Senator Percy from Ohio exhaled over his microphone, creating the sensation of a great wind in the chamber. “Where are we going, Madam Chair? Haven't we enough black eyes to go around?”
“We lost seventy-five thousand children, Senator Percy!” Chase roared.
Percy riposted immediately. “They were killed by a disease, Senator Chase, not by my constituents, nor indeed by any of the normal citizens—the true citizens—of my great state, or this fine country.” Percy avoided the hawklike gaze of the senator from Arizona.
“Dr. Augustine, is it not the scientific conclusion that this new variety of virus—hand, foot, and mouth disease—arose within the so-called normal adult population, in part through recombination of ancient viral genes not found within SHEVA children?” Chase asked.
“It is,” Augustine said.
“Many prominent scientists disagree,” Percy said, and lifted his hand as if to fend off the sudden rap of the gavel.
“And did you predict that just the reverse would happen, fourteen years ago, a statement that practically led to the creation of Emergency Action?”
“The reverse being . . .” Augustine said, lifting his brows.
“That the children would create new viruses that would kill us, Doctor.”
Augustine nodded. “I did.”
“And is that not still a scientific possibility, Dr. Augustine?” Percy demanded.
“It hasn't happened, Senator,” Augustine said mildly.
Percy moved in. “Come on, Dr. Augustine. It's your theory. Is it not likely that this deadly viral outbreak will happen soon, given the possibility that these children might perceive that they are under threat,and that many of these old viruses respond to the chemicals, steroids, or whatever, that we make when we are unhappy or stressed?”
Augustine subdued a twitch of his lips. The senator was showing some education. “I suggest that perhaps the children have already turned the other cheek, and it is time now for us to show some charity. We could relieve some of their stress. And we shouldrecognize them for what they are, not what we fear they might become.”
“They are the mutated products of a deadly viral disease,” Percy said, straightening his microphone with a scraping noise.
“They are our children,” Augustine said.
“Never!” Percy shouted.
3
Sable Mountain Emergency Action School
ARIZONA
Without explanation, Stella's evening study hour had been canceled and she had been told to go to the gym. The building was empty and the basketball made a clapping echo with each resonant bounce.
Stella ran toward the end of the court, worn sneakers squeaking on the rubbery paint that covered the hard concrete. She spun around for a layup and watched the ball circle the hoop, hiccup, then drop through. There was no net to slow its fall. She deftly grabbed the ball as it fell and ran around the court to do it again. Mitch had taught her how to shoot hoops when she was eight. She remembered a little about the rules, though not much.
Stella's bunkmate, black-haired Celia Northcott, wandered into the gym fifteen minutes later. Celia was a year younger but seemed more mature. She had been born as a twin but her sister had died while only a few months old. This was common among SHEVA twins; usually, only one survived. Celia made up for a tendency toward sadness with a brittle cheer that sometimes irritated Stella. Celia was full of schemes, and was probably the most avid constructor of demes—social groupings of SHEVA children—and plans about how to live when they grew up.
She was nursing her arm—a bandage covered her wrist—and grimaced as Stella held the ball and queried her with a freckle flash and stare.
“Blood,” Celia said, and sat cross-legged on the side of the court. “About a gallon.”
“Why?” Stella asked.
“How should I know? KUK/ I had a nightmare last night.” Celia's tongue caught and she made her signature glottal click, which almost obscured her underspeech. Celia was not very good at double speaking. Someone, she never said who, had tried to mutilate her tongue when she was eight years old. This she had revealed to Stella late at night, when Stella had found her huddled in a corner of the barracks, crying and smelling of electric onions. The facile ridge found in most of the children was a white scar on Celia's tongue, and she sometimes slurred her words, or inserted a hard clucking sound.
Stella squatted beside Celia and lightly bounced her palm off the ball, held in the nest of her legs. Nobody knew why the counselors took so much blood, but visits to the hospital usually followed upsets or unusual behavior; that much Stella had deduced. “How long did they keep you?”
“Until morning.”
“Anything new in the hospital?” That was what they called the administration building, adjacent to the counselor and teacher dormitories, all beyond a razor-wire topped fence that surrounded the boys' and girls' compounds.
Celia shook her head. “They gave me oatmeal and eggs for breakfast,” she said. “And a big glass of orange juice.”
“Did they do a biopsy?”
Celia bit her lip and let her eyes grow large. “No. Who's had-KUK a biopsy?”
“Beth Fremont says one of the boys told her. Right out of his . . . you know.” She pointed down and tapped the basketball.
“Kweeee,”Celia whistle-tongued.
“What did you dream?” Stella asked.
“I don't remember. I just woke up with a screech.”
Stella licked her palms, tasting the paint on the court and the old rubber of the ball and a little of the dust and dirt of other shoes, other players. Then she held out her palms for Celia to clasp. Celia's palms were damp. Celia squeezed and rubbed their hands together, sighed, and let go after a moment. “Thanks,” she said, eyes downcast. Her cheeks turned a steady mottled copper and stayed that way for a while.
Stella had learned the spit trick from another girl a few weeks after her arrival.
The door to the gym opened and Miss Kinney came in with ten other girls. Stella knew LaShawna Hamilton and Torry Butler from her dorm; she knew most of the others by name, but had never shared a deme with any of them. And she knew Miss Kinney, the girl's school coach. Miss Kinney led the other girls onto the court. Slung over her shoulder was a duffel bag filled with more balls.
“How about a little practice?” she asked Celia and Stella.
“Her arm hurts,” Stella said.
“Can you bounce and throw?” Miss Kinney asked Celia. Miss Kinney stood about five feet nine inches tall, a little shorter than Stella. The gym teacher was thin and strong, with a long, well-shaped nose and large green eyes, like a cat's.
Celia got to her feet. She never turned down a challenge from a counselor or a teacher. She thought she was tough.
“Good,” Miss Kinney said. “I brought some jerseys and shorts. They're ragged, but they'll pass. Let's go put them on. Time to see what you can do.”
Stella adjusted the baggy shorts with a grimace and tried to focus on the ball. Miss Kinney shouted encouragement from the sidelines to Celia. “Don't just sniff the breeze. Take a shot!”
All the girls on the court had come to a halt in the middle of hoop practice. Stella looked to Celia, the best at sinking baskets in her group of five .
Miss Kinney strode forward, exasperated, and put on her best I'm being patientface. Stella would not meet her steady gaze.
“What is so hard about this?” Miss Kinney asked. “Tell me. I want to know.”
Stella lowered her eyes farther. “We don't understand the point.”
“We're going to try something different. You'll compete,” Miss Kinney said. “You'll play against each other and get exercise and learn physical coordination. It's fun.”
“We could all make more baskets if we formed our own teams,” Stella said. “One team could have three slowing others down, if they were coming in too fast. Seven could play opposite and make baskets.” Stella wondered if she sounded obtuse, but she truly wasn't understanding what Miss Kinney expected of them.