Invasive Procedures (28 page)

“But how is that possible? The virus and the organ can’t coexist. The virus should annihilate the organ. It’s not Galen’s DNA.”

Monica looked defeated. “That’s just it. They
are
the same DNA. That’s why the virus and organ can coexist. The strain of virus you’re carrying
is
George Galen’s DNA. He engineered it to match his genome.”

Byron stepped forward. “You’re saying this virus is changing our DNA into George Galen’s?”

“That’s what I’m saying. It was Galen’s goal from the beginning, to restructure an adult’s entire genetic makeup to match his own, to make living copies of himself.”

Suddenly it all made sense to Frank. Suddenly everything clicked into place. The prophecy in
The Book of Becoming
regarding the prophet’s death and rebirth. The final illustration in the book.
The Council of the Prophets
. The five identical George Galens. They’re us, thought Frank. We are the prophet reborn.

Everyone started speaking at once. A frenzy of conversation. Now that it was clear what Galen intended, how he planned to genetically change them into copies of himself, immediate escape was the only option. Nick and Hal argued over when would be the best time to try to leave. Byron assaulted Monica with a dozen questions. Dolores offered a vocal prayer. And Frank . . . Frank simply felt numb. Everything he had learned about Galen and the Healers now made iron-clad sense. Galen wasn’t in the altruistic business of curing disease. He never had been—or at least, that wasn’t his primary concern. Healing disease was only a step in his own selfish effort to cheat death. Healing had won him recruits, had earned him respect. But it wasn’t what he was after. No, what Galen wanted was immortality, and in order to accomplish that impossibility, in order to alter an entire genome, he knew that he would have to do it first on a tiny scale: change the code in one place, then two, then a few genes at once, until at last he was certain that a comprehensive DNA switch was possible.

So he had formed these Healers. He had rallied these men and convinced them that they were engaged in a cause more noble than themselves, endowing them with strength and abilities. And all along it was he, this self-made prophet, who was set to reap the greatest reward.

And yet,
The Book of Becoming
had been so convincing. Galen had seemed so impassioned in his writing, so converted to his own theology.
If he
was
a charlatan and if his aim was truly selfish, he was certainly a convincing liar.

Then there was his behavior following the Human Genome Project. Did that not reflect a man who truly believed much could be done to cure disease? Was it possible that Galen actually believed himself a prophet? Had he envisioned this, as he claimed, since his youth?

Frank shook his head. It didn’t matter. Either way, Galen was no giver of life. He was no Healer. He was a thief. Pure and simple. And Frank was not one to be taken by thieves.

“Everyone be quiet,” he said. “Let’s all think for a second.”

“Think?” said Hal. “We don’t have time to think. You heard her.”

“Your best time to go is now,” said Monica with some urgency. “There are fewer Healers at night. More will come at first light.”

“Just because Galen thought he could do this to us,” said Frank, “doesn’t mean he can. Now relax.”

“But what if he can?” said Dolores. “What if we’re changing like she said? I don’t want that man’s mind inside me.”

Frank ran a hand through his hair. “That’s just it. You
don’t
have Galen’s mind inside you. And you won’t. No DNA can control how you think. Galen can’t change our memories. He can alter DNA, but he can’t give us his mind.”

In his peripheral vision, Frank detected a subtle change in Monica’s expression that made him doubt his own words, and the instant the doubt came, he knew why.

“The chip,” he said.

“What chip?” said Nick.

“The stitched wound on the back of your neck,” said Frank. “We all have one. So did Jonathan.”

Their hands instinctively reached back behind their necks and felt the prickle of the stitches over each of their wounds.

“Care to enlighten us, Doctor?” said Frank.

Monica’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“I found a chip in Jonathan,” Frank said, addressing them all. “A computer chip, no bigger than a postage stamp, surgically deposited on the base of his brain stem. Whoever did it to him used an incision like the ones we have on us.”

Hal’s hands clenched into fists and he stepped threateningly toward Monica. “You put a chip inside us?”

“It wasn’t me. It was Galen. Before he went under.
He
implanted them.”

“What are they for?” said Frank.

Monica shook her head. “I don’t know exactly. All I know is that Yoshida loaded them with all of Galen’s research, his files, his essays, his journals, all of his knowledge. Galen even recorded much of the last few years of his life with a camcorder so that the footage could be loaded onto the chips as well. A library of data.”

“But not his mind?” said Byron.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. The chip isn’t only data. It also contains software Yoshida developed, software that can mimic a person’s reasoning, anticipate his or her reaction to certain stimuli. The more information the software has about the person—his previous decisions, his opinions, his emotional state in various circumstances—the more able the software is to replicate the person’s psychological state.”

“Replicate?” said Frank. “You mean, the software can guess how Galen would think?”

“Guess and then react. It’s not passive processing. Once the software chooses what it thinks will be Galen’s response, it takes action. It activates neural receptors and causes the individual to act.”

“I don’t get it,” said Dolores. “We’re supposed to think differently? I don’t notice anything different.”

“That’s because you never used your brain in the first place,” said Hal.

Dolores gave him a look.

“We haven’t noticed any change,” said Frank, “because it’s possible the chip hasn’t been triggered yet.”

“Triggered?” said Byron.

“Turned on,” said Monica. “Activated.”

“And when will that happen?” said Nick.

“The chip is triggered by the virus,” said Monica. “Once the virus has spread though your system, viral genes converge on the brain stem and set off the chip.”

“Set off?” said Dolores. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re not waiting around to find out,” said Frank. “This virus has a three-day incubation period, meaning we have three days until it spreads completely through our system and does what Galen intended. Two days have already passed, so we have roughly twenty-four hours to get the countervirus in us. The BHA has developed one, and so have the Healers. Now, if we can find the Healers’ version—”

Monica shook her head. “You won’t. Not here. Galen kept this cabin clean. No samples of the countervirus. He knew you’d try to find it as soon as you realized what was happening, so he had it moved off-site. Your best shot is the BHA.”

Hal chuckled. “Is that so?”

“Lay off,” said Dolores.

“What is it with you people?” said Hal. “Am I only person here who didn’t get beat with the Stupid Stick? We shouldn’t believe a word this woman says. She has every reason to lie to us. If she had this countermedicine stuff, she wouldn’t give it to us anyway. Because she knows the moment we get out of here and get to the police, her ass goes to jail.”

“I’m not lying. If you want to waste your time combing this cabin top to bottom, be my guest. But I’m telling you, there’s none here.”

Frank made an executive decision. “We’re leaving. Now.” He turned to Monica. “Where can we get clothes and supplies?”

“There’s a storage closet in the hall where they keep extra equipment. They have clothes for you there.”

Frank took her wrist. “Show us.” Then, dropping his voice to a near whisper, “And if you
are
lying, if you try to alert anyone, Hal here has a poker I’m sure he’s eager to use.”

The corners of Hal’s mouth coiled up into a grin.

Frank pulled Monica toward the door. “Wait,” she said, reaching back to the cart and gathering the syringes, “you’ll need these.”

Frank nodded to Byron. “Byron, carry the syringes. I don’t want her holding anything she could use as a weapon.”

“I’m not one of them,” she said.

Frank stepped close to her face. “Look, ma’am, I want to believe you. Really, I do. But right now, there’s a lot of evidence stacked against you, the greatest of which is a big fat scar on each of us. Now, if you want the benefit of the doubt, if you want an ounce of trust from any of us, you’re going to have to earn it. You’re going to have to translate those tears into
action—in other words, if I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions. No arguments. You just do it.”

She nodded.

Byron held out his hands, and Monica gave him the syringes.

Frank led them across the room to the door, where he paused and looked at Monica’s feet. “Take off your shoes.”

Monica did so immediately.

“Carry them. I want you walking as quietly as the rest of us.”

He pulled open the door. The hall was empty, still, and quiet. Monica led them through the darkness in the opposite direction Frank had gone earlier. Frank cringed at every creak of the floorboards, every heavy shuffle of their bare feet. In their room they could talk freely; they could make noise; but out here, where they were not permitted, there were those like Stone and Lichen with weapons and sensitive ears.

They reached a door, and Monica opened it. Everyone silently followed her inside. A string hung from the ceiling, and Monica pulled it. A lone, naked lightbulb illuminated.

They were in the storage room. Hal was nearest the door and shut it behind them.

A row of freestanding shelves was packed floor to ceiling with medical supplies and boxes. Monica walked to the rear of the room to the last shelf, where several matching gray suits hung in plastic dry-cleaning bags. A red necktie was draped over each hanger. Frank recognized the suits. They were identical to the one Galen had been wearing.

Monica removed one off the rack, and read the large tag that hung from it. “This one’s for you, Nick.”

Nick took the suit. “You got to be kidding me. We’re supposed to wear this?”

Frank saw that each of the suits was tagged with a name that corresponded to one of the organ recipients. Hal found his and lifted it off the rack. “What, are we going to church or something? I’m not wearing this. I want my old clothes back.”

“Your old clothes smelled like a dead dog,” said Dolores. “They probably burned those the moment they took them off your drunk self.”

Frank took his suit. It was just as Galen had drawn them in
The Book of Becoming:
five George Galens in gray suits and red neckties. He shook the thought from his mind. What mattered was that they were clothes; the
thick material would protect them from the cold and elements. “These are the only clothes we have,” he said, “so unless you want to go outside in your gowns, I say we get dressed.”

Dolores dressed behind the back shelf with Monica while the men dressed toward the front
of
the room. Besides the suit and tie, each bag also included a white oxford shirt, a pair of undergarments, dark cotton socks, and a white handkerchief folded neatly in the breast pocket of the suit coat.

Byron examined the manufacturer’s tag inside. “It’s Italian.” He held the coat in front of him, examining it. “Probably cost a fortune.”

“The fit’s pretty good, too,” said Nick, bending his elbows and looking where the cuff of the coat met his sleeve. “I never had a suit before.”

Frank’s suit, originally intended for someone else, was a size or two too big on him. The pants were loose around the waist, but with the belt notched tight, it didn’t matter.

“Do we have to wear the tie?” Nick asked.

“What kind of stupid question is that?” said Hal. “You’re not going to a job interview, idiot. You don’t even have to wear the coat.”

Nick looked down at the coat he was wearing and did a half turn. “I like the coat.”

“We should take the coats,” said Frank. “It’s cold out. They’ll help keep us warm.”

Hal looked ready to protest but instead draped his coat over one shoulder and folded his arms across his chest.

“Are you boys decent out there?” Dolores whispered.

“Yes,” said Frank.

“Now I’m coming out,” she said, “but if any of you laugh, I’ll knock your nose so far inside you, you’ll take a crap whenever you sneeze.”

She stepped out. Her suit was identical to the men’s, and she looked as if she’d rather be wearing anything else.

Hal stifled a laugh, and Dolores scowled.

“I know a drag queen is a man who dresses up like a woman,” said Hal, “but what do call a woman who dresses up like a man? A drag king?” He laughed again.

“Leave her alone,” said Nick. Then he turned to Dolores and spoke softly. “You look nice, Dolores.”

“Yeah, Dolores,” said Byron, “real dignified. Classy, even.”

Dolores brightened for the briefest of moments until Hal giggled, “Yeah. For a guy.”

Monica interrupted with a box filled with pairs of polished black wingtips. “Here. Put on your shoes.”

Frank searched through the box until he found the pair labeled with his name. Not the best shoes for walking, he thought, pulling them out and bending them at the toe. But at least the soles were rubber; they’d be quiet on the floor in the hall.

They were still tying the laces when they heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.

Frank signaled them to move behind a shelf, and all but Monica obeyed instantly. Frank beckoned her to come, but she shook her head and shooed him into the shadows.

The door opened just as Frank and the others concealed themselves. Through the crack between the items on the shelf, Frank could see a short Healer enter the room, his face shrouded by the hood of his black cape.

“I heard voices,” the Healer said. It was a voice Frank recognized but couldn’t place.