text: The two-person helicopter flew over the Chinese village at a height of eighty meters. There were corpses right in the middle of the dirt road; in sick irony, birds were pecking at them. But there were also people still alive down there. Dr. Quan Li could see several men—some young, some old—and two middle-aged women looking up, shielding their eyes with their hands, staring at the wonder of the flying machine.
  
  Li and the pilot, another Ministry of Health specialist, both wore orange biohazard suits even though they didn't intend to land. All they wanted was a survey of the area, to assess how far the disease had spread. An epidemic was bad enough; if it became a pandemic, well—the grim thought came to Li—overpopulation would no longer be one of his country's many problems.
  
  "It's a good thing they don't have cars," he said over his headset, shouting to be heard above the pounding of the helicopter blades. He looked at the pilot, whose eyes had narrowed in puzzlement. "It's only spreading among people at walking speed."
  
  The pilot nodded. "I guess we'll have to wipe out all the birds in this area. Will you be able to work out a low-enough dose that won't kill the people?"
  
  Li closed his eyes. "Yes," he said. "Yes, of course."
  
  Caitlin was terrified. The cranial surgeon spoke only Japanese, and although there was a lot of chatter in the operating room, she didn't understand any of it—well, except for "Oops!" which apparently was the same in both English and Japanese and just made her even more frightened. Plus, she could smell that the surgeon was a smoker—what the hell kind of doctor smokes?
  
  Her mother, she knew, was watching from an overhead observation gallery. Kuroda was here in the O.R., his wheezy voice slightly muffled, presumably by a face mask.
  
  She'd been given only a local anesthetic; they'd offered a general one, but she'd joked that the sight of blood didn't bother her. Now, though, she wished she'd let them knock her out. The fingers in latex gloves probing her face were unnerving enough, but the clamp that was holding her left eyelid open was downright freaky. She could feel pressure from it, although, thanks to the anesthetic, it didn't hurt.
  
  She tried to remain calm. There would be no incision, she knew; under Japanese law, it wasn't surgery if there wasn't a cut made, and so this procedure was allowed with only a general waiver having been signed. The surgeon was using tiny instruments to slide the minuscule transceiver behind her eye so it could piggyback on her optic nerve; his movements, she'd been told, were guided by a fiber-optic camera that had also been slid around her eye. The whole process was creepy as hell.
  
  Suddenly, Caitlin heard agitated Japanese from a woman, who to this point had simply said "hai" in response to each of the surgeon's barked commands. And then Kuroda spoke: "Miss Caitlin, are you all right?"
  
  "I guess."
  
  "Your pulse is way up."
  
  Yours would be, too, if people were poking things into your head! she thought. "I'm okay."
  
  She could smell that the surgeon was working up a sweat. Caitlin felt the heat from the lights shining on her. It was taking longer than it was supposed to, and she heard the surgeon snap angrily a couple of times at someone.
  
  Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. "What's happening?"
  
  Kuroda's voice was soft. "He's almost done."
  
  "Something's wrong, isn't it?"
  
  "No, no. It's just a tight fit, that's all, and—"
  
  The surgeon said something.
  
  "And he's done!" said Kuroda. "The transceiver is in place."
  
  There was much shuffling around, and she heard the surgeon's voice moving toward the door.
  
  "Where's he going?" Caitlin asked, worried.
  
  "Be calm, Miss Caitlin. His job is finished—he's the eye specialist. Another doctor is going to do the final cleanup."
  
  "How—how do I look?"
  
  "Honestly? Like you've been in a boxing match."
  
  "Huh?"
  
  "You've got quite a black eye." He gave a wheezy little chuckle. "You'll see."
  
  Dr. Quan Li cradled the beige telephone handset against his shoulder and looked idly at the diplomas hanging on his office's pale green walls: the fellowships, the degrees, the certifications. He'd been on hold now for fifty minutes, but one expected to wait when calling the man who was simultaneously Paramount Leader of the People's Republic of China and President of the People's Republic and General Secretary of the Communist Party and Chairman of the Central Military Commission.
  
  Li's office, a corner room on the fifth floor of the Ministry of Health building, had windows that looked out over crowded streets. Cars inched along, rickshaws darting between them. Even through the thick glass, the din from outside was irritating.
  
  "I'm here," said the famous voice at last. Li didn't have to conjure up a mental image of the man; rather, he just swung his chair to look at the gold-framed portrait hanging next to the one of Mao Zedong: ethnically Zhuang; a long, thoughtfullooking face; dyed jet-black hair belying his seventy years; wire-frame glasses with thick arched eyebrows above.
  
  Li found his voice breaking a bit as he spoke: "Your Excellency, I need to recommend severe and swift action."
  
  The president had been briefed on the outbreak in Shanxi. "What sort of action?"
  
  "A … culling, Your Excellency."
  
  "Of birds?" That had been done several times now, and the president sounded irritated. "The Health Minister can authorize that." His tone conveyed the unspoken words, There was no need to bother me.
  
  Li shifted in his chair, leaning forward over his desktop. "No, no, not of birds. Or, rather, not just of birds." He fell silent. Wasting the president's time just wasn't done, but he couldn't go on—couldn't give voice to this. For pity's sake, he was a doctor! But, as his old surgery teacher used to say, sometimes you have to cut in order to cure …
  
  "What, then?" demanded the president.
  
  Li felt his heart pounding. At last he said, very softly, "People."
  
  There was more silence for a time. When the president's voice came on again, it was quiet, reflective. "Are you sure?"
  
  "I don't think there's any other way."
  
  Another long pause, then: "How would you do it?"
  
  "An airborne chemical agent," said Li, taking care with his words. The army had such things, designed for warfare, intended for use in foreign lands, but they would work just as well here. He would select a toxin that would break down in a matter of days; the contagion would be halted. "It will affect only those in the target area—two villages, a hospital, the surrounding lands."
  
  "And how many people are in the … target area?"
  
  "No one is exactly sure; peasants often fall through the cracks of the census process."
  
  "Roughly," said the president. "Round figures."
  
  Li looked down at the computer printouts, and the figures that had been underlined in red by Cho. He took a deep breath with his mouth, then let it out through his nose. "Ten or eleven thousand."
  
  The president's voice was thin, shocked. "Are you positive this needs to be done?"
  
  Studying scenarios for containing plague outbreaks was one of the key mandates of the Department of Disease Control. There were established protocols, and Li knew he was following them properly. By reacting quickly, by cauterizing the wound before infection spread too far, they would actually be reducing the scope of the required eliminations. The evil, he knew, wasn't in what he had told the president to do; the evil, if any, would have been delaying, even by a matter of days, calling for this solution.
  
  He tried to keep his voice steady. "I believe so, Your Excellency." He lowered his voice. "We, ah, don't want another SARS."
  
  "Are you positive there's no other way?"
  
  "This isn't regular H5N1," said Li. "It's a variant strain that passes directly from person to person. And it's highly contagious."
  
  "Can't we just throw a cordon around the area?"
  
  Li leaned back in his chair now and looked out at the neon signs of Beijing. "The perimeter is too large, with too many mountain passes. We could never be sure that people weren't getting out. You'd need something as impenetrable as the Great Wall, and it couldn't be erected in time."
  
  The president's voice—so assured on TV—sounded like that of a tired old man just now. "What's the—what do you call it?—the mortality rate for this variant strain?"
  
  "High."
  
  "How high?"
  
  "Ninety percent, at least."
  
  "So almost all these people will die anyway?"
  
  And that was the saving grace, Li knew; that was the only thing that was keeping him from choking on his own bile. "Yes."
  
  "Ten thousand …"
  
  "To protect over a billion Chinese—and more abroad," said Li.
  
  The president fell quiet, and then, almost as if talking to himself, he said softly, "It'll make June fourth look like a stroll in the sun."
  
  June fourth, 1989: the day the protesters were killed in Tiananmen Square. Li didn't know if he was supposed to respond, but when the silence had again grown uncomfortably long he said what Party faithful were supposed to say: "Nothing happened on that day."
  
  To Li's surprise, the president made a snorting sound and then said, "We may be able to contain your bird-flu epidemic, Dr. Quan, but we must be sure there is no other outbreak in its wake."
  
  Li was lost. "Your Excellency?"
  
  "You said we won't be able to erect something like the Great Wall fast enough, and that's true. But there is another wall, and that one we can strengthen …"