's no different from any other war.

“Gardiner will turn on us,” the President says.

“I know, sir.” He bristles at the thought of James Gardiner's lack of respect or understanding of the MedID. It may not seem it now, but it will be the glue in their society. The two men stand in silence as the orchestra strikes up a new tune.

“I hear it's beautiful in Boston this time of year,” President Clark says.

An odd non sequitur. “My favorite time at home.”

“I hear the tourism office is kicking off a national campaign.”

“Yes. It's on my agenda to attend.” His thoughts go to his daughter, Taylor, who lives in Boston and hasn't spoken to him in over a year.

“Persuade James Gardiner to join you.” President Clark gazes into the crowd. “I'm sure a few words from our presidential candidate would go a long way to encouraging the average American to vacation in the States.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, I'm quite capable of amping up the crowd alone.”

“Yes, but he ought to join you at the event. See that he does.” President Clark looks pointedly at him and pats a heavy hand on his shoulder before moving into the crowd.

The air is suddenly thick and soupy, the tie at Richard's neck snug. A waiter appears with another drink. He swallows the remaining contents of his glass and takes the new one. The rest of the night passes quickly, though Richard is distracted by this task of convincing James Gardiner to join him in Boston. Something in his gut tells him the President's order is about more than promoting tourism.

 

May, 2032

 

Chapter 3

Safe District 149, Massachusetts

I
T
'
S
HARD
FOR
Lily Fitzgerald to believe that only a month ago they were on a ship to London, only to be denied entry. Now thirty-­four weeks pregnant, she rests her hand atop her belly and sets her feet on an unpacked box of pots and pans. Early morning sun fills the room as she sits at the kitchen table checking email on her tablet. She shifts uncomfortably in the maternity jeans she's come to loathe. The baby moves and a bit of Lily's belly juts out. An elbow? A foot?

Their failed attempt to immigrate brought her to a dark place. Since the moment they scanned her belly, she's questioned everything. If it weren't for the baby, they might be living in England. And though she wants this baby with every thread of her being, she knows it's selfish. After Ian was born, they debated having another child. It seemed wrong, knowingly bringing a child into war. But it didn't stop her yearning. Finally, they decided to leave it up to Fate. Fate waited ten long years. Despite everything, she can't wait to meet her daughter.

She's promised herself not to cry anymore, and she needs to be strong for Ian. Cole says he'll find a way around the MedID system, but she can't imagine how. He also swore to keep them safe. When they'd disembarked in South Boston, he surprised her with a self-­driving, bulletproof Land Rover waiting for them in the harbor parking lot. And instead of going to their wilting Victorian in Brookline, he'd taken them to a Safe District just west of the city. They'd been fighting this move for years, clinging to an old way of life in a beautiful, but decaying, neighborhood. Now they live in an unimaginative, mind-­numbing, prefab house. Still, she has to admit that driving through heavily guarded gates into a community surrounded by twenty-­foot walls is comforting. She actually lets Ian ride his bike down the street now. And Cole has abandoned his treadmill, his runs finally infused with fresh air. He must've spent most of their savings for their new life-­in-­a-­bubble. The exclusivity of it all bothers her—­most ­people can't afford to live this way. But her children are safe here. So to hell with her guilty conscience.

The next email fills the screen with video of an animated woman. Her voice is eerily friendly. “Lily Fitzgerald, your daughter has a forty-­eight percent higher chance of securing a clean MedID number if you address issues in utero. New life equals new opportunity. With embryonic intervention, your daughter won't need to worry about major medical issues. Though you've entered your third trimester, there are still options available. Don't wait until it's too late. Call now to give your baby a healthier future.”

With an edge of anger in her voice, she commands, “Delete.” Goddamn them. These infernal governmental messages torment her. It's becoming the norm, choosing sex, eye and hair color, musical and athletic abilities, along with gene editing to cull “abnormalities.” But it's not natural, and shouldn't having a baby—­of all things—­be natural? Her hand shakes as she reaches for her bagel, knocking into her orange juice and sending a splash over the edge. “Shit.”

Orange drips pool on the laminate wood floor. In her mind she hears the judge denying them again and again. Cole enters the kitchen and kisses the top of her head. She doesn't move as she watches him mop up the juice with a towel.

“What's wrong?” he says.

“Another email from Government Health.”

He sits next to her. “You all right?”

“She's a seventy-­four, Cole. What if we missed an opportunity to change her life? To give her a healthier existence?

“You're a sixty-­seven and I think you're perfect.”

“Don't joke.”

“I'm not.” He sighs. “Listen. We had ultrasounds, did all the same tests when you were pregnant with Ian. It'll be okay. She'll be happy and healthy and that's it.”

This is one of the many reasons she married him. He has a way of calming her. She shakes her head. “Every time I get one of those emails it throws me. Sorry.”

“Don't be. ­People in Government Health know how to guilt ­people into action.”

Lily taps his smartwatch with her finger. “Don't forget your gig this morning. The fourth grade waits for no one.”

It takes a moment to register and then Cole remembers. He rushes down the hall.

The door to Ian's room is open, voices emanate from the computer. Quietly, Cole enters and sits on the unmade bed. His son's back is to him, seated at his desk in a corner of the room. Like every other room in the house, his is filled with unopened boxes.

A large monitor features the heading
Social Studies, Miss Johnson's Class
along with nine video feed windows with his classmates and his teacher. Ian spins around in his chair, and Cole gives him a thumbs-­up. His son grins the same grin as his mother, though Cole doesn't see Lily's quite as often anymore, especially since London. Ian is a good physical mix of them: her smile, his eyes; her hair, his physique. He's always been a good boy, kind to others and very gentle. Perhaps too gentle for this world.

“Miss Johnson, my dad is here,” Ian announces.

On cue, Cole walks over and waves into the camera.

“Class, this is Dr. Fitzgerald,” Miss Johnson announces.

“Good morning, Miss Johnson. Class.”

The students return the greeting in monotone unison.

“As we begin our unit on the MedID, I thought it would be helpful to have an expert answer some of your questions,” Miss Johnson says. “Dr. Fitzgerald works at Massachusetts General Hospital in the emergency room, so he knows a lot about this subject. How would you like to start, Doctor?”

“I'm sure everyone has questions,” Cole says. “Who wants to go first?”

The kids are hesitant, looking away from their monitors. The teacher says, “Why don't I get the ball rolling. As someone who works in a hospital, can you share what the MedID law has changed over the past several years?”

“I don't think we have enough time for that.” He smiles. “But hospitals can better treat patients who have a MedID. Being able to quickly identify a patient's medical history is essential in the treatment process. It saves lives.”

“Some ­people don't get MedIDs,” one of Ian's classmates says. “How come?”

Cole hesitates, considers his words carefully. “Every U.S. citizen is required to have one, but yes, some ­people choose not to. The chip was originally meant to streamline health care. But it also allows the government to see personal information. Some ­people don't agree with that. They want their private lives to stay private. But the government thinks they can protect citizens better if they have access to certain areas of our lives. After the Planes Fell, they changed the MedID system. Law enforcement started using it to narrow the suspect list for terrorists. Criminals don't want to be tracked by being scanned, right? So that's one reason. But even some good ­people don't want the government to know their personal business.”

“So they go to jail?” a dark-­eyed girl asks.

“That's up to the police and the FBI. But they're breaking the law by not having one.”

“So it's not just our medical records?” the girl continues.

“No, MedIDs are also tied to driver's licenses, social security cards, passports, bank accounts. Employers and insurance companies also use MedID information.”

A blond boy asks, “Do visitors from other countries have to get our MedIDs?”

“Good question. If they're just visiting, they're given a temporary locator chip. It's like a MedID, but the only information on it is the person's name, country of origin, and contact information. The system tracks visitors who stay longer than four weeks. But all ­people entering the U.S. on visas, work permits, or those attending college are given MedIDs. When they go through customs, there's a MedID clinic right there at the airport.”

Another girl raises her hand. “Do other countries make ­people wear MedIDs?”

“Japan is the only other country participating in a MedID program,” he explains. “But the chips and technology are available worldwide. Other countries can deny ­people entrance based on MedID numbers. They're more apt to allow in only ­people with clean chips. Many countries are happy to take our healthiest citizens who'll be productive in their society.”

The same girl asks, “How do doctors get new information on the chip?”

“I bet you remember this from checkups with your doctor. We use an MRS—­a Medical Record Scanner—­and the information is sent wirelessly. Parts of the chip are encrypted, which means they can't be changed. Things like your name, birth date, social security number.”

There is a lull in the questions. Miss Johnson says, “Well thank you for your time, Dr. Fitzgerald. That was very informative.”

Cole nods, pats his son on the shoulder. Ian beams and returns his attention to his class. At the door, Cole lingers. School should mean recess and lunches with friends, team sports and field trips. It pains him that his kids will miss all of that. But at least they won't be sitting targets for rogue students and radical groups.

Back in the kitchen, Lily's reading a book. Cole takes a seat at the table, moves his chair next to hers. Placing both hands on her belly, he leans over and kisses her passionately, something he hasn't done in far too long. When they part, she has tears in her eyes.

She looks down at his hands. “I can't bring myself to unpack the boxes. To put up pictures and artwork.”

“I know.” He leans back in his chair and stares at the bare white walls that bring the word sanitized to mind. “But seeing our things again might make you feel better.”

He knows she wants out of this country more than he does. There must've been a moment in London when she wondered if he'd emigrate without her. Their MedID point inequality heightens her anxiety, makes her worry he might leave her. It's ludicrous, of course. But it's happened to friends of theirs. All he can do is reassure her.

“I should get going.” Cole kisses her check on his way out.

“You wearing your skins?” she calls.

Pulling down the collar of his shirt, he reveals the gray, skintight material that serves as a ballistics shield. When they returned from London, he'd bought skins for the whole family. The bodysuit was uncomfortable at first, but he's gotten used to it. With hospitals a constant target, he'll take all the help he can get.