Taji's Syndrome

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Let’s wait dinner, then,” she said at once, glad to have the opportunity to abandon her attempts in this unfamiliar kitchen. “How about three hours? You brought an alarm clock, didn’t you? We can set it for seven and be having dinner by eight. Very fashionable hour, once upon a time.”

  His thoughts were jumbled; he felt disoriented as he got to his feet. “You’re probably right,” he said as he strove to keep his balance. “Jeez, what’s in those pills?”

  “They’re the ones Simeon gave me, for after my physical therapy, so that I could sleep without having trouble with muscle aches.” She tugged at his good arm. “Come on, tell me where the stairs are.”

  “Over in the corner of the main room, that door beside the chimney.” He permitted himself to be led, all the while thinking that he ought to do a better job of taking charge.

  As she opened the door, Irene made a face and waved a hand at the dust that billowed out. “What a place this is.”

  “I probably should have had someone in to clean it, but I didn’t want anyone to know I’d be here.” He could hear the way he sounded—sleepy, half-drunk. As he walked, his steps were uncertain. “How much of this stuff . . . did they give you . . . in the . . .”

  She had managed to get him up the first four steps. “In the hospital?” she guessed when he trailed off.

  “Yep,” he said with a silly smile. “What is it?”

  “I forget the name. Simeon prescribed it.” She watched him in growing alarm, her curiosity fading into apprehension. “Dale, are you okay?”

  “Yep,” he said, refusing to climb any further. “Lemme siddown.”

  “No, you’re going to bed,” she said with determination, trying to raise him.

  “Y’r not so hot. Wi’ wha’ I seen . . .” He waggled a finger at her, his silly smile beaming at her from where he had slumped on the stairs.

  “Dale, Dale, please,” she insisted, pulling on his arm again. Then, knowing the difference it had made with her, she reached out and deliberately pressed his bandaged thumb.

  “Fuckaduck!” he roared, bolting upright. “You bitch! You sadistic—” He lurched several steps after her, his eyes no longer in focus, and the swipes he made to catch her went wild as he strove to keep his balance.

  She was trying to choose which room to put him in when he caught up with her, pinning her to the wall, her face pressed to the wood, his weight all but collapsing on her shoulders. “Dale, don’t,” she protested.

  “You c’n move me,” he taunted. “You c’n move me if y’want.” He shoved his weight against her back, chuckling at the idea. “Go ’head. Move me.”

  “Dale, get back. You’re hurting me.” Little as she wanted to admit it, she was starting to be frightened.

  “Y’hurt me.” He gave a strange sound and dropped abruptly to his knees. “Shit, it hurts.”

  She turned, frightened but determined not to let it show. “What? your hand?”

  “No.” He panted for several seconds. “My head. Christ!”

  “Dale!” She knelt beside him, her fright now far more for him than for herself. “Dale, what is it?”

  He held his head between his hands, pressing at the temples. “God. God. God. Oh, shit.” The words came out in gasps, all but senseless.

  She took hold of his wrists. “Dale, what is it? Dale!”

  He turned his blurred, bloodshot eyes on her, and there was a hint of lucidity in them. “Honest-to-God, I love you, Irene. And you scare bejesus out of me.” With that, he fell on his side, already in deep, troubled sleep.

  Irene sat watching him, undecided about what to do. She knew it was probably safe enough to leave him where he was. Out of habit and the need to do something, she got up and went into the nearest bedroom. Here there were three pillows in plastic bags and a stack of blankets, also in bags to protect them from mice and moths. She chose the top one arbitrarily and took it to Dale to cover him. Her hands shook as she saw him writhe and mumble fragments of words, clearly in the grip of a nightmare. What kind of drug had she been given? It killed pain, but what else did it do?

  When Dale woke up the next morning, he was silent, depressed and chagrined. “Whatever I told you,” he said when he was able to broach the subject, “pay no attention. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know what I was saying.”

  “Then you remember what you said?” Irene asked, doing her best to keep the question curious and light.

  “No,” he admitted. “Not really. I can remember speaking—shouting—but I can’t recall what I said.”

  “Don’t worry.” She handed him a cup of coffee and sat down opposite him at the kitchen table.

  “Did I sleep on the floor all night?” he asked a little later.

  “I couldn’t get you into bed,” she said, which was the truth as far as it went. She did not mention the nightmares that had plagued him until the early hours of the morning, nor did she tell him what he had cried out during the worst of them.

  “I’m . . . I apologize, Irene. I . . . I never thought that it would turn out this way.” He had drunk half the coffee but could not yet force any more down.

  “Dale,” she ventured when she finally got up to fry eggs for them, “what’s in those pills? They’re supposed to be painkillers with a muscle relaxant, at least that was what I was told.”

  “Galen Simeon said that was what he had been prescribing. According to the records, you were getting a standard drug. I’ve taken it myself and never had anything like this happen before.” He stared up at the ceiling. “When we left, they didn’t . . . Where did you get your supply? Did you go down to the dispensary?”

  “Didn’t you?” she asked, mildly shocked.

  He shook his head. “Tell me.”

  “One of the nurses brought my things to me, and said that there was a supply of my prescriptions, with dosages and uses on the labels. I . . . I thought that you had arranged for it.” She did not like the suspicions that were growing in her mind.

  “No,” he said, his eyes on his coffee cup while she worked on breakfast. “Did you have any nightmares while you were there? That you can remember?”

  “Not that I can remember. Doctor Simeon said that all things considered, I was doing pretty well that way. He told me that there were some odd brain-wave patterns during sleep, but no serious disruption.” She was putting a double pat of butter into the warm skillet. “Up or over?”

  “Huh?” He glanced her way. “Oh, Up and basted, please.”

  “You got it.” As she cracked eggs, she said, “Is there any way we can find out what that stuff is?”

  “Sure,” he said dubiously.

  She heard the uncertainty in his voice. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he said without conviction, and relented almost at once. “If I take them to be analyzed, we might be traced. How much of that stuff can be floating around out there?”

  “Not much, I hope,” she said. “And so where does that leave us?”

  He shook his head and fell silent, remaining that way until he had mopped up the last of his egg yolks with a sliver of toast. “It’s risky,” he said in the quiet.

  “What’s risky?” She was startled to hear him speak.

  “I’m going to the general store and make a couple of calls, one to Simeon.” He was feeling more himself now that he had been able to eat.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” she asked, very cautious now.

  “I’ve got to know what did this. It was bad enough for me, but what might have happened to you if you’d taken one? Have you thought about that at all?” He banged on the table with his fist out of the urgency consuming him.

  “Yes,” she said in an undervoice. “I thought about it a lot last night.”

  “So have I, this morning.” He finished his second cup of coffee. “T
here are questions I have to have answered before we get in any deeper. Which is why I am also going to call Jeff Taji in Atlanta, or wherever-the-hell he is, and see if he can find out what’s going on.”

  Irene looked up at him, some of the color fading from her face. “No, Dale, please don’t.”

  “We can trust him. Christ, we have to trust someone. We can’t take on Douglas Kiley and all the ESA by ourselves. We have to get some help.”

  “How do you know Taji will help you?” She made the question hard and accusing.

  “I don’t. But if we don’t get help, we might as well go back to Dallas right now and wait for the Feds to show up and take over. Do you want to do that?” The tenderness had come back into his eyes; he reached out and ran his fingers along her jaw to her chin. “Irene?”

  “No,” she sighed.

  “What else can we do?” He asked it openly, without guile.

  She shrugged, then got up and began to stack the dishes.

  —Commander Maurice Tolliver and Patrick Drucker—

  IN THE sultry afternoon the clouds hung, waiting, growling from time to time with impatience and menace. All of the South was in the grip of this oncoming storm, and Atlanta had taken on a wan greenish tinge as the weather clotted in.

  “I hope I’m not an inconvenience,” Commander Tolliver said as he and Patrick Drucker entered the conference room adjoining Drucker’s office.

  “Of course not,” Drucker said, taking great satisfaction in having an officer defer to him. “We’re all up against the same problem, aren’t we, Commander?”

  Tolliver gave a single slow nod. “In some ways I must agree.”

  Drucker was adept at nuances and sensed that Commander Tolliver had a criticism to offer. “Take a seat, Commander, and tell me what my Division can do for you.” He thought that the proprietary my was a nice touch, one that reinforced his authority without being too obvious about it.

  Tolliver gave Drucker his smoothest slight smile. “Oh, I think we can put this in the realm of joint projects, Doctor.” He sat so that nothing disturbed the perfect. sharp creases in his uniform trousers. Everything about him was impeccable, which roused both envy and admiration in Drucker, who often suffered in humid weather.

  “What’s the nature of the project?” Drucker inquired as he sat at the head of the table.

  “It’s related to the TS carriers you have and some of the patients we’ve been seeing,” said Tolliver, letting the words roll out of him easily, as if this were polite after-dinner conversation.

  “And what about these patients?” Drucker asked, trying to achieve the same ease, but botching it so that he sounded as if he were trying to sell questionable stocks.

  “You’re interested in them; we’re interested in your project here.” He did his smooth smile again. “It could well be a matter of national security.”

  “You mean that some of your research might be involved,” Drucker corrected the Commander.

  “We haven’t acknowledged that, and we are not convinced that it is an applicable consideration.”

  “Meaning?” said Drucker, growing restive.

  “It is possible, of course, that whatever triggered the outbreaks of TS could be remotely associated with some research that was carried on about ten to fifteen years ago, having to do with . . . well, with extrasensory perception. There was reason to think it might have a genetic component and there were efforts made in various places to determine if this was the case.” He put his hands, palms down, on the table. “I’m sure that our interests are sufficiently in accord that we can work out agreeable terms that . . . shall we say, prove satisfactory to all parties?”

  “What sort of terms are you suggesting?” asked Drucker with suspicion.

  “There are variables which enter into it, of course,” Tolliver went on as if he was not aware of the interruption. “You have your obligations as we have ours.”

  “What are you proposing?” Drucker asked forcefully.

  “I am proposing that we exchange information, some of it crucial, some of it pro forma. And that we establish certain areas that could be described as isolated, as those six children are isolated. I can supply the address of the facility where they live, if you like.” This last offer was said nonchalantly; it was the wrong tack to take with Drucker.

  “You’re trying to blackmail this Division,” he said bluntly. “You want us to do your dirty work for you, and you’re selling your own brand of snake oil.”

  “I’m proposing a joint exploration,” Tolliver said with a little more force than before.

  “You’re trying to take over our work on TS, aren’t you?” Drucker resented Tolliver’s polish as much as he resented the intrusion on what he saw as his territory. “It’s not going to work, Commander. Not you or any other branch of the military is going to get their smarmy hands on TS.”

  “You’re misinterpreting my remarks,” said Tolliver with the same delivery he used for testifying before Congressional committees. “We have no intention of—”

  “Bullshit,” Drucker shot back. “You’re trying to cover up something. It’s like that nerve gas and the sheep, twenty years ago. It’s like that radioactive site you kept claiming didn’t exist in Ohio. It’s the same damned thing, only now you’re trying to get out of TS.”

  “We want to keep the public informed and to offer treatment, of course, but this disease has certain characteristics that make it . . . different than others that have developed in the last century.” Tolliver concealed his aggravation with skill. “You are determined to find a cure for it as soon as possible, as was done with AIDS. That is correct, isn’t it?” He deliberately controlled the length of the silence.

  “Naturally,” Drucker said, worried that the admission might strengthen Tolliver’s position in some way Drucker did not yet understand.

  “Our goals are not so different as yours. We want to see the disease cured.” He paused again. “Cured, but not wiped out.”

  Drucker’s face suffused with color. “What!” he demanded, coming half out of his chair.

  “We want to lend you all our assistance in finding a cure, a treatment, but . . . there are a number of reasons we would encourage you to look for a treatment and turn your efforts to a vaccine later.” He cleared his throat delicately. “Doctor Drucker, you don’t appreciate the particular side effects of this disease.”

  “And I’m not likely to as long as you and your lackeys in uniform keep making off with the survivors. We have a motion in to the White House. President Hunter has already said that he plans to enforce our request that you release all the survivors you have in your keeping. We need to examine them and—”

  “Ah, yes,” Tolliver said, meeting Drucker’s eyes squarely. “That famous motion of yours. We have reviewed it and we have made a counterproposal. You might say that’s the reason I’m here, Doctor Drucker.”

  Patrick Drucker was by nature a guarded man. He often looked for the barb in the compliment or the challenge in the question, leading to his reputation for being abrasive and something of a martinet. Now he gave free rein to his suspicions with a single contemptuous word: “Crap.”

  “You haven’t heard me out, Doctor Drucker,” Tolliver said at his most unruffled.

  “I don’t need to hear you out, buster. You’re like all those other buzzards in uniform who think the population of this country is there for testing your kill theories, and that the NCDC is a branch of your ‘nonexistent’ biological warfare department. Well, this time you’re going to have to go find someone else to roll over for you. The Environmental Division isn’t going to play your game, Commander.” He had kept himself from shouting, but his voice was loud enough to bring his secretary to the door.

  “Is anything wrong, Doctor Drucker?”

  “No, Claire. Thanks. Leave us alone and be sure we
’re not disturbed.” He waved her away and turned on Commander Tolliver once again. “You came to the wrong place, Commander, and I am going to see that you bear the full responsibility for what you have suggested we do for you.”

  Tolliver drew a long breath. “As I recall, I didn’t have the opportunity to suggest much of anything; certainly not anything that would have weight with those . . . outside of this room.”

  The confidence of his opponent unnerved Drucker, and he tried to cover this with anger. “You suggested that we treat TS rather than develop a vaccine.”

  “So would most advisors in a situation like this one. TS has too high a fatality to provide enough time to do vaccine studies. From what I’ve heard, the most promising work is in synthesizing a blood factor that will function like the genosubtype-h in those with type O.”

  “How the fuck did you learn about that?” This time Drucker got to his feet; he leaned forward, his hands splayed on the table, taking the weight of his upper body. “Who told you?”

  Tolliver countered with an expression of wounded honor. “It wasn’t supposed to be a secret, was it, Doctor Drucker?”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be general knowledge, either,” he declared. “How did you find out about it?”

  “We requested information at the active level,” Tolliver said. “Both those of us in the military and the Executive Security Agency have made such requests.”

  “You mean you’ve been bribing nurses and lab assistants,” Drucker said heavily. “We developed the information less than a week ago. If we weren’t so short-handed, I’d fire every single person in this Division who spoke to anyone in the military or security services.” He sat down once more, still breathing a little heavily. “You’ve abused your authority, Commander Tolliver. I’m going to inform President Hunter of it. And the leaders of the Republican Party, as well. This is an election year.”

  Tolliver made himself laugh though he would much rather have struck Drucker across the face. “It cuts both ways, Doctor. If you want to play political hardball, you’d best remember that once you’re in there’s no way to get out.” He pressed his hands together. “If you come to your senses, you can reach me at the number on my card at any time of the day or night. We can still work out a program that will be mutually beneficial to you and to us, and will also afford a high level of public safety.”