Immunity Index Page 24

  I, Peng, designer of life, was searching for agents to mimic a specific virus-associated protein, and I had identified two promising drugs that already sat on shelves. They might interfere with the ability of a virus to enter a human cell and begin to reproduce. And if those drugs didn’t work, would a placebo effect for the human host be enough to allow those cells to intimidate a virus and chase it away? No, it was a foolish thought, brought on by the advanced stimulants provided by the Army’s research institute, which seemed to have caused a side effect of giddy humor.

  I paused until I felt appropriately anxious rather than giddy, solemnly passed on the information, sniffled, and rose to take a walk around the facility. I pondered the situation as I walked. Idiocy had bred disaster as surely as if it were etched into each of our haploid chromosomes. Could it be designed out? Darwinian selection hadn’t accomplished the feat so far.

  My phone rang: one of my children. Alive—and, I could only hope—well.

  Noah had been blended from seven East African genotypes, a young man of exceptionally robust heritage. By training he was a master of business. By character (something I couldn’t control as much as people believed) he was outgoing and pleasant, greeting everyone with a smile.

  He greeted me through my phone display without a smile, as if he were about to deliver sad news. Perhaps one of his parents had become ill. His was the closest family I’d ever met.

  “Peng, you’re back online.”

  “I’ve been helping fight a virus. How are you?” I sat down, ready for bad news.

  “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Very generally.”

  “How did the mutiny do this?”

  “Do what?” I thought I might know what he meant, but life had been full of surprises lately. I would work through this slowly and carefully with him.

  “How did it make the viruses?” he said, glancing around as if he were somewhere unsafe. “I mean, it doesn’t even make sense. If you get one cold, you don’t get the other. That’s not how vaccines work. They’re trying to kill us, the mutiny people, and I don’t know why because I hate the government, too. They’re just insane with hate.”

  All my sleepless hours crashed onto my shoulders. Noah had always been a reasonable man who paid attention to the world with a business-based intelligence. If he believed the mutiny was trying to kill him, we were doomed.

  But I owed a patient duty to the truth. “This will be a complex story,” I said. “I will leave out nothing, and there’s a lot of guilt to go around.” He listened, eyes growing wide, mouth slowly gaping, and sweat beading on his face.

  At one point, his eyes shifted, as if he were looking out of a window. A siren went down his street. “Hey,” he said, “can I open the window?”

  I knew he lived on the fifth floor. “Yes, you can, unless sick people start skydiving and coughing into your apartment. And you still might be okay. What are things like where you are?”

  “No one is on the street. No cars, no nothing. I hear there’s fighting in some places.… Do you know, is it true, the Prez was shot by a firing squad?”

  “I have no idea.” I could ask the colonel, although he seemed to be busy with warlike activities at that moment. “I admit I wouldn’t mind if it’s true, although he should have been properly tried and convicted first, then shot. How are your parents?”

  “Here with me. We want to know the right thing to do.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “They say stay home and don’t go outside if you can. They say if you sneeze a lot and feel okay, you are okay and don’t worry. If you cough and feel like crap and have a fever, you’re in trouble and should get help right away.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “I can trust the government?”

  “Your local health department, yes. If they’re dressed in purple. The mutiny is on your side. We’re looking for medicines to treat the illness, and we’re making progress.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, I’m part of the mutiny, too.” I hadn’t thought about it much. Some decisions didn’t actually need to be made, merely executed.

  “I checked on your bird yesterday,” he said, “but not today. Gave him lots of food and water just in case.”

  “Thank you. He can fend for himself for a while. I care more about you.”

  He had more questions, including about garlic soup, and I answered them with the same patience I hoped health-care providers were offering the sick and the worried well, because the truth was a weapon of resistance against abusive self-interests. “Eating well is always a good idea but never a magic cure. Soup is good food. Garlic is delicious.”

  “Breathing pine smoke?” he asked. “I don’t believe it, but I’m hearing it.”

  “That would do more harm than good, since the cold would limit lung function already.”

  “Fresh lemon in hot water?”

  “Same as garlic soup.” I could offer little other advice besides remaining at home until the situation settled down. Larger forces were afoot, and they would decide all our fates, and I realized I was a bit of a fatalist: whatever hit the fan would not be distributed equally or fairly, and all we could do was try to duck at the right moment.

  “So the mutiny is okay?” he asked again.

  “It’s on your side.”

  He thanked me. We wished each other continued safety.

  Someday we’d have enough data to know exactly how much harm had been inflicted. The truth would be history’s long, anguished job to find, and its outlines might repeat those of other tragedies. We would always learn too little, too late.

  What more could I do in the short term? Perhaps find a third drug to keep a virus out of a human cell. We were at the mercy of our cells and their surface receptor molecules that the virus could bind to. And then I slowly remembered how, long ago, I’d had a cold, and its misery developed into a tiny but satisfying vendetta against not just that particular coronavirus but every coronavirus on Earth.

  How could I have forgotten? Because I, Peng, designer of life and master of its language, was an idiot. In my defense, I’d designed those perfectly ordinary women more than a quarter century ago, and the intervening years had done nothing but deliver repeated and powerful distractions, but I loved my children and under no circumstances should have forgotten.

  I called a mother whom I also counted as a friend. Celia Ruiz’s phone accepted the call, but the face and the voice that answered were those of her daughter, a young woman consumed with sorrow. There could only be one reason, and it sliced my soul in half.

  “Irene?”

  “No. I’m Avril. Who are you?”

  I could guess who Avril might be. “I’m Peng.” Would she know that name? “I … I work with DNA.”

  “Oh, that Peng,” she said, her voice full of recognition. Around her, people were talking and shouting. She looked soiled and sweaty and tired, and flashing red lights illuminated her face. She stared at me on her phone display with uncertainty, even fear, as if I might tell her something to make her bad situation worse.

  “I have very good news for you,” I said, blinking back tears.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Avril took another breath. Yes, her head was clear, and everything around her looked stark and startling. She stood in the parking lot of a burning prison, a place she never expected to be. She needed to call—

  Celia’s phone rang. It must be Irene again. They’d have a lot to say to each other.

  No, it was an old man.

  “Irene?” he said.

  “No. I’m Avril. Who are you?”

  “I’m Peng.”

  She felt like she should remember that name.

  “I … I work with DNA.”

  DNA? Yes, clones, SongLab. “Oh, that Peng.” She—he had changed a lot, and he seemed to be in some sort of office, all alone.

  “I have very good news for you.”

  That would be the first good news all
day, and it had been the longest day of her life.

  “When I designed you, I had a cold, so I built immunity into you against all coronaviruses. You won’t get sick.”

  What? “I won’t get sick.” How could he do that?

  “No, you’ll be fine. From the cold, anyway. How are you? Really, I’m concerned. You seem to be … in a difficult situation.”

  “Um, yes.” She could see her own face in a corner of the display, lit by flashing red lights, smudged by smoke, and disheveled. “We were in a prison, and it caught fire, and—you knew Celia? Celia Ruiz?” That was a silly question. He had to, since he’d called her phone.

  “Yes. I did.” His voice, his face became somber, as if he knew what she was going to say.

  “She just died. Of the cold. I was with her.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “She thought I was Irene. I was pretending to be her, and I was talking to Irene, too. I was trying to help by letting her think her daughter was there.”

  “I’m sure you gave them both great comfort.”

  Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn’t lied about everything. Maybe—“I’m not going to get sick? Really?”

  “Some people are naturally immune. So are you. The virus needs a certain receptor protein, and you don’t have that exact one.” He looked earnest, as if he cared for nothing more than her at that moment. “You will live. And Irene will live, too.”

  “And … the other one? There’s one in Milwaukee. I don’t know her name.”

  “Her too. I made you with love. And with spite toward a virus, and that’s turned out to be a good thing.”

  “How many of us are there?”

  He sighed and looked away. “Probably three or four. I don’t have access to my records, but I made a limited number. Not everyone did that who made clones, but for technical reasons, fewer is better.”

  Only three or four. Good. No marching identical hordes like a bad movie. “Do they know this? That they’re immune. The other ones.”

  “I don’t have any way to reach them. Do you? They’d be glad to know this.”

  “I can do that.” She’d wanted to talk to them for a long time. Now she had a good excuse.

  “I’d be very grateful if you could. I should have told you earlier, but I forgot. I simply forgot, and I’m very sorry.” He looked at her as if he were asking for forgiveness. “And if you have more questions about yourself or anything, please call. Or about the cold. I’m working with the research into the disease. We have some good news there, too. This cold, the bad cold, will quickly become less lethal. If anyone wants to ask me anything, they can call and I’ll be glad to talk to them.”

  If she had questions … She nodded, not sure if she had zero questions or a million questions.

  “I’ll let you go,” he said. “You seem to have a lot to do. Know this, too. I love you. I love you and Irene and everyone I made. I’ll do anything I can for you. I hope we talk again soon, Avril.”

  “Goodbye, Peng.” Talk to him again? She had too many new thoughts in her head to make a decision about that right now, but probably, eventually, she would.

  Meanwhile, she had to call Irene, then the one in Milwaukee—Hetta might be able to get her number—and Mom and Dad. Actually, she should call Dad first. He’d be so relieved to hear about everything.

  * * *

  Irene sat on the ground in the dark and mourned in teary silence. She felt a little better because Avril had been there with Mamá, so she thought Irene was there. And Avril … from what Irene had seen of Mamá’s last moments … part of her wanted to have seen it all, a bigger part was thankful she hadn’t, but Avril had been there, and … and Avril had been right to slap away the phone. She didn’t want to remember Mamá like … that, she wanted to forget what little she’d seen and just remember a voice like her own saying Estoy aquí, Mamá. Te amo, Mamá. And Mamá had been happy.

  She sat crying as mosquitoes buzzed and crickets chirped and people and cars came and went and none of that mattered, but Avril … what kind of disaster was happening with her? The building had been on fire. Should she call?

  As she raised up her wrist, her phone rang. Avril. She wiped her cheeks, then realized she didn’t have to pretend not to be crying. Avril would understand. And if Avril was calling, that meant she might be okay and safe.

  Avril’s face and hair and clothes were streaked with dirt, but she looked happy. Red lights were flashing around her. “Irene,” she said. Her voice had become very hoarse. “I just talked to Peng. You know who he is, right? He said he made us not to get coronavirus. We’re immune.”

  “He said … that?” Peng had always said she was normal. “How?”

  Avril sort of smiled. “He said he had a cold while he was making us, and he included immunity because he could.”

  The idea began to soak in. “We’re immune?”

  “Yes. We can’t get sick. From that virus. He said some people are naturally immune.” She looked down a moment. “Your mother, I’m sorry.”

  “I know. What was happening?”

  “The police attacked the prison, and it caught fire, and, well.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I got checked. Yeah.” But she cleared her throat as if it hurt. “Are you okay?”

  “I … yeah, but I don’t know what to do next. Where to go. And Nimkii’s loose. He’s across the road from me. I’d show you but I don’t think you could see him in the dark.”

  “I need to find out if it’s safe to go back to campus. And I promised Peng I’d call the other … sister. There’s one in Milwaukee. I think I can get her number.”

  Irene didn’t know what else to say. Neither did Avril. They were both quiet for a moment, looking at each other through their screens.

  “I’ll figure it out,” Irene said. “You stay safe. And call me anytime about anything. Even if you’re just lonely. I owe you.”

  “I just did what was right. It was sort of like she was my mother, too.” She looked Irene right in the eyes, tenderly. “Now you have a sister. Two sisters. Or maybe three. Peng said there might be four of us in all. We’ll be there. Take care of yourself.”

  “You, too.”

  She ended the call and sat for a moment, trying to line up her thoughts. She had sisters. And a big hairy pedazo of a boyfriend. And immunity. It didn’t matter if a car was disinfected, and it didn’t matter anymore for her to go to Madison to see her mother. And no one seemed to notice her. She got up and walked across the road. Nimkii saw her and began walking south, toward the farm where he lived. He wanted to go home, but Ruby might be there. How could she convince him to stay away, to go somewhere else?

  * * *

  Berenike was crossing the atrium of City Hall, about to leave on the mission to the electrical station, when she got a call. It came from a number she had in her phone but had never dared to use. And the face! It was her own, sort of, younger and thinner and dirty and tired with red flashing lights around her.

  “Hello, you might not know who I am—”

  “You’re Avril Stenmark, right? I … I know. Are you okay?” She didn’t look okay.

  “I am now.” She shrugged. “Long story. It’s been a busy day. I’m calling because I talked to Peng, the scientist who designed us, and we’re immune to the cold.”

  “Immune?”

  “It’s just a genetic thing. Something about a protein the virus needs. You could call him if you want more details. I can give you his number, and he said he’d be glad to talk to you. He said some people are immune naturally.”

  “Or unnaturally.” She felt bad the moment she’d said that. This was no time to make jokes.

  But Avril laughed—a little. “Yeah, unnaturally.”

  “I didn’t want to call you before because I didn’t want to tell you you’re a clone.”

  “It was tough news.” Avril shrugged and glanced over her shoulder. People were shouting, but it seemed to be instructions, not a warning. “I’ve talked to Iren
e, too, the one with the mammoth.”

  “How is she?”

  “Her mom died, but I was with her mom, so she thought I was Irene, so her mom seemed to be happy about that. And I guess things are bad in Wausau, too.”

  “And here in Milwaukee.” Bad all over.

  “Are you safe?”

  Good question. “No, maybe not. I’m going on a mission. Top secret. Mutiny work.”

  “Good. I mean, good luck. Let me know how it goes. And here, this is Irene’s number. Maybe all three of us can talk. Tomorrow? I hope? Oh, and maybe there’s a fourth one. Peng wasn’t sure.”

  Four? “It would be good to talk.”

  “Till tomorrow.”

  Berenike ended the call. For a moment, she felt dizzy. The call had been surreal, like talking to herself, but not really, or to another version of herself. Was that how sisters usually felt?

  Things were bad all over, but for her, things had suddenly become immeasurably better in one important little detail. She walked out of City Hall with a new kind of confidence. Neal would be waiting.

  * * *

  Irene was having no success. “Nimkii, let’s go this way.”

  He looked at her, then kept walking through the cornfield. He wasn’t going to be persuaded. Well, maybe Ruby had fled. The Prez was dead and the mutiny might succeed—at least, that was what she’d heard. But maybe, instead, Ruby had holed up in the farmhouse. And she said she’d shoot Nimkii.

  “Nimkii, let’s stop here and eat.” She held out an ear of corn, fat and ripe. He took it, ate it, and kept going. She tried again, and this time he didn’t even take the corn. Her heart ached as she followed him. He trudged through the field, the little woods, and across the creek, walking in a straight line, his trunk up, sniffing, following the familiar scent from the farm. They entered the alfalfa field on the far side of the woods. Now he hurried, the pen in sight.

  The house was dark except for a light on the porch. Irene slipped from shadow to shadow. She didn’t see the truck, so Ruby was gone. Probably. Will’s dog wasn’t barking. Maybe Ruby had taken it with her.