Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  There was a tightness in Jeff’s chest, as if something hot was gathering under his sternum. He wanted to comfort Mason, to promise him that it would all be fine soon, but he could not do that in honesty. “Yes, there’s been a mix-up, but it happened before you were born. Somehow, in some way, a kind of trigger got built into your genes, and now it’s been . . . activated. As it has been for others, or so we suspect. We have to find the carriers and then try to find out what happened to make them carriers.”

  “Do you really think there’s other carriers?” He asked it with a mixture of anticipation and contempt, not knowing what answer he wanted.

  “Yes, I do,” Jeff said candidly. “I think there may be a couple hundred carriers out there.”

  “But what caused it?” Mason asked, very tense.

  “I wish I knew. We’re going to have to do a lot of checking. It could be that the toxin we’ve been looking for all along was something that affected one or the other or both of your parents. It might be that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time while your mother was pregnant, or that your father worked on the wrong site at one time. We won’t be able to do much until we identify most or all of the carriers.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Mason objected.

  “What?” Jeff asked.

  “A carrier. I’m not a carrier. I’m someone with a communicable disease. That’s what you call it, isn’t it? I’ve been reading up, since Kevin got sick. For all you know, I’ve got TS but it’s taking longer to develop.” He was not speaking very loudly but there was such defiance in his behavior that Jeff was startled by the boy’s intensity. “It could be that, Doctor Taji. Why should it be different for me than it is for all those other kids out there?”

  “I don’t know, Mason,” Jeff said quietly. “But it is. If you’ll help us, there’s a chance we can find out why.” He leaned forward. “You’re not the kind who needs easy answers; you know enough about TS to be certain that if there were an easy answer, we would have found it by now.”

  Mason looked away from Jeff, his eyes directed, unseeing, at the television screen. “I don’t want . . .” The words drifted off.

  “You don’t want to have TS?” Jeff guessed. “You don’t want to have given it to someone—anyone?”

  “I guess.” He dragged his sleeve cuff over his eyes. “I don’t have to . . . it’s so hard and . . . I don’t have . . .”

  “Mason,” Jeff said with stern affection, “understand me: you did not knowingly harm anyone. You are innocent of any wrongdoing. It is not a crime to have a disease. You did not plan any of this. You are not responsible for what happened.”

  “Aren’t I?” he asked miserably.

  “No. Whoever caused the mutation is to blame, not you. And if it is a natural mutation, then no one at all is to blame.” He said this with conviction, as if his tone of voice could instill a similar sureness in Mason.

  “Does a natural mutation show up like this, in lots of places at once?” Mason inquired. He was doing his best to sound mature and in control of himself, responding to Jeff’s certainty, but there was a breathiness that gave away the depth of his emotions.

  “No,” Jeff admitted. “Not that I know of.”

  “Then somebody did it,” Mason said, sitting straighter once more. “I’ve been reading, and it says that natural mutations rarely occur in more than one place at the same time.”

  “Very likely. But we may never find out who or how.” It was not easy to say this, to voice a profound concern which had taken hold of him in the last week. “There’s been too much time.”

  “But you’ll try,” Mason said urgently.

  “Oh, yes. I give you my promise that I will try. I’m as worried as you are—though you might not believe it.” He got up and came to stand beside the bed. “I’m not going to give you a lot of useless talk on how important it is to be brave, or that you have to be grown-up about this. I hope you can find a way to deal with this because . . . because you have to. If you let yourself give way to anger or despair, then there’s nothing we can do. If you can keep charge of yourself, we have a chance, all of us, to end this sooner.” He paused. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, and I have no right to assume you’ll be willing to help us. If you can’t, that’s the way it is. I know we’re asking a lot of you—more than we have any right to ask. No one knows how to respond in situations like this, no matter how old they are or how much experience they might have had.”

  “Oh?” The expression in Mason’s eyes made Jeff shudder inwardly. “But you want me to say I’ll help you, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Jeff admitted. “You’d have to do the same thing, if you were in my position.”

  “What if I say I won’t? What if I decide that I don’t want to work on your project?”

  “I don’t have any recommendations on how to come to terms with being a TS carrier. I don’t know what to tell you that might help.” He put his hand on Mason’s shoulder. “I am very, very sorry, Mason.”

  The boy did not react at once, and when he did, he would not look at Jeff. “Does that mean I’ll get TS? After a long time, I’ll get it?”

  “We don’t know,” said Jeff with terrible honesty. “But at present, I doubt it. Whatever effect the mutation has had, it seems to have stopped the disease from spreading in you. That was one of the anomalies that made your case unusual.”

  “How, unusual?” Mason demanded. “Isn’t it unusual enough that I’m carrying TS?”

  Jeff studied Mason, and decided that Harper’s son had more to bear than he could carry already. To be told now that Harper had shown signs of early-stage TS would be intolerable. “It’s not just unusual: it’s tragic. It’s part of epidemiology that I wish I never had to deal with, and that I would give anything not to have to tell you.”

  “Sure.” The boy was retreating, looking for solace within himself.

  There were a few more matters to be addressed, and Jeff determined to finish them as quickly as possible. “I’m arranging to transfer you to Atlanta, not only for more detailed research, but to minimize the chances of spreading the disease any more than it already has been spread.”

  “Great,” Mason said between his teeth, wrath in his eyes. “Atlanta in the springtime. Great.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to, Mason. If I thought it would be safe, I wouldn’t do this. I wish you’d believe me.” His whole body felt heavy and he was not able to keep his grief out of his voice, or his demeanor.

  “I want to talk to my father.” It was a flat demand, closing their conversation with the finality of a slammed door.

  “He wants to talk to you,” said Jeff, the clammy chill of defeat seeping through him.

  “Good.” He reached for the TV remote control and turned the volume up so that conversation was difficult.

  Jeff waited beside Mason’s bed, hoping that the boy would give him another opening. He was so young, thought Jeff. There were a few tokens of puberty on him— brown fuzz on his upper lip and the edge of his jaw, an occasional shift of register in his voice as new depth and power emerged—that marked his emergence from childhood so that Jeff had a brief notion that perhaps growth-retardant hormones might help him. Sternly he reminded himself that was impossible. “I’ll see you later,” he said when Mason remained stubbornly silent.

  Mason nodded once and did not pay any attention as Jeff went out of his quarantine room.

  —Dale Reed and Steven Poulakis Channing—

  Coming into Atlanta their Lockheed Execu-jet was given priority landing clearance, so they arrived fifteen minutes before the car from the National Center for Disease Control Environmental Division came to pick them up.

  Dale did his best to keep both of them from becoming anxious. “They’ve arranged special quarters for you and the other kids who’ll be here,” he said, keeping with a theme
that had formed the bulk of his conversation since Tuesday.

  “You said, Doctor Reed,” Steven reminded him quietly. He looked around the enormous runways, his eyes narrowing in the brilliant sunshine. “It’s a big place.”

  “The main terminal,” Dale said, pointing out the sprawling building two miles away, “is the fourth busiest airport in this country. It’s the major American departure point for Africa and the east coast of South America.” He was glad to have something to talk about that did not concern the isolation quarters Steven would be entering.

  “Is TS there yet? In South America or Africa?”

  The question stunned Dale and he did not answer it at first. He put his hand out on the metal flank of the six-seater jet which had brought them to Atlanta and tried to think of a way to answer the question. “I really don’t know,” he said. “We have been told that there are cases in Europe now—not very many.”

  “And how many of us kids have they found?” He no longer sounded nervous.

  “You and five others. There may be more, but so far it’s you and five more.”

  “Six kids. And how many people are sick? John Post said that it was over one hundred thousand.” He paced a few steps away and then looked back at Dale. “Will they let Mom come to visit me, since she’s getting over TS now?”

  “I hope so,” said Dale, more worried about Douglas Kiley and the ESA men who were so diligent in their guarding of Irene Channing than the isolation quarters her son would occupy.

  “They better,” Steven said darkly. He was taller than he had been six months ago; his gangly frame had stretched up four inches in the previous year and showed no sign of slowing down. He had started shaving and had developed the first sprinkling of acne.

  “I’ll do everything I can to arrange it. I promise you.” He had made a similar promise to Irene before he left her for the three days he would be gone.

  “Besides Mom, how many others have survived TS, do you know?”

  “No. According to what Doctor Taji told me, they think that there may be over fifteen hundred now.” It was not easy to make that very low figure sound encouraging, but Dale did his best.

  “Un-huh,” Steven said, pacing again.

  A black Honda Sturgeon approached, the horn announcing its arrival. Its personalized plate said CAVIAR. It drew up near the jet and came to an idling stop; Jeff Taji got out. “Sorry I’m late,” he began.

  “We’re early,” Dale countered. “They let us land as soon as we used the magic initials NCDC.” He put his hand on Steven’s shoulder. “Steve, you remember Doctor Taji, don’t you?”

  “Hi,” Steven said diffidently, taking Jeff’s proffered hand after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Hello,” said Jeff. “Did you have a good flight?”

  “I suppose so,” Steven said, trying to be as adult as possible.

  “I’ve been in planes so much in the past two months that I’ll probably try to lower the landing gear when we park.” Jeff’s smile—its apparent ease belied the tremendous effort it cost—was warm and encouraging. “Where are your things?”

  “In the plane,” said Dale for both of them.

  Jeff nodded. “Unless you need to have them with you for some reason, I’ll arrange for them to be brought to . . . your quarters.” He indicated his car. “Is that okay?”

  “Fine,” Dale said, his hand squeezing Steven’s shoulder to prompt him to agree.

  “Yeah; fine,” he echoed dutifully.

  “There are a few things that have to be checked. You understand,” said Jeff, who did not want to discuss the analysis that their luggage would undergo. “Three of the others are here already,” he went on as he strode toward his car. “There’s a girl from San Diego who’s a dancer, and twins from a small town in Oregon.” Privately he wondered how the Fundamentalist Barenssens would get along with their less rigid companions, but he would not let himself dwell on that problem. He opened the back door for Dale. “You see, we have company.”

  Loren Protheroe smiled from his seat in the back. His face was as comfortable as a good pair of hiking boots. “Hello, Doctor Reed,” he said, his eyes shifting at once to Steven. “And Steve.”

  “Hi,” said Steven as he got into the front seat.

  “It’s going to take about half an hour to reach the facility. The traffic isn’t bad this time of day, but it’s about twenty miles from here.” He fell silent as a huge Egyptian Air 767 lumbered down the runway, air and engines screaming as it braked.

  By the time the noise abated, Jeff was driving toward the side gate that serviced the private planes of the NCDC. He had put on dark glasses and looked more like a diplomat or high-class crime lord than a doctor. As he turned toward the freeway, he said, “There are two other kids corning in tomorrow; one from Los Angeles and one from Seattle.”

  “Oh,” Steven replied.

  “You’re all about the same age,” Jeff went on, determined to keep even a semblance of conversation going.

  “I was born on October twenty-fourth in nineteen eighty-two,” said Steven as if reciting in class.

  “You’re the youngest. The twins are the oldest: they were born on the twelfth of October.” He did his best to be cheerful. “In a way your birthdays have been a big help. Once we knew what to look for, we could eliminate a lot of people from our search.”

  “Un-huh,” Steven muttered.

  “Steven,” Loren Protheroe said from the backseat, “I’m going to be working with you kids while you’re here.”

  “You’re a shrink, right?” Steven said, turning as much as his seatbelt would permit.

  “Right.” Loren smiled.

  “Why do I need a shrink? Isn’t it enough that I’m a TS carrier? Or does it make you crazy, too?”

  “Steve!” Dale admonished him.

  “It’s okay,” Loren said, addressing both Dale and Steven. “And, no, Steve, you’re not crazy. But you’re going to have to live a very strange life for a while, and sometimes it helps to have someone to talk to.”

  “A shrink,” Steven jeered.

  Loren refused to be goaded. “It beats talking to the walls.”

  “Shit.” Steven folded his arms and glowered out the window.

  For the next few minutes they rode in silence, then Dale took up the gauntlet. “About these other kids; what are they like?”

  “Pretty much what you’d expect, a mixed bag,” said Loren, not quite sighing. “In circumstances like this, it’s a little difficult to assess them.”

  “I’ll bet,” Steven said quietly, but loudly enough to be heard.

  Dale resisted the urge to repeat Irene’s instructions to her son. “Have you worked out a routine yet?”

  “To a degree,” Loren said. “We’re not quite prepared for everything, but I think we’ve made a good start. The facility is far enough away from the city that we can guarantee security, and there’s enough recreation that I don’t think the kids will be at too much of a disadvantage. We have two swimming pools for them, and an athletic court; even horses, if they want to ride.” He said nothing about the problem of companionship and the difficulties of such limited social contact.

  “What about classes?” It was something Irene had wanted to know, and Dale saw Steven flinch. He told himself to be patient, to keep calm. “Will it be school as usual?”

  “Not quite as usual, but close enough. We’ll do standard eighth- and ninth-grade studies plus whatever additional study the kids might want. We’re trying to find a dance teacher for Laurie Grey, and a swimming coach for Gail Harmmon.”

  Steven slid further down in his seat, sulking.

  “We’ve got a small woodshop and a potter’s wheel for crafts, and over two thousand videotapes. Each room has a three-foot TV and a CD player.” Loren saw that he was not getting far with Steven. “
And every kid has a telephone, so he can keep in touch with his family.”

  “My Mom’s in a hospital,” Steven announced loudly. “She isn’t allowed to have many calls.”

  “I’ve already arranged things for you,” said Dale. “I told you that on the plane.”

  “It doesn’t mean it’ll work,” Steven said, his chin lowering onto his chest. “They’ll tell me she’s in physical therapy, the way they’ve always done. And Brice is at boarding school. I won’t get to talk to him very much.”

  “What about your friends?” Dale said, and in the next instant wished he had bitten off his tongue.

  “My friends are dead,” Steven said. “They got TS from me and they’re dead.”

  There was nothing that anyone could say that would soften what Steven had said; Loren did not make the attempt.

  “In time you might want to talk about your friends,” he said. “Not right now, but later, when some time has gone by.”

  “Talking won’t make them not dead, will it?” Steven demanded.

  “No. But it might make your grief a little less painful,” Loren said. “We’re about halfway there.”

  “Rooty,” Steven said.

  By the time they turned in through the tall, guarded gate, Steven was looking more frightened than irate. Jeff parked in front of the medical building and indicated the two long buildings that flanked it. “Those are your quarters. The staff has quarters on the third floor of the medical building. Each of you has your own . . . apartment. You have a main room, a bedroom, a workroom, a bathroom, a lanai facing the pool, and a small kitchen. Food service will be available around the clock in the central kitchen and you will have twenty-four-hour access to the medical staff.”

  “Sounds like I’m sick, after all.” Steven stood beside the car, shading his eyes as he looked at the place. “Where are the athletic courts?”

  “The far side of the swimming pool,” said Jeff. “They can be used for tennis, badminton, basketball and croquet. The stable’s beyond that. We have eight horses for you and the staff.” Not very long ago this facility had been used by a group of AIDS victims who were testing the various treatments available. Now, with AIDS all but extinct, the facility was being turned over to these continuing victims of TS.