Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “That’s what Mom said. Dad got mad at her for doing it.” Abruptly she turned and looked at him. “Sometimes I want to scream.”

  “Go ahead, if you like,” he said.

  “No,” she decided after considering it. “That’s dumb.”

  “You might feel better if you did,” he suggested.

  “It wouldn’t do anything.” She struggled out of the chair. “I want to get some lunch.”

  He had the good sense not to push his luck with her; he patted the beanbag chair he was in and asked, “Mind if I tag along?”

  “If you want. It’s probably going to be spinach and eggs again.” She made a face.

  “And cornbread muffins,” he told her.

  “Oh.” She considered that information. “That’s not too bad, then.” Without waiting for him, she went to the door.

  After a moment, Loren heaved himself out of the beanbag chair and followed after her.

  —Weyman Muggridge and Jeff Taji—

  “Well,” Weyman sighed as he looked at the printouts. “I guess the other shoe’s dropped.”

  Jeff could think of nothing to say. He shook his head at the figures and caught his lower lip between his teeth. Finally he spoke. “It’s very early. It might take a long time to develop. Portland’s coming up with things that seem to slow it down.”

  “Tell that to Max Klausen,” Weyman snapped, then stopped. “Sorry. Cheap shot. Max was a real hero.”

  “Yes, he was. And his research has been paying off. You’ve seen the projected curves. They’ve doubled the time for second stage development, and that’s real progress. You’ll qualify for the program.” He wished he had more encouragement to offer. “We caught this early enough that we can probably slow it down some more. The developmental time can be—”

  “It fucking well better take a long time to develop.” He slapped the printouts down on his desk. “I’ve got plans that do not—emphatically do not—include TS.”

  “There’s always a risk,” said Jeff for want of anything better.

  “That’s comforting,” said Weyman sarcastically. “Look, I just promised a very wonderful lady that I would not leave her. I’m going to keep that promise; don’t ask me how.”

  “I hope you can keep it,” Jeff said with great sincerity.

  “No hope about it, Jamshid.” Weyman rarely used Jeff’s Persian name, and only when he was making the strongest possible point. “I am going to keep my word.”

  “What about a Public Benefit contract?” Jeff suggested.

  “I don’t think so. It takes too bloody long, and I don’t want to lose a minute. I think I’m going directly to the lab and start kicking some ass.” He touched the printouts with the tips of his fingers, as if the information on the pages was as dangerous as TS itself.

  “The lab here?” Jeff asked, thinking of the pressure that had been put on them in recent months.

  “Hell, no. I’m going back to. San Diego. It’s a major outbreak site, and there are all those military labs there. I want a general access order for all the military installations; that way I can get three or four separate experiments going at once without any risk of crossbreeding. I can even set up adversary experiments and save us all some more time.” He tossed his head. “What about transfusions? How’s that going?”

  “It seems to help with those who don’t have type-O blood. With type O, most of the time, it doesn’t do much good.” Jeff felt renewed puzzlement as he reported this. What was it about TS that was so mysteriously linked to blood type? None of the experiments so far had provided any clue. He thought of those survivors they had located and recalled that none of them had type-O blood. It was one of the oddest parts of this perplexing disease.

  “What’s on your mind?” Weyman asked, cutting into Jeff’s thoughts.

  He sighed deeply before answering. “I keep thinking that we’ll find something so obvious that we’ll all be outraged that we didn’t see it before. But that’s wishful thinking, isn’t it? A disease like this one never gives you dramatic solutions. You assemble minutiae and sift through it, and you’re left with little bits of this and that which might or might not fit together.”

  “Welcome to medical research. And at least you’ve got a good track record for minutiae-sifting. You found the culprit behind Silicon Measles.” He clapped Jeff on the shoulder. “You defined the nature and parameters of TS. I’m depending on you to come up with the solution.” It was apparent that Weyman was only half-joking.

  “Thanks,” Jeff said heavily.

  “By the way, I hear you’re going to do an interview with John Post next week, national coverage.” His smile was not a happy one, all teeth and no eyes.

  “Yeah. Lucky me,” said Jeff. “For once Patrick Drucker turned down a TV appearance. That’s not real promising.”

  “It’s rare,” Weyman said with a sardonic quirk to his brow. “Have you got advance information on the show?”

  “Enough,” said Jeff. “I’m trying to think of how to explain TS without making it sound worse than it is.”

  “What would make it worse?” Before Jeff could speak, Weyman went on, “You mean, it could be caught by kids under puberty? It could have no recovery at all instead of about twelve percent, so far? You mean that maybe the government wouldn’t be up to something with the few survivors we know about? By the way, are you going to get into the question of the disappearing survivors, or are you going to save that for later?”

  “John Post tried to get an interview with a survivor, and the only one he’s been able to reach is Irene Channing; she’s not being permitted to speak because one of her kids is a carrier, and there’s already been a provisional ruling that the names of the carriers will not be released to the public.” He held up his hands to show he was helpless.

  “They’ll find out. You wait. One of those supermarket tabloids will have a cover story, and then a month later, Time or one of the other super-legits will report on it, with all kinds of legally hedged language, but everyone will know about the carriers. Period.” He looked at the printout. “Right now, I’d be on the reporters’ side, but that’s right now. In a week or so, I’ll be on the kids’ side again.”

  “They’re going to need it,” Jeff said gloomily. “By the way, Theresa Ann wants to get a few more samples from—”

  “Oh, no!” Weyman moaned dramatically.

  “Oh, yes,” Jeff said firmly. “You’ve been following her work; she’s demonstrating how TS works on the blood, and that is very likely going to be the key to controlling this stuff.”

  Weyman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Theresa Ann is about the best we’ve got on the DNA squad,” he allowed, “but that woman makes my skin crawl. I don’t think she knows there are human beings attached to the tissues samples she’s so enamored of.”

  “Probably not,” Jeff allowed. “But those tissues samples are holy relics to her, and she’s worked a few miracles before.”

  “You mean Aames Catalepsy?” Weyman asked. “Yeah, she called that one. And got it named for her. I give her credit: finding a food-stabilizing additive that brought about catalepsy in persons with a certain allergic history was drawing to an inside straight and winning. It doesn’t change the fact that she gives me the creeps.” He frowned at his hands. “Besides, I want to get a hold of this for myself. I have a vested interest. You found and described the shit, but I’ve got it and I want to blow it out of the water.”

  “I hope you do,” Jeff said with feeling. “Come on: I’ll go with you. It won’t to do keep Theresa Ann waiting.” They went toward the door together, Weyman holding the printouts in his hands.

  “I don’t want you to say anything to Sylvia just yet. Let me handle it, okay?”

  “I wasn’t planning to say anything,” Jeff told him. “What would be the point? It’s up to
you. I’ve only met the woman once.”

  Their elevator was mercifully empty and they continued to talk as they rode to the isolation labs in the basement.

  “How’re your kids taking the move?” Weyman asked.

  “They’re philosophical. They’re both grown up enough that going to Europe is thrilling. As soon as they tested free of TS, I made sure they got away. I have pressure enough without having to worry about them as well.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “I know that some of the department thinks I’m not playing fair, sending my kids away during this epidemic. They think I’m using my position unfairly.”

  Weyman nodded. “Claire Lui sent her kids to relatives in New Zealand and no one minds.”

  “She’s an executive secretary, not a doc, and for some reason that’s supposed to make my family fair game. Well, they’ve already got my wife. The terrorists who killed her haven’t been caught yet. I don’t intend to make another sacrifice to the general good, especially since I can’t see that it would be worthwhile. All we’d gain from it is another set of figures to add to the statistics.” He had started to jingle the keys in his pocket, but he noticed how loud they were and stopped.

  “It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Weyman asked.

  “All right; yes, it bothers me,” Jeff said with asperity. “But that doesn’t mean that—”

  Weyman would not let him finish. “Why does it bother you? What makes you feel guilty? Do you think you’re doing something wrong in doing your best to keep your kids alive? You haven’t said that you think everyone ought to wait around to catch TS.” He patted Jeff on the shoulder. “Come on. It’s okay.”

  “Drucker wouldn’t agree with you,” Jeff said bitterly. “He was one of those who were . . . unpleasant about it.” As the doors opened, he stopped talking.

  “Drucker’s an ass. Everyone knows that.” Weyman did not lower his voice or make apology for his bald-faced statement.

  “It’s hard enough working with him as things are,” Jeff objected as he gestured to Weyman to lower his voice.

  “Well they aren’t going to get any easier, so you might as well have your cards on the table.” He hesitated at the door to Theresa Ann Aames’ laboratory door. “That woman reminds me of a lizard.”

  “Go in and get it over with,” Jeff recommended. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee. Black okay?”

  “You’re chicken,” Weyman announced. “You don’t want to have anything to do with her, either.” He opened the door and called out, “Yoo-hoo, Doctor Aames!”

  “You’re clowning again,” Jeff said.

  “It’s that or shit in my pants,” Weyman made a show of explaining. “If you come back and I’ve dropped dead, you can blame it on Induced Aames Catalepsy. It’s a rare form of the disease brought about by spending time in her presence.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jeff said.

  Weyman made a face before be closed the door and Jeff went on to the lounge at the end of the hall where he took the time to brew fresh coffee for himself and Weyman. He appreciated the bravado Weyman was displaying but was glad of a respite from it. As he poured out coffee into styrofoam cups, he tried to imagine how he would feel in Weyman’s position and decided that his colleague was handling his predicament more successfully than he would if he had TS.

  “About time,” said Weyman when Jeff came around the corner of the lab partition. “In another ten minutes I would have been comatose.” He reached out for the coffee cup and had to steady himself.

  “Doctor Muggridge,” admonished Theresa Ann Aames, sounding like an ancient school librarian instead of the attractive woman of thirty-four she actually was.

  “Sorry. I’m not supposed to move quickly, am I?” He sounded too bitter to be funny, but Jeff knew he was expected to smile.

  “Pay attention to her,” he warned Weyman.

  “And Doctor Taji,” said Theresa Ann as if neither man had spoken, “I must take another blood sample while you’re here. I have not been permitted to use your samples for the last ten days and this will not do.” Her immaculate lab coat made her look more like an advertising executive’s notion of a physician instead of actually being one. “It will only take a moment or two. I will have Albert tend to it at once. Albert!”

  “I’ll come back later,” Jeff said.

  “That’s useless bother,” commented Theresa Ann brusquely. “You are here now and it will take less than five minutes. Albert!”

  Her senior lab assistant, a second-generation Cuban, came around the partition. “Doctor Aames?”

  “Take a standard blood sample and a second comparative sample from Doctor Taji.” She pointed to her intended victim.

  “You don’t have—” Jeff began, doing his best to ignore Weyman’s laughter.

  “It will be over before you can think of it,” said Theresa Ann. “Albert is very efficient.” She indicated a padded chair, not unlike those used by dentists. “Sit down, please.”

  Weyman was finally on his feet. “I’ll get you some coffee, Jeff. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.” His good-natured malice did more to goad Jeff on than the blithe certainty of Theresa Ann.

  “I’d like some cream in mine this time,” Jeff made himself quip. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” said Weyman, going toward the door and leaving Jeff to the ministrations of Albert and Theresa Ann.

  —Sam Jarvis and Dien Paniagua—

  Dien stood in the door of the hospital room and fiddled with her quarantine mask, using this simple task to postpone entering the room. Little as she wanted to admit it, she was afraid of what she would see, for now that Sam had TS, she felt that her bastions had crumbled beyond repair. When she could delay no longer, she stepped inside and called out, “Sam? It’s Dien.”

  He turned to stare at her. “Hi, Dien,” he said after a moment. “It’s good of you to come.”

  “I’m sorry I had to,” she admitted, taking much of the blame for his disease onto herself, though she knew it was folly.

  Sam looked up at the ceiling through his isolation tent. “My kids were here yesterday, but I’ve told them I don’t want them taking any chances. We’re still not sure we know how this stuff spreads and I don’t want to increase their risks. Do I?” He winked at her. “Harper Ross is coming by this evening. So far he hasn’t got sick; that’s something.”

  Dien pulled up a chair and sat down, her face set into a smile that was as fixed and rigid as concrete. “I’ve asked for your lab records.”

  “Good; good.” He coughed once. “I signed a Public Benefit contract yesterday. A little late, but better than not doing it at all. I guess after Max died, I couldn’t accept that it could happen to me. I decided that I simply wouldn’t get it.” He tried to laugh and ended up coughing. “They tell me my blood’s breaking down faster than in most cases. I’ve been running on empty for the last week, it seems.” He waved his hand, brushing his fingers against the plastic hood that enclosed his upper body. “I should have been in one of these days ago.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Dien said automatically, without thought.

  He caught her at it. “You really think so?” As he saw the stricken look in her face, he relented and changed the subject. “What about that coach? Have you had any luck finding him?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Atlanta has put in a form request to the VA to get a fix on him. I was told that this was not met with any serious cooperation.” Her body felt cold in the warm room. “A goose just walked over my grave,” she said, repeating what her paternal grandmother had said so many times.

  “I know the feeling,” said Sam. “Have you even located Jackson?”

  “No, nor any of the other survivors except that Channing woman in Dallas, and she’s being watched day and night in a private hospital.” Dien finally made herself speak. “Do you th
ink they’re trying to keep the survivors in isolation? What’s the reason for it?”

  Sam took two deep breaths as he prepared to answer. “The thing is, they probably have the same ability that Missus Channing does, or something like it. Harper has some test results that his grad students are analyzing right now, and they suggest that all the survivors we know of have some psychokinetic abilities. That’s very, very disquieting,” he said, drawing out the last words.

  “Because of danger to others?” Dien asked hopefully.

  “No, and you know it. Someone wants them for what they can do. Which might explain the problems we’ve had in getting emergency funds for finding a vaccine. We’ve got megabucks coming out of our ears for cure, but not a vaccine. We’re being blackmailed, manipulated. We’re being set up. Someone, somewhere in government wants this stuff stopped, but not eliminated. Someone wants the psychokinetic effect retained and to have more people with that ability.” He slapped his arm weakly against the sheets. “Fuck them all! They’re using people like robots. I hate that.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Dien asked, meaning it sincerely.

  “You might try to talk to Jeff Taji; find out everything he knows and use his contacts with the media. Someone in the press or TV news must want to do an expose.” He folded his arms over his chest, as if to conceal his pain. “We need to wake the public up to the risk. We need to let them know that this isn’t being treated like AIDS or Tunis Flu. This is somebody’s gold mine, and that makes it more dangerous than Bubonic Plague and smallpox and cholera all lumped together, because there are people in the government, somewhere, who want TS to continue. And I have to tell you, Dien, it scares the crap out of me every time I think about it.” He leaned back, deliberately calming himself. “Those ACTH irregularities—they’re the key to all this. We ignore it because we don’t know what to do with it, but the fact of the matter is, that’s the secret, at least to the survivors. TS changes the chemistry of the blood—we all know about that and accept it—but it changes the chemistry of the brain as well, and we stay away from that because it’s so baffling.” He stopped, breathing quickly.