A committee member to Director Towne’s right, whose face is fashioned to look unreasonably young, taps a stylus against the wooden bench in front of him. Dr. Langrishe, head of genetics. “I assume you have studied the country-of-origin data with regard to the affected patients? Is there any correlation between falling into a coma and your country no longer existing?”

Ify does her best to maintain an even temper. What a basic question. Of course, this was one of the first questions she researched. “The initial outbreak of the disease seemed indiscriminate with regard to country of origin. One commonality regarding country of origin is that all of the affected seem to have come from countries that have experienced political turmoil within the past five years. War, violent change in leadership, government-sponsored repression, or some other sort of violent upheaval. Many of those countries of origin are still, in fact, experiencing these upheavals.”

The one man not wearing a medical doctor’s uniform and instead wearing a boxy suit jacket leans back in his plush chair. With the fingernail of his pinky, he scratches the side of his nose. “Well, that’s rather the point of their being refugees, isn’t it.”

Ify can’t tell if the comment is addressed to her or to Dr. Langrishe.

“People tend not to swim for shore if their boat isn’t sinking.” He leans on his elbows. “Tell me, Internist.” An accent. French? “Do you believe that political turmoil in the countries of origin is the cause of this medical epidemic?”

“I believe it is a proximate cause, yes. But not the trigger.”

The man—he must be some sort of academic—raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Do continue.”

“While there have been sporadic cases over the past five years, the epidemic started in earnest a month ago with the announcement of the government’s changed stance on migrants. Immediately following announcement of the policy, a number of families—many of whom had long been residents of Alabast—received notices of deportation. It is at this time that the disease became more widespread.”

“Is this a hunger strike, then?”

There are too many missing pieces for Ify to call it that or even something akin to that. How to tell this group of old white men that many among the population—an unknown number, in fact—might be synths and not human beings at all? How to tell them that many of the children in her care are not even subject to a single human rights protection under Alabastrine law? And where does the virus affecting Peter and the girl he connected to come into play?

“I’m not sure, sir.”

The academic glances at the others, as though to finally include them in the dialogue. “Do we know if this is a virus? It seems contagious, does it not?”