Day 3
"Welcome to BodyTechNews, today is day three of the search for Promethia Radcliffe, and today The Center for Biomedical Research in Buffalo, NY is reporting that they are entirely out of Apex enzyme. Department of Health officials are questioning why backup reserves were depleted so quickly.
"Deus Trunk of the Center for Biomedical Research has declined to comment. Patients in the midst of treatment at centers across the nation this morning were turned away at the door, and those awaiting treatment were issued delay notices. All were referred to local cancer centers and hospitals for PillTech chemotherapy and other care until further notice.
"Patients and advocates have staged a sit-in outside The Center in Buffalo as well as its satellite locations around the country, and droves of sick have gathered outside federal offices, demanding answers.
"We now go live to Washington D.C. where a bipartisan group of Senators is discussing the shortage."
"Thank you all for being here today," Deputy Leader Senator Charlotte Murrow began. "I know we are all eager to discuss the Apex shortage, but I'd like to take a moment to reflect and pray for Promethia Radcliffe and her family. I can only imagine the fear and anxiety her mother is experiencing right now. I can only imagine the pain and uncertainty. Please know that your country stands with you at this harrowing time."
She did know how Sharon Radcliffe was feeling right now. She knew exactly how she felt. The tears in Charlotte's eyes were real.
"And to whoever knows where our dear Promethia is right now, rest assured, we will find you." She paused again, looking up, into the black eyes of the news cameras. She wondered why they all still came. Between BodyTech and the Bureau, there wasn't much room for commentary. Or even the truth. It made for a dull affair, even during a major national crisis. "I do have some remarks, but I'd like to allow Senator Archer from New York to say a few words. Mike?"
Senator Michael Archer edged his way to the podium, "Hello everyone, Senator Murrow, thank you for your leadership, and for bringing us together at such a crucial time in our nation's history. My colleague and I are not always on the same page," he smiled at Charlotte. "But today, she and I stand in unison to call for bipartisan support of the The Center for Biomedical Research and of Apex research dollars. Since Promethia Radcliffe went missing three days ago, a light has been shed on the serious and systemic gap in the care for sick people across our nation. And today, in the midst of a national, crisis-level shortage of Apex, we have learned just how important Promethia is to our country's health, and our safety.
"Today, there are millions of people who cannot get access to the treatment they need, and the treatment they have been promised," he paused, took a deep breath, and glanced at Joe, his Chief of Staff. "But the truth is, every day there are people who need the Apex enzyme, and who can't get it because they score too low." A reporter for BodyTechNews visibly stiffened, then smiled, ready to go in for the kill, but Archer continued, "These are good, middle-class, working folks. These are children, mothers and fathers, the poor. Some suffer from serious diseases like cancer, lymphoma, and leukemia. Others are at risk of dying from the common cold and flu."
The reporters fluttered, confused. This was not an issue for the mainstream media. Only reporters on the fringe – the ones in in print journalism – covered Apex conspiracy theories. The color drained from Joe's face.
"People from every walk of life are denied Apex every single day, for a multitude of reasons. The one thing those people have in common, however, is that they want to live. They are desperate to live. And now, our greatest fears have come to fruition, and some folks have become so desperate, that they have taken measures into their own hands." He paused.
"Are you blaming Promethia's disappearance on The Center for Biomedical Research?" a reporter asked. He was out of turn. Archer ignored him.
"That is why today, I am not only calling for increased funding for The Center." The air shifted. "I am calling for a full, independent investigation into the Apex scoring rubric. I am calling for better access to Apex for all citizens, and a change to the scoring model based on investigators—" now the reporters lost it.
"Are you blaming sick Americans for the disappearance of Promethia Radcliffe?"
"How much would such an investigation cost?"
"Does the President support this investigation?"
Everyone was calling his name and yelling questions at him.
The lights were blinding. He couldn't hear the questions, just the din of reporters trying desperately to trip him up, to make him say something he didn't mean, and Senators all around him, angry and confused. Senator Murrow stepped forward.
"Okay, Senator," she said, practically shoving Michael away from the podium. "Thank you, Senator." The reporters continued their questions, now directed at Charlotte. "We won't be taking questions at this time—"
"The system won't do! We need Apex, too!"
The commotion gave way to bedlam.
The Senators watched as the reporters' eyes darted around, searching for the source of the chant—louder than the usual hushed tones of the Capitol building.
At once, the Well was filled with neon signs and angry voices and pumping fists. The cameras swung towards the action. Reporters touched and tapped away on their BodyTech bracelets, capturing the scene live for eyes all over the nation, always glued to their BodyTech, always watching.
The somber press conference was over.
The Senators had lost control.
Day 5, 5:00 a.m.
Buffalo didn't look like this at night. This street that glittered with possibility in the evening was dirty and crowded. Voices called out to her from every direction. The acrid reek of urine burned her nostrils, even in the cold. She couldn't stop looking.
She tried not to bump into anyone as they pushed through the crowded streets, but no one else seemed to care—their arms brushing right up against her. People in sick masks keeping each other out, or their own illness in. Their eyes were clouded, their winter coats ragged. Coughing and crying.... Where were they going?
It was odd, too, to be without any security. Free, she thought wryly. Behind her own sick mask, wearing sunglasses and a hat, she felt free to look.
"Coffee?" Gina asked her, and they ducked into a Starbucks. Out of habit, Promethia Radcliffe lifted her wrist to pay with her BodyTech, but Gina scanned her own bracelet twice, matching up the green light with those on the doorframe. "You'll have to take it black," she informed her, revealing her own preprogrammed order.
"That's fine," Promethia answered. She watched as the white and green cylindrical robot glided around smoothly behind the counter preparing their drinks.
They stepped back out and into the sunlight. Promethia turned toward the warmth on her masked face.
"This is where I grew up," Gina said, taking a sip of her coffee. "I used to sit on that corner and write poetry. I had this cool calligraphy pen from the 1990s, and I'd write poems for the tourists for five or ten bucks. I pretended it was something really unique and inspired, but really I just recycled the same twenty lines," she paused. "Back when there were tourists. Now no one cares about poetry."
"Why?"
Gina waved her hand at the scene before them. "Because everyone here is sick or poor—or both. Or trying to care for someone who's sick. Everyone's focused on getting treatment or money. No one has time for expression."
"How... how did it get like this? How did it get so bad?" Promethia was afraid to ask this question, afraid she ought to already know the answer. "I've been at The Center for 16 years," she added quickly. "I feel like I've been fighting a battle and I don't even know who the enemy is."
She braced herself for Gina's wrath, but was surprised. The woman shrugged. "Population growth and automation, baby. More people, more technology, fewer jobs, less money. Not to mention the privatization—monetization—of healthcare. It's the perfect storm. More people, less access."
"More people to get sick, and not enough treatment to go around."
"Bingo. Wealth buys health," Gina said.
"Is it like this everywhere?" Promethia asked.
"Yes," Gina replied.
Promethia looked around at the souls before her. She remembered what Syka told her about the sweeps when she was out in public.
"They didn't let me see any of this. They showed me... they showed me what they wanted me to see." Gina didn't respond, and Promethia was still trying to decide if this was a lie. "Where are your parents?"
"Dead," Gina replied. "When everyone started getting sick it hit us hard. My parents were both dead by the time I was 18. And then you were discovered."
"Too late."
"Yes, but it gave us hope. We never had good health insurance. I never went to the doctor, but Apex seemed like the new frontier. I mean, it's blood. It's free. It should have been free."
Promethia nodded. Free.
"We never had money. But then the bots came. At first it was just the factories and farms. But now..." she jerked her thumb toward the coffee shop. "They do everything."
The women walked back towards the lab in silence, Promethia reflecting on her blindness, on the treachery of The Center and those who protected her. On this other world which existed parallel to her own.
She heard a rhythmic clicking and turned to see a little boy, maybe seven, dancing in front of a boarded up shop. A dirty baseball cap sat on the ground in front of him. She realized he wasn't wearing tap shoes, but had glued flattened pop cans to the bottom of his shoes to simulate the click-click-clickety-click of a tap routine.
She reached down to her bracelet again, hoping she could transfer a few dollars to him, but was again reminded of its absence. Immediately her eyes darted around, worried a Checkpoint Agent would spot her and she'd have no identification, but she realized there were no Checkpoint Agents here. No security needed when there was nothing to protect.
"What's the baseball cap for?" she asked Gina.
"He's trying to collect old coins."
"Coins?" Promethia laughed, then stopped. "Like, spare change? My parents used to give me coins as a child. I didn't realize they were still used as currency."
Gina shrugged. "It's all we have. Some of the merchants will still take them."
As they drew nearer to the boy, she realized he was crying. Tears streamed down his tiny, smooth face, but his feet kept moving, click-click-clicking against the sidewalk. A pang of sadness, gave way to an urgent need for distraction. Without her BodyTech, she had no communication, no information, no connection to the world other than the one directly in front of her. She wanted to shut her eyes, to turn away, run away, even if it meant going back to the sterile torture of The Center.
But she didn't. Promethia took in this haunting image, and she decided.
Day 5, 5:00 p.m.
"I need the room," Senator Archer said, and the director of his Buffalo office scurried out. He shut the door behind her. SAFE ROOM, black letters on the back of the door said. He noticed the bright red backpack under the credenza, which he knew was full of potable water, food rations, even toilet paper. He could live in this office for days if he needed to. He shook away the thought of using the wastebasket as a toilet and called Charlotte.
"Where are you?" she asked. His image was projected on her teleglass, but his surroundings were unfamiliar to the Senator from New Hampshire.
"Buffalo. I left the Capitol."
"Ballsy. We're not adjourned."
"We're not safe."
She sighed. "No, we are not."
"Do we still have a deal?" He didn't want to get into the particulars, convinced Ken or maybe even President Maner himself was listening in at this point.
"We do."
"Alright. I'm going to let the news cycle play out for 24 hours, and then I'm going to do a press conference tomorrow at The Center. I'd like to announce that you'll be working with me."
"Alright. I think—" suddenly the screen flashed red, a security warning.
"Just a second, Charlotte, this thing does this from time to time." He pointed his BodyTech towards the screen and touched it. The picture flipped to a grainy image of the outer office, right behind his door.
Joe was standing with his arms in the air. Across from him, a woman with black hair and shaking hands held a gun. The side of her head was shaved and she was covered in piercings and tattoos. "Okay, okay, let's just talk about it," he heard Joe say.
"I'm going to die," she replied. Her voice was strong, but her body trembled. "We are all going to die. I want to see Michael Archer."
He glanced up at the camera above the door, knowing Michael was watching the scene in the safe room. "He's in D.C.," Joe said. "But I'd be—"
"Liar!" she screamed.
Joe's jumped. He looked up at the camera again. His eyes pleading. But for what? Michael told himself to go out there. He told himself now was his moment. But he was frozen where he stood.
"Fuck," he whispered, and then he heard the gunshot.