Pattern Immunity

 PATTERN IMMUNITY

1

Dr. Eleanor Chen pressed her thumb against the identity scanner outside Wellness Center 37-B, waiting for the familiar burn as the device sampled her DNA and matched it against her mandatory daily verification profile. The scanner glowed green, but held her a moment longer than usual. She kept her face neutral, careful to project nothing but professional fatigue—an acceptable emotional state for a primary care physician nineteen hours into a twenty-hour shift.

The door slid open. "Identity confirmed, Dr. Chen," announced the building's AI. "Productivity at 97.2% of quota. Reminder: your quarterly Citizen Wellness Assessment is scheduled for next Tuesday."

"Acknowledged," Eleanor responded, modulating her voice to the flat affect preferred by vocal analysis algorithms. She'd learned the proper tone during her residency at AmeriHealth, back when medical education still included actual patients instead of simulations.

Inside her office, she performed the expected ritual: sanitizing hands, adjusting the lapel pin that livestreamed her workday to Quality Assurance, and arranging her features into the practiced blend of efficiency and compassion that the facial recognition systems categorized as "appropriate medical empathy."

As she activated her diagnostic terminal, Eleanor discreetly swallowed the two small white pills hidden under her tongue—her morning dose of Obvolvimentem. Technically a cognitive enhancer for executives, she'd discovered that at triple dosage, it created a peculiar dissociative effect that shielded emotional responses from the ambient mood-scanning that permeated every public and professional space.

Her first patient arrived precisely on time—being late for medical appointments resulted in automatic insurance penalties. Gregory Matsuo, age 37, logistics coordinator for MidContinent Distribution. His file scrolled across her retinal implant.

"Good morning, Mr. Matsuo," she said, gesturing to the examination chair. "I see you've recently recovered from VirEx-29?"

"Yes, Doctor." Matsuo spoke carefully, but something in his eyes caught Eleanor's attention. A focus, a clarity she rarely saw in patients. "I was infected three weeks ago. I've completed the standard antiviral protocol."

VirEx-29—the latest in an endless series of engineered viruses unleashed, according to official reports, by the nebulous "Separatist Territories" that supposedly threatened the United Corporate Zones' borders. Every quarter brought a new pathogen, a new reason to remain vigilant, a new justification for expanded emergency powers.

But this virus was different. According to Eleanor's careful, dangerous observations, VirEx-29 caused mild encephalitis in approximately 12% of patients. That encephalitis affected a very

specific region of the brain—the same region where mandatory media chips interfaced with neural tissue.

"I'll need to perform a standard post-viral assessment," she said, reaching for her scanner. This was the crucial moment. She needed to determine if Matsuo was one of the affected ones.

The scanner showed the telltale inflammation patterns. Not severe enough to trigger automatic reporting, but precisely in the region she'd been monitoring across dozens of patients. She made her decision.

"Your recovery is proceeding well," she said with clinical detachment, "but I'm noting some minor inflammatory markers that suggest you would benefit from this supplementary medication." She pressed a small bottle of pills into his hand, then looked directly into his eyes. "Take two before sleep, and one upon waking. They may cause unusual dreams. This is normal."

Something in Matsuo's expression shifted—a micro-reaction too subtle for the monitoring systems to detect, but clear to a physician who had spent twenty years reading human faces.

"I understand, Doctor," he said. The bottle disappeared into his pocket.

What she'd given him wasn't standard post-viral care. It was her own carefully formulated compound—Obvolvimentem combined with a neural pathway stabilizer that would preserve the disruption to his media chip interface, preventing the system from self-repairing. It would ensure that whatever clarity he'd gained would remain.

"Follow up in two weeks," she said, entering routine treatment notes into the system. What didn't appear in those notes: Matsuo was the forty-seventh patient she'd identified with this particular pattern. Of the previous forty-six, thirty-eight had never returned for follow-up. Their status in the system: "Relocated for occupational optimization."

Eleanor knew what that really meant. They had been noticed. Taken.

2

That evening in her apartment—a sterile, algorithm-designed space in a high-efficiency tower—Eleanor enacted her nightly charade. She prepared a meal, scrolled through approved entertainment options on her wall screen, and engaged in precisely eleven minutes of the mandated daily exercise routine.

Only after her electricity usage pattern showed her settling into sleep did she activate the signal scrambler hidden inside her ancient paper book collection—one of the few possessions citizens were still permitted to own privately. The books themselves were hollowed out, containing her research notes and medication supplies. The scrambler created a fifteen-minute bubble of privacy from the ambient monitoring systems.

Working quickly, she updated her patient database. Seven new cases today showed the VirEx-29 inflammatory pattern. Four existing patients hadn't reported for follow-up appointments. The tally of the disappeared was growing.

A soft tone from her secure tablet indicated a message—the only communication channel she dared use for her real work. It was from Dr. Weiss, her former mentor and the only other physician she had cautiously brought into her discovery.

37-B under increased monitoring. Data mining patterns detected in your patient outcomes. Suggest protocol adjustment. Advise extreme caution.

Eleanor felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. She'd been careful—calibrating medication doses to each patient's body chemistry to ensure no identical patterns would emerge, varying her treatment notes, maintaining perfect productivity metrics. But the system was designed to detect anomalies, and she was creating them with every patient she helped.

She typed back: Acknowledged. Continuing under revised protocol. Any word from the disappeared?

There was a long pause before Weiss replied: Some have made contact. Organization forming. They call themselves "Pattern Immunity." They're finding each other.

Eleanor stared at the message until the scrambler warned of imminent shutdown. The disappeared weren't being eliminated. They were escaping. And somehow, finding each other.

3

Three days later, Eleanor treated a woman named Sonia Rivera who exhibited the most pronounced case of media chip disruption she'd seen yet. As Eleanor administered the "supplement," Rivera leaned forward and whispered, "The patterns are becoming visible, Doctor."

Eleanor froze, her training barely keeping her face neutral for the monitors. This deviation from script was dangerous—for both of them.

"Your recovery is proceeding normally," she said aloud, continuing the expected examination.

Rivera's eyes held that same clarity she'd seen in others. "We recognize what you're doing," she continued, voice barely audible. "There are more of us than they know. When you're ready, take the blue line to Coldridge Station at 19:40 on Sunday. Exit at the northeast corner."

Before Eleanor could respond, Rivera straightened up, resumed her role as compliant patient, and left precisely when her appointment window closed.

That night, Eleanor couldn't activate her scrambler—her apartment had been selected for "random efficiency optimization," which meant surveillance upgrades. She lay awake, considering her options. The Obvolvimentem would shield her conscious thoughts from any deep scans, but her actions were becoming increasingly risky.

The next morning, her first patient was already in the examination room when she arrived—unusual, as the system never allowed patients to enter before providers.

It wasn't a patient. It was Supervisor Diaz from Compliance Monitoring.

"Dr. Chen," he said, his face displaying the practiced neutrality of someone who had moved beyond needing chemical aids to mask their emotions. "Your productivity metrics continue to be exemplary."

"Thank you, Supervisor," she replied, settling into her chair.

"However, we've detected some statistical anomalies in patient outcomes from this facility. Recovery patterns that don't align with predictive models." His eyes—entirely human, not augmented with visible implants—studied her. "As you know, medical deviations can indicate Separatist influence."

Eleanor had prepared for this moment. "I've noted some unusual presentations in post-viral recovery," she said. "I've been collecting data to submit to Research Division once I've reached statistical significance."

Diaz nodded slowly. "Commendable initiative, Doctor. The system values proactive analysis." He stood. "I'll need access to your complete patient records for the past six months. Standard procedure."

"Of course," she said, authorizing the data transfer with her implant. She'd been keeping dual records—the official ones were immaculate, showing nothing but minor variations in standard care protocols.

As Diaz moved toward the door, he paused. "You've been taking Obvolvimentem for some time, Dr. Chen."

Her pulse jumped, but years of practice kept her expression neutral. "Yes. The cognitive enhancement helps maintain my productivity levels."

"At triple the recommended dosage?"

The room seemed to grow colder. "I've developed a tolerance," she said. "The Ethics Committee approved my usage pattern last year."

Diaz's expression revealed nothing. "Yes, so your records indicate. Carry on, Doctor. We'll be monitoring Center 37-B more closely in the coming weeks. VirEx-29 has shown some... unexpected patterns."

After he left, Eleanor treated four more patients, administered her covert medication to two who showed the inflammatory markers, and completed her documentation with mechanical precision. But inside, behind the shield of chemicals, her mind raced.

They were watching her. Not just the normal surveillance, but actively searching for patterns. She needed to make a decision.

4

Sunday arrived. Eleanor left her apartment at the approved time for her weekend recreation period, dressed in the seasonal colors promoted by the Citizen Harmony Bureau. She boarded the blue line train, her heart thudding against her ribs as she counted down the stops to Coldridge Station.

What waited for her there? Arrest? Disappearance? Or something else entirely?

The station announced itself with the standard corporate jingle. Eleanor stepped off, moving with the precise blend of purpose and leisure that avoided algorithmic attention. The northeast exit led to an older section of the city, where the surveillance grid had more gaps—not enough to hide completely, but enough to create moments of uncertainty in the tracking system.

A woman appeared beside her—Rivera, from her clinic. "Walk with me, Doctor. Don't change your pace."

They moved through streets that grew progressively narrower, buildings taller, casting shadows over the facial recognition cameras.

"What is Pattern Immunity?" Eleanor asked quietly.

"We're what happens when the system makes a miscalculation," Rivera responded. "VirEx-29 wasn't released by any Separatist Territories—those don't even exist. It escaped from a corporate lab developing more efficient neural interfaces for the next generation of media chips."

They turned down an alley Eleanor would normally have avoided.

"The virus damages the connection point. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to create distance between the input and our perception of it. We start seeing the patterns in the information they feed us. The contradictions. The manufactured consent."

At the end of the alley stood a nondescript door with a medical symbol so faded it was nearly invisible.

"We need doctors," Rivera said. "People are escaping the grid, but they need care. Real care. And your compound—it's helping others maintain their immunity to the patterns."

Eleanor hesitated at the threshold. Behind her lay safety—the known parameters of permitted existence. Ahead was darkness, risk, and the possibility of genuine purpose.

Her monitoring bracelet chimed with a proximity warning. Someone was scanning for her location.

"They're looking for you already," Rivera said. "Whatever you decide, decide quickly."

Eleanor thought of her patients—the ones who returned with clear eyes, and the growing numbers who never returned at all. She thought of Supervisor Diaz and his certainty that he would find the pattern that would expose her.

She touched her bracelet—the one piece of technology that bound her to the grid, marked her movements, monitored her vital signs, and transmitted her location constantly to the system.

"If I remove this, they'll know immediately," she said.

Rivera smiled. "We're counting on it. We have fifty-seven bracelets from your patients ready to activate simultaneously across the city. The system will detect a statistical impossibility—you in fifty-eight places at once. By the time they resolve the error, you'll be somewhere the pattern recognition can't find you."

Eleanor thought of the oath she had taken when she became a physician, long before the corporations had consolidated their control. First, do no harm. But there was harm in inaction too—in watching her patients vanish, in administering corporate treatments designed for compliance rather than health.

"I'll need my research," she said. "And I'll need to synthesize more Obvolvimentem."

"We have a lab. Underground, literally and figuratively. Your mentor, Dr. Weiss—he's been helping us build it for months."

Eleanor's fingers found the emergency release on her bracelet. One press and she would become a non-person, erased from the patterns of permitted existence.

She pressed it.

The bracelet fell away, and with it, the weight of years of careful compliance. Somewhere in the system, alarms would be triggering, anomaly detections running, drones dispatching to her last known location.

Rivera pushed open the door, revealing a staircase leading downward.

"Welcome to Pattern Immunity, Doctor. We have work to do."

As the door closed behind them, Eleanor felt her clinical detachment—cultivated over years of survival—begin to crack. Beneath it lay something dangerous and essential: purpose.

Fifty-seven of her patients were out there somewhere, awake and aware in a world designed to keep them sleeping. Thanks to her, they could see the patterns now. And patterns, once seen, could be disrupted.