“Well, I learn quantum physics and help in any way I can. Which usually involves interacting with other humans, like his security detail, so he doesn’t have to take this risk.” Hansen grinned. “I have an easier time seeming like a normal human than he does. But not by much.”

Erin laughed. For an expert on quantum physics—whatever that really was—she thought he impersonated a human quite well.

“But Drake does have his tentacles—and I do mean tentacles—into a lot of pies,” continued Hansen. “He’s working with a number of people he doesn’t tell me about. As I said, he likes to keep things compartmentalized. Humans are less trustworthy than any species in the Seventeen, so he makes no exceptions in maintaining an ultra-paranoid level of secrecy and security. And that includes me. As integral as I am to his organization in many ways, information is still on a need-to-know basis.”

“So you knew he had someone testing different dosage combinations, but you didn’t know who?”

“Exactly. Drake is dedicated to seeing that we survive and mature and become part of the diversity of galactic civilization. But maintaining absolute anonymity is vital. So he takes the fewest possible chances.”

There was silence in the room as Hansen allowed Erin to ponder all he had told her.

“So is our time out over?” he said finally. “Did I give you at least some sense of who I am?”

“You mean beyond your relationship status?” she said dryly.

Hansen winced. “Uh-huh.”

“Yes, you did. That helped a lot.”

“Good,” said Hansen. “So let’s get back to the main topic. Eradicating psychopathy forever. Drake predicted it would take some effort to persuade you. Despite…” He stopped, realizing he was about to make the same mistake he had made earlier, bringing up her tragic past.

He visibly switched gears. “Explain to me your ethical issues with this. Let’s forget for a moment that taking this step is necessary to save the entire species from self-destruction. I do get how it’s unethical to cure someone without their consent. But these are psychopaths. It seems like they and the world would be far better off—again, even if the stakes weren’t what they are.”

“I’ve done more thinking about this over the past few years than you can imagine,” said Erin. “You do realize that as horrific as these people are, the ones who end up being serial killers are the tip of the tip of the iceberg. All psychopaths are monsters without souls, I’ll give you that. And they typically do leave a trail of shattered lives behind them. But many haven’t been convicted of any crimes.”

“You emphasized the word convicted. So you’re saying they’ve all committed them, it’s just that most don’t get caught?”

“Pretty much. There is plenty of corruption out there that people get away with. And if it’s bad in this country, it’s far worse in many others.” She paused. “But you’re changing the personalities and brain structure of people who, technically, haven’t done anything wrong. They probably have or will, but they haven’t been convicted. And with Drake’s virus they aren’t given a choice. My dean thought using a device to remotely identify psychopaths was like being the thought police, or the pre-crime unit. But this is the ultimate manifestation of that. The virus would be judge, jury, and—well, not executioner. But let’s say—remodeler.”

Kyle Hansen nodded, deep in thought, but remained silent.

“And this is where it gets really tricky,” she continued. “Curing a Jeffrey Dahmer just might be a crueler punishment than imprisonment. Psychopaths in prison are relatively content. They love themselves and never doubt anything.” She looked away. “But recently I witnessed a number of the prisoners I cured. And it’s made me question all of my thinking. I work with the most violent offenders. I’ve come to see that being cured is the ultimate curse for them. They suddenly have a conscience—for the first time. Imagine if I slip you a pill that turns you into a berserker and you savagely kill your wife and kids. Then you wake up and return to normal. For the rest of your life you’d have to live with the memory of killing those who were the closest to you.”

She waited for him to consider this and she could tell that imagining this scenario was making an impression on him.

“I’ve been seeing that lately. The inmates don’t know they’re cured, of course. All they know is that suddenly they’re feeling true empathy and remorse. For the first time in their lives they reflect back on their actions and feel the same horror at what they’ve done as the rest of us would. The pain is enormous.” She lowered her head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if many of the inmates I cured commit suicide before too long. You should have seen them. We’ve had a lifetime with a conscience. We’ve become somewhat acclimated, built up a tolerance. Someone who drinks every day can withstand the effects of alcohol far better than a teetotaler. The systems of these psychopaths aren’t prepared for a soul. Suddenly they know fear. They know uncertainty. They know what they’ve done to others, and why it’s so terribly wrong. And they know remorse.”

“Are you saying you actually feel sorry for them?” said Hansen in dismay. “After what they’ve done? Perhaps being made aware of their atrocities, and having to feel empathy for their victims is the best punishment of all.”

Erin nodded. “I thought that for the first few weeks I wrestled with this. It does seem like what they deserve. It seems like poetic justice.” She turned away for several seconds and her face turned into a mask of pure anguish. “Poetic justice for the lives and potential they so callously destroy,” she finished, her voice breaking with emotion.

For the first time in years Erin’s psychological defense system had broken down and images of her lost family, in different poses of death, had flashed into her mind. Her beautiful mother shot in the face at close range. Her sweet sister, Anna, with her head lolling lifelessly on her shoulder, her innocent face wet from tears. And her father literally stabbing out with his last ounce of strength.

The potency of her loss returned for just a moment, and if she had been standing she would have sunk to the ground. This was followed, inevitably, by a searing hatred that coursed through her veins like a drug. She had found a way to come to terms with her hatred on an intellectual level, but on a visceral level she knew she never would. Tears pooled in her eyes as she visibly fought to regain emotional control.

“Erin?” said Hansen softly. “Are you okay?”

Erin slammed her mental defenses into place, her right hand curling into a fist, and she shook her head in a short, violent motion for just a second, like a dog shaking off water. “I’m fine,” she said weakly.

She took a few breaths and steadied herself. “As I was saying,” she continued, her voice regaining its strength and composure, “I thought being forced to feel pain for what they had done was the ultimate poetic justice. But I’m not so sure anymore. Of anything. Part of me has begun to think of these people as a violent force of nature. I hated them for a long, long time. And the truth is, deep down, I still do. But what’s the point? The ones who murder have less free will about it than you might imagine. That’s what research like mine and others is showing. Their brains are different. I’m not trying to absolve them, or make excuses for them, I’m just stating a fact.

“You don’t hate a hurricane for destroying your town,” she continued. “You may curse the fates and mourn your losses. But you can’t hate a storm. If your friend falls into a river and is stripped clean by a school of piranha, you don’t hate the piranha. You fear them, sure. You avoid them at all costs. You might even try to wipe them out if you can. But you don’t hate them. They’re just being piranha, after all.”