by Anne Renwick
“Agreed. Though it’s not moving in a manner consistent with flagellated organic-walled plankton. However, the color is suggestive of blue scintillans, similar to those I’ve observed in dinoflagellates. Therefore, we’ll start with an application of Cyprus Metal Acetate. It’s quickly applied and might purchase us some time.” Dr. Grant passed Alec two gas masks. “One for you, one for her.”
“How can I help?” Alec asked, his voice reverberating inside the mask.
Dr. Grant selected a paper packet from the drawer. He tore the paper and dumped the contents into a shallow bowl, added three centiliters of solvent and stirred. He handed Alec the resultant paste and a flat wooden stick. “Apply this to the wound and affected skin one inch past the margin of streaks.” His voice was muffled from the heavy rubber mask. “The mixture should slow lamellipodial protrusion. Do not touch her skin with your bare hands again. I’ll prepare a skin biopsy for the aetheroscope.”
Neither the sharp bite of a scalpel nor the cold wet paste caused Isa to stir. And when Dr. Grant beckoned him to the aetheroscope, his heart plunged into his stomach.
“I’ve never seen the like,” Dr. Grant said, shoving his stool back so that Alec might peer through the eyepiece. “It appears to be a kind of chimera, sharing features of both marine ameboid trophozoites and fluorescent organic-walled plankton.”
The aetheric gas permeating the chamber ought to have killed the tiny creeping amoebae, but somehow those in the sample survived, meandering across the microscope slide, glowing a faint bioluminescent blue.
Swearing, Alec dragged a hand through his hair. Those bloody hyena fish. Another hybrid organism. Everywhere he turned, chimeras. Somewhere a most bizarre marine laboratory existed and within it was an extremely prolific mad scientist. He intended to locate both and put an end to these malicious creations.
The moment Isa was cured. He glanced at her face and ran a jerky hand through his hair.
The doctor scratched his head. “What confuses me is that the amoebas infected her at all. Both such species are free-living. Neither of them infectious, not to humans.”
Finn. Not selkie, she’d said. Was it possible? Was Isa not completely human? And what could that possibly mean? Not that he’d be getting answers to any such questions if she died. “Would salt of propamidine with isethionic acid kill them?” he asked.
“Perhaps.” Dr. Grant tapped his chin. “Is there any chance of locating ipecacuanha? It’s a drug made from the dried root of Cephaelis ipecacuanha, originating from the tropical forests of Brazil. A pharmacobotonist by the name of Tredegar published something about using the alkaloid to cure amoebic dysentery.”
“If it’s in this building, I’ll find it.” Even if it meant digging into the forgotten corners of every single storage closet, cabinet and cupboard. He stood, and his knee popped. Audibly. Dr. Grant’s eyebrows lifted. But Alec waved it away. “It’s nothing.” But it wasn’t. Something inside the joint had again been knocked ajar. If Dr. Morgan learned he had fast-roped from a dirigible into the ocean, he would probably wish to see him spitted and roasted over hot coals. “I’ll be back within the hour.”
Teeth clenched against the pain, Alec burst from the Fifth Ward into the tunnel and came to an abrupt halt. Arms crossed and a foul look upon his face, Logan leaned against the door that led to the research wing, blocking his exit.
“What the hell have you done?” Logan growled. “Going over my head. Involving the BURR team. Not to mention the bevy of birds hovering above my various lodgings. The arrival of one particular skeet pigeon nearly compromised a mission in progress.”
When did his brother not have a mission in progress? Alec rolled his eyes. “A new lead arose, I followed it.”
Logan slapped a handful of punch cards against Alec’s stomach. “Here. All labeled by Lady Rathsburn to the best of her ability.”
“Finally.” He pocketed them. “I need you to locate and secure the anatomical evidence we retrieved from the mission. See it carefully stored on ice until I can examine it.” He paused. “And find out everything you can about Commodore Drummond.” Potential friend or foe?
The answers might provide enough information to formulate a strategy for approaching Isa’s uncle. She might dislike him, but perhaps they could meet, face to face, and set aside their differences so that they might work together rather than at cross purposes. Given Commodore Drummond’s actions and because he far outranked him, Alec would proceed with caution, making it clear he respected the man’s wish to conceal his relationship to the Finn community.
“I’ll make it my very next order of business,” Logan said. “But no more working outside the boundaries I have set. Do you have any idea of the political ramifications your actions have caused?”
“No. And at the moment, I don’t particularly care. Now step aside. I’ve not the time for a political debate.”
He shoved past his brother. Newly published, ipecacuanha was an obscure drug that might not yet have attracted the attention of an Institute scientist. With luck, it would still be in specimen storage facilities.
Logan followed, spouting nonsense about security preparations for the upcoming Icelandic-Danish wedding and how Alec had forced him to excuse himself from planning procedures. When he began to spout the names of politicians, Alec let his brother’s voice fade into the background like the buzz of an annoying insect one could never quite manage to swat. Logan loved his snarled web of intrigue.
Limping, he threw open a door and turned a corner. Holding tight to a railing, he made his way down three flights of stairs into the bowels of the Institute. Right, then left, then down a hall.
“You need to have that knee looked at,” Logan snapped. “You’re a fool to push yourself so hard after such an injury. None of us will ever measure up to Quinn, and Father isn’t even around to take note if we did. It’s long past time you stopped trying to prove you’re as skillful and as brilliant as he.”
“I’m aware, and I’m not trying to prove anything.” Alec had dropped that burden from his shoulders long ago. He stopped before a plain door—marked with only the number 549 painted upon it—and dialed in the entrance code. The lock clicked open, and he pushed, stepping inside a vast, dark chamber.
Upon the wall to the right was a switch. He flipped it, releasing the catch on a tightly wound spring and setting the lighting mechanism into motion. Overhead, long glass tubes began to rock gently, slowly stirring the bioluminescent bacteria within to life and casting a faint blue-white light throughout the chamber.
Rows and rows and rows of metal shelving filled the space, all of them stacked with a variety of items. At the front of the room were boxes and bottles and paper packets—supplies of commonly used drugs and reagents—and commonly used medical supplies. Further back, outdated equipment. And in the dark shadows, obscure specimens of all kinds lurked in bottles, bags and boxes, each sent to the Institute in hopes of precipitating medical breakthrough. Some sat forgotten. Others awaited discovery. Or funding.
“Why are we in here?” Logan demanded. “Does this have something to do with the civilian woman you returned with from your unauthorized mission?”
“I had the Duke of Avesbury’s approval.” Pulling a decilamp from his pocket, Alec began by raiding the drug supplies, pocketing a vial of isethionic acid and one of propamidine.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother vibrate with anger as he followed. “You gave the duke the impression that I approved. Do you have any idea how many Naval officers would like to see me keelhauled? Don’t you ever dare go over my head again.”
“Don’t ignore me and I won’t need to.” Stalking deeper into the room, he scanned hastily scrawled labels tied to paper-wrapped packages. There. Cephaelis ipecacuanha, contributed by one Mr. Evan Tredegar. He pulled the parcel from the shelf and tugged loose the twine that bound it. One dry and shriveled root. It needed to be processed, but finding it gave him hope. He closed his eyes a moment in gratitude, h
oping the strange plant would enact a miracle.
Time to return to Isa. With luck the disinfectant and antimicrobial paste had slowed the advance of amoebae. Tucking the packet in his pocket, he pivoted.
And nearly toppled to the floor. A grunt of plain slid past his lips, but he managed to bite down on the foul words that threatened.
“Alec,” his brother muttered in a dire tone.
“Later.” He made his way back to the stairs and hauled himself up, one painful step at a time, returning to the Fifth Ward. “I’ve a critical medical emergency on my hands involving an unheard of, lab-created, parasitic amoeba. The woman infected is rather important to me.” That gave him pause, but now was not the time to examine his growing affection. “To our case.”
“She must be, to risk your knee in such a manner.” Logan tipped his head, a light sparking in his eyes. “Important to you how, exactly?”
He slid his eyes sideways as he pushed open the door. “Not your concern.”
“He’s back!” a nurse called.
The entire room froze as Dr. Grant rushed forward, eyes wild, gas mask shoved onto the top of his head, hair sticking out in all directions. “They took her.”
“What!” He’d been gone all of fifteen minutes. “Who took her and where? She needs to be kept in strict isolation. She needs treatment.”
“I’m so sorry,” a nurse said, placing a hand on his arm. “We couldn’t stop them.”
“Masked men in canvas overalls stormed the room and refused to identify themselves.” Dr. Grant swallowed hard. “One pointed a weapon at me while the others rolled your woman onto a canvas stretcher. The handles were wooden.”
Canvas and wood, easily burned. The perfect way to contain infectious disease, once a patient had—
“Alive?” His heart thrashed wildly inside his rib cage.
Dr. Grant nodded, but his eyes predicted a grim future, for no place was better equipped to handle such a patient than the Fifth Ward.
Alec pinned his brother with a stare. “We need to find her. Now.”
Chapter Seventeen
COLD. SO VERY COLD. Isa woke up shivering, her arms tied over her head.
She pried open her sticky, swollen eyes. But even with them open, her field of vision was dark and hazy. She couldn’t open her mouth and the air smelled faintly of rubber. An oxygen mask? The faintest memory of Alec carrying her against his chest surfaced. Never before had she felt so sick. Even now the bites to her legs throbbed. Had they become infected? Was she in a hospital?
Consciousness trickled back. This was no bed. Water lapped at her face, and her wrists were bound together. Somehow she was suspended, half-floating, in water. Something was terribly wrong.
Fighting a rising nausea, she pressed her face against her bare arm. A tube sprouted from the inside of her arm, the insertion painful and both covered and secured by a tight bandage. A saline drip? From the mask covering her mouth and nose, a hose extended, providing a source of oxygen. And goggles covered her eyes, most likely to protect them from the water. But why the smoky and distorting obfuscation lenses?
Heart racing, she yanked on whatever bound her wrists—and found them tied to the edge of… what? She kicked, her bare foot connecting with a smooth surface. She listened to what she could not quite see. Ripples of water sloshed against a wall some two feet away.
A tank? She was immersed—naked—in a tank of ice-cold water? Had she been so febrile, so feverish they’d needed to take such extreme measures to lower her core body temperature? How much time had passed? Hours? Days?
Isa kicked again, thrusting herself upward in an attempt to reach her face, to rip free the mask and call for help, but she couldn’t curl her fingers beneath the edge of the mask.
There was a scratchy sound of something sliding over the rim of a tin bucket, then a series of tiny splashes—sand or salt—as it hit the water’s surface.
Did they think her unconscious? Is that why no one addressed her, made an attempt to speak to her? She cried for help, but her chin was strapped tight, preventing her from opening her mouth, the sound that emerged more the squeal of a wild animal than a distressed woman.
“She’s awake!” a boy’s voice called from above.
At last. Trembling—from cold, fear and the unknown—Isa tipped her face upward toward the child, squinting through the smoky glass. A pale, unfocused oval bent over her.
Stiff leather soles tapped across the floor, approaching her. “So she is.” An unfamiliar man’s voice, one that seemed to come from beside the tank. His voice held no sympathy. No acknowledgment. Nothing but cold indifference. “A point that is relevant only in that it indicates she’s still alive. Add all the salt as instructed. The hydrometer indicates the salt water density is only halfway to the prescribed levels.”
Fear skittered down her spine, and her breaths grew shallow. From Alec’s careful care to a cold, dark tank of water. The man she’d become acquainted with wouldn’t have abandoned her to such a fate. Had something happened to him? What had gone wrong?
“Yes, sir,” the boy answered deferentially. More salt splashed into her tank.
Struck with an overwhelming need to know who held her captive, Isa submerged as far as the bindings on her wrists allowed, opening her eyes wide. Between the goggles and the thick glass that comprised the water tank, she could only make out a pale oval of a face, a vague form garbed in a white coat.
Isa kicked back to the surface with all her might, yanking on her wrists, gaining enough thrust to glance over the tank’s edge. But again the lenses of the goggles made it impossible. She sank back into the water and kicked the tank wall.
“Stop struggling!” the man barked. “You’ll dislodge the breathing apparatus. Or your goggles. Even a Finn can drown. Besides, the salinity is being raised to twice that of sea water. I assure you, even your eyes will burn.”
Isa froze. Finn. The man knew she was Finn. With her jaw strapped in place, she couldn’t even ask the most basic of questions.
“I’m trying to help you,” he continued, his voice harsh with annoyance. “You are infected with a particularly nasty protozoa, the caeruleus amoeba. The only other Finn to try escaping after the bite of our hyena fish died within hours. You, we might be able to save.”
The bites were infected? It would explain her fever, if not the callous treatment. Where was Alec? She tried to scream, but only a muted whimper reverberated through the mask.
“You have every reason to worry, Mrs. McQuiston.” He knows my name. There wasn’t enough oxygen flowing through the tube for her brain to process the implications. “You are quite the experimental patient. But I assure you, I have every intention of curing you. This time.”
Isa twisted about, willing her eyes to focus through the distorting lenses. There were more Finn? Here? In other tanks?
The man sighed, his voice heavy with irritation. “I’m told you are a healer with considerable medical experience. If you’ll calm down, I’ll explain.”
Gulping deep breaths of air, Isa held still. But she was anything but calm. Terrified and, with each passing second, more and more furious.
“This procedure is the only hope of curing your infection,” the man continued. “Extremely cold temperatures slow the amoeba’s advance. Extremely high salinity will kill it. Eventually. But perhaps not before eating a good portion of your leg. The tube inserted into your arm is not just supplying you with much needed hydration, it’s raising your internal sodium chloride levels to the edge of that compatible with life. As the drip progresses, you can expect to feel thirsty, weak and fatigued. Your heart rate will increase. Along with life-saving saline, you are also being administered a drug, the specifics of which are proprietary.”
There was a loud thud and a slosh, the sound of another heavily laden bucket landing upon the platform beside the tank. Isa snapped her head about, trying to make out the features of the new, third pale oval to peer at the curiosity
in the tank.
“My lord.” A woman spoke for the first time, her voice cautious and deferential. “You might wish to step away. It’s time to release the corpse fish.”
Corpse fish? Isa’s heart rate spiked.
“One at time,” the man instructed her. “Thomas, sit beside the tank. Fish them out with the net every fifteen minutes. The salinity is too high for them to last any longer.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “See? I have the net ready.”
“No!” Isa screamed into the mask. “Please, stop!”
“Maggots of the sea, Mrs. McQuiston,” the man said. “The fish are our assistants, here only to remove the dead flesh from your leg, to allow the saline to better reach the phagocytic amoeba which managed quite a lot of damage before you arrived at my facility. They will nibble upon your legs. Provided you float motionless. Kick them, and they’ll shy away, leaving necrotic tissue to accumulate. Live or die, the choice is yours.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked furiously behind the mask. Though she refused to believe that she was under the care of a physician at the Glaister Institute, neither could she discount the man’s words. As he spoke, the painful itching had crept its way up her legs.
Plop.
When the first soft nibble touched her flesh, Isa held still.
~~~
Alec hunted for Isa until he collapsed, but not from pain or exhaustion. Shaw had stabbed him in the back. With a tranquilizer syringe. “Traitor,” he whispered as he sunk to the ground.
“It’s been five hours.” His friend had dogged Alec’s every step, helping to search every last inch of the Glaister Institute. “We’ve looked everywhere, spoken to everyone. She’s not here.” After ditching the armored vehicle, Shaw had returned, replacing Logan as chaperone while his brother attempted to locate Isa via more official channels.
“Not quitting,” Alec gurgled.
“You are for now.” Shaw groaned as he hefted Alec’s weight into a creaky, old wooden wheelchair. “I’ve been listening to that knee of yours grind for over four hours, watching you limp. Don’t pretend you didn’t hear that loud crunch, the one that nearly threw you down a flight of stairs. That brace isn’t helping. If we don’t get you fixed, you might not walk again for weeks. How will that help your search?”