Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  They had to use a helicopter to move the lamps on to the roof. Vizar had two helicopters on stand-by, anyway, so it was a simple matter to requisition the use of one for moving the lights. Mastickson guessed that the lights had something to do with the mop-up of the so-called chemical spill in the building, but he couldn't figure out why they wanted grow-lights instead of standard fixtures. He'd had to dig these out of storage, while the other kind was plentiful around the complex, and could have easily been supplied.

  He supervised unloading the lamps, then quickly scrambled on board the helicopter. There were lights and activity on the floors below, but his orders were to dump these lamps, and leave.

  He didn't really believe in the “chemical spill” any more than anyone else in the complex. Most of them were aware that nearly two levels in this building had formerly been restricted as a biohazard area. God only knew what someone had accidentally let loose.

  Dump the lamps and leave. Mastickson was only too happy to comply.

  * * * *

  At one minute to eight Cole said “The hell with it,” and pushed through the alarmed door at the rear. Fortunately, the loud buzz ceased as soon as he slammed the door again.

  Eric Sterner was waiting in his car, drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. It took him a moment to recognise Cole; he put down the figure in the baggies with the wobbly walk as a drunk. It wasn't until the drunk bumped his arm into a lightpost, and started swearing, that he realised who it was.

  “Hey, Calloway!” he called. He opened the door and helped him inside. Calloway was looking a little pasty, and Sterner gave him a minute to recover. “Sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  “Hell, yes!” Cole replied, but he sounded a little weary. “What do you think of my disguise?”

  “Great, if we were doing Disneyland. Only, you forgot your straw hat and sunglasses.”

  Cole sighed. “Everybody's a critic. If you don't want people to think you're being sneaky, you don't dress like a thief.”

  Sterner was attired in black pants and a dark shirt. “You telling me my business, Calloway?” he asked, as he put the car in gear.

  “Nope. All you need is a white tie and a fedora to finish your little ensemble. Oh, and your gun should be making a noticeable bulge under your arm.”

  “I suggest you shut both your eyes and your mouth, Calloway. You're going to need a lot of rest if your brain's going to be sharp enough to tackle these folks.” He waited a moment for a response, then glanced over at Cole. Either the man was taking his advice—which he doubted—or he was so wiped out he'd fallen asleep on his own.

  Once again, Eric Sterner wondered why he was doing this. It was crazy; foolhardy. But it couldn't hurt to be on hand. Nothing would prompt Sterner to go in without a warrant—unless he had reasonable cause.

  He was tired of corporations like Genetechnic controlling public agencies. It was time someone made a stand. He glanced over at Cole again, and remembered how wobbly he'd been. I'd feel a whole lot better, he thought, if my back-up was able to stand up, too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The phone on the desk buzzed, and everyone in the room jumped. Vizar picked it up. “Vizar.” He listened for a moment, then replied, “Very efficient, Mr. Mastickson.”

  Vizar turned to Raeiti. It was time the man was reminded who was in charge; who paid the bills. “Raeiti, there's been a delivery to the roof. Send four of your people up to collect it.”

  Raeiti's eyes were slits. He turned the gun on Vizar. “This isn't a game, Vizar—” he began. “Bring the helicopters back.”

  “They're on stand-by. If it starts to look bad, I'll call them in.”

  Raeiti stared at him, uncertain. If anyone else had confronted him like this, he would have shot him out-of-hand, but Vizar seemed to have everything covered. No Vizar, no escape. He briefly considered shooting the medical staff, one-by-one, until Vizar buckled, but there was no guarantee he'd do so. And, as much as Raeiti wanted to eliminate the freak, he wasn't stupid. Lockmann had been the only one able to control Denaro so far. If they killed him, she might be totally unstoppable.

  As he turned away from Vizar, he glanced at his gun. He could blow away Denaro's body. The freak claimed it wouldn't stop her—that she'd still be powerful enough to infect them all. Raeiti recalled how she'd flung Lockmann across the room. Well, insane people often possessed formidable strength. If he blew away her body, she'd have all the more reason to go crazy. But, if I'm not here, what the hell difference is it going to make—

  Raeiti beckoned to Shaine, Bockett, and Sheilson. “We have to collect something up on the roof.”

  “A ride, I hope,” Shaine said softly.

  Raeiti smiled. “If one's available, no one's going to stand in your way.”

  * * * *

  The DSO's pilots spied the departing helicopter, and homed in on its former landing site: the top of one of Genetechnic's tallest buildings. There were lights on inside, and Hylton decided it was a good place to start the search. If it proved necessary to probe Genetechnic's complex building by building, then so be it. It was time someone took this particular gene manipulator to task.

  None of it would ever be official, of course. Any more than Genetechnic's removal of Richard Lockmann would be recorded as a kidnapping. Neither the helicopters, nor the team members, nor the virus people in the other helicopter existed—officially.

  The lead helicopter set down to one side, leaving space for the second helicopter to settle some distance away. Before the team had even opened the doors, however, a small group of people burst through the door leading to the roof, as though the devil himself was at their heels. As the door was swinging shut, the four turned as one, to check warily at their backs.

  At first, it appeared as though they were headed for a stack of boxes, but at a word from the leader, they jogged rapidly toward the helicopter, guns at the ready. Steven Hylton couldn't believe it—it looked like the four planned to take on an entire group of armed offenders.

  * * * *

  Raeiti decided fate was finally in his corner. The helicopters had been left, apparently undefended. He took up guard to their rear, glancing back from time to time to the door. Whatever hazards might lurk in the helicopters, it was nothing compared to what they'd left behind in the building.

  Sheilson nudged Shaine as they ran toward the nearest helicopter. “The pilot better not be on a break,” he snickered.

  * * * *

  Hylton gestured for silence. Ten pairs of eyes watched intently as Sheilson led the way across the roof. When he got to the door of the helicopter, he didn't even hesitate. Certain that he'd only be met by a cowering and unarmed pilot, Sheilson yanked open the door; sliding it back so hard that the stopper made a loud thwack. “Anybody home?” he asked loudly, and all but Raeiti sniggered.

  Sheilson had actually put one leg inside before his eyes finally adjusted to the dark. A cool voice answered him, “Yes, honey—I'm here.” There was a quickly-suppressed laugh, a cold muzzle was nuzzled into his ribs, and a different voice said softly, “Surprise!”

  * * * *

  Caroline knew they'd be waiting. The video would show her halting movements, and they'd be waiting to blow her away. Blow her out of her body, but not out of existence. She wondered how much would be left when the heroes were through.

  A harsh laugh was spat out through swollen lips. There was an element of black comedy to the futility of her existence. This struggle for locomotion, to bring her to an explosion of blood and flesh; the negativity of submitting to the limits on her substance; the compulsion and drive that were forcing her to do things she abhorred. She, who had fought to extend humanity beyond its genetic boundaries, was being caught by the subjugation of her body to a plant virus, of all things. A goddamn plant virus.

  It was even more amusing when she thought about Richard Lockmann, and what he had become. The link that had existed between them, from the time she had first invaded his body, must have some g
enetic component, she reasoned. Did plants have instincts? Communication skills? Some factor in their bodies had given them compatible flesh through which to communicate. Richard Lockmann was her success story, even if no one recognised him as such. A mutant, like herself, but with none of the horror story that was now her life. A mutant who'd either never had, or had conquered, the disease that had destroyed her.

  It was time to move on. She was forced into it as strongly as any pregnant woman is forced to expel her infant in childbirth. As harshly, as painfully, but every bit as strong a reaction. So strong, in fact, that her body would carry on against her wishes, were she to try to divert herself from the task.

  Caroline Denaro moved on.

  * * * *

  Raeiti's phone blipped loudly, and more than one person jumped. The DSO had now been joined by the virologists, and—taking their cue from the way Raeiti and his people were garbed—were suiting up to enter the building.

  Raeiti, Sheilson, Shaine, and Bockett were seated on the ground, in a tight cluster near the helicopter. They'd been bound but not gagged. Angsley had been trying to get information out of Shaine about the numbers and placement of any other guards, the location of their quarry—Richard Lockmann—and the likelihood of their encountering any other viruses or germs en route.

  What bothered Hylton was the lack of resistance. They hadn't complained once about being captured or tied up—even though Angsley was known for his less-than-humanitarian methods of securing arms and legs. Their only objection had been when they'd been pushed over by the building, and on this the four were adamant: next to the helicopter, or shoot them all right now.

  It made Hylton and his team uncomfortable. Whatever was downstairs was more life-threatening than the muzzle of a gun. Hylton didn't like it.

  The phone blipped again, and Hylton tossed it to Angsley. He put the phone against one side of Raeiti's head, and his gun against the other. “Answer it.” Angsley flipped down the flap.

  “Raeiti.” He listened for a moment, then said, “We had a problem with the boxes. One of the lights broke.” He listened for a minute more, then replied, “We'll be down in a minute.” Raeiti pulled his head back, indicating that the call was finished.

  “All right,” Hylton told him. “On your feet.” He smiled. “You have some boxes to carry downstairs.”

  Raeiti shook his head. “Not them,” he replied, looking at Sheilson and Shaine.

  Hylton frowned.

  Raeiti looked at him coolly. “You're after Lockmann, right?” He must have seen an answer in Hylton's eyes, because he went on, “Well, he's one floor down—to your left. Big room, lots of people—some of them armed.” He gave a wry smile. “Offer them a ride out of here, and resistance will be non-existent.”

  “I don't get it—” Geraldo said softly to Simon. Simon just shook his head. He didn't get it either.

  Raeiti heard him. “You will,” he said. Sheilson sniggered in the background. “You fucking well will.”

  * * * *

  “Send in three,” Hylton ordered. “But not Kerrington.” He looked at Simon to see how he was taking it.

  It was okay with Simon, so long as the “three” didn't include Angsley.

  Hylton must have seen his agreement in his face, because he nodded and turned away, to ask Raeiti, “Are those the boxes?”

  Raeiti nodded. He'd decided a little co-operation wouldn't hurt, at least until he'd gained control over their transport.

  Hylton took one last look at the isolation suits the DSO people were wearing. They were close enough in design to match what Raeiti and his crew had on. Dr. Zeneeba, the virologist in charge, had objected strongly to any exchange of gear between Raeiti's group and DSO.

  Noticing that a trace of fear still lingered in Raeiti's eyes, Hylton was inclined to agree with Zeneeba. A man like Raeiti didn't scare easily. With all the effort they were making to eliminate any hazard to the public, the last thing he wanted to do was be responsible for giving the virus to his own people.

  He told Raeiti, “You're with us.” He pointed to the boxes. “Bring them down to the room. Vizar will want you to set them up.”

  Tazo Raeiti shot a look at Sheilson, then nodded. As reluctant as he felt about returning downstairs, he realised it was the best way to keep tabs on the situation. As long as some of his people were left on the roof, under guard, the DSO numbers would be split. Hylton, in order to play it safe, would more than likely leave his pilot behind as one of those up top. Raeiti smiled grimly. It's no more than he would have done.

  And no more than he'd expected, to be included in the return group. Hylton would demand Raeiti's presence. He wouldn't take chances on the lead man being caught out.

  What made it acceptable to Raeiti, was the surety that Hylton wouldn't risk the virologists by removing both helicopters from the site, as Vizar had done. When the action starts, I'll have somewhere to go. There was no doubt in Tazo's mind that when Caroline Denaro wandered into their midst, the DSO people would be too agitated to notice if he slipped away.

  The boxes were light, and Geraldo was surprised when Raeiti called a halt at the base of the stairs. “I need to warn them,” Raeiti said coolly. “Unless you want your head blown off.”

  Geraldo levelled the gun at his throat. “Why? Who else would they be expecting?”

  “If you don't believe me,” Raeiti told him, “then you go through that door first.”

  Geraldo considered it for a moment, then nodded. He listened carefully as Raeiti spoke into his phone. “We're on our way in now.”

  “Sounds like it's party time,” Finlay muttered.

  “You first,” Geraldo told Raeiti, giving him a small shove.

  Raeiti glanced nervously to their rear, but Geraldo didn't think it was the DSO people who were making him uneasy. The man seemed eager to be out of the corridor.

  “What's with him?” Finlay whispered. The nerviness was as infectious as any virus.

  Geraldo shook his head. What could make a guy like Raeiti so edgy? He found he was mimicking the man's actions, and taking wary glances over his shoulder. He'd felt like this once before, when he was a kid. Some friends had coerced him into visiting a reputedly haunted house. The “visiting” being defined as breaking, entering, and collecting some proof of said “visit". He'd felt like this then—a sense of urgency, as though someone or something was breathing down his back. It surprised him that he could still remember it. It surprised him even more that someone as hardened as Raeiti appeared to be feeling it, too.

  Whatever Raeiti believed was at their backs, he wasn't the only one relieved to enter the relative safety of the enemy camp.

  * * * *

  The fourth man in their group hadn't spoken on the way down the stairs. He was terrified of one, and distrustful of the others. In his mind, there wasn't a whole lot of choice between Raeiti and his DSO companions. All seemed to have experienced a walk on the seamy side. When Zeneeba had selected him—Rodrigal—to make this first foray into the warzone, he'd felt like throttling him.

  But now, after they'd gone through the doors that everyone seemed so wary of, Denis Rodrigal was beginning to feel more at ease. The room was massive, and all the equipment recognisable. As always, he felt more comfortable in a laboratory situation, than any human gathering—whether social or anti-social. He wondered if it was because the emotional interplay he'd witnessed before—in his journeys to assess epidemics of potentially lethal new viruses—had so frequently been tragic. Any gathering of humans over a virus issue was bound to be fraught with tragedy. And lessons about human frailty.

  “Bring the lamps over here,” a voice was saying. Rodrigal jerked his mind back to the present, and remembered to avert his head, so they couldn't see his face inside the hood.

  It couldn't have been better. Rodrigal didn't know what they needed the lamps for—it seemed bright enough in here, already. Whatever the reason, it brought him in proximity to the patient. As he followed directions, and placed the lamps so
that most of the light would fall onto the man in the bed, Rodrigal made a silent assessment of the patient and his symptoms.

  The first point of confirmation was identity. Rodrigal had seen the photos of Richard Lockmann, and he needed to make the final decision whether this was, indeed, Lockmann, or whether the virus had moved on to someone else. He was familiar with the ravages that viral agents could work on human appearance, which was one of the reasons Zeneeba had selected him. The amount of field work he'd done had either worked for, or against, him—depending on how you looked at it.

  None of his field work was of much use now. The man in the bed looked enough like Richard Lockmann to confirm his identity, but any viral manifestations of the type he'd expected stopped there. Rodrigal had been warned to expect tumours, and swelling; high fever and emaciation; coma and respiratory difficulties. Rodrigal frowned. If this was a virus, it wasn't like anything he'd ever seen. Maybe that's what happens when a plant reovirus goes vertebrate, he thought.

  Any tumours or distortions Lockmann had exhibited in the hospital were gone now. Rodrigal took a quick and cautious look at the man's throat, where he'd had a tracheotomy. No—this couldn't be Lockmann. There was no trace of a wound or scarring. His skin appeared smooth and unmarred.

  The man's skin appeared somewhat sallow, and he was thin, but not to the point of emaciation. Respiration was slow and shallow, and his heart rate—Denis cast a look at the monitor—sluggish. Rodrigal's mind jumped to a case he'd read about, where the victim had exhibited similar vital signs. That man had fallen into a frozen river, and been resuscitated after twenty minutes of submersion. The word “hibernation” popped into his head, but Rodrigal shoved it aside. This man—whoever he is—is obviously deep in coma.

  Rodrigal recognised the virologist in charge: Phillip Rutgers. He'd met him at a conference the year before, and had always maintained a certain admiration for his work. He momentarily wondered how Rutgers had become mixed up with Genetechnic, then remembered that he had a similar association with the DSO. Whoever pays for the research, he thought.