As his Personal Area Network handshook with his office, a message flashed in Johnson’s contacs: “Updates available for Norman’s Anti-Virus. Please left-blink to download.” He quickly shut his left eye twice, and an hourglass icon formed in the corner of his eye. His news aggregator displayed several breaking headlines. Neo-Smallpox outbreak in Namibia. Quarantine in effect for travelers from Luxembourg. Veristrati believed contained in Jaipur. Chicago Bleach Death mastermind to stand trial. He growled gutturally. “Dearborn deserves two in the back of the head and burial at sea, not a bleedin’ trial. Anarchist scum.”
He activated a secure connection to the dhs.gov server and officially logged in for work. The Department of Homeland Security logo superimposed itself on the upper-right corner of his visual field, his current work orders unfolding overtop it. He busied himself with paperwork for a couple of hours, then focused on the words “Interrogation: Bioterror Suspect”. The system connected him to a cell-block teledrone. As his view changed from his one-room efficiency to a featureless gray brick corridor, the anti-virus program informed him: “Download complete — Installing.”
As the drone rolled out into the corridor, duty officer Flanagan’s voice rasped in his ears. “Got real live bait for ya, Johnson. Swept up in a raid on some warehouse cooking club. Hopped up on zip-zip, tried to punch a police walker; should be coming down real nice now.” Johnson winced; Flanagan always turned his throat mike too high.
The name “Whitney Morrisson Cade” and case details popped up above a glowing indicator. He followed it into an alcove with a thick glassteel wall. On the other side was a 20-something Caucasian, scrawny, in ragged cast-offs. Their head was shaved down the middle, and their remaining hair glowed neon purple; fish-scales grew around their eyes and mouth, and horns from their shoulders. They were red-eyed and shaking. Johnson’s lip curled. Just another piece of dumb-smart genehacker trash.
At the sight of the drone, Cade jumped up and pounded on the glass. “I want my lawyer, you hear me, spook? This is police brutality, you got no right to hold me like this!”
Johnson barely stopped himself from laughing. “Simmer down, child. I surely don’t have to tell you that you’re in a world of trouble. That lab we found you in is a known Black Cat cooking club. Now I do hope you ain’t one of Dearborn’s boys. I’d hate to be in your position, were that the case.”
Cade sat down heavily. “Don’t know nothin’ about no Black Cats. Just there to synth up some sero. You fascist pigs got no right holdin’ me.”
Johnson sighed, shook his head. “These labs don’t let just any junkies in to slap zip-zip, child, and you know it. No, either you’re a bio-terrorist or you know some, sure as the sun does shine. One way or another, we’re gonna get out everything you know about the Black Cats; it’d save everyone a whole lotta time and pain if you gave it up without a visit from the hard boys.”
Cade’s hands and teeth clenched. “This is all your fault, you know that, right? We just wanted to be left in peace. I’m an artist, man, not a revolutionary. We didn’t all want to be bio-terrorists, but you made damn sure that’s what we are now.”
Johnson smiled. Bingo. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a couple hours to think it over, see whether you want to have a grown-up conversation, OK?” He started to turn the drone around.
“Wait!” Cade half-stood, mixed hope and fear on their face. “I got information, stuff you’ll want to hear. Just let me go; I swear I’ll make it worth your while.”
Johnson raised an eyebrow. “Well, let’s see now. How’s about you give me your information, and we’ll decide what it’s worth to us.”
“No way, man.” Cade grinned with manic glee. “I want assurances. I want to walk out of here. And you really, really want to hear what I have to say…” They started giggling. “How’re you feeling, agent?”
Johnson’s face went white. He immediately queried his anti-virus; seconds later, the report came back: “Scan complete. No viruses detected.” He sighed in relief. Just another dumb anarchist head game. “Your information is so goddamn valuable, guess I’ll have to see what enhanced interrogation can do to pry it out.”
Cade leaned forward and hocked a thick wad of phlegm onto the glassteel. Johnson jumped back reflexively; no doubt it was crawling with pathogens. “Dearborn is going to bury you, fascist! Better check your anti-virus! Smash the state…” Johnson cut the connection. Dealing with bio-punk scum made him tired. He filed a report, noting the possible contamination threat, and got back to work.
A half-hour later, a raging fever hit him out of nowhere, so strong he couldn’t stand. He queried his anti-virus again and again; it insisted that he was clean. Something was wrong with his bio-monitors; they should have dialed an ambulance at the first sign of trouble. He tried to summon a medevac, but the system kept bouncing his messages, stating that all units were currently engaged. He tried connecting to the rest of the Department, but his PAN wouldn’t respond. Then it hit him; the anti-virus wasn’t just malfunctioning. The anti-virus was the virus. His system had been hacked. He tried to disable it, and a video popped up of Dearborn’s face, laughing at him as he choked on his own phlegm.
Xauri’EL Zwaan is a mendicant artist in search of meaning, fame and fortune, or pie (where available); a Cyberqueer Bisexual, a Solarpunk Anarchist, and a Satanist Goth. Ze has published short fiction, among other places, in Polar Borealis, Transform the World, Dragon Gems, and We’re Here: The Best Queer Speculative Fiction of 2022. Ze lives and writes in a little hobbit hole in Saskatoon, Canada on Treaty 6 territory with zir life partner and two very lazy cats.
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