Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Blaisden frowned, suddenly aware of his own error.

  “What did you tell them?”

  Blaisden sank into a chair. He realised that he'd made an enormous mistake. Both his lawyer and his accountant had warned him to use more discretion, whenever his ego had overcome his good sense. This time, it had gone beyond a patient's family. Neither of them would be able to get him out of this one. The implications had suddenly became clear: if Genetechnic was responsible for the symptoms Richard Lockmann was exhibiting, notifying them might not have been the best course of action. It would give them too much time to cover their trail.

  Herbert Blaisden suddenly felt very vulnerable. If Calloway was right, and this was a virus, then it could easily get away. Calloway had been exposed to it, as had all Denaro's co-workers, his receptionist—and me. “I asked them about Denaro,” he whispered. “About the nature of her research.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They said she wasn't working for them right now. That she was away on extended leave.”

  Cole sighed with relief. If that's all Blaisden had said, they were probably still in the clear. The last thing Cole Calloway wanted was for Genetechnic to find out about Rick's illness. “Did you tell them who you were?”

  “Of course.”

  "Of course". Cole frowned. Blaisden was the kind who'd want to talk about himself at every opportunity. The tight knot of nerves, that had been beginning to relax, was back in the pit of Cole's stomach. “Did you tell them why you were calling?”

  This time, Blaisden looked positively miserable. He began to realise just how much he'd blown it. That wasn't just nervousness in Calloway's expression; the man was scared. What can Genetechnic do, other than cover up their mistake? Blaisden thought. Some renegade part of his brain replied, This is a company that plays with genes and viruses, and I'm wondering what they can do to cover their mistakes? It seemed too far-fetched to be true, but, nevertheless, all the pomposity was out of his expression as he admitted, “I told them I have a patient who may be suffering from some side-effect of their research.”

  Cole groaned. “Anything else?” he asked dismally.

  “Yes.” Blaisden's voice was shaking. “I asked them to have Dr. Denaro call me.” He glanced miserably at Cole. Now that Blaisden's balloon had been punctured, he was ready to admit all, almost as a form of atonement. He shook his head. In retrospect, he couldn't believe what a big mouth he had. “I even joked around with the guy, when he said he'd get in touch with her. I said, ‘That'd be very reassuring to my patient's friend. He'd heard Dr. Denaro was deceased.’”

  "You didn't." Cole was appalled. “How did he react to that one?”

  “He got really quiet.” Blaisden added defensively, “But then he laughed.”

  “Did you mention any names?”

  “Only my own.”

  “Does he know where you were calling from?”

  Blaisden nodded. “Do I notify the police?”

  Cole thought about Rick, lying helpless in his bed. “If you don't, then I damn well will.”

  * * * *

  Vizar sat there and stared at the phone. He found he was more disturbed by his own reaction to Blaisden's words, than by the doctor's claims. For a few moments he'd lost control, and he still wondered whether Blaisden had picked up on it. His silence hadn't been stunned surprise, but the beginnings of a kind of claustrophobic panic, in which everything seemed to be closing in on him when he was least prepared for it.

  There was no doubt that, despite his assurances to Sacchara, Denaro's continual reappearances had seriously undermined Vizar's confidence. He was no longer certain he could control the byproducts of Genetechnic's research.

  The probability of creating those “byproducts” was what had made his early days at Genetechnic so exciting: the thought that unknown energies and consequences might be tapped as much accidentally as intentionally by the daring undertakings and rash practices of some of Genetechnic's favoured staff. Now, in the light of many years’ experience, he'd thought he was as much prepared for the unexpected, as he was for the intended. At least in theory, he'd set up plans to deal with almost any consequence that could be imagined.

  Except for spectral visits from the undead. The words drifted into his head, loosening further the secure knots of control and confidence. He'd planned for almost any eventuality, and yet the one he'd least anticipated was proving the most troublesome. It made him wonder whether he could truly control, even with his detailed contingency plans, the situation which had newly arisen.

  Incidents like the one Blaisden referred to were always a potential side-effect of Genetechnic's research—especially since that research frequently exceeded those boundaries the international community would find acceptable. He realised that—with the exception of Denaro's accident—he'd been extremely lucky until now. And, if he'd followed his first inclinations, and sent Denaro to a hospital, things would have been much worse.

  He leaned back in his chair, and considered Blaisden's words. The man had no evidence for his supposition; no physical means of connecting his patient with Genetechnic. Daniel closed his eyes and made himself recall the horrifying images of Caroline Denaro's mutation. Gooseflesh danced along his backbone, and queasiness filled his stomach. If Blaisden's patient was manifesting any of the symptoms that Denaro had, maybe the man did have good reason for his claims.

  Daniel left the room and walked purposefully along the corridor until he came to an empty office. Once there, he punched in the numbers that would trigger a pager off-site. He didn't want the pager number tied into his personal phone.

  Somewhat reluctantly, he returned to his office to wait. Someone would be ringing him soon—for details. He'd just enacted a system that had been in place for several years, but that they'd never had to use. Genetechnic's Security Office wasn't the only defence team maintained by the company.

  Vizar tapped the desktop with his fingertips. He wondered, for all his cool invulnerability, if Raeiti would be as surprised by the summons, as he had been by the need for it.

  * * * *

  Eric Sterner tried to explain. “I can't justify it, Mr. Calloway.” He shook his head at the man's stubbornness. “Genetechnic has never been indicted for anything. I read the papers, too—enough to know that indictment, or at least, a healthy law suit, might only be a question of time, but there's no justifiable cause to keep a man on the site. I'm sorry.”

  The last thing Blaisden wanted was to be caught in the middle between Genetechnic and the police. If this incident had taught him anything, it was to protect himself and his career by admitting as little as possible. “There's no proof for Mr. Calloway's claims, anyway. His friend, Mr. Lockmann, may merely have contracted a new strain of influenza.”

  “What proof do you need?!” Cole asked, exasperated. “You've got Rick. What more do you want?” He wasn't about to let the doctor get away, without at least testing for the virus.

  “I'll make a report—” Sterner began.

  “Yeah,” Cole said angrily. “You do that!” He began to pace with frustration, and Blaisden moved out of his way. “I told Rick we should have notified the Feds.” He stopped and looked hopefully at the police officer. “Can you do that?”

  “I could, but I won't. Not until I have something more to go on.”

  “Like test results, right?” Cole looked pointedly at Blaisden.

  Eric Sterner grinned. Blaisden was so obviously an egotistical asshole that it amused him to see the man pushed into a corner. “Test results might do it,” Eric said casually.

  For the first time, Cole smiled. At least, he and Sterner understood each other. “So, you'll be waiting to see some of those results—as soon as possible?”

  “The sooner the better. How long will it take, Dr. Blaisden?”

  Blaisden frowned. “I'll send a sample to the lab. Try to remember you're asking them to test human cells for a plant virus. There might be all kinds of complications.”

  “In ot
her words, delays,” Cole said. “What can you do for Rick while you're waiting for the results?”

  Blaisden's expression became both professional, and deadly serious. “I don't think you understand the implications, Mr. Calloway. If we get the results you expect, then we have to look at the wider picture: the hazards of exposure, the potential for infection in those people already exposed—” he looked pointedly at Cole, “the demographics for possible epidemic. We don't even know whether he's contagious yet.”

  In the background, Eric Sterner gave something halfway between a gasp and a sigh. He began to wish someone else had taken this call.

  Blaisden heard Sterner's response to his words and gave a grim smile, that had no trace of humour in it. “Maybe your question shouldn't be what will we do for Rick while we're waiting for the test results, but, rather—what will we do when we get them?” He turned and tread heavily out of the room.

  The moment the door swooshed closed behind him, Eric Sterner turned to Cole. “He knows how to use the moment, doesn't he?”

  Cole nodded. “It's what Rick would have wanted, though—to warn people about what's going on.” He realised he was speaking of Rick as though he were already dead, and he frowned. Looking at Eric Sterner's expression, he decided he would get more co-operation if he were open with the man. He told him quietly, “I don't know if I believe in this WTV thing any more than Blaisden does, but Rick works with this stuff every day.” His eyes were sad. “I know how sick he is, but he was so sure. I have to trust his judgement.” He hesitated, as he considered whether Sterner was the appropriate person to confide in regarding Denaro's research. Somebody had to be told—that much was certain—but, in Cole's mind, it would have been better to tell someone with a little more laterality than a local policeman. Still, the more people with at least some awareness of Genetechnic's exploits, the greater the chance that the “gene machine” would be unable to hide their culpability behind the walls of their formidable complex. “There's some evidence to back up Rick's claims,” Cole admitted. “I've seen it myself. If I get it for you, do you think you could arrange to have someone else look at it?” He glanced at the doorway, and gave a rueful smile. “Other than Blaisden, I mean.”

  Eric nodded. “I'll see what I can do. If Genetechnic's involved, it'd probably be better if the evidence is stashed somewhere secure.”

  “And in triplicate,” Cole added.

  “Get me the information as soon as you can. It might help me find some funding to put a man on Lockmann's door.”

  Cole smiled, relieved. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Sterner said, and handed Cole a business card. “Call me if you run into trouble.” As he went out the door he added, “If things get rough, don't wait. Go for 911.”

  * * * *

  "Jesus Christ, Daniel!"

  Daniel Vizar could hear the hysteria in Sacchara's voice. He held the phone away from his ear and tried to think of something soothing to say. But, he'd just received Raeiti's call; the call that could set in motion a chain of events—events that were authorised and funded by his office—but over which he had no real control. Whatever occurred, whether legal or illegal, moral or amoral, lethal or nonlethal, it could take place without his personal knowledge or approval. That much was tacit in the people who'd been hired to do the job. Paid mercenaries, who might find a conscience inconvenient. Daniel suddenly wished he wasn't burdened with that inconvenience, either.

  Genetechnic had spawned Denaro, like some kind of monster who'd crawled out of their recipe for primordial soup. Now, by giving his contingency group licence to go about his business, he may have spawned something infinitely worse. Vizar's conscience was aching like a bad tooth.

  "Daniel?! She got them! She's walking around, dammit!" Sacchara sobbed into the phone. “She's killing people—”

  Vizar didn't need to ask who the “she” was. “Lock her in!” he shouted into the phone.

  “How?” Sacchara yelled back. “How the flaming fuck do I lock up a ghost?”

  “Where's Solomon?”

  Justin fought for control. “Lying on the floor of the suit room. So's Sy Morgan. Look, Daniel,” he begged, “I just want out—”

  “No!” Vizar replied, stalling. “Where is she?”

  “Section 14.” He glanced at the monitor. “Level 4.”

  “Evacuate Section 14. Tell them it's a chemical spill,” Vizar ordered tersely. Better Security think that, than realise the extent of the biological hazard. “Then have Security close it off—”

  “But what about—”

  “Denaro can't run her body by remote control. And her so-called spirit can't hurt you—or she would have done it already. Once we've locked her in, that's it.”

  There was sense in what Daniel was saying. Justin's breathing became less laboured, and his heart stopped hammering against his chest wall. “What'll we do with her?”

  “I'll get a clean-up crew down there. Where are you now?”

  “Morgan's office. I can monitor things from here—for the time being. Just get some help over here ASAP.” Justin didn't like the idea of being locked in the building with Denaro on the loose. “Can you have a helicopter on the roof? Just in case?” He added, a little hesitantly, “Daniel? I think it's got to end here.”

  Vizar avoided telling him about Blaisden's call. Sacchara's stability was too shaky already. “For Denaro, anyway,” he agreed. But the hand that laid down the phone was slippery with sweat. Vizar kept thinking about what Blaisden had said—about someone getting sick as a result of their research—and his mention of Denaro's name.

  I hope to hell this is not just the beginning.

  * * * *

  Jason read through the literature, even venturing his way into some of the more complicated journal articles that Rick had filed under Reoviridae. Most of the control methods involved prevention, rather than cures. Things like deliberately infecting a plant with the virus in a mild form, and selecting for resistant species. There'd been a lot of success with genetically engineering the virus coat protein into the plant's genome, whatever that entailed. Whatever it was, Jason doubted it would be of much use to Rick.

  He thought about the treatments being devised for viruses like HIV and hepatitis B. He'd read that reverse transcriptase inhibitors had met with moderate success, because they blocked the virus’ ability to replicate. The overall description had been beyond him, but he'd picked up on the words “inhibitors” and “moderate".

  The problem was with the “moderate". Rick was so far gone that Jason doubted whether blocking the production of more virus would be enough to counter the damage that had already been done. The only other potential treatment he could remember was something called “antisense oligo". Supposedly it blocked protein synthesis, but it was still being trialled on things like leukaemia. Jace didn't know if it would be of any use in Rick's case, but it was worth mentioning to Blaisden.

  He wondered how well Cole had done in convincing Herbert Blaisden to consider WTV as a possible diagnosis—enough, at least, to test for it. Otherwise, all the research in the world wouldn't make any difference to Rick, because Blaisden wouldn't implement any of the techniques. If he finds out, on the other hand, that Rick was right about his illness, then Blaisden will be screaming for help.

  Jace wondered if he should have approached Sheryl Matthews personally, instead. He'd talked to her once or twice, but her role in Rick's case was more to act as a sounding board, than to actively intervene. She was supposed to monitor Herbert Blaisden's approach, not supplant it with one of her own. The word was that she'd already argued—no, that was too strong—"differed” with Blaisden on one of his decisions, and good ole Herbie hadn't been too happy about it.

  No, sending Cole in, with Rick's own words to back him up, still seemed to have been the sensible approach.

  Jason found that he was staring at the cupboard where Denaro's serums rested in their cushioned vials. He wondered just how much death was housed in those few millilit
res of pressed glass. So far, he'd avoided touching the box—it was sort of a last request thing in respect of Rick's wishes. Cole was so opposed to any of them getting near it, that Jace suspected Cole thought it could get to them through the glass and wood that housed it.

  Jace shuddered. If Rick was right, and the virus only required a few molecules for infection, then maybe Cole had a point.

  * * * *

  Daniel Vizar picked up the phone and rang Security.

  “Security. This is Syrazew.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Syrazew. I need a list of all employees not at work today. Include those on sick leave and comp time. I'm particularly interested in any unexplained absences.” Blaisden's patient must be one of Genetechnic's employees. Vizar hoped Syrazew's list could point out which one.

  “It'll be on your monitor in five minutes, Mr. Vizar.”

  Syrazew stared thoughtfully at the phone. Unexplained absences. It made him wonder how serious that “small” chemical spill had been, and whether anyone had been caught up in it. Evacuation procedures had not been according to plan, and—in Syrazew's mind—had been sloppy, with entire floors sealed off before they'd been checked.

  Syrazew couldn't help but recall that Sy Morgan had been one of those reported absent.

  * * * *

  Rick's subconscious sludged up an image of Jason's confused expression. It sat there taunting him, and he tried to explain. But, the words wouldn't come. His body was burning up, his will subjugated to survival mechanisms that he didn't know he'd possessed. Any conscious effort by his brain was focused on putting out the fire that radiated from his lungs.

  He was caught in a haze of fever-engendered dreams. Some of them conjured up Denaro's image, and he backed away in horror. The worst was when his mind insisted on replaying that moment—when she had reached out and into his body.

  He fought to regain consciousness; to get away from that macabre memory of the chilly, shredded flesh wrapped within his own warm tissues. It was in one of those times—of near consciousness—that he realised why his subconscious insisted on torturing him: the dredged-up recurrence was an act of self-preservation. Whether he liked it or not, his logical side was going to keep his subconscious churning over the puzzle of what had happened to him.