She didn't understand what was driving her now. She was compelled to act, but revolted by the action.
Aaron Solomon writhed and arched his back. His breathing was harsh and strained. She knew what was going to happen—she'd seen it with Sy Morgan. His breathing had stopped entirely.
Seeing what he was suffering, she wished she could will his pain away. She recognised his agony—it was similar to what her own body had endured. But hers had lasted longer, and she'd been forced—much of that time—to watch the process from without.
At least Sy hadn't needed to endure the sight of his own disintegration. His body seemed to have retained its life force—until it was no longer needed.
Some part of Caroline's mind fought to understand what had happened. The swellings that grotesquely distorted her body had taken days to appear. Why had these others succumbed so fast? Had the passage through her body somehow mutated the gene sequences further? So that they were lethal within hours?
A tear runnelled down one swollen and misshapen cheek. There was nothing now to justify what she had become. Nothing to be gained, and everything to be lost. Her spirit was back in her body, but like a slippery banana in its skin, a wrong move could jettison it again, to the non-existence that had once been her greatest fear.
Now she had another. Her soul had returned to her body, and her vision to the slitted eyes couched in tumorous flesh. But, her vision showed her only the living nightmare of her existence, and her soul? The deaths of two men weighed heavily on that fragile entity. She began to wish they'd eliminated her while her soul was still stainless.
The legacy she'd thought to leave on this earth was something far different. If not children of her own, then at least a mark in the annals of science. Her name engraved on the list of pivotal events in human history.
The problem was, she couldn't help it. Something was driving her. Something she couldn't control.
"I'm sorry," she rasped to the men on the floor.
It didn't help. It was too late for them.
"Too late," she whispered. These are my children. This is my legacy.
Too late for them. Too late for her. Too late for them all.
* * * *
“We can starve her out,” Justin Sacchara told Vizar. “No risk. No more lives.”
Daniel considered it. “You may be right, Justin. It's lower risk, and there'll be fewer people involved at the end.” No matter how hard core Raeiti's men were, the sight of Denaro's grotesque mutation might be enough to make them question their loyalties.
Justin was pleased. He'd felt like he was losing his mind earlier. Now that things appeared to be under control, he wanted Daniel to know that he had himself under control, too. “I've picked up activity on monitor two-sixty-three. Are those your people?”
“Yes.”
“Who's on the stretcher?”
Daniel hesitated. He didn't know how many revelations Sacchara could take. “Richard Lockmann. It seems he dug a little too deeply into Denaro's research.”
Sacchara was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was shaky. “He found the bait we left. I guess it was all the encouragement he needed.” He was afraid to ask how Lockmann had been exposed.
“Apparently.”
“How are we going to secure Level 8 from the rest of the building? In case Caroline wants to move upstairs?”
“With guns, Justin,” Vizar admitted. “To the people on your monitor, a gun is a mere extension of their personalities.”
“Not someone I'd like to meet,” Sacchara joked.
Vizar wasn't laughing. “With any luck, Justin, you won't have to,” he said.
* * * *
They moved Rick's stretcher away from the window, and he gave an involuntary shiver.
“Put him back. He's cold,” Rutgers ordered. His words must have encountered some opposition, because Rick heard Rutgers remind his team “Vizar wants him alive.”
“If he wants him alive, he can damn well get us some proper light and ventilation.”
Rutgers frowned. Comments like that from Sandler made his medical staff appear glaringly undisciplined, now that their little group had been swallowed by the twenty-odd other people in Vizar's employ. He shifted nervously. The chill in the faces surrounding him made him feel like a bumbling idiot. “You'll have to get your people out of here,” he said to the man Raeiti, more harshly than he'd intended, which made him once more feel like a fool. It was no good trying to match their hardness—nothing in his experience had prepared him for it. He tried to explain: “We're not even adequately protected. Remember, this man is supposed to be in Isolation.”
Raeiti nodded to his men and they filed out to the hallway. “Before I leave, I'll need your weapons,” he told Rutgers. “I understand there was some trouble at the hospital.”
“If you'd been there—” Sandler began.
“We were there.”
Sandler was confused. “Then why—?”
“The orders were to sequester only. That usually implies a degree of secrecy. We arranged for the blackout.” He kicked a box toward Rutgers. “I'll need your weapons,” he repeated.
“Give them to him,” Rutgers ordered.
“If you were there, why didn't you do something about those men—the two who tried to take Lockmann?” Sandler asked.
“If they'd taken him, we would have. They, and Lockmann, would have quietly disappeared.” He gave them a cool smile. “It would have been better if you'd let them have him.”
“That doesn't make sense.” Sandler would be damned before he'd let this guy intimidate him. If he was supposed to back them up, he'd done a lousy job.
“The pilot would have told us. Then we would have blocked off the roof, before they could escape.”
Sandler snorted in disbelief. “If that was the case, why didn't you get them afterwards? They were just lying there.”
Raeiti spoke to him like a small child. But Rutgers had the feeling he was warning them all. “The pilot said at least one of them was armed, and seemed to know what he was doing. If we'd gone in then, there would only have been more blood, more notoriety. There was no element of surprise, or secrecy, left.” He sighed. “Blood leaves a trail, Dr. Sandler. As soon as you fired your gun, you left dangling ends. You should never have been armed.”
Sandler refused to hand over his weapon. It was the first time he'd ever shot anyone, but it had given him a rush he didn't want to relinquish. Ever since then, he'd decided Rutgers should never have been placed in charge of the medical team. When those men had insisted on removing Lockmann, Rutgers had been ready to give in.
Raeiti saw the refusal in his eyes, and without another word, shot him. Then, he quietly removed the gun from his grasp. “Dangling ends, Dr. Rutgers.” Raeiti went to the door, and ordered two of his men to remove Sandler's body.
As Rutgers stood there stunned, Raeiti told him, “If you need more staff, see me. I'll make your selection for you.”
Rutgers found he'd temporarily lost the power of speech. In answer, he could only nod.
Raeiti picked up the box of guns and quietly left the room.
* * * *
“What d'ya mean, ‘he's been shot before’?” Cole asked grouchily.
“I don't think he meant to let it slip. It came out while he was under anaesthesia.”
“Where is he now?”
“In a private room. With guards on the door.” Jace smiled when he saw Cole look around at the three other beds in the ward.
“How does he rate? I'm going to give him hell.”
“You'll have to get through his bodyguards to do it.” Jason grinned.
Cole finally noticed the fatigue behind Jason's smile. “You look wiped. How long have you been here?”
Jason stood up and stretched. “Since yesterday. Only it seems like longer.”
“Any word about Rick?”
Jason frowned. “Not yet.” He added, “But I'm beginning to think, if Simon says he can get him back, he mean
s it.”
Cole started to climb out of bed.
“Hey, don't—" Jason untangled the IV tubing from the bedrail. “You're still hooked up.”
“Don't be such a wuss. I'm just trying to find my pants.” Cole had planned to check in the cupboard. He started to stand up, and was surprised at his own weakness. He sat down abruptly on the side of the bed.
Jason helped Cole back into bed. “What did you expect? Maureen got the job of mopping up your bodily fluids. With the amount you lost, she expected to read your obituary today. By the way, she said to tell you she hates you.” He untangled the IV again, then went over to the cupboard. After pulling them out of the bag, he dangled Cole's bloodstained pants distastefully between his thumb and forefinger, and asked suspiciously, “What do you want them for?”
“My keys,” Cole replied. He leaned back against the pillows. “Don't be so suspicious. If I wanted to go for a stroll,” he assured Jace, “I wouldn't bother with pants. I'd wear my gown backwards and give the nurses a thrill.” He wiggled the IV tubing. “Do I really need this?”
“Unless you'd prefer another transfusion.”
“I feel like a vampire now. About my keys—” Cole reminded him.
“Your keys are in the drawer,” Jason said. “Why?” he asked bluntly. Cole was never very patient, and they all knew what bad shape Rick had been in when he'd left here. Jace could tell that Cole was already chafing at the forced inactivity.
But Cole surprised him. After digging the keys out of the drawer, he tossed them to Jason. His IV jiggled with the movement, and Jace steadied it. “For you,” Cole said. “You can even use the Rumbler if you want. Just don't scratch her.” He yawned. “I'm so damn tired,” he complained.
“But why—”
“So you can feed yourself,” Cole told him. “Breakfast. Lots of stuff there.” His voice drifted away, and Jace pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. Cole's eyes jerked open. “Jace?”
“Yeah, Cole?”
“Buy a can of Lysol. In case Rick was contagious—”
Jason sighed. “Don't worry, Cole. I'll take care of it.” All of them had been exposed to Rick's illness, in varying degrees. If he was contagious, a can of Lysol wouldn't be enough to handle it.
It was good enough for Cole. He nodded and closed his eyes.
* * * *
Rick gradually became aware of light, and warmth. It's weird, he thought. Even though his eyes were still closed, and they'd turned him away from it, he had no trouble sourcing exactly where the light was. He had a feeling that, in time, he'd even be able to tell what intensity bulb they were using, just by the way it made him feel.
Light. Heat.
No swelling. No choking. No pain.
His smile of contentment froze, half-formed. A disturbing need for self-preservation stiffened his lips. Some of the conversation of the day before drifted through his head, but he couldn't decide if it was real or imagined. Logic dictated that it had been just another extension of the bad dreams that had haunted him for weeks—products of his illness, a fear of death. But some instinct he didn't know he possessed made him resist any gesture that might give him away. He had to fight against the almost overwhelming urge to express his joy at being alive.
I'm alive! He felt—different, in a way he couldn't explain. Not wanting any ruts on the road to his recovery, he instantly put down any strangeness to the length of his illness. I've been sick for so long, that I can't even remember how it feels to be well. He amended: well and strong and definitely on the way to a full recovery. After the negative nature of his dreams, it couldn't hurt to infuse a little positive feedback into his thinking.
A full recovery. His mind cleared, and he tried to make sense of the confused dreams and half-thoughts that had haunted him during his illness. Memories of Denaro, with her gaping skin and organs. The hate in her eyes and the chilling finality of her touch. He realised he'd formed some kind of mindset, and wanted to laugh at his own stupidity. In his aversion to what he'd seen and read, he'd somehow concluded that Denaro's touch had changed him. Had given him a plant virus; maybe even inserted the odd gene sequence into his own. He remembered how much he'd raved to Cole, and Jace, and Simon, and he flushed with embarrassment. Looking back, he felt like a fool.
Some of the memories seemed so clear that it was hard to deny them. Cole's concern ranked right up there with a vision of hours spent perusing Denaro's research, in an attempt to make sense of it all. He could even picture some of the transcripts, and he tried to shut them out. But all the action was taking place behind his already closed eyelids.
None of it was real. Not Denaro, nor her visits, nor the compulsion to help her because she was someone in trouble, who couldn't help herself. And I made Genetechnic the villain of the piece. Their reputation is so bad, that they were a natural. They were her employers. If she ever existed.
Rick had a sudden longing to get up out of bed, go down to the lab, and immerse himself in his work. To play a game of basketball with Cole, or shoot the bull with Jace and Simon. Something normal. To get rid of this obsession that had claimed him. To put the pneumonia, and all its fever-engendered fiction, behind him.
Just then, there was a movement in the room, and someone opened the curtains. Rick felt something akin to an electrical spark shoot through his body, and gooseflesh danced across his skin. Almost immediately, a sense of well-being filled him.
He couldn't understand it. It was like he'd just consumed a chocolate bar. The gooseflesh rose again, but this time it wasn't due to any outside trigger. Rick's heart beat faster.
He opened his eyes.
* * * *
His world, and everything in it, had changed. He'd expected a hospital bed, because memory told him that's where he'd been, but this was like no hospital he'd ever visited. But, it wasn't the nature of the room that bothered him—it was the way he saw it.
It was full of colour. The plain, serviceable off-white of the room was overlaid with a transparent haze of swirling colour: infinite shadings of reds, and blues, pale greens, and yellows. Glimmers of golds and silvers, coppers and chromes. Bright magentas and lush purples. Nothing stood alone. Everything was interconnected by lacings of brilliantly transparent, and endlessly shifting, hues.
Rick lay there stunned, unable to move, unable to speak. He didn't know how long he held his breath—he only knew that his brain finally interrupted his awe, to remind him he wasn't breathing. Wasn't breathing, and didn't miss it.
Wasn't breathing because he didn't need to.
It was his last conscious thought for a while.
* * * *
Simon Kerrington lay there in the half-sleep just before full wakefulness. His body resisted the urge to open his eyes. With awakening would come a return of worry, and pain. There would also be a reckoning with Steven Hylton. If past experience was anything to go on, Hylton would be in here within fifteen minutes after he awoke, wanting his account of how this had happened, and where, exactly, the Defensive Security Office was involved.
In a way, it was unfortunate, but the moment the bullet had entered his shoulder, Simon knew he didn't have a choice. He was one of their operatives, and he'd been compromised. The situation in which they were involved had repercussions far beyond Genetechnic and the hospital; beyond Rick or Cole or Jace or any of them. If WTV was sensitive enough to infect with such minimal amounts, and Genetechnic could recover the infectious agent from either Rick or Denaro, they wouldn't hesitate to use it. Enormous profits with sales to the right party.
The other issues were, of course, kidnapping, the health hazard, and illegal experimentation on human beings. Caroline Denaro's disease may or may not have been accidental, but there was definitely sensitive information being sequestered behind Genetechnic's walls. Not unusual for a firm that specialised in the conception and development of novel genetic products. However, the existence of vials with the potential for either modifying or destroying large numbers of human beings also made this the DSO
's business. It was one thing keeping this stuff out of sight in some lab. It was quite another when lethal substances with a vast killing potential were carried on a public street. If Rick had found those vials in Denaro's house, then she'd been guilty of deliberately transporting them within reach of the public. A potentially lethal situation. Again, the DSO's business.
The atmosphere in the room changed. His peace was disrupted by a hint of impatience. Only two people he knew could convey impatience without a word being spoken, and he knew this wasn't the one he preferred. After the blood he'd lost, Cole was no doubt stuck in a bed somewhere. No, this was the other one. The one who'd come for a reckoning.
“Hello, Steven,” Simon said.
* * * *
This time, Rick didn't have time to consider it. He awoke, and, without thinking, opened his eyes. The nature of the light had changed so much, that he realised most of it was now artificial. He contemplated the different shades, counted the number of rays in the lamp's beam, stared at the intense reds of the sunset—anything rather than allow his mind to consider how much he must have changed.
He couldn't deny it any more. He was back in his right mind, and his right mind focused his eyes on the wart-like scabs at the sight of his IV. The fading remnants of his battle with WTV. The lumps in his throat, and that heavy, packed feeling in his chest had receded. He hoped it was one of those viruses that, once beaten, gives you lifelong immunity.
Giving a light case to a clover plant seemed to work. But a clover plant didn't live nearly as long as he wanted to.
He peered closely at the skin on his hand. At first, he had difficulty filtering out all those auxiliary colours, to find what he was looking for. To find some evidence for the alteration that threatened to make his world crumble around him.
It was there. The texture of his skin had changed. It looked thinner—more translucent than it had before.
But that could be because I've been sick for so long. He'd seen chronically ill people before, whose skin seemed as fragile as the rest of them.
Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy Page 17