Tychus had once said that he didn’t want to be beholden to anyone or anything—up to and including women and addictive drugs. Jim just never saw the appeal.
Too, the recent encounters with sicko Daun had started to stir up memories they’d tried their best to forget. It had been a long time since either of them had thought about Lisa Cassidy, once known as “Doc.” Doc had been hooked on a substance called crab. The despised Vanderspool had played on her addiction in order to get her to betray not just Tychus, whom she had hooked up with, but also the rest of Heaven’s Devils. It had worked, too: eventually she had become a willing informant, with the lure of the drug to keep her going. In the end, Doc had died of a battle wound in front of Tychus, assuring him that her deception “wasn’t personal.” Both Tychus and Jim had known it wasn’t: there was nothing personal about what a highly addictive drug could do to you, nor the torment another human being could put you through when you desperately needed the stuff.
“What do you think it is?” Jim wondered aloud. With Doc in his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was crab. Almost at once, though, he dismissed the thought. Crab was once hard to come by, but these days it was becoming more and more common. No, whatever O’Banon was after, it had to be something out of the ordinary. Something rare, expensive, upscale—and probably more addictive than anything Jim had ever run across. That would be the only thing that would make it worth O’Banon’s while.
“Don’t know, don’t care, just want my payment. Get in, get the guy, get done in time to get drunk and poke a pretty girl.”
The words and images they conjured up were rough and tumble, crude, physical. Just what Jim needed so he could stop thinking about Doc—and, even closer to his heart, about Shiloh, and his mother, and that damned holovid.
“I like this plan,” Jim said.
Halcyon was a fringe world that, right from its colonization, had opened its arms to corporate development, and probably half the big companies on Tarsonis and other worlds had branches here. It was a pleasant world: not quite nice enough to be a vacation destination but the sort of place where hardworking businessmen could be provided with fine facilities, earn excellent pay, and have decent places to raise the kids. The research and development branch of Besske-Vrain & Stalz Pharmaceutical Corporation looked like any other building on a fairly well-established fringe world. It was large and comfortably sprawling, with neatly manicured lawns and benches and fountains scattered here and there. The whole was encased in state-of-the-art security designed to be as unobtrusive as it was efficient. If you didn’t know where to look and what to look for, you would miss the cameras, the heat sensors, the motion detectors, and the approximately sixteen other devices being employed. Jim and Tychus would have needed a security systems expert if they had had to break in.
Fortunately, they did not have to do it the hard way. They had badges proclaiming their identities. Jim was now a high-ranking faculty member of the Tarsonis University, City of Tarsonis campus. Tychus was the point man for an organization called Physicians for Results Now. According to the literature, the organization wanted to cut through the red tape to get “results now” for patients who were in the latter stages of diseases. In other words, they advocated legalizing and distributing medications that perhaps hadn’t been tested enough to be proven safe.
“Yeah, I can see you pushing for results right now, damn it.” Jim laughed.
“Can’t see you as a doctor, though,” Tychus shot back.
Their clearance level was extremely high. It would permit them access to the laboratory, private offices, and, as a special bonus, the executive bathroom.
They were greeted in the cavernous lobby by a meticulously well-groomed, bright-eyed young man who introduced himself as Jason Richfield. He seemed a touch suspicious of Tychus—probably because of the man’s size and roughed-up appearance, even with a shower and haircut—but after checking out their clearance levels, he ushered them in graciously.
“I’ll let Dr. Forrest know you’re here,” he said. Jim and Tychus waited patiently while listening to generic, non-threatening music piped in from somewhere, their large frames nearly swallowed by comfortable upholstery, until said Dr. Forrest appeared.
“Gentlemen, welcome to the research and development branch of Besske-Vrain & Stalz,” Forrest said, smiling and extending a hand. He was in his later middle years, tanned, healthy-looking, and graying in a most distinguished manner. He had a firm handshake, soft, well-manicured hands, a crisp white coat, and a fine chin. Jim disliked him immediately. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe the handshake was too practiced, the voice too well modulated.
Or maybe it was because Forrest was going to come work for a man who’d pay him millions to get people hooked on something that would in all probability turn them into desperate slaves.
Jim knew it was not his place to pass judgment. But somehow everything had felt cleaner when he was robbing trains and stealing Confederate credits.
“Let me give you a tour of the lab area first, then we can break for lunch and attend the meeting at 1400,” he said. “You’ll like our cafeteria: our chef used to work for one of the top restaurants on Tarsonis. The food’s both delicious and nutritious—not a mean feat!”
Jim and Tychus smiled and nodded, following him down the marble-floored corridor as they went to the elevators. The two took their cue from the scientist and chatted about inanities while they were in the elevator. So calm and unruffled was Forrest that Jim was starting to wonder if there had been some kind of mix-up and they were with the wrong guy.
The chitchat continued until they approached the lab. Two out-of-shape, bored-looking security guards stood on either side of a massive metal door. Forrest gave them a pleasant smile and swiped his ID. Jim and Tychus did likewise, and then the guards gave the IDs a cursory inspection. All went smoothly.
“Welcome to the research and development branch of Besske-Vrain & Stalz,” one of the guards said mechanically as he keyed in a code. “Please follow all safety instructions given to you by the medical personnel inside the laboratory and enjoy your visit.” Something clicked and whirred, and the door slowly slid open.
The lab was enormous. There were long tables and individual workstations. State-of-the-art equipment sat next to mundane single-flame gas burners upon which glass beakers bubbled. Scientists, clad in white coats and wearing gloves and face masks, moved about with deliberate speed, doing something that was repetitive but clearly required concentration. The air was cool and moist, obviously strictly temperature regulated, and there was the faint hum of hardworking machinery.
“Please put these on, gentlemen,” Forrest said, handing them each a face mask. Tychus and Jim obliged. “Now … this is where all the fun is.” Forrest laughed. “I know that it certainly doesn’t look like much fun to nonscientists. It looks a bit arcane and perplexing.”
“Looks kinda boring more than anything, actually,” Tychus drawled from behind his mask. Jim glanced at him, trying to shoot him a warning. That was hardly the sort of thing a representative of a physicians’ organization that focused on medications would say. Tychus was not really cut out for this sort of thing, and Jim worried that his attitude might give them away before they’d gotten what they’d come for.
Forrest laughed easily. Listening to him made Jim dislike him even more.
“That too!” the doctor agreed. “But it’s very exciting, actually, even if the steps become a little bit rote. We’re searching for cures for all kinds of diseases here, as I’m certain you know.”
Like the cancer caused by Confederate rations? Jim thought. He had to actually physically clench his teeth to not say it.
“Doctors such as yourselves will be able to administer medications that will stop the progression of deadly diseases right in its tracks. You’ll be able to test for them before they’ve even begun to manifest, then begin preventative, lifelong treatment of your patients. These people you’re looking at are not merely scientists: the
y’re savers of lives. Heroes. They put in long hours simply because they want to do the right thing: help others.”
The speech was practiced, easy, and the scientists pouring things into beakers and jotting down notes gave halfhearted waves to the onlookers. Jim wanted to spit. These people weren’t here for altruistic purposes, not with the sort of pay they made. They were here for profit. Oh, the cures for diseases just might actually be discovered here, but not because the doctors were bleeding hearts who wanted to Do Good. It was because curing diseases—or, rather, developing medicines that people would need to take, preferably long-term—was highly profitable.
So was hooking people on drugs.
Jim and Tychus nodded politely. Forrest led them around to various stations, chatting away about what each chemical was, and what it did, and so on. The chrono moved to 1300, over halfway through Halcyon’s twenty-five-hour day, and while no loud siren blared, the reaction of the scientists was as uniform as if one had. They put down data logs, removed masks, traded lab coats for regular ones, and left for lunch. The last to leave—a woman who appeared to be in her thirties, with black hair and blue eyes—paused and looked uncertainly at Forrest.
“Run along, Madeleine,” Forrest said. “I’ll finish up here and take them out for lunch in a little bit. There are just a few more things I’d like to show our guests.”
Madeleine glanced over at Jim and Tychus. Tychus leered and Jim rolled his eyes. She turned back to Forrest and nodded.
“Of course, honey.” She removed her mask, tugged his down and kissed him, smiled at Jim and Tychus, and left.
“My wife,” Forrest explained. Jim stared at him as he and Tychus removed their own masks.
“She wasn’t part of the deal,” Tychus said. “We ain’t taking two people.”
“Of course you’re not,” Forrest said smoothly. He smiled. “I’m sure Mr. O’Banon can provide me with someone to assuage my grief at being forced to leave my darling bride. Now, we’ve got about fifteen minutes before I’m technically in violation of the rules. We’ve probably got about five more minutes after that; as I’m certain you’ve observed, enforcement is rather lax here. Watch the door.”
Jim was taken aback at the man’s callousness, but supposed that he should have expected it. After all, Forrest had cheerfully sold out to a notorious crime lord and intended to use his knowledge to help produce addictive drugs.
And I’ve sold out to a notorious crime lord to get a bounty hunter off my back, and now I’m helping this scum to become a billionaire, he thought. Who’s worse?
“I don’t need no girl-handed doctor telling me my job,” Tychus said. He seemed as irritated with Forrest as Jim was, but Jim wondered if it was for the same reasons.
Tychus went to the door to stand watch while Jim kept an eye on Forrest. The doctor quickly downloaded information from various sites, and then moved around the room, pocketing small items. At one point his sleeve fell back, and Jim saw what the small key that had been in their assignment packet was for. Fastened around the middle part of Forrest’s lower arm was a small box.
“The formula?”
“And an extremely pure sample of Utopia,” he said. “Hottest designer drug on the market. Everyone’s scrambling to replicate it, and so far they haven’t.”
Utopia. No wonder this guy was such a hot item. Addiction was usually swift and hard to break. Something about how the drug altered the brain. Utopia apparently gave one of the highest highs ever, with a mild crash and few side effects—initially, at least. After a few hits, the highs didn’t come as high. It took more and more of the drug to produce the same effect. In some cases, severe adverse reactions had occurred, with test subjects going into fatal convulsions. Jim didn’t know much more and didn’t want to.
“So you’re the guy who made this?”
“Indeed.” Forrest shot him a grin. “Started out as an attempt to make a really good painkiller.”
“Sounds like you succeeded,” Jim said. He was pretty sure he had managed to keep the contempt out of his voice.
“Ten minutes,” Tychus growled.
“Almost done.” A few more items went into sealed compartments in Forrest’s pockets.
“Now, I can’t help but wonder,” Tychus drawled, “why we need you if we got the formula and a sample.”
Forrest’s silver head whipped up, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. “Because the formula is missing something. Something that’s here.” He tapped his temple.
“My boss paid for you and the formula,” Tychus said, turning away from the door. He had his gun out now, and lifted it slowly. “You ain’t trying to cheat him, are you?”
“No,” Forrest said dryly. “I’m trying to make sure I survive being smuggled off this planet by hired thugs like you.”
Tychus clapped a hand to his chest. “Aw, now, Dr. Forrest, you done gone and hurt ol’ Tychus Findlay’s feelings.”
A small, elegant pistol appeared from nowhere in Forrest’s hand. “I’ll hurt something else if you don’t lower that weapon immediately.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Jim said. “Let’s all just get out of here, all right?”
It was then that the lights went out.
“What the hell?” Forrest’s voice was high with alarm. “Tell me this is part of the plan.”
“No, it ain’t,” said Jim. The lights had gone out, but there were still a few gas-lit burners going. He wondered why the doctors had left them on; probably they assumed that Forrest, as the last one to leave, would turn them off. The light was not enough to see much, but it was something. “Stay calm, Dr. Forrest. Do you have what you need?”
“Close enough.” The voice was shaking. Jim smirked in the darkness. Jerk was probably pissing his pants.
“Shouldn’t there be some emergency lights?” Jim asked. “I mean, this is a pretty significant and state-of-the-art research lab. Isn’t there backup in case of a power outage?”
“I—I don’t know,” stammered Forrest. “There’s never been a power outage. I think there should be, yes.”
“I don’t like this one damn bit,” said Tychus. “Let’s get out of here pronto.”
Forrest suddenly pushed past Tychus, trying and failing to open the door.
“Damn it,” muttered Forrest. He started banging on the door. “Hello? Guards! Help! The door won’t open!”
Unease was prickling at the back of Jim’s neck. Something wasn’t right.
And then he knew. “Tychus, get away from the—”
Tychus had apparently been thinking along the same lines, because the second Jim called his name, he turned and flung himself as far away from the door as possible.
The door exploded with a deafening sound. Dr. Forrest, who had been pounding on it, begging to be let out, didn’t stand a chance. His dismembered body and large chunks of hot, jagged metal flew into the room. Tychus and Jim dove for cover from the shattered glass as Forrest’s head and a piece of the door landed on one of the large tables. They got to their feet and trained their weapons on the doorway.
The shape of a man loomed there, blocking the exit. They fired repeatedly, seeming to fill the figure with bullets, but it still stood. A laugh filled the room, and as the smoke cleared, the two men recognized the tall figure.
Ezekiel Daun.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jim felt as if his muscles had turned to liquid as terror surged through him. At least two dozen bullets had gone right through the—
“Goddamned hologram!” Tychus bellowed. “Come on, Jimmy; let’s not let this rat bastard have playtime with us again.”
A hollow laugh filled the room, seeming to come from everywhere. “Well done, Mr. Findlay. Sharp eyes, squinty though they are.”
“Jimmy!” Tychus’s voice was sharp and brittle as glass. Jim knew his friend well enough to know that Findlay, too, was struggling against panic. “Get the stuff off of Forrest. Now!”
Having something specific to do helped Jim focus. He sprang in
to action, stymied only momentarily when he realized that Forrest was actually in several pieces, then spotted his torso lodged underneath a table. The small metal box was still attached to the right arm.
“Don’t go to pieces like your friend did,” came Daun’s mocking voice, “even though you are trapped like rats. Rather appropriate, as you’re about to die in a lab.”
“Ain’t about to die anywhere—not yet,” snarled Tychus. Jim was fumbling with the key, and when he dropped it and it clattered away into the darkness, he gave up and drew out a knife he always kept in his boot. Grunting, he began to hack at the limb.
“You know … Feek said the same thing,” mused Daun. “It was one of the last things he ever said. I found his voice irritating, so I cut out his tongue. He was still able to scream for some time after that. Do you want to know what it sounded like?”
Jim felt fresh sweat break out under his arms as he continued cutting through the dead arm. It was a grotesque endeavor, the brutality alleviated only by the fact that Forrest had been a despicable example of a human being. Jim was down to the bones now, trying to sever the hand from the wrist. His hands were warm and sticky, and the smell was turning his stomach. If Daun started playing the sounds of Feek’s screaming, Jim wasn’t sure if he could keep it together.
Another smell was assaulting his nostrils. Something was burning. He poked his head cautiously out from under the table and looked up to see that one of Forrest’s legs had fallen next to one of the gas burners: low flames were rippling along what remained of the fabric of his pants. And of course Daun had deactivated everything—including any automated fire prevention.
“Shit,” he muttered, ducking back under the table. He hadn’t gotten the box off Forrest’s arm yet, but with all the chemicals in here, he had to stop the fire. He tore off his suit jacket, backed out slowly from under the table, and began trying to slap out the flames.
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