Contagious

Dan seemed surprised. “Didn’t you get the reports on your way in?”

Margaret shook her head. “No, radio silence the whole way. Why? What’s with the daughter’s corpse?”

“She’s not a corpse, she’s alive,” Dan said. “She’s in the containment chamber.”

ARE YOU THERE, G.o.d? IT’S ME CHELSEA

A conversation was taking place.

One half of this conversation hovered forty miles above the Earth, straight up from the diseased oak tree in Chuy Rodriguez’s backyard.

The other half sat on the floor of Chelsea’s bedroom. On her left rested a pile of Barbies, Bratz and other dolls. On her right sat a similar but smaller pile. As she talked, she would pick up a doll from the pile on the left, take off all its clothes, hold the doll in her lap, then draw on it with a blue Sharpie.

She drew little triangles.

They were very pretty.

She finished with a doll, put it on the pile on the right, then grabbed another with her left hand.

“Chauncey, do you like ice cream Crunch bars?”

I have never had one. I could not eat them.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Then what do you eat?”

The Orbital directed some processing power to answering this. Being inanimate, it had endless patience for her questions, which was fortunate, because the questions indeed seemed endless. Most often it simply didn’t know the answer. It had acc.u.mulated a good bit of knowledge from the triangles’ interfacing with dozens of human hosts, but it still took time to make a.s.sociations between language and fact.

I eat gravity.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Is it good?”

The Orbital worked to a.s.sociate her use of the word good. Good meant many things to humans. It could mean a self-profession of capability. It could mean the socially acceptable course of action. It could mean a field goal. The Orbital searched to compare it with food consumption. Many stored host images came up, things like barbecued chicken, chocolate, cake, mashed potatoes. That is what she meant. Without the gravity processors, the Orbital would plummet to the Earth, so it applied the correct definition and answered.

Yes, it is very good.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Chauncey, who is your favorite Detroit Piston?”

I do not know.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Chauncey, are you G.o.d?”

The Orbital accessed images. An elderly human with a big white beard. A younger human with long hair and a short brown beard. Glowing heads. Love. Hatred. Divine intervention into human lives. Punishment. Wrath. Destruction. The Orbital cross-referenced these images against cataloged emotional responses, and determined that this was something it could potentially use to motivate hosts.

Why do you think I am G.o.d?

“You know, because you can talk in my head and stuff. People can’t do that, mostly.”

What do you think of G.o.d, Chelsea?

Chelsea sang. “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. We go to church most Sundays, except during football season sometimes we don’t. I love G.o.d because G.o.d loves me.”

The Orbital called up more images. He examined the signals coming from Chelsea’s brain as she talked of G.o.d and Jesus. Yes, this was a powerful motivator.

Chelsea, if G.o.d told you to do something bad, would you do it?

Chelsea stopped drawing on her Barbie. She looked at the wall, just kind of staring out, tilting her head to the right as she thought.

“Daddy says sometimes G.o.d tests us, but G.o.d loves us and he wouldn’t ask us to do anything bad. So if G.o.d asked me to do something, then it couldn’t be bad, so I would do it.”

Yes.

“Yes what?”

Yes, I am G.o.d.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Okay. Can I still call you Chauncey?”

Yes.

Chelsea picked up her doll and started drawing blue triangles.

“Chauncey, do you like Snickers or Twix better?”

The Orbital continued to answer questions.

The door to her room opened slowly, and Mommy peeked her head inside.

“Chelsea, baby, how are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Chelsea said. She picked up another doll and took off its clothes.

“Chelsea, what are you doing in here?”

“Just drawing triangles on my dolls and talking to Chauncey.”

“Ohhh,” Mommy said. “Your special friend Chauncey?”

“Uh-huh,” Chelsea said. She drew a blue triangle on this doll’s forehead. Very pretty.

“What are you talking to him about?”

“Oh, you know,” Chelsea said. “Flowers, and my pink dress, and what’s the best cartoons, and basketball and gravity and ice cream and G.o.d and dollies and—”

“Okay, honey,” Mommy said, cutting Chelsea off. Mommy was laughing a little. Chelsea didn’t know what was so funny.

“You keep talking to Chauncey,” Mommy said. “Are you drawing on all your dolls? Is that a permanent marker? Don’t ruin them, honey.”

“I’m not ruining them, Mommy,” Chelsea said. She picked up a blond Barbie with blue triangles on her arms, legs and face. She held it up so Mommy could see. “They’re not ruined. I’m making them better. I’m making them pretty.”

“Okay, honey,” Mommy said. “You come get me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Mommy closed the door. Chelsea set the Barbie on the right-hand pile, then grabbed another doll from the pile on the left.

TEEN ANGST

Margaret refused to cry.

She had a job to do. But looking at the flat-panel monitor, looking at that poor girl’s face . . .

“Let me go!” the girl screamed. She pulled weakly against her restraints, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Even if she got out of the restraints, she couldn’t escape the tiny containment chamber’s clear, reinforced walls.

Cameras mounted outside her chamber provided an excellent view. white epoxy walls blazed under the ceiling’s embedded neon lights. Leather cuffs held Betty Jewell’s wrists and ankles tight to the autopsy trolley. A disposable roll of thin foam on top of the cart gave it a little bit of padding, but it was still a steel cart and wasn’t designed with comfort in mind. She wore a blue hospital gown spotted with purple where her oozing sores leaked blood.