Maximum Light

by Nancy Kress

  And not fucking Laurie either! But I can’t say this through the tape on my mouth. The retina man looks up from a portable terminal, puzzled. “Em. She’s not a cop.”

  Jogerst frowns. “What do you mean, not a cop?”

  “She’s not on file in our law deebee.”

  “Then send the scan to Duffy and tell him to look through NCIS! See if she’s there!”

  “Okay.” He goes back to his terminal and murmurs to it. Jogerst turns her back on me. I sit manacled and try to think, but I’m too scared. They did a retina scan when they arrested me for assaulting Atuli at the International Center. I’m on file. If Jogerst has dirty access to NCIS, she’ll find out who I am. They’d of killed me even if I was a cop—she wouldn’t have mentioned McCullough in front of me otherwise—but I’m not a cop. I’m a homeless nobody.

  A beautiful homeless nobody. With a gorgeous baby-firm face.

  They done this before. That’s why the restaurant looks the other way when Jogerst and guest disappear into the parking lot and don’t return for dinner. That’s why there’s a choice of human faces on a baby chimp.…

  How long will it take? How much will it hurt? And what will they do to find out if I’m fertile and have eggs to harvest?

  You’re pretty good, I’ll give you that. If it hadn’t been for Billy McCullough, I might have bought the whole thing.

  But not good enough. Only gorgeous enough. Only that.

  15

  NICK CLEMENTI

  “Maggie,” I said, “I’m feeling much better. I’d like to see Shana, if I may.”

  Her hand tightened on mine. I could see her, although not clearly. My vision was permanently dimmed—whatever “permanently” meant in this context. Maggie’s face was a pale blur against the high back of the hospital “visitor chair,” which in some misguided attempt at cheer was a vivid yellow, even to me.

  “Shana didn’t come home last night, Nick. She left a note that she had a date.” Despite the strain—we both knew I would probably never leave this hospital room—Maggie’s voice remained steady. She had always been brave. John and Laurie and Sallie had all been various degrees of hysterical, but not Maggie.

  “Maggie. There’s something I need you to do, sweetheart.”

  “For Shana?”

  “Partly. But mostly for me.”

  The blur that was my wife shifted slightly. “Go on.”

  “I’ve been trying to help Laurie. She … you see how she is.”

  “Yes. She’s become … go on, Nick. What have you done?”

  “Tried to find her a baby on the black market.”

  Maggie was silent, absorbing this. “I thought you were going to tell me when you began work on that. Why didn’t you let me help?”

  “There wasn’t anything for you to do. Not yet, not then. But something … happened.”

  Now her voice sharpened. “What happened? Does it involve that wretched Shana?”

  “I’m afraid so. But it involves more than her. Listen carefully, sweetheart. There’s a lawyer named Billy McCullough, a man I was at Harvard with. I called him to find out if he could arrange something for Laurie. And instead of an infant, which he said was not to be had at any price, although I’m not sure I believe him about that—instead of an infant, he offered me a chance to—”

  “Dr. Clementi,” the room system said, “you have a visitor.”

  Maggie said irritably, “Dr. Clementi asked not to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the program answered. “But the visitor overrode your preference. He said—”

  “I said it was a matter of life and death,” the visitor said from the doorway. “Maggie, how are you?”

  “Good Lord,” she said wonderingly. “I’m surprised to see—what do you mean, a matter of life and death? Nick, it’s Vanderbilt Grant.”

  She didn’t have to tell me. I knew it was Van, not only from his voice but from the atmosphere in the room. He filled it even when I could barely see him: a solar presence, everyone else turning toward him with inevitable biological tropism.

  “Hello, Nick,” he boomed. “I’ve got good news. And I wanted to tell you myself.” The Commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration strode toward the opposite side of the bed from Maggie. A part of my mind noted that he didn’t move, and didn’t talk, like a man approaching someone dying. He took my other hand.

  “Nick, listen. We had a new report come in yesterday. Now, you know that the FDA can’t possibly keep up with all the drug review work with my present staff. Just impossible. So we farm out a lot of the initial investigations to private labs. After the drug company files an official New Drug Application, of course, we’re right on top of it ourselves. And even before that, we keep tabs on the preliminary investigations.”

  Van paused. I was tempted to think the pause was for effect, but there was something about his posture as he leaned over my bed.… My heart started a slow, rhythmic thumping.

  “The private companies that do investigative work for us also do backup testing for a lot of overseas companies. So sometimes they hear of a foreign development before any of us. And that’s just happened. LeGrand-Wu, in Paris, just requested Stage Three testing for a new drug. It’s DNA-based, of course, France doesn’t have the same restrictions we do on germ-line manipulation. The drug affects the ability of certain fungal cells to reproduce. One of the fungi it has been effective is stopping is mucormycosis.”

  “Oh, my God,” Maggie said. Her hand tightened so hard on mine that her ring cut into my fingers.

  “In clinical trials, one hundred percent effective,” Van went on triumphantly. “But there’s no time to lose. I could arrange a Compassionate Use Import Exception for you, Nick, through the State Department. But believe it or not, it’s actually faster to send you to the drug rather than go through channels to get the drug to you. And then you’ll be where there are people experienced with the followup procedures.”

  Maggie said. “In France? But look at him, Van, he can’t travel—”

  “Yes, he can. I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a medical helicopter to take him to Dulles. And a military flight from there. The copter should be here in a few minutes. You go, too, Maggie, of course. In Paris the—”

  “Wait,” I said.

  I could feel them both looking at me.

  “You mean … you mean…” and then, to my own horror, I could feel my throat close and the tears spill over the thin sensitive skin under my eyes.

  I was not going to die.

  “Oh, Nick, don’t … I mean, do, go ahead, it’s so wonderful!” Maggie cried. And Van beamed—I could feel it, even through my semi-blindness, even through my tears—he beamed like a man who just saved the world. Which, in a sense, he had.

  I was not going to die.

  “Wait,” I said, so thickly that this time nobody understood me, including me. Wait? For what? I was being handed a reprieve, a second chance.… Outside the window, I heard the drone of a helicopter. “Wait…”

  “Can’t wait,” Van boomed cheerfully. “Got to save your life, boy. God, there’s some days I like my job. Of course, you know we can’t regenerate nerves, you’re not going to regain your sight, but that and all other damage can be halted right here, right now, right in its tracks!”

  He was like a kid, triumphant over winning a softball game, practically jumping up and down. And Maggie was crying and hugging me. Medics came in with a stretcher and began to transfer me to it from the bed, mouthing the mundane directions they’d given a thousand times before, “Now, just relax, sir, we’re going to lift you, it’ll only take a minute, here we go.…” And all the while my mind had gone numb, unable to take it in.

  I was not going to die.

  But I was prepared to die.

  “Careful carrying him,” Maggie said, “mind that door jamb there.…”

  What I was not prepared to do was go on living.

  “I’ll be in close and constant touch,” Van said somewhere behind me as I w
as carried swiftly down the corridor and into an elevator. The elevator door closed.

  “The chopper’s on the roof, sir,” a medic said. “We’re just going to go up to the roof and then outside for a few minutes. It’ll be very windy. Be prepared for that.”

  Be prepared.… I go to prepare you a place.… Prepare to fire.… “Maggie,” I said blindly, “Maggie…”

  “I’m here, love. I’m here.”

  “Here we go, sir, just a quick lift into the chopper … Ed, secure him.…”

  “Maggie … why now? Why this lifesaver right now?”

  She said radiantly, “Because sometimes somebody has to win, love. Sometimes the universe comes through.”

  But that wasn’t what I’d meant.

  * * *

  Much of the trip was vague. I think the medics gave me a sedative. I don’t remember crossing the Atlantic, or landing in Paris. Only vaguely do I remember speeding along in a French ambulance, the siren sounding different from ours, the conversation something you might be able to understand if the world would just slow down for a minute and let you think about it.

  Another hospital, another room. Maggie there, faithful and tired, smelling like she needed a bath. Examinations, machine scans, patches. Then sleep.

  But only briefly. I woke abruptly, and the room was dim. Apparently hospital half-light at night is universal. Or maybe it was just my half-blindness.… The shape of Maggie sprawled in a chair by my bedside, snoring softly.

  I didn’t wake her. Instead I fumbled for the call button and pressed it. Instead of a program, I got a live nurse as first response—something an American hospital could never have afforded. She was a soft white blur.

  “M’sieur?”

  “Il me faut téléphoner.”

  “Non, non. Pas de téléphone.”

  “Oui! Un téléphone maintenant!” I lowered my voice, not wanting to involve Maggie, who would have refused to let me become involved either.

  “Non.” The tone was final. But also kind.

  “Alors, vous … téléphonez-vous à mon fils John.…” I was losing strength. “S’il vous plait! Pour l’amour de Dieu!”

  I don’t know why I added that. Some forgotten echo of melodramatic French literature … I was not thinking clearly. But the nurse moved closer and said softly, a whisper through the darkness, “M’sieur? Vous etes christien? Je téléphonerai à votre fils.”

  She would do it. I got out, “Téléphonez 301-555-7986 … Ditez-vous à John, ‘Allez-vous à 593 Skinner Street … rue Skinner … Billy McCullough … pour l’enfant … pour l’enfant pour Laurie.’…”

  There was no way she could have absorbed all that, all those numbers. And I couldn’t repeat it. The drugs were claiming me again, the drugs were the reason I wanted to call John in the first place.… Laurie couldn’t go see Billy McCullough, it was too dangerous. It would have to be John.… No, John couldn’t do it, my son was too ineffectual.… I couldn’t think. The room was slipping away. “Mam’selle … s’il vous plait…”

  “Restez tranquille, m’sieur. Dormez-vous.”

  John couldn’t handle it … all those numbers … had I even said them in French, I wasn’t sure I had.…

  “Dormez-vous.”

  I slept.

  16

  SHANA WALDERS

  The van speeds up, like we’ve turned onto an expressway. I pull frantically against my chain but it don’t come loose from the side of the van. The tape across my mouth is so tight I can hardly make even a tiny noise. All I can do is sit there, like meat.

  I’m so scared my back teeth rattle.

  “Well?” Emily Jogerst says to the guy with the computer. He’s studying the screen. “Is she in NCIS?”

  “Duffy hasn’t answered yet.… Wait, here it comes. Yup, she’s there. Her name’s Shana Walders. Sealed juvenile records, an arrest for petty larceny, let go with a warning … wait. Oh, boy.”

  “What?” Jogerst says.

  “She was arraigned for criminal trespass with attempted assault. Her court date is next month.”

  “So?”

  “The assault was at the International Center. On Cameron Atuli.”

  Jogerst lets out a long breath. “You’re sure?”

  “That’s what Duffy’s sending me.”

  “I see.”

  Jogerst looks at me hard. She’s thinking. Finally she says, “Truth drugs don’t work well with sedatives, Shana. So I’m not going to knock you out. You just sit there and think about what you’re going to tell us when we get where we’re going.”

  Eventually the van stops and I think I might get a chance to run, or fight, or something when they take the manacles off. But they’re very professional. The van parks in a small underground lot and I’m hustled through a heavy-security door on the same level, and I don’t get no chance to kick nobody. They manacle me to a chair that’s screwed to the floor. The room is windowless and dusty, with stained foamcast walls. There isn’t nothing in it except more chairs and a vidcam. Jogerst sits in another chair, legs crossed, and waits. A man comes in with a patch. I try to squirm away as he slaps it onto my neck, but it’s hopeless. After he leaves, Jogerst rips the tape off my mouth. It hurts like hell.

  “Now, tell me about every encounter you’ve ever had with Cameron Atuli, Nicholas Clementi, Billy McCullough, and Laurie Clementi. Tell them in the order they happened, and don’t leave anything out.”

  “Fuck you!”

  She sighs. “No. That patch was a truth drug, you know. You don’t have a choice, Shana.”

  And I don’t. I feel something taking over my brain, and from a long distance away I hear her repeat her orders. Then I hear myself answering, and even while the real Shana is screaming inside me, I can’t stop myself. I tell her everything.

  * * *

  Afterwards, I must of slept—the truth drugs do that to you. Fitful sleep, because I’m still manacled in the chair. I doze, wake, hear myself cry out. It could be the middle of the night, or even the next morning. I doze again. And I dream.

  It’s one of them weird dreams with no people, but you know the people are there someplace, just out of sight. I’m standing in a big white room with hundreds of pedestals in it like the pedestal Maggie has between her French doors to hold a bowl of fresh flowers. Only Maggie’s pedestal is made of greenish marble, and these are all white. On top of each pedestal is a cock fucking a cunt. No people—just a cut-off cock hanging in mid-air while it humps a cut-off pussy lying on the pedestal. Erect and hard and thrusting away, cocks and cunts row after row after row, jerking and pumping mindless and mutilated, coming again and again.…

  I scream and the scream wakes me. After that, I can’t sleep at all. I just sit and try to breathe.

  A long time later, the lights flash on and fresher air streams into the room. Jogerst comes in with two big men, one of them the guy from the van. “Okay,” she says, “take her to—”

  “Emily,” another voice says. “I just heard.”

  He’s little and ugly, but everyone else turns instantly to where he stands in the doorway. “How bad is it?”

  “Not as bad as I feared, Doctor,” Jogerst says. “The tape is ready for you to review. But she’s nobody, just a kid with a private grudge. She saw the product after the lab detonation in Lanham. But nobody believed her then, and nobody knows she contacted me except Cameron Atuli, and he doesn’t have any means to follow her. He’ll go to Clementi, of course, and then maybe to the police.”

  “No problem. I doubt they’d even believe him. She’s got priors and he’s induced retrograde amnesia, right?”

  “Yes,” Jogerst says. “Do you think we should call Leonard?”

  “No. The fewer details we force on him, the less uneasy he is.”

  “What about calling—”

  “I already took care of that. I don’t see a real problem, here, Emily. Certainly nothing locale-shifting. But you’re right, I’ll want to review the tape before I make a final decision.”

&
nbsp; Jogerst nods, and they go out, leaving me manacled there.

  Leonard. I know that name from someplace. But is it Leonard Somebody or Somebody Leonard?

  It’s maybe another hour before anyone comes back, and this time it’s the guy from the van. He’s got hot eyes and hotter hands. He grins as he unlocks me.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You don’t want to know,” he says, but he’s one of the kind that wants me to know. Everything. He gets off on it.

  Real casual, he gets me in a lock with my arm up behind my back. A little more pressure and the arm will break. He takes me out of the dusty, stuffy room, which now I’d give anything to stay in, and down a hallway. At another door he stops.

  “You want to see something hot, pretty bitch? Of course you do.”

  I want to spit in his face, but I’m afraid he’ll break my arm. I don’t say nothing. He keys in a door code, drags me through, and releases my arm.

  I stagger and almost faint.

  I’m facing a wall of glass or plastic so transparent that I’m only sure it’s there because my hands hit it when I lurch forward. Behind the glass is a lab, with three medical types in white coats and masks. On the lab benches, wired to computers, are pieces of people.

  Kids’ heads, some almost whole and some just patches of skin stretched over a mesh frame. A patch of baby skull, part of a nose, the left half of a mouth.

  Tiny little kids’ hands, looking like they’ve had fingers cut off.

  Pieces of underskin, bloody and raw.

  “Appetizing, huh?” the computer guy says. He jerks my head down to make sure I see the half-a-baby skull with one eye, close to the glass wall. But it isn’t no kids’ heads that make me almost faint.

  On the side wall, behind another glass, is a second lab. I can see it clearly. Inside is my dream.

  Not exactly. No humping cocks. But on rows of white counters, floating in some kind of liquid inside clear boxes, are cunts. More than cunts—whole female pelvises, from the waist to the tops of the thighs. The places where the legs and upper bodies got cut off are covered with some kind of stretchy white material. The pussies are all shaved clean. And the bellies bulge—some a little, some a lot. The floating pelvises are all pregnant.