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position for a major government contractor, he was able to obtain a waiver legitimizing the births.  We were lucky – a post-natal termination would have been mandatory for a less educated and affluent family. 
    My childhood was a pretty normal one for the middle class.  My father worked long hours, but his position allotted us almost 70 square meters of living space within the safety and comfort of the Protected Zone.  We were happy and content, and my early memories are pleasant  ones of family and childhood.  That happiness came to an abrupt end shortly after my eighth birthday.
    When they were four years old, my sisters became infected with the G-11 super-virus.  Developed as a bacteriological weapon during the Unification Wars, the virus caused a deadly disease that was commonly called the Plague, though it was far deadlier and more difficult to treat than its historical namesake.  Although the frequency of infection had declined dramatically in the decades since the virus had last been employed in war, it was still a serious health problem throughout the world.  Advances in medical technology and treatment had resulted in a reduction in the mortality rate from 100% to approximately 50%, but no outright cure had ever been developed.  In many cases the survivors suffered serious damage to vital organs and other bodily systems.
    My sisters were young and strong, and they both survived the disease itself.  Unfortunately, though Beth recovered fully, the virus had virtually destroyed Jill’s liver.  Her only hope of survival was a transplant or regeneration.  While organ regeneration had been perfected in the previous century and offered a virtually 100% success rate, it was extraordinarily expensive, and my family’s health care ration was nowhere close to allowing the procedure.  In fact my sister’s medical priority rating was extremely low, so even a transplant was out of the question.  In the government’s analysis my sister’s life simply wasn’t worth the resources required to save it, particularly since my parents would still have two other children.
    My parents didn’t give up though.  Black market organs and cut rate transplants were readily available outside the Protected Zone.  Though illegal and dangerous, it was the only way to save Jill’s life, and my father and mother didn’t even think twice.
    A black market transplant was still expensive, and my parents sold everything we owned and borrowed every credit they could.  My mother even tried to go back to work.  She had been an assistant chef at the Plaza Hotel before she married my father, but with more than 50% of the population unemployed the government allowed very few two income families.  When my parents were married my mother lost her work permit. 
    My mother and father did what any parents would do – they scraped together the money.  My father requested additional work assignments, usually almost impossible to get, but thanks to a huge contract for the guidance system in the new Gettysburg class battleship, he was able to get an extra four paid hours a day.  With her experience at the Plaza, my mother was able to get some unauthorized and illegal jobs catering for various functions.  Somehow, and I was never quite sure how they managed it, they put together enough money to fund the transplant, which in true black market fashion had to be paid in full upfront.
    The operation was performed secretly, in a storage room instead of in a hospital, but in spite of the less than ideal conditions the transplant was successful.  Extensive drug therapy was required to force acceptance of the poorly matched organ, and the high dosages caused permanent damage to her immune system.  But she was alive, and with proper medication, which would also come from the black market, she could live something approaching a normal life.
    Just when it seemed that everything would work out our world fell apart.  I never knew exactly what