Only his skin didn't look fragile—just different. And, I have one hell of a tan.
In that moment, Richard Lockmann said a prayer of thanks for the ruddy skin that he'd cursed all his life. For the reddish tone that had always made him look slightly flushed.
Without that ruddiness to counter the new addition to his complexion, Rick knew he might well have taken on that part of the spectrum unabsorbed—and reflected back by—leaves: green.
There was more. His pores were open, and Rick could feel a faint sheet of sweat on the surface of his skin. Only, it wasn't hot in here—it was merely bright. And this wasn't sweat. Rick suddenly remembered how he'd regarded Denaro's success with a photosynthetic rat with something close to awe. Well, he thought, you've got yourself one helluva big photosynthetic rat now, Denaro. If he was right, that was water vapour drifting out of his pores. His body dispensing with it after it had served its use in photosynthesis.
Oxygen out, carbon dioxide in. What about my lungs?
No. I don't believe this. I've had pneumonia. That's why my skin is so thin-looking. I've broken a fever. That's why I'm sweating.
And I'm tan because they've housed me under a sunlamp? They ran out of beds and had to keep me outside? Skin-staining's a new treatment for pneumonia victims?
Or do I really have a pod of pet chloroplasts nestled in the epidermal layers of my body? Rick gave an involuntary gag. Mutant.
Denaro. She was a mutant. Out-of-body, and out of her mind. Skinless, and tasteless. Flashing what she remembered of organs and bones; skin on, skin off. Forgetting herself, he knew now, to paint her past overlaid by the present. To occasionally reveal a swelling or two—her own version of WTV.
It was what had scared him: the timing. The fact that her rats had been infected, and then infected her. The vector angle.
I'm getting better. Is Denaro?
She got to me. How many others?
What about me? he wondered, thinking of his friends, of the people at the hospital. His heart beat faster. Have I infected them all?
I've got to help them, he thought. I've beaten it. I have the antibodies in my system. If they can somehow screen out the other gene sequences, they'll have a chance.
Logic dictated that his new strength was derived, in part, from the light penetrating his skin. Little as he liked the idea, he knew he had his kidnappers to thank for his survival. They hadn't bothered to dim the lights out of consideration for his suffering. They'd wanted light to watch their specimen. When Vizar had arranged for the lights on this level, they'd taken advantage of every one. Rick knew that without the extra lumens, he wouldn't have had the strength to pull through. The strength he'd received photochemically had given his immune system the nudge it needed to heal.
He tried to look at it objectively. Plants that had recovered from a virus, but still retained the virus in their systems, showed recovery on their new growth—not on the old. But the tumours had receded on Rick's hands, and neck. His throat no longer felt swollen and sore. His recovery wasn't merely being expressed on the newest cells in his body, but as an overall response.
However, vectors for WTV didn't usually succumb to the virus themselves. They ingested the virus by eating an infected plant, multiplied it within their bodies over time, then passed it on to another plant via saliva. Well, he'd succumbed, but he didn't know which had made him sicker: the introduction of the new gene sequences, or the virus itself. Had his sickness lasted long enough for the virus to multiply? To the extent where he could act as a vector? The way he was now sure Denaro had? His body had fought the virus for a long time before he'd started to develop any swelling. Before the virus and its tag-along genes had contaminated his cells. He hoped it was long enough. Then, despite any contact with his saliva or blood, his skin or sweat, his friends would have avoided infection.
Another thought drifted into his head. He was tired now, and the thought came out slightly muddled, but it was the one which let him sleep.
Maybe I can't be a vector. Because I'm the clover.
A new, resistant variety—
Rick closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
* * * *
“We have to get Lockmann back,” Simon insisted. “Not only is he the one who knows the most about this, but Genetechnic will use him if they can. If they can find out what's made him sick.”
“Wait a minute. This virus—WTV—didn't you say he got it from them in the first place?”
“Rick recognised the virus from some test results in Denaro's research notes. It's one he'd seen in his own lab at Entadyne. Genetechnic doesn't know it's a plant virus that's infected Denaro—and now him. They know one of their experiments has gotten away, but they don't know why—or how. If Rick tells them—” He left it hanging.
Hylton frowned. There was a lot Simon Kerrington wasn't saying. He suspected half of that was because Simon was presently residing on his home ground, among his friends. He was finding it harder to dissociate himself from the situation.
Simon added, “Even if Lockmann dies, we'll have learned something from his illness. In my opinion, though, he deserves every chance to recover. He's the one who discovered what was going on, and brought it to our attention.”
“What if he's contagious?” Hylton asked him quietly. “So contagious, in fact, that we can't entertain the risk?”
"No. He was here, and no one else was infected.”
Hylton sighed. “This isn't your area, Kerrington. I'll send in a team, but for everyone concerned, I'll have to include Angsley in the numbers.” He glanced back as he was leaving the room. “I'm sorry, Simon,” he said.
The IV jumped up and down as Simon slammed his fist on the bedside table and swore.
* * * *
I have to get out of here. It was his first thought when he opened his eyes, and was instantly reminded of what he had become. To help them if I can.
He knew the guilt would be with him until he discovered whether he'd somehow transmitted the virus to anyone else—or whether he was still capable of transmitting it. He wanted to say no—he was cured—he was resistant, but he could be fooling himself. He might still be capable of acting as a vector; of giving it to someone else.
I have to get out of here, he thought again. But, where was here? Rick re-opened his eyes, and focused through the colour array, looking for something he recognised. Then, on the wall, he saw it: an “In Case of Earthquake” card, with directions for a quick exit. There was a name at the top that had haunted his dreams: Genetechnic.
Rick's eyes widened. He took a deep breath.
And instantly regretted it. His lungs felt like they were burning.
It scared him. To feel so improved one moment, and experience the return of pain the next. He didn't want his recovery to be so fragile—so temporary.
Rick reduced his breathing. Shallow and infrequent breaths made the pain more manageable. He quickly realised that it wasn't the deep inhalations he required—it was the long exhalations. Photosynthetic. Mutant. Vector. Genetechnic. The words churned through his brain, all overlaid with the bright colours that now comprised his vision.
Rick panicked.
* * * *
Rutgers couldn't figure out what had set him off. One moment Lockmann was resting quietly, and the next he was writhing, trying to fling himself out of the tethers that held him down.
At this rate, the man would asphyxiate himself by torquing the remaining swellings in his airway. They'd decannulated him—was he writhing because his air was cut off again?
Should I re-tube him?
Rutgers added a mild tranquilliser to the dextrose solution entering Lockmann's veins. Almost immediately, there was a response, and Rutgers relaxed, too. Even though the patient's respiration was irregular, it didn't appear to be strained. There shouldn't be any need to insert another tube.
Rutgers settled back, grabbed the newspaper, and prepared for another few hours of boredom. Sandler may have been annoying, but at least he'd talk. After Sandler's abrupt
demise, conversation in their little group had dwindled to nothing. Nobody dared talk about the thing that weighed most on their minds. He bent over the paper and read about the world's problems. As devastating as they might be, none of them now seemed to be as devastating as his own.
* * * *
“What's wrong? Is he worse?” David Geraldo had frequently worked with Simon over the last several years.
Hylton shook his head. “No. I was just thinking about something Kerrington said.” He added, amused, “Simon's better at intrigue than he is at direct assault.”
Geraldo grinned. “He's a sneaky bastard. He'd much rather weave his way in and out of tight corners, than do anything run-of-the-mill like pulling a gun.”
Hylton agreed. “He's good at infiltration.”
David's smile faded. There was something Hylton should know, but he didn't want to say anything damaging about Simon. “Kerrington has strong objections to including Angsley—or anyone like him—in a mission,” he said quietly. He saw the expression on Steven Hylton's face, and quickly went on to explain. “He says it's like carrying your failure with you. Like an admission of guilt. You set yourself up to fail, if you make destruction easier than success.”
Steven Hylton chuckled. “He may be right. He's lucky he doesn't have my job.”
David offered him a somewhat wary smile. “Simon doesn't like to fail, Steve. And he won't kill someone unless he feels it's ‘defensible’.”
“His words?”
“Yeah. As he puts it, ‘defensible’ meaning self-defence or better. The ‘better’ refers to defending one of us.”
* * * *
Sacchara had watched Denaro on the monitors for most of the night, before being relieved by one of Raeiti's people. Before he left, he showed her how to track Denaro's movements from camera to camera.
He'd almost eagerly awaited her reaction to Denaro's appearance, and had been disappointed by the feeble tremor of dismay that passed through her face, before it resumed its cool, distant look. He couldn't imagine anyone seeing Denaro's bloated, swollen form, and not being instantly shaken with the kind of self-preserving gut-torquing fear that had hit him. “Watch her closely,” he said roughly.
Shaine glanced at him, then looked away. She'd already interpreted his shaking hands and darting eye movements correctly. He wasn't someone she'd want watching her back during an emergency. He was on the verge of breaking. “I'll watch,” she said, her voice level. After he'd left, she picked up the phone to Raeiti. Sacchara's nerviness could endanger them all.
“He has to be taken out of it—either way,” she said. “It's better if he doesn't leave the complex.”
* * * *
Cole sat up and looked impatiently at his watch. Twenty-four damned hours! If these people Simon knew were so great, why hadn't they done anything yet? He decided he was going to pay Simon a visit.
He grinned. He was bored here anyway. He'd slept since Jason had left, and that was a good six hours ago. He guessed that after Jason had eaten, he'd crashed out on the couch. He's probably lying there with Stench, right now.
Wait'll he see where Stench likes to sleep.
He looked down at his arm, but there wasn't much to see. They'd immobilised it, which was fine with him. It hurt like hell, and he remembered how much it had been bleeding there, at the end. Jace told him the bullet had nicked an artery, and that he'd been lucky it wasn't a nerve. The nick had turned into a full-blown rip when he'd fallen on it. Cole cringed. He was glad he didn't remember that bit.
Jason had also said they weren't going to finish operating on it for several more days. Cole thought that was ridiculous.
Hospital visits were supposed to be in and out. Even surgical patients were usually up the next day, and some went home within hours. It wasn't as though he'd been shot anywhere vital. He couldn't understand why he wasn't supposed to be up and about.
He glanced down at the base of the IV stand. Good, he thought. It has wheels. Time to bring Simon some flowers.
Cole made himself stand still until everything stopped spinning. I was expecting a little dizziness, he told himself. It's not so bad. Then, he fumbled for his pants in the cupboard. They weren't there. Damn Jason! He'd taken them away, and Cole knew it wasn't to wash.
Cole grabbed a second gown instead, then frowned in frustration. One arm was his injured one, and the other had an IV. He couldn't use the sleeves.
Movement in one of the other beds made him realise this was all taking too long. He'd use up everything he had just trying to get something on. Taking the blanket off the foot of the bed, he covered as much as he could with it, snatched a handful of flowers from the vase by his bed, and pushed the IV through the curtain.
“Do you want me to call the nurse for you?” someone asked him.
Cole felt like he was in a fog. “Thanks,” he said to the disembodied voice, “but I need my exercise.”
Jason hadn't told him which room Simon was in, but it wasn't hard to figure out. It was in this corridor, and it was the only one with people sitting outside. Cole hugged the wall. His sense of unreality was getting greater all the time. He wobbled his way down the hall and stopped, just outside Simon's room.
“I brought him some flowers,” he said. One of the men nodded to him, and Cole pushed into the room.
“Hi, Simon,” he said. His legs buckled, but there was a chair at his back. He didn't remember seeing it when he came in. Lucky, he thought. I might've made a fool of myself otherwise. “How're things going?”
“Great,” Simon said, grinning. “How're things with you?”
“Really good. How's your shoulder?”
“They'll close it up in a couple of days. How's your arm?”
“Just a graze,” Cole said, repeating Simon's description of the day before. He hesitated. “Have we done all the social stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what's happening with Rick?”
“Something. Soon.”
Cole frowned. “How soon is ‘soon’? This government thing you work for—do they act as slowly as everything else in the government?”
Simon smiled. “Not usually.” His smile faded, and his eyes shifted, to some point over Cole's shoulder. “Could you give us a few minutes?” he requested. “I'll ring the bell when we're finished.”
Cole heard the soft whoosh of the door behind him. “What the hell was that about?” he asked grouchily.
“Jacobsen's been shadowing you since you left your room.”
“Why?” Cole asked. “That's a violation of my privacy—” He'd meant to thunder it, but it came out with a wobble.
“That's a way of saving your life, Dumbass. He was there to catch you if you fell. How did you think the chair got there?” Simon's smile faded. “It's also in case Rick talks, and Genetechnic decides they need to eliminate loose ends.”
“I don't like it. It cramps my style,” Cole told him.
“Same. But I don't make those decisions.”
Cole lowered his voice. “When's this thing happening with Rick? What's Genetechnic going to do with him in the meantime?”
Simon sighed, and finally decided to tell him the truth. “I don't know, Cole. Rick may be dead already.” He gave Cole a moment to absorb that, then went on, “A lot depends on how secure they feel. Either they'll keep him alive, to try to get Denaro's research back, or they'll dispose of him right away, to cover their tracks.”
“It gets worse. Blaisden told them Rick might be suffering from a side-effect of their research.”
Simon nodded. “I know.”
“How?” Cole looked confused. “It only happened yesterday—at least, I think it was yesterday. Who told you?”
Simon smiled. “You did. Sometime during our little trip downstairs.”
“Oh yeah,” Cole remembered, embarrassed. “Do you remember everything I said?”
“Only the bits about what a great friend I was and to hold on so you wouldn't lose me, too.”
“I was a
sap, wasn't I?”
“Don't worry—you were a bastard the rest of the time.”
Cole grinned.
“Blaisden's an asshole.” Simon thought about it for a moment, then said, “But, maybe it'll work in Rick's favour. They may keep him alive, just to see if there is a connection between his illness and Denaro's project. Especially since nobody's attempted to come after them.”
Cole looked at Simon's face, and knew he was hiding something. In fact, a lot of somethings, but there were only a few Cole wanted to concern himself with right now. “Is that why your people are waiting? To throw Genetechnic off?”
“Partly,” Simon said slowly. “They also needed to get approval, and to bring in more specialised staff.” There was a trace of bitterness in the last.
Cole asked, “Like virus people?”
Simon nodded. “Among others.”
Cole sat there quietly. He didn't like the sound of the “others". He knew Simon well enough to know he didn't, either. “Who's going to watch out for Rick?” he asked.
Simon lowered his voice. “I am, you fool. Why do you think I haven't complained about the delays? If we can wait till tomorrow I should be strong enough.”
“Good luck,” Cole said sarcastically. He knew how he felt after a small jaunt in the hall.
“I didn't rip any arteries, Cole. Which means I lost less blood than you did. At the end there, after you fell, you were spurting.” Simon chuckled. “Jason looked like he was going nuts. He was trying to push on your pressure point, and keep pressure on my shoulder, all at once. He finally decided you were leaking more, tied me off, and held on to you until help arrived.” His eyes met Cole's. “If you thought we were bloody, you should have seen Jason.”
Chapter Ten
Rick was dreaming. It was the strangest dream he'd ever had. He wandered through shadowed halls, scrolled lines of computerised script, and swirling patterns of colour. But, no matter which path he took, he always seemed to end in the same place: a delightfully cool, burbling pool of water.
His mouth was dry and his skin aching. The light in the room was overpowering, and his final dream was one of desiccation: his body growing tight and mummified with drought, before finally disintegrating into dust, to blow away on an errant breeze.
Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy Page 18