It amazes Ify how much solving a medical mystery can calm her before the men of the Medical Committee. Where before they had seemed like sphinxlike demigods scrutinizing her from on high, ready to hurl judgments and proclamations like bolts of lightning, now they just look like what they are: old men who’ve modified their bodies, their faces, their hair in order to stroke their vanity while resting comfortably in positions—head of genetics, director of this department, chief of that department—they had inherited more than earned. She looks up at the row of men seated before her and sees nothing but a row of men, none of them extraordinary, none of them more deserving than her of the right to be put in charge of the lives of hundreds, even thousands, of people. None of them have done what she has just done. Knowing this, understanding this, she’s able to stand straighter, breathe more easily, relax her posture, and pace her words. She’s able to hear the moods in their tone and adjust hers accordingly.

The academic from earlier with his false French accent leans forward on his elbows. “So we’ll never truly know whether the solution to your problem was a medical one or a political one, will we?”

Ify wants to respond to his calling it your problem but instead says, “The treatment of illnesses must be holistic in my profession, sir. Would you really suggest curing their medical illness, then sending them back to a country of origin whose turmoil would have them coming right back to us, to do it all over again? Nun sind sie halt da.” Now they are here. The German had come out of her before she could stop it, but the look on the academic’s face satisfies her. It was too easy for Ify to see through the man’s persona and uncover a genealogy full of eugenicists and discredited race scientists from what was once Central Europe. Guilt spasms through the man’s face before he retreats into his seat.

Ify faces the rest of the group. “The recall of deportation orders, we’ve now determined, was the activating ingredient in the cure we devised for the patients.”

Director Towne, the only man on this committee whose approval she has ever sought, raises an eyebrow at her.

“Experiences coded in the DNA, Director Towne. They are arranged differently in a particular variant of cyberized brain than in those of natural-born humans or even those cyberized later in life. Their method of bonding mimics altogether different structures. When the base pattern was made clear, it became very easy to extrapolate a pattern of self-replication that would combat the virus that had infected not only those children who came to us with cyberized brains but those with no cyberization as well. Biomechanics is still beholden to biology.”

Director Towne’s frown deepens. “And where did this eureka moment come from?”

“Excuse me, Director Towne?”