The colored man next to the professor waves at the crowd uncertainly. A murmuring intensifies, the room buzzing like a beehive poked with a stick. Under it all, the calls keep coming from the cage, and my sick feeling gets near to crippling. Katherine grabs my arm, horror widening her eyes. “He is not about to do what I think he is. Is he?”
Nothing that is about to take place on that stage is going to be good. I can feel it in my gut. I reach under my shirt for my penny. It’s cool to the touch despite being nestled against my skin, and I know that danger is near.
A lady’s Attendant is always supposed to have a pleasant expression, but I can’t seem to keep a grimace from my face. I shift in my seat, rearranging my skirts so I can more easily reach my sidearm. “You need to be ready to get the littler girls out. I’m pretty sure this ain’t going to end up well for poor Othello, and this time Iago ain’t going to have anything to do with it.”
Katherine gives me a confused look before nodding as she gets the gist of what I mean, even if she doesn’t get the reference. Now that most of the chatter has died down, the professor has moved across to the cage.
“Now, Othello here is going to willingly submit to a shambler’s bite in order to demonstrate the increased resistance of a vaccinated Negro. Earlier this week Othello received a series of shots, which were painless.” The professor takes out his handkerchief and mops his brow once more before tucking it back into his pocket. I’m certain he ain’t told the truth the whole time he’s been up there, since he’s sweating like a murderer in church. What is this man playing at?
The professor continues. “This experiment is intended to ratify the prudence of our mayor’s Negro patrols, which, under the close guidance of our excellent keepers of the peace, fulfill their role of service that God intended, keeping our city safe. Just as the undead plague is born of God’s will, so also is the Negroes’ resistance—vaccinated Negro squads make sense from both a moral and a scientific standpoint. I am confident that this experiment will also demonstrate that the Negro and Native Reeducation Act is entirely unnecessary. The cities are safe, the controlled territories are largely secure . . . Why should our citizens pay to educate colored boys and girls to do a job they’re already biologically equipped to do? And when our esteemed mayor finds himself in the District after being elected senator”—the professor pauses for applause from the Survivalists up front—“I’m sure he will make every Baltimorean proud by helping to repeal the NNRA.”
The professor smiles a little and inclines his head in the direction of the mayor and the man sitting next to him. Old Blunderbuss, as the newspapers call Mayor Carr, was the one that established Baltimore’s Negro patrol squads a few years ago, right after I arrived at Miss Preston’s. Before he was elected, the squads had been integrated, but now few whites serve in anything but command roles. I suppose it might have been a controversial move if it hadn’t been so successful. As Momma once said, “Keeping the peace in this country isn’t that hard, as long as nobody important dies.”
I don’t like this blowhard professor very much. I get the feeling his research is less about science and more about the mayor’s impending run for Senate.
The man gestures to poor, dumb Othello who hasn’t left his spot near the cage, and I can’t hold my tongue any longer. The Negro scholars ahead of us don’t seem inclined to say anything, and I cannot just let a man commit suicide, even if it is in the name of science.
I jump to my feet and clear my throat. “Excuse me, Professor Ghering?”
Everyone turns in their seats, and a few of the ladies nearer the front gasp, though whether because of my terrible hairdo or because I dared to interrupt, I ain’t certain. Either way, I have everyone’s attention.
Here’s a thing about me: I ain’t all that good at knowing when to keep my fool mouth shut.
The professor turns to me, adjusting his spectacles. “Yes, um, miss?”
I wave and smile large. “Hi there, Professor. My name is Jane McKeene, and I’m a student at Miss Preston’s School of Combat. Before we get to all the biting, I just wanted to say thank you for having us here at your esteemed lecture. It is an honor.”
The professor’s guarded expression fades, and he gives me a benevolent smile. “Well, yes, of course. You colored girls are part of the future of our great nation, and it is vital for all Negroes to understand how important they are to the fight to save humanity. This is also why we have invited your Negro scholars and leaders here to witness such a momentous experiment.”
“Oh, of course, Professor. Most definitely.” I nearly choke on the words, because the men in the row in front of me are looking very uncomfortable. They know this lecture is a sham just as much as I do, but none of them are willing to stand up and lose what little standing they have with the mayor. Leaders they are not.
I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my throat. “Now, I just have one question, and I was hoping you would answer it before you get to your demonstration.”
Next to me, Katherine grabs my arm and tries to pull me down, hissing at me under her breath. The Negro scholars in front of me are also muttering, saying some not-so-nice things about
