“Fifty-two?” Mitch asked.

Galbreath nodded. “Like all the others. It should be forty-six. Gross chromosomal abnormalities.”

“It’s a different kind of normal,” Mitch said.

Galbreath sat beside him and crossed her legs. “Let’s hope. We’ll do more tests in a few months.”

“I don’t know how a woman feels after something like this,” he said slowly, folding and unfolding his hands. “What do I say to her?”

“Let her sleep. When she wakes up, tell her that you love her, and that she’s brave and magnificent. This part will probably feel like a bad dream.”

Mitch stared at her. “What do I tell her if the next one doesn’t work, either?”

Galbreath leaned her head to one side and smoothed her cheek with one finger. “I don’t know, Mr. Rafelson.”

Mitch filled out the discharge papers and looked over the attached medical report, signed by Galbreath. Kaye folded a nightgown and put it into the small overnight case, then walked stiffly into the bathroom and packed up her toothbrush. “I ache all over,” she said, her voice hollow through the open door.

“I can get a wheelchair,” Mitch said. He was almost out the door before Kaye left the bathroom and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I can walk. This part is done with, and that makes me feel much better. But…Fifty-two chromosomes, Mitch. I wish I knew what that meant.”

“There’s still time,” Mitch said quietly.

Kaye’s first impulse was to give him a stern look, but his expression told her that would not be fair, that he was as vulnerable as she. “No,” she said, simply and gently.

Galbreath knocked on the door frame.

“Come in,” Kaye said. She closed and latched the lid on the overnight case. The doctor entered with a young, ill-at-ease man dressed in a gray suit.

“Kaye, this is Ed Gianelli. He’s the Emergency Action legal representative for Marine Pacific.”

“Ms. Lang, Mr. Rafelson. I’m sorry for the difficulty. I have to obtain some personal information and a signature, under the state of Washington compliance agreements with the federal Emergency Act, as agreed to by the state legislature on July 22 of this year, and signed by the governor on July 26. I apologize for the inconvenience during a painful time—”

“What is it?” Mitch asked. “What do we have to do?”

“All women carrying SHEVA second-stage fetuses should register with the state Emergency Action Office and agree to follow-up medical tracking. You can arrange to have those visits with Dr. Galbreath, as the obstetrician of record, and she will carry out the standardized tests.”

“We won’t register,” Mitch said. “Are you ready to go?” he asked Kaye, putting his arm around her.

Gianelli shifted his stance. “I won’t go into the reasons, Mr. Rafelson, but registration and follow-up are mandated by the King County Board of Health, in agreement with state and federal law.”

“I don’t recognize the law,” Mitch said firmly.

“The penalty is a fine of five hundred dollars for each week you refuse,” Gianelli said.

“Best not to make a big deal out of it,” Galbreath said. “It’s a kind of addendum to a birth certificate.”

“The infant hasn’t been born yet.”

“Then think of it as an addendum to the postrejection medical report,” Gianelli said, his shoulders rising.

“There was no rejection,” Kaye said. “What we’re doing is natural.”

Gianelli held out his hands in exasperation. “All I need is your current residence and a waiver to access your pertinent medical records, with Dr. Galbreath and your lawyer, if you wish, overseeing what we look at.”

“My God,” Mitch said. He moved Kaye past Galbreath and Gianelli, then paused to say to the doctor, “You know what this means, don’t you? People will stay away from hospitals, from their physicians.”

“My hands are pretty much tied,” Galbreath said. “The hospital fought this until just yesterday. We still plan to appeal to the Board of Health. But for now—”

Mitch and Kaye left. Galbreath stood in the doorway, face mottled.

Gianelli followed them down the hall, agitated. “I have to remind you,” he said, “that these fines are cumulative—”

“Give it up, Ed!” Galbreath shouted, slamming her hand on the wall. “Just give it up and let them go, for Christ’s sake!”

Gianelli stood in the middle of the hallway, shaking his head. “I hate this shit!”

“You hate it?” Galbreath shouted at him. “Just leave my patients the hell alone!”

78

Building 52, The National Institutes of Health, Bethesda

Your face looks pretty good,” Shawbeck said. He advanced into Augustine’s office on a pair of crutches. His aide helped him lower himself into the chair. Augustine was finishing a corned beef sandwich. He wiped his lips and folded the top of the foam box, latching it.

“All right,” Shawbeck said when he was seated. “Weekly meeting of the survivors of July twentieth, der Fuhrer presiding.”

Augustine lifted his eyes. “Not a bit funny.”

“When’s Christopher going to join us? We should keep a bottle of brandy, and the last survivor gets to toast the departed.”

“Christopher is getting more and more disaffected,” Augustine said.

“And you aren’t?” Shawbeck asked. “How long since you met with the president?”

“Three days,” Augustine said.

“Black budget discussions?”

“Emergency Action reserve finances,” Augustine said.

“He didn’t even mention them to me,” Shawbeck said.

“It’s my ball now. They’re going to hang the old toilet seat around my neck.”

“Because you put together the rationale,” Shawbeck said. “So — these new babies are not only going to be born dead, but if any happen to be born alive, we take them away from their parents and put them into specially financed hospitals. We’ve gone pretty far on this one.”

“The public seems to be with us,” Augustine said. “The president’s describing it as a major public health risk.”

“I wouldn’t be in your shoes for anything on Earth, Mark. It’s going to be political suicide. The president has to be in shock to be promoting this.”

“To tell the truth, Frank, after all those years in the White House’s shadow, he’s feeling his oats a little. He’s going to drag us around the old bridle path getting past mistakes straightened out, and pushing through a martyr’s agenda.”

“And you’re going to spur him on?”

Augustine angled his head back. He nodded.

“Incarcerate sick babies?”

“You know the science.”

Shawbeck smirked. “You get five virologists to agree that it’s possible that these infants — and the mothers — could be breeding grounds for ancient viruses. Well, thirty-seven virologists have gone on record saying it’s bogus.”

“Not as prominent, and not nearly as influential.”

“Thorne and Mahy and Mondavi and Bishop, Mark.”

“I have my instincts, Frank. Remember, this is my area, too.”

Shawbeck dragged his chair forward. “What are we now, petty tyrants?”

Augustine’s face went livid. “Thanks, Frank,” he said.

“The public starts to turn against the mothers and the unborn children. What if the babies are cute? How long until they swing back, Mark? What will you do then?”

Augustine did not answer.

“I know why the president refuses to meet with me,” Shawbeck said. “You tell him what he wants to hear. He’s afraid, and the country’s out of control, so he picks a solution and you back him up. It isn’t science, it’s politics.”

“The president agrees with me.”

“Whatever we call it — July twentieth, the Reichstag fire — the bombing doesn’t give you carte blanche,” Shawbeck said.

“We’re going to survive,” Augustine said. “I didn’t deal us this hand.”

“No,” Shawbeck said. “But you’ve sure stopped the deck from being dealt out fairly.”

Augustine stared straight ahead.

“They’re calling it ‘original sin,’ you know that?”