“I never said it was evil.”
“But you believe it is.”
Cameron stared at him, hating the way the man persisted in his irritating game.
Swain chuckled and dropped it. “The security meeting starts at 4:00 p.m. tomorrow. My office.” He paused. “You know my respect for you is such that I’ll never willingly let you leave Kendall-Jakes. But it would be nice if, from time to time, you could at least try to seem as if you’re beholden to me. Especially if you have any desire of advancing here.”
He held Cam’s gaze soberly a moment, then gave him a nod. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll conduct an impromptu departmental inspection. Rather like the review board committee will do.” He stepped to the door, then turned back with an “Oh! Will I see you at my presentation tonight?”
“I’ve already attended one of your presentations, sir.”
“Many of our associates enjoy attending subsequent sessions. I usually add some new twists, but even if I don’t, they always pick out something they’d missed before. More importantly, they go away reinvigorated with the conviction that the goals we pursue here are profoundly important, not only to themselves but to all of humankind. Sometimes when things get difficult or confusing it’s good to regain one’s focus.”
“I’m sure it is, sir. I don’t have a ticket.”
Swain arched his brows. “As a Black Box Fellow, you now have the privilege of attending anytime you wish. Just show your staff ID at the door.” Swain gave him a big smile. “If you insist on skipping my meeting tomorrow, you’ll go a long way toward assuaging my irritation by attending tonight.”
With that he left the office and strolled along the back aisle, pausing to speak briefly to Jade Kemmer, where she worked at the end of one of the benches, then homing in on his target. Ms. McHenry looked up at him with that wide-eyed expression of surprise and wonder that was far too appealing for her own good. Though Cam could hear little of the conversation, their body language said it all.
Swain was charming, friendly, interested, careful not to come on too strong, but from Cam’s point of view, obviously after her. McHenry was clearly overwhelmed, her elfin face so flushed with pleasure and embarrassment she glowed. And those eyes—huge and brown and innocent. When Cam had looked into them last night, tear-filled and pleading, he’ d been smitten with the irrational desire to fold his arms around her and assure her everything would be all right—and then do all he could to make it so.
Now Swain leaned slightly over her desk as he spoke. She drew back in apparent surprise, seeming to stumble for words before finally saying yes. Smiling, he turned toward the mouth of the aisle where Jade worked, catching Cam watching him as he did. His smile widened ever so slightly and he wiggled his brows, then ambled down the first of the four lab bench aisles, where he stopped to talk to Lauren. Ms. McHenry stared after him in pleased disbelief. Another moment now and . . . yes, there was Ms. Kemmer, leaping up and hurrying to McHenry’s cubicle.
Cam turned his eyes back to his monitor, intensely irritated. The strange vandal and ensuing cover-up were bad enough; now this blatant come-on by Swain? Of course he knew much of that performance had been for Cam, a mockery of the warning Cam himself had given the girl last night about Swain’s “intentions regarding her career here.” It might not mean anything at all.
He still didn’t like it. He especially didn’t like the way McHenry had gone all wide-eyed and breathless. And given what Rudy had told him last night, maybe it was only right he make at least one last attempt to persuade her of the danger here before he left.
Thus, just before lunch he called her into the office.
“I’m going into Tucson tomorrow,” he informed her. “Would you like to come with me? I could drop you off at your church. Or your mother’s house . . .”
She stared at him. “You know about my church?”
“It’s in your file.”
Distaste replaced her surprise. “Which you seem to have studied thoroughly. No, thank you, Doctor. I don’t have leave.”
He stared at her blankly, blindsided by the hostility of her rejection. Part of him knew he should nod and walk away. Instead he pressed her. “I could arrange leave for you.” He couldn’t, but it wouldn’t matter once they were gone.
She fixed her gaze on the chair at his side, then took a deep breath and looked up with obvious reluctance. “Dr. Reinhardt, I’m grateful you requested me as a team member, but I want to be very clear that the only thing you’re going to get from me in return is the very best work I can give on the project.”
And now, finally, it dawned on him how his invitation had sounded. His face burned furiously and for a moment words failed him. Then, “Your very best work is all I’d ever ask of you, Ms. McHenry. I merely thought you might . . . want to get away for a bit.”
“I have a morning tennis match,” she said. “After that, I’d like some time to myself.” She paused. “Frankly, given what happened last night and the way everyone is talking, I can’t believe you even asked me this.”
With that she turned and walked out, then kept going past her cubicle and on to the main hall. He stared after her—befuddled, embarrassed, frustrated, and wondering how he could have been so obtuse he’ d not once considered how any invitation to spend private time with him this weekend was going to come across.
Worse was the belated realization that every technician and postdoc in the place had been watching them—and watched him still. Face flaming, he returned to the work on his desk and resigned himself to getting a sandwich from one of the vending machines in the lab lounge. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Fifteen
New Eden
Zowan lay on the hard mattress of his railed infirmary bed and stared at the canopy of translucent plastic sheeting overhead. Stretching from a central fastening point, it draped over the four poles at each corner of his bed, then down on every side to isolate him from his caregivers, lest the toxins that had penetrated his body during the wind surge contaminate them, as well. The clear plastic tubing of an IV set snaked away from the needle in his left wrist and out through a well-sealed hole in the plastic, feeding fluids and nutrients into him as he lay there. Through the translucent sheeting, he saw the blurry shape of the fluid bag on its stanchion and the fuzzy lights of a monitor beside it. Those regular beeps must be timed to his heart—he felt the monitor’s electrodes stuck to his chest.
The plastic sheeting let in enough light to reveal the shadowy forms of infirmary personnel occasionally moving around his bed. A small clear plastic window in the tenting to his left allowed them to look in on him if they chose to, but so far, no one had.
He’ d been outside with the goats when a toxic wind had blown in, and he’d been taken to the infirmary for an immediate injection of anti-toxin medication, followed by an intensive decontamination regimen: they’d buzzed off his hair, washed his body with both chemicals and water, then blasted him with hot ionized air, and dressed him in a special neutralizing cotton tunic. By then his lungs and eyes had started to burn and his head was pounding.
They’d left him in the decontamination chamber, where Dr. Xavier and another man had questioned him through a window about his experiences in the ravine just before the wind had swooped in. Had he felt strange? Heard voices? Smelled or seen anything unusual? He’ d told them of the man on the hill above him right before the wind surged, and they pressed him for details, though he had precious few to give.
By then he was alternating between sweating and shaking as the toxins took effect, despite the medication they’d given him. When the vomiting had begun, the questioning stopped. Not long after that, the diarrhea struck, and thereafter he’ d grown increasingly weak and disoriented until all devolved into a miasma of watery blackness.
He’ d awakened lying on this narrow bed in this dim-lit pocket of plastic-tented privacy, wondering if it wasn’t the toxins but the antitoxin medication that was making him sick. He’ d felt fin
e before they’d given it to him, and it had burned fiercely going in. Within fifteen minutes he’ d noticed the burning in his eyes, then the headache, and finally the pain and constriction in his lungs. He’ d never actually seen anyone in the throes of untreated surface poisoning, the victims always administered anti-toxin medication and quarantine before the onset of symptoms.
He’ d never even seen one of the goats struck down with it, yet every time he was exposed, by the time he got out of quarantine, the entire flock had been slaughtered. Why not give them the anti-toxin meds too? Weren’t they supposed to be the hardier species?
Most disturbing of all was the fact that each of the three times he’d been exposed, he’ d felt just fine until they’d given him that shot that was supposed to make him better. The more he considered it, the more reasonable his theory became. And what had Gaias and his five Enforcer buddies been doing out there, anyway? They’d done nothing to help him or the goats. So far as he could recall, they’d simply disappeared.
And why send six Enforcers to rescue Zowan and the goats, anyway? Usually they sent no one, the Klaxons alone enough to get everyone inside. Of course, usually the Klaxons sounded at the first indication from outlying sensors that a surge was on the way. This time, the wind had practically been upon them when the alarms had sounded. Why was that? Had the sensors malfunctioned?
The questions and attempted rationales tumbled through his mind until they snarled into oblivion and he closed his eyes, too weary to hold on to his train of thought. His head still hurt, though far less than it had, and his lungs ached dully. He wondered if this time the toxins might have finally done some long-term damage as the safety manuals warned—damage to his lungs, skin, or eyes; loss of his teeth; the development of a fatal—or merely grotesque—mutation. What if even now the beginnings of a third eye bulged from his forehead? The notion terrified him. When he finally forced himself to lift exploratory fingers to his brow and found nothing, he relaxed, realizing that was a crazy thought. Toxins didn’t produce the eye. The Breath of the Father did.
Some time later the face of Dr. Xavier appeared in the clear plastic window. He had big rabbit teeth, sunken cheeks, bushy brows, and a thatch of strawlike blond hair sprouting from the top of his head. “Ah, you’ve awakened.” His rubbery visage vanished as he checked the fluid bag on its stanchion, then reappeared. “How do you feel?”
“Worse by far than when I came in here.”
Dr. Xavier snorted. “You’re lucky to be alive, young man. The toxin levels outside were ten times the acceptable amount. External sensors registered the wind but not the toxins until it was right on us. You got a full blast. If you’d not been wearing your suit, you’d have died on the spot. If the Enforcers hadn’t gotten you out as fast as they did, you’d be dead now.”
But the Enforcers hadn’t gotten him out. . . . “Where are those Enforcers, anyway?” Zowan asked. “Did they all make it back in?”
Xavier frowned. “Of course.”
“You aren’t treating them?”
Xavier didn’t answer but stepped again out of Zowan’s view. He felt a tug at the IV in his arm. “What are you doing?” he asked, vaguely alarmed.
“Just releasing your next dose of anti-toxin medication.”
“No!” Zowan cried, recalling his suspicions about the medications. “I don’t want any more.”
Dr. Xavier’s face reappeared in the plastic window, brows arched in surprise. “Zowan, your toxin levels spiked to one hundred percent over the normal limit. . . .”
“I don’t want any more meds. They’re making me sick.”
Xavier’s bushy brows drew down into a frown and his thick lips tightened. “The toxin exposure is making you sick.”
“I wasn’t sick until you gave me the meds!” The strength of his voice in accusation startled even Zowan.
Xavier’s face cleared to blandness and his voice became soothing. “Why would you think such a thing, Zowan? I only want to help you. And you are not out of danger yet. Without these medications you will have no protection.”
“They’re making me sick—”
“It’s the poison affecting your brain.”
Zowan felt a burning run up his arm and into his shoulder. Fear electrified him, filling him with the certainty that they were going to kill him. He was the one who had spread the blasphemous thoughts to Andros, and they must have found out. Maybe they’d heard those conversations in the Star Garden. Now they would make him pay for his treacherous words and remove the cancer of doubt that was him from their midst.
With all his strength he sought to hurl himself upright. But he only got as far as his elbows, for his wrists were bound to the bed rails. So were his ankles.
He collapsed back on the mattress, aghast to realize tears were streaming from his eyes. He looked at Dr. Xavier. “Why are you doing this?”
Xavier regarded him sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Zowan. One of the side effects of your exposure is the paranoia. If you can’t manage it, we’ll have to sedate you.”
“No!” The fear came rushing back, and he strained anew at his bonds, shouting imprecations at Dr. Xavier, who stood in the window watching him with sad eyes—and then dissolved into a column of smoke that somehow seeped in around the sealed edges of Zowan’s IV tube, filling his small chamber with darkness. It pressed him into the bed, though he fought it with everything he had—gasping, choking under the weight of it, panicked at the notion it was trying to smother him. . . .
His thoughts scattered, remembering an afternoon in the Star Garden with Terra where he’ d wanted so badly to take her hand, and hadn’t, for fear of Gaias. The Star Garden was replaced by the grotto and the goats. Then a faint clicking. He turned to the rock wall and found the pale face of his bald brother staring at him through a little plastic window, the obscene third eye thankfully lidded.
“You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself climbing up that cliff,” Gaias said.
“What cliff?”
“The one I told you to come down from.” Gaias frowned at him. “You don’t recall?”
“It was just a steep slope. And I don’t recall you telling me to come down.”
“Why were you up there, anyway?”
“I saw someone. How did you get back into the Enclave?”
“Who did you see?”
Zowan turned his face away, annoyed. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t think you saw anyone. I think you’re lying. Trying to make trouble. Sow doubts. You’re a rebel at heart, Zowan. And you know what happens to rebels. . . .”
Zowan stared at the plastic sheeting overhead.
“A pity about Andros dying.”
The words wrenched Zowan’s head around. “What?!”
“The Cube killed him. He couldn’t handle the pressure. But he always was a weakling.”
“You’re lying! He’s not dead!”
“He is. And it’s all your fault.”
The plastic window filled with the smoke again, and Gaias vanished.
Andros dead? Yes, he’ d only been in the Cube once, but he was thin and weak and emotionally fragile. And the punishment had been near the highest intensity. It was possible. . . . Crushing grief surged through him, and he began to weep. Oh, Andros, why did you have to refuse to say that Affirmation? Guilt cut him alongside the grief. If only he’d kept his doubts to himself.
For some time he rode the heavy black-oil waves of mourning and self-recrimination. Then he began to wonder if Gaias had said those things just to make him hurt. He heard bells, men talking quietly, the Klaxon again . . . then a chime and the soft female voice alerting the New Edenites that the morning Affirmation would begin in half an hour. It must be Saturday morning. . . .
The sweet, haunting melody of the singing bowls and harps wrapped around him comfortingly. Then a choir burst into song: “He is Father, He who saved us. Raise your voices loud and strong; Raise your voices thanking Him. Raise your voices to Him. . . .” The God of the Genesis . .
. who had made everything and saw that it was good. Who’d promised that the seed of the woman would crush the seed of the serpent. Who’d destroyed the whole world with a flood of water. Raise your voices to Him. . . .
Smoke rose around him again. Successive melodies wheedled through his consciousness. He heard snatches of the Affirmation as it was offered.
Suddenly Andros’s voice intruded, pleading with him from a long way off, begging him to come and release him from the dark place they had put him in. “It’s your fault I’m in this place, Zowan. You owe it to me. You’ve got to come and let me out.”
Zowan puzzled over the words. Was Andros still in the Cube? How could Zowan let him out of that?
Zowan. Now a new voice spoke, different from the others. Quiet, even . . . but radiating authority and vast power.
Andros spoke again, frantically seeking to draw Zowan’s notice back to him, but the new voice had captured his attention, galvanizing everything within him in a way nothing else ever had. “Who are you?” he asked the voice.
I Am, was the answer. You must go from this enclave, Zowan, and from your people, and from your father’s rule to a land which I will show you. Zowan’s heart leapt as he recognized the words. They were almost the same as the words God had spoken to the man Abram in the last numbered section in Zowan’s portion of the Key Study pages he’d salvaged.
“You want me to leave the Enclave?” he asked the voice. “Go up to the surface?”
I Am did not answer, and Zowan feared that was all he would get, but he asked again anyway, “Who are you? Are you the Lord?”
I Am.
“I don’t know the way.”
Come out of the darkness, Zowan, and you will find what you seek.
The voice fell silent. Music drifted into its place, carrying Zowan along for a bit. He heard men talking in another room. . . .
The Enclave Page 16