Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Cole decided it was time for some explanations. “How'd you get so much time off work? Won't you need a doctor's certificate to go back?”

  Rick chewed while he talked. “Got one,” he admitted. Cole didn't say anything. He was waiting for Rick to finish. “Anything more to eat?” Rick asked hopefully.

  “Heaps. After you tell me what's wrong with you.”

  “Well—I've had a cold. Sort of a flu-cold, actually.”

  “A flu-cold?” Cole wasn't buying it. “How bad a cold?”

  “Pneumonia-bad.”

  “Pneumonia?”

  “Just a slight case.” Rick coughed lightly, not letting it get to his lungs. “See?”

  “You must've needed help. Why didn't you call me?” Cole was genuinely upset. “You could've stayed here while I was at work.” All Rick's family lived at the other end of the country.

  “Did you forget that your ‘here’ was ‘there’? You were moving, remember?”

  “Bullshit.” Cole was angry now. “Are you better?”

  “Sure—”

  “Well, you look like hell. What does the doctor say?”

  “She put me on antibiotics. No big deal.”

  “When do you go back?”

  Rick shifted uncomfortably. “Just mind your own business, Cole.”

  Cole nodded. “That's what I thought. You forgot, right? Or were you just too sick to get there, and decided to get better on your own?” He went over to the cupboard, grabbed out a bag of potato chips, then changed his mind and grabbed cheese crackers instead. Healthier, he decided. He shoved the box under Rick's nose. “Eat. Then you're going back to the doctor. But Jason's going to take a look at you first.”

  Rick pushed the box away. “No, thanks,” he said firmly, and Cole didn't know whether he was refusing the food, or his friends’ help. Rick added, “One of the reasons we stay friends is because we don't stick our noses into each others’ business.”

  Cole put the crackers on Rick's chest. Reading between the lines, he said, “You don't have any money, right? What about your great insurance coverage?”

  “What are you—a mind reader?” Rick asked grouchily. But, he admitted, “It's pay now, reimburse later.” Rick shoved the box of crackers back into Cole's hand. “Keep your damn crackers,” he grumbled, and turned on his side. “Wake me up when you're ready to talk sense.”

  But it wasn't Cole who rolled him over on to his back, and put a stethoscope against his chest. “When did you get here?” Rick mumbled. “I already have a doctor.”

  “Who?” Jason asked, shooting a worried look at Cole.

  “Peasman—or Peasdale. Something like that.”

  “We're going to pay her a visit,” Jason said. “Let's go.”

  “Damn it, Jace!” Rick told him grumpily, “I don't even have an appointment. I'll see her tomorrow.”

  Cole saw the concern in Jason's eyes. “No way, Rick,” Cole said. “Even if I have to carry you out of here, you're going. Up.”

  Rick sighed, admitting defeat. He hated the idea of imposing on his friends, and he felt like a fool being sick in front of Jason. The only thing that irritated him more was the idea of borrowing money from Cole, but he was feeling so rotten he couldn't even think. And I can't afford to lose any more time.

  Cole gave him a hand up. Rick staggered and almost fell, but Jason was already on his other side, supporting him. Cole pulled Rick's arm over his shoulder and half-carried him outside. Rick's cheeks were flushed now, but Cole knew it wasn't with good health. He could feel the heat emanating through the other man's shirt. “I still can't understand why the hell you didn't call me,” Cole said. “Or Jason,” he amended, when he caught Jace's look.

  Rick didn't even hear the last. He needed to explain—to make Cole understand. “Because I'd rented your house,” Rick said.

  Jason looked confused. “I'll explain later,” Cole told him.

  Rick went on as though Cole hadn't spoken. “I needed to do it, Cole,” he said earnestly, and Cole wondered if his mind was starting to wander, from the fever. “She's not dead, Cole,” Rick added. “And she needs to be one or the other. I think I can help her—”

  “It's okay, Rick,” Cole said. His friend's ramblings were scaring him, and he didn't know what to say. “It'll be okay—”

  “No, Cole!” Rick pulled away, with surprising strength. “It won't be okay. Not until she's alive again—or dead. It's in the genes! Don't you see it?”

  Jason had most of Rick's weight now, but Rick had forgotten he was there. He was so agitated that Jason mouthed to Cole, “Say something.”

  “You can explain it to me later,” Cole said soothingly. “Right now, there's no point—”

  Rick shivered, even though the day was hot. “You're right, Cole,” he said, his teeth beginning to chatter. “There's no point in both of us going crazy.” Jace caught him before he hit the ground.

  * * * *

  Daniel looked up when Justin Sacchara came hurriedly into his office. What now? he thought, momentarily worried that something else might be wrong. No, the man looked better than he had in days—and certainly better than he had the day before, when they'd talked about dissecting Denaro.

  “There's something here you've got to see!” Justin was carrying a rental agreement, and he plopped it down on Vizar's desk. “Look who's rented Denaro's house. Not only insisted on it, but has already moved in.”

  “Dr. Richard Lockmann.” Vizar looked momentarily confused. “So?”

  “Look at his occupation!”

  “Plant pathologist.” Vizar frowned. He pushed his chair away from the desk, leaned back, and read through Lockmann's application. “It's too much of a coincidence. Do you think our Dr. Lockmann might be looking for employment? If so, he's certainly taken an innovative approach.” He handed the papers back to Sacchara. “See what you can find out. He'd need to have a shitload of molecular biology, and a strong grounding in genetics, to pick up where Denaro left off.” As Sacchara turned to go, Vizar called him back. “One more thing, Justin. If you can, discover whether this Dr. Lockmann ever met Caroline Denaro.”

  * * * *

  Jason's voice, on Cole's answering machine, was unmistakably angry. “Where the hell is Rick, Cole? The damn fool's left the hospital!”

  Cole came in just in time to hear the last. He picked up the phone. “What did you say?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Rick's left the hospital. Simon went to visit him, but apparently he'd just left. What the hell's wrong with him, anyway?”

  “You heard him. He has some fixation about that house. If I get him back to the hospital, can you dope him up so he doesn't leave again?”

  Jason sighed. It was obvious he was fighting an inner battle against what he wanted to do for a friend versus the limitations of his position. “I'm not his doctor, Cole,” he said. “And Rick wasn't delirious when he left—”

  “He wasn't in his right mind, either—” Cole argued.

  “Tell me about it,” Jason said. He thought about it for a moment. “If you or Simon can find him, try to talk some sense into him. If you can't, ring me. I'll see what I can do.”

  * * * *

  Rick groaned when he heard the roar of Cole's racing engine. It didn't take the unmistakable thunder of Cole's footsteps in the hall for Rick to realise just how angry his friend was. He attempted to defuse the situation. “Hey, Cole!” he called out.

  “Hey, yourself,” Cole grumbled, as he came into the room. “What are you doing here?”

  “Recovering, in the comfort of my own home.” It sounded prim, even to his own ears.

  “Jason rang me,” Cole said grumpily. “He's mad as hell. So's Simon. He's looking for you right now, over at the mausoleum.”

  Rick didn't bother to ask. “Mausoleum” was an all-too-appropriate term for the other house he'd rented.

  “Simon's right here.” Simon's cool voice preceded him. He came into the lounge, and leaned nonchalantly against the door jamb. “Well, you lo
ok a helluva lot better than you did last night.”

  Rick didn't say anything. He'd been unconscious the night before.

  Simon took an appraising look at the room. “If I were you, Rick, I'd definitely choose the hospital. Their interior decorating sure beats what you've done with this place.”

  “I came home because I have work to do,” Rick told them seriously.

  Cole began to pace. Simon warily watched the stacks of books, and shook his head. This was the wrong place for Cole to take out his frustrations.

  “What can you possibly have to do that's so damned important?” Cole fumed. “You're acting like a lunatic.”

  “Just because you don't see it the way I do—”

  “Nobody sees it the way you do, Rick,” Simon interrupted.

  “This is the way I see it, Rick,” Cole said angrily. “Simon stopped by to visit you, only to be told that you'd left.”

  “'On his own recognisance’.” Simon repeated the words the nurse had said.

  “In other words, against medical advice.” Cole was livid. “What's your problem, anyway?”

  “No problem.” Rick picked up the bottle of pills off the table. “I'm covered.”

  “Dammit, Rick—” Cole started to say. “Look, I don't know what game you're playing, but I don't want any part of it. If you're going to act like an ass, you can do it alone.”

  Simon crossed his arms. “You won't be able to do anything for anybody if you're dead,” he said bluntly.

  Rick was silent.

  Cole noticed that the haunted look was still in his friend's eyes, but he refused to let it sway him. There was no way he was going to let Rick kill himself out of stupidity.

  It still rankled that Rick hadn't explained why he'd rented the house Cole had coveted. In fact, when Cole had visited him this morning, he wouldn't explain any of what was bothering him, saying only that he'd talk about it when they were in a less public place than the four-bed hospital ward. Well, it was less public now. But Rick was still so sick Cole was reluctant to push him.

  He shook his head, refusing to let Rick's weakness sway him. Rick obviously needed a boot in the butt, if that's what it took to get some sense back into his head. Cole admitted it: if it had been Simon who'd rented the mausoleum behind his back, he would have understood, because that was the way Simon's mind worked. But Rick—Cole couldn't believe it—Rick and he had always been open with each other.

  * * * *

  Simon was at a loss to explain Rick's behaviour. When he'd first heard what Rick had done—renting the house Cole had wanted—he'd been secretly amused by the previously unsuspected deviousness of Rick's mind. But, when he'd thought it over, he'd quickly realised how out of character Rick's actions had been. Rick had risked Cole's friendship: something that Simon was sure meant more to him than any mere possession. No, there was something really wrong here, and it bothered him. Rick, along with Cole and Jace, had always been there for him, even when his sometimes irreverent attitude had irritated the hell out of them. No, something was eating at Rick—something serious. Simon couldn't help but be concerned by the change in Rick over the last few weeks.

  * * * *

  Rick knew what they wanted, but was having trouble forming the words. How to spill your guts in one sentence or less, he thought. How to tell the truth without sounding like you're still delirious—or worse.

  Especially not in front of Simon. Simon hadn't been there. Simon didn't have any idea what it had been like—

  * * * *

  Rick shifted uncomfortably, torn between gratitude that they'd come by to check on him, and embarrassment at all the attention. The strain was beginning to wear on him, though, and after a few minutes, he began to wish they'd just leave.

  Simon noticed, and decided Cole could probably handle this better alone. Cole knew Rick better than any of them. Simon glanced at his watch. “I have to go,” he said tactfully. “Give me a call later, Cole? Bye, Rick.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” Cole muttered.

  Rick nodded. “Bye, Simon. Thanks.”

  After Simon had left, Cole plopped down in the chair he'd occupied the day before, and idly booted some of Rick's papers out of the way, hoping to stir some kind of reaction. “Rick—” he began, but it wasn't any easier for him to talk about his concerns than it was for Rick. “This is all bullshit, you know,” he said, then realised that wasn't exactly the best way to get Rick to talk about what was bothering him.

  Now that they were alone, Rick knew he should level with Cole. But, Cole's vitality was at such odds with what Rick had to say, that he couldn't think how to begin. The episodes of fever and weakness had confused what had once seemed alarmingly clear. He didn't know if he could untangle his theories from what he thought were the facts.

  Rick was pretty certain Cole wouldn't believe him, either. He had a dim memory of his rantings the day before. Anything he could say now would only add to Cole's incredulity.

  Cole stood up abruptly. “Are you coming with me or not?”

  “Not,” Rick said quietly. “Sorry, Cole.”

  Cole fidgeted for a minute, uncertain what to do. Short of forcing Rick to come with him again, there wasn't much he could do. He had the uncomfortable feeling that dragging Rick back to the hospital would be a fiasco. Rick, in his present state of mind, would only turn around at the first opportunity to come back here. It was obvious to Cole that Rick's mindset was what needed changing. He had to be made to see that his goddamned work wasn't worth the risk. Cole just didn't know where to begin. He needed time to think about it; maybe to talk it over with Jace.

  It was Rick's continued silence that finally decided him. He and Rick had always been able to talk, even if it had only been joking around. The silence unnerved him. He went over and picked up the phone, making a big point of listening to the dial tone. “Oh,” he said grimly, “it does work!”

  Rick smile was strained. “I'll talk to you later.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” Cole muttered, much as he had to Simon. He waited for a moment more, hoping that Rick would say something—anything—to break the silence.

  He didn't. After a final disgruntled thump on a stack of books, Cole decided to go. “See you, Rick,” he said. He turned around and stomped out of the room.

  Rick slouched back on the couch, sighed, and buried his face in his hands.

  Chapter Three

  Vizar had been at the glass for an hour, staring at what remained of Caroline Denaro and wondering just what he could do to defuse this situation. There was no question now about the nature of her accident, and someone would have to shoulder the blame. The female form lying so quietly in the next room was no longer specifically human, to the extent that “specific” referred to Homo sapiens. She looked to be another species altogether.

  He'd handled it wrong, but he could have handled it worse. There was a policy for incidents like this, but he'd almost overlooked it, to send Denaro to the local hospital. No one had recognised the nature of her illness, until she'd begun to manifest an alarming set of symptoms, that no medical texts would have been able to explain away.

  What had Caro put into her little genetic cocktail? They'd run gels and blot tests on her tissues, and come up with an alarming number of plant proteins. Daniel didn't understand how she'd been able to mesh them so well with her normal complement of proteins and enzymes, or how she'd avoided a resistance reaction. According to Tom Denning, signal transduction should have been stopped at the cell membrane. The normal conduction—of substances across the plasmalemma—shouldn't have been able to function.

  Denning had no idea, of course, that they were talking about Caroline Denaro. But, Denning had scoffed at the concept of incorporating large quantities of plant DNA into animal tissues. “It always results in resistance,” he'd said. “The plant guys use that resistance to selectively stimulate antigen production in rats and rabbits. Then they use the antigens to test for the original pathogen.”

  Denning was wrong. Not only had forei
gn transcripts made it across Denaro's cellular membranes, but they'd managed to do their damage without any resistance from her immune system. And the process had functioned well enough to keep her body from shutting down completely, while it underwent massive changes. While she mutated.

  * * * *

  Aaron Solomon watched until Daniel Vizar's face was no longer lingering in the glass, then walked into Denaro's room. He had no desire for communication with his employer. To his way of thinking, the daily notations he submitted were all the contact necessary in this situation. The less said, the better.

  He was worried he might inadvertently reveal his aversion to both the man and his company. The anonymity of the protective gear he was forced to don every time he went into the room was usually enough to conceal his misgivings, but for the last two weeks—since Denaro had mutated beyond all recognition—he'd studiously avoided any face-to-face confrontations. It was too difficult to hide what he knew, or at least suspected, about how Caroline Denaro had arrived at this state.

  How the hell did I get stuck with this? he wondered, for the hundredth time. The last thing he'd wanted, when they contacted him, was to be caught in some weird genetic mess.

  “I'm an oncologist,” he said aloud, but he didn't know if he was saying it more for his own reassurance, or to dispel any spectres that might be lurking in the room. Of late he'd wished he were double-qualified in the metaphysical as well as the medical. Though, he thought, looking again at the weird texture of his patient's skin, neither degree's worth shit in this case.

  He'd seen Caroline's spectre not once, but many times, over the past month. Even though she no longer looked the same as her extant image, the memory of the lady, as he'd first seen her, was still with him. Enough, anyway, to feel pretty confident with his ID of her restless spirit.

  All I want is out.

  It was obvious there was nothing he could do—nothing anyone could do. In his opinion, Caroline Denaro's condition was terminal. The creature lying on the bed went far beyond his expertise. Even the rate of her cell growth was out of sync with what he knew of cancer cells.