Ode To Defiance Chapter 21

16

Tumbling Down

I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.

—Alexander the Great

In the town of Roma, Texas, a problem had festered for over twenty years. The fishermen could not fish, and the children could not swim in the traditional community swimming pool.

Roma lay on the north side of the Rio Grande River, adjacent to the town of Ciudad Miguel Aleman on the south side.

In the days before the building of The Wall, fishermen on both sides of the river caught fish and children from both sides of the river went swimming in the Rio Grande, which at that point was shallow enough and slow enough to work effectively as a miles-long community pool. With neither fencing nor border guards, trade flourished. The people of Ciudad Miguel Aleman came north to purchase tools from the local hardware store, and the people of Roma went south for the excellent fish tacos.

On neither side of the border did anyone pay the legally required thirty-five percent tax on imports, and national statisticians failed to notice the impact on either the trade deficit or the unemployment rate.

The people of Roma used a curious epithet for the people to the south, an epithet that revealed a shocking lack of Texan political correctness: the Romas called the southerners “neighbors.” Curiously, the northerners never noticed any hordes of thugs, murderers, plague carriers, or drug runners pouring through the town on their way to invade America and destroy its culture, but the town was clearly one of the most vulnerable places on the border.

So Roma was one of the first towns to receive the blessings of an invigorated national defense determined to protect them from the perils of intermingled communities. The President for Life bulldozed all the homes too close to the border and put up some of the first sections of The Wall to protect those who still had places to live. Soon the children of Roma found themselves looking mournfully through the steel slats protecting them from their most excellent swimming hole.

When the Border Patrol blew down vast swaths of The Wall to the west, the Roma town council recognized the opportunity it afforded, so they called their southern neighbors and urged them to get the children and the fishermen away from the river while the northerners undertook an important project.

Forty-eight hours later, after the expenditure of inordinate quantities of dynamite (because, as Jake, the owner of the hardware store liked to say, if one stick of dynamite is good, two is better) accompanied by the consumption of comparably inordinate quantities of beer, the Great Barrier separating Roma from its neighbors and the Rio Grande had fallen.

While Jake led a team that roped large numbers of fifty gallon plastic water barrels together over the river, and slapped steel plates down on top of them to make a crude but serviceable pontoon bridge, several wives sent messages through diverse social media to let the truckers carrying vaccine know that another south-north route had opened, and drivers would be welcome if just one of them would stop to sell them enough vaccine for all the inhabitants of the two townships.

Twelve hours after that, the first trucks rolled across.

Now that the southerners had a bridge to cross on and no Wall stood vigilant to keep the northerners safe, the people of Ciudad Miguel Aleman invaded America. To assure swift victory, they brought their heaviest weapons: plates stacked to the point of toppling with fish tacos. The Texans engaged in a full-scale defense with an enormous wall of beer kegs.

By mid-afternoon, most of the men from both towns were a little wasted, all the children were once more splashing in their most excellent community pool, and everyone was stuffed with good food.

Both sides declared the invasion a draw and accepted the final truce.

Dennis Gordon had once been a truck driver. An independent driver, hauling cargo from all over the country into California, he had enjoyed the road.

But fate had intervened in the form of the California governor and a truckload of computer chips for SpaceR. The California Agricultural Department goons who manned the checkpoints between Arizona and California had confiscated his truck.

He’d wound up, after almost dying on the road he’d once enjoyed, getting a series of gigs through his newfound benefactor, Lindsey Postrel of Cogent News. Much to his astonishment, he’d been transformed into a motivational speaker.

The gigs paid well. Much better than independent trucking, actually, but he still missed the road.

So when Lindsey told him in a mysterious whisper (very odd, they were talking on BrainTrust cell phones, after all) to hightail it down to southern Arizona, he complied.

Then the Wall came tumbling down, and trucks of all sorts came rumbling through.

He was not surprised when Lindsey called him again. “Get over to Tucson ASAP. One of the drivers seems to have come down with food poisoning. He needs a replacement driver.”

Dennis’s heart leapt in his throat. “You mean, I get to drive again?”

“A tractor-trailer. It’s not as good as yours was, but still, yeah, you get to drive.”

Now, many hours later, he was approaching the California border on Route 10 while the truck’s owner lay in the back trying not to throw up.

Dennis saw the checkpoint looming ahead, a wide line of concrete barriers with narrow passages. His heart leapt in his throat again, but this time it was with fear.

Fortunately, he had instructions not to challenge the barricades. He slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the road before reaching California.

A goon strolled on over to him, waving. Palms sweating, Dennis rolled down the window. Dennis blurted, “You can’t confiscate my truck. I’m still in Arizona.”

The cop waved it aside. “Stay cool. No one’s here to hurt you. Quite the opposite.” He looked back at the trailer. “You’re carrying Black Rubola vaccine?”

Dennis’s heart leapt in fear once more, but he forced his reaction aside. “Yes, sir. Three million doses. Minus one; I got injected when I took over the truck.”

The cop nodded. “Smart thinking.” He waved to the checkpoint.

A truck wove through the barriers. “When your partner recovers, he should take this truck to Louisiana. It’s full of Blue Rubola vaccine, and there’s been an outbreak.”

As Dennis nodded, another truck escaped the boundaries of the barrier. He could hardly believe his eyes.

The cop smiled broadly. “And that’s another truck full of Blue Ebola vaccine. Headed for Minneapolis. You up for taking it?”

Dennis’s eyes glowed. He gulped and nodded.

Miraculously, it was his old truck.

Dennis choked out, “Thank you.”

The cop shrugged. “Thank a woman named Postrel. She insisted that if you were gonna save millions of Californian lives, we damn well better give you your truck back.”

The cop shook his head. “We’re bending the law back on itself doing this, but I’m thinkin’ it’s the right thing to do.”

Dennis spent a few minutes caressing his beautiful rig: the tires, the fenders, the doors.

Then he was on the road again.

Admiral Beck looked up as his adjutant came in with news. After a quick salute, Lieutenant Lambert reported, “Another ferry has left the BrainTrust stacked with crates, presumably carrying the illegal vaccine for Black Rubola.”

“Excellent.” Beck strode swiftly into his operations room and issued an order. “Get me the captain of the

Vella Gulf

.”

The captain reported their status. “Sir, the ferry is approaching one of the California Coastal Patrol boats. I expect them to start transferring cargo in about ten minutes.”

Transferring the cargo at sea seemed idiotic, but as Beck understood the situation, the cargoes of vaccine were getting confiscated and dumped by the Customs officials in the San Francisco harbor when delivered on the ferries. The Coastal Patrol boats, on the other hand, came and went pretty much as they pleased, particularly when they docked south of San Francisco in Half Moon Bay.

Beck issued his next order in his most commanding voice. “Very well, Captain. I want you to move in and confiscate that shipment. Every last crate.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The captain hesitated. “Sir, if we start confiscating these shipments, how will the people of California get the vaccine?”

Lieutenant Lambert interrupted, “They’ll hardly notice the loss of a single shipment. Besides, all these shipments together are not enough to save California. The bulk will have to come up from Mexico through The Wall.”

Or through what was left of The Wall

, Beck thought. He glowered at his adjutant, then growled for the captain. “Just get the vaccine, then vaccinate everyone on your ship. I’ll send the

Port Royal

to relieve you, and you’ll bring the rest of the shipment here so we can vaccinate everyone in the fleet.” It was all very well for the government to follow the dogma of the day and outlaw the vaccine, but Beck had a fleet filled with personnel to keep operational at all costs, even if it dented the warped reality of the politicians and bureaucrats.

When the captain hesitated, Beck continued, “And give the captain of the ferry a P.O. number. We’ll reimburse them for the confiscated materials.”

The captain sounded ever so slightly relieved. “Aye aye, sir.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, sir, the BrainTrust has told everyone that this vaccine is dangerous. They estimate one percent of the vaccine recipients will die of the inoculation. I’ll almost certainly lose a few people.”

Admiral Beck replied grimly, “I understand, Captain. The Navy is a dangerous place when we’re at war.”

The captain responded with puzzlement. “But, sir, we’re not at war.”

Beck looked into the distance. “If this is not a war, Captain, why does it feel so much like one?”

A figure in a black burqa entered the dingy office attached to the dingy warehouse outside Cairo.

The proprietor rose from his chair and brought his hands together. “How may I help you?”

The voice that came to him from beneath the burqa had a beautiful lilt. “I understand you made a deal with Khalid, then charged him full price for a half-shipment.”

The proprietor took a step back. “As I explained, there was a sudden shortage. I couldn’t get my hands on the rest of the chemicals. And in the midst of the shortage, the price was fair.” He licked his lips. “Tell Khalid I’m sorry, and the next time he will get a much better price and a full load. I’ll cut him a deal.” His eyes gleamed. “Let’s face it. We both know why he wants that stuff. It’s not like he could go down the street and buy from just anybody. He’s lucky to have someone willing to deal without calling the police.”

A hand holding an immense blade thrust out from the burqa. “I will cut a deal for you.” She moved forward with lithe grace, and the cutting began.

Uwais waited impatiently across the street for a while, then meandered over to stand outside the office. Within he heard a woman’s voice, almost singing in a melodious delirium. Puzzled, he stepped through the door.

Blood splattered the walls and the floor. The figure in the burqa straightened and turned. The burqa was soaked in red.

Uwais stared around in stupefaction.

Jam growled, less melodiously, “You said to leave a message.”

Uwais shook his head, amazed. “I guess I did.”

Jam spoke succinctly. “No one will send Khalid a half-shipment ever again.”

Uwais acknowledged it. “I guess they won’t.”

Dennis happily rolled north on I-35, having just passed Des Moines, while

Rocky Mountain High

played on his stereo. He glanced back in his mirrors from time to time to ensure that Mateo, another tractor-trailer driver he’d hooked up with making the same trip, was lined up in his wind shadow, drafting to make the most of their fuel. He whistled off-key with the stereo for a moment before realizing he’d offended the gods with his poor musical performance. A police siren wailed, and the bubble lights of a cruiser blinked in his external mirror. With a few moments of maneuvering, the cop made it clear that both trucks needed to pull over.

Dennis started sweating as the cop waved him and Mateo out of their cabs. No, not again! He’d just gotten his truck back!

The cop motioned the two men back, all the way off the shoulder between the two trucks. He shook his head cheerfully. “You two are in such deep shit. I’m surprised you can breathe.” He tapped his baton on Mateo’s chest. “Now, why do I doubt very much that you have a Real ID?”

The cop was still talking. “I’ll wager a week’s pay you don’t have a visa and passport, either, do you?” He chortled. “Go ahead. Show me.”

Mateo, whose English was scanty at the best of times and who generally used the translator app on his phone, just mumbled an apology.

The cop continued, “Let me guess. You’re one of the invaders who just blew up our beautiful Wall.”

He turned to Dennis. Glaring, he spat in Dennis’s face. “And you, traitor. Harboring an illegal. Treason.” He licked his lips. “I’d just as soon shoot you where you stand, but my boss would object, more’s the pity.”

He looked back at the trucks. “Whatcha carryin’?”

Dennis brightened. Perhaps, just maybe, the man could be persuaded to let a shipment of vaccine through. He didn’t really believe it, but he had to try. “It’s vaccine. Two vaccines, really, one for the Blue Rubola, one for the new Black Rubola.”

The cop spat again. “Poison, then. I’ve heard about this stuff. Kills half the people who take it.”

Dennis objected. “We’ve both taken both shots, sir, and I’ve seen dozens of people injected. No one’s died so far.” That was a little stretch. He knew people died from the Black Rubola vaccination since he’d read the bright warning on the packets, and on the boxes that contained the packets. He’d been lucky not to see anyone die yet.

The cop’s eyes gleamed. “So you say it works, huh?” He turned thoughtful. “Might have some value then.” He finally said the words Dennis had been dreading. “I’m confiscating the whole lot.”

Just then another siren blared once and quieted.

The cop standing next to Dennis muttered, “Shit.”

Another cop car rolled to a stop. The policeman driving it stared for a moment, then muttered, “Shit.”

Soon the newly arrived, much agitated police officer joined them. He glared at Dennis and Mateo, then glared at the arresting cop. “Jason, just exactly what’re you doing with these folks?”

Jason glared back. “Just doing my duty, Sheriff. This one,” he pointed at Mateo, “is an illegal. And this one,” he prepared to spit again but didn’t, “is a traitor.”

The sheriff eyed the two truckers again. “I see.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Good work, Jason. I’ll take it from here.”

Jason seemed reluctant to leave. “Don’t you want backup, sir? There’s two of ‘em, after all.”

The sheriff shook his head. “Donny and Bob’ll be here any minute. I don’t think our desperadoes are going to be doing any escaping in their trucks.”

Jason looked like he might object again, then grunted and went back to his car. With a screech of hot rubber, he took off down the highway.

The sheriff shook his head. “Jason is as corrupt as the day is long, but he’s got an incredible gift for nosing out criminals. Here you two were, obeying all the laws, just innocent truckers rolling down the road, but damn! He sniffed you out anyway. Remarkable.”

The sheriff sighed. “So, where’re you two boys heading, anyway?”

Dennis answered, “Minneapolis, sir. Our folks heard there’s a bad outbreak of rubola there. The trucks are full of vaccine. Both kinds, black and blue.”

The sheriff was writing furiously on his tablet. “Both kinds, huh?”

As Dennis assented, two more police cruisers braked into locations before and behind the trucks. For one moment, when the sheriff had waved Jason away, Dennis had had a moment’s hope. Idiotic, in retrospect.

“Well, Jason’s right about one thing. Your shipments are hereby confiscated.”

Dennis felt a glimmer of hope when the cop said he’d take the shipments: might that mean Dennis could keep his truck? He decided to make an offer to test the waters. “Could Mateo and I, uh, take your containers somewhere for you? Drop them off?”

For the first time the sheriff smiled, a thin grudging line of humor soon wiped away. “I was hoping you’d offer. We need to deliver them ASAP, and it’s a pretty long drive.”

Dennis just watched as the sheriff grew grim. “We’ll be impounding the cargoes in Minneapolis.” The sheriff paused to let that sink in. “Donny and Bob’ll escort you to the Minnesota border so there aren’t any more mix-ups. There should be a coupla Minnesota officers there to escort you to the impound location by the hospital.”

Dennis blinked. “So we’ll have an Iowa police escort here and a Minnesota police escort the rest of the way?”

The sheriff nodded. “Sorta like a game of basketball with a zone defense.” He handed Dennis and Mateo business cards. “If you have any trouble coming back this way, give me a buzz.” He scowled. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Moments later they got the hell out of there, with sirens wailing fore and aft, gunning the trucks to speeds suitable for a racetrack.

Dennis started whistling off-key once more. Life was grand.

Many people who defend the validity of science in the face of non-scientific opposition argue that science reflects our best understanding of reality, and thou shalt disregard it at thy peril.

This is not as true as it sounds. In the philosophy of science, it is understood that science is not about reality at all. Rather, it is about the construction of ever more sophisticated models to explain experiential observables. These models are not reality themselves. Any claim that they are real depends solely on Occam’s Razor, which on its best day is still only a heuristic that lies outside the bounds of science, so the models might or might not be true.

Nevertheless, these models enable the making of predictions. The important feature of these models and their predictions is that they are required, through rigorous scrutiny and ruthless rejection via the scientific method, to produce ever more accurate predictions of real outcomes when certain events occur.

The power of these models for creating correct predictions is quite remarkable, especially for well-established fields of investigation. Epidemiology is such a field.

Selena Herron scratched idly at her neck as she walked her guests through a series of questions on her weekly talk show. The scratching did not stop the itching; if anything, the scratching made it worse. By wrap-up time, the itch was driving her mildly crazy, and she had to squeeze her hand tight and hold it down with the other hand to avoid any further undignified scratching while on air.

Finally she asked her guests Robert De Hiro and Hubert Kennedy for closing remarks. Hubert led. “At least when the so-called Blue Rubola form of measles broke out, the government finally admitted that their vaccines don’t work. And now for this latest Rubola outbreak, even the vaccine manufacturers admit their cure’s a killer. These admissions are great steps forward, but we still have a long way to go before the government will give us full disclosure on just how many and how big the lies about vaccination have been throughout our lives.”

Robert, oozing his signature rugged sincerity, answered, “You just can’t say it any better than Mahatma Gandhi: ‘Vaccination is a barbarous practice, and it is one of the most fatal of all the delusions current in our time.’”

Selena clapped along with her in-house audience. “Thank you for joining us. And that brings us to a close for this week’s episode of

The Whole Truth

.”

After thanking her guests once more, Selena stepped offstage to join ten of her closest friends, all members of her vidcast team. They planned a quick review of the show, to be followed by drinks at the bar next door.

At last she was free to scratch, and she did so vigorously. She twisted her neck so her friends could see. “Is there a bite or something on my neck? It’s driving me insane.”

Betsy bent nearer, then stepped away suddenly, holding her hand up to her mouth, then as suddenly pulling her hand away as if afraid her hand were covered with poison. “It’s a rash. A red rash but darker, with a black spot in the middle.”

Another friend scrutinized the rash, a tricky feat since the scrutiny occurred as she stepped farther away. “It’s not Blue Rubola, and I’ve seen pictures of Red Rubola from the Middle East. It’s not that either. It’s…something else.”

Just then Selena’s cell phone beeped. Her baby sitter wept hysterically. “Mrs. Herron, your daughter has this terrible rash all over her face. Oh my God, Mrs. Herron, the ambulance came, and the paramedics were wearing those white suits like they were on the moon!” The girl moaned. “I feel feverish. Am I going to die?”

Selena snapped her phone off and raced to the hospital, leaving her friends—anti-vaxxers all—with some difficult decisions to make. Of the ten friends, five decided to abandon their principles and delved as deeply as necessary into the world of illegal drugs to get vaccinated. The other five held steadfast to their convictions.

The scientific models that made predictions about the outcomes for these ten people experienced no hiccups. They made a number of extrapolations, all of which came true:

One of the ladies who rushed for a vaccination, who already had a rash breaking out on the back of her neck that had been concealed by her long black hair, was in too advanced a state of infection when she got her shot. She did not survive.

The other four who got vaccinated lived. While one in a hundred would die of the vaccine, four was too small a number for that statistic to have a significant chance of impact, and it did not.

Of the five stalwart anti-vaxxers, all got infected since the protections supplied by the epidemiological phenomenon known as “herd immunity” do not apply when the whole herd is anti-vax and the bioweapon has been derived from a virus that is notoriously infectious. Four died, aligning with the eighty percent death rate Khalid had planned.

The lone unvaccinated survivor took over operation of

The Whole Truth

vidcasting, but not for long. Upon announcement of Selena’s tragic demise, half the audience lost enthusiasm for her particular brand of truth while waiting in line for their vaccinations. For the rest, Black Rubola mowed through the anti-vax communities like a wheat combine at harvest time.

The ten percent of the listeners who remained after that did not constitute an audience large enough to merit a show.

In this fashion,

The Whole Truth

brought America a poignant reminder of an important truth: Though scientific models are not reality, nevertheless thou shalt disregard them at thy peril.

The Chief Advisor held his head in his hands, elbows resting on his desk. “Let me guess. You think we should stay the course.”

Rodrick Sprague looked at him with sublime confidence. “Of course. The virus should start breaking down any day now.”

“And the mortality rate?”

Sprague licked his lips. “It is higher than expected.” A moment of honesty intruded on his well-being. “Considerably higher, actually.”

The Advisor clenched his fists and glared back at him. “Very well. But we will take some measures just in case it takes a little longer.”

The Acting Commissioner of the FDA frowned. “What, exactly?”

“Yesterday the first case of Black Rubola was officially diagnosed here in D.C.” It was a puzzle, actually, why it had taken so long. Every city in the country had been targeted for simultaneous release of the virus except D.C. Why would the attackers leave untouched the one city with the power and leadership to craft a suitable emergency response?

The Advisor continued, “To ensure the continuing operation of the government in the off chance this becomes a crisis, I hereby require all personnel who come in contact with the President for Life and myself to get vaccinated.”

The commissioner’s frown deepened. “This will send exactly the wrong signal to the people.”

“It will also send the wrong signal if the most critical assets of the nation die.”

The commissioner could see he would not win this battle. “I understand.”

The Advisor pointed a finger at him. “This means you.”

An electric chill ran down Sprague’s spine. “But…but…that vaccine’s a killer!”

“And if it kills you, you will have made a courageous sacrifice for your country.”

The commissioner pressed his lips together. “Where will we get the vaccine? From some street drug dealer?”

Darren, the man who ran the Advisor’s strict interrogation team, had already gotten all his people vaccinated, and when the Advisor had asked, he’d been quick with an answer. “Exactly. There’s a dealer on the corner of Fourteenth Street and Constitution Avenue next to the Department of Commerce. I want you to go down there and buy a carton of vaccine packets.” He thought about it. “Better get a full crate.” He glared the commissioner into submission. “Do you understand?”

The commissioner gritted his teeth and obeyed the Advisor’s commands. He also forced himself not to scream in outrage as the White House doctor drove the needle into his arm.

For days he expected to die suddenly of the vaccine, to show the world and the Advisor how right he’d been, but after a week, a curious thing happened.

He felt relieved, knowing he wouldn’t be getting Black Rubola.

Khalid was standing at the main entrance to their home when Sabaah arrived. Sabaah shook his head. “It’s pretty crazy out there. Almost as if the Black Rubola had worked.”

Khalid grunted and accepted the package Sabaah had brought him. “How’s Uwais doing with Jam?”

Sabaah grinned. “Oh, just fine. You know I had my doubts about her in the beginning, but man! She is something else with that knife. I’ve never seen a burqa so covered with blood.”

Khalid pulled apart the box and extracted a small packet labeled Black Rubola Vaccine. Warning: This vaccine will cause severe side effects, including death, in up to one percent of recipients. For instructions on reconstituting this powder for injection, see the other side.

Once he’d transferred the contents of the packet to various devices, tubes, and vials, he finally responded to Sabaah’s update. “I’m delighted she’s doing well. I look forward to meeting her.”

Sabaah’s smile turned a little mischievous. “She’s beautiful, too. Of course, you already knew that from the vids and sims we have of her.”

“Uh-huh.” Khalid pointed at the simple metal table that served many purposes, one of which was being a dining table. “Sandwiches there. Take a couple. Let me get this started.”

Sabaah grabbed a sandwich and opened his tablet to glance at the news. For a while all was quiet.

Eventually Khalid moved some preliminary results onto his tablet and sat down across from Sabaah. He idly munched on a sandwich while studying the new information.

Sabaah took Khalid’s partial break for lunch as a signal he could speak. “It all looked like it was going so well. How could they have possibly pulled together a vaccine so fast? I don’t get it.”

Khalid rubbed his face. “Sabaah, you’re absolutely sure you killed her?”

Sabaah knew who he meant. “Absolutely, positively. When I threw the knife, it went into the throat just underneath the jaw. I severed her spinal cord. Not even the BrainTrust can fix that.” He gave Khalid a suspicious glance. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve been studying the vaccine’s molecular antibody factories.” Khalid sat back and looked at Sabaah for the first time. “You’re a programmer. You know that every programmer has a signature, a distinctive style of writing code?”

Sabaah nodded. “Of course. Programming is almost as much art as it is engineering.”

Khalid took a deep breath. “Well, the same is true of people who design these molecular factories. I recognize the style of these DNA strands. I can draw only one necessary conclusion.”

He finished in a voice filled with both irritation and admiration. “Dash is alive.”