Denaro's remains weren't going to be all that accessible. Wherever they were being kept was likely to be both highly secure, and cold enough to keep her parts from defrosting.
Thinking of Denaro reminded him of Jace, and he wondered how he was doing. He suppressed his concern with an effort. There'll be a lot more “Jaces” out there if I can't find her remains before they have the chance to use them.
Where to next? Somewhere to look busy, and to talk. That was the point of sending someone in—to access the information that was never networked; to get the story that maintenance records, security reports, and expenditure lists could only hint at. Occasionally, they could spare themselves the effort of physical infiltration by tapping into the security files of the central computer. Confirmation was often at the end of a security photo. With computer enhancement, anything was possible. The latest video equipment, with its three-sixty view, left little to the imagination.
Except for the details they didn't want on record, which were frequently the juiciest. Within his first fifteen minutes on the site Simon had discovered that most of the labs weren't monitored. Whatever was going on in there wasn't “for the record". He suspected that most of the information he needed wasn't going on the network, either. Nothing would go on the mainframe that could incriminate later. It was a damn sight easier to record results on portables, or personal computers without a permanent on-line connection. That also cut the chances of someone hacking in for the information.
One of the problems with his occupation was that it called for someone with perspicacity, who could piece together the truth, or ferret it out from where someone had hidden it away. Who could jump to logical conclusions, yet keep his head if confronted. Who could read people, then arrange to be misread in turn. In situations like this one, that left him about seven-eighths short of finding out what he needed to know. Simon would have traded all his slyness right now for one-tenth of Rick's expertise.
The majority of the DSO's undercover operations functioned on the basis that most people in the mid-income level of society were essentially the same. Work-related frustrations, petty jealousies, romantic triangles. Despite the venue or occupation, most companies had their share of intrigue, and anger was frequently the result. That anger could be exploited for information. Sometimes the way Simon used people—exploited them—really bothered him. He felt he had to constantly justify his methods—to himself.
He'd talked to Rick about it once. No specifics—just a general complaint about how your work could get to you. About how other people's problems could drag you down. Rick had quoted something he'd read in a book—trust Rick and his near-photographic memory—"Dig out enough dirt, and you're bound to get some under your nails.” Rick had smiled then, and added, “But if they didn't have you to listen to their problems, who would they complain to?” Simon had felt a lot better after that. At least, by talking to him, his informants were guaranteed some kind of action. It might not be exactly what they'd anticipated, but at least they got results.
What he needed right now was technical advice. To figure out what the equipment was in order to draw conclusions. Someone like Rick to tell him what stuff was used for. It would have simplified things enormously. Simon settled for clandestine photos—and hoped that he was photographing the right things.
The only way to find out more was to talk to someone. He grabbed a cart and filled it with Erlenmeyer flasks from a nearby cupboard. Then, humming off-key, he followed another tech down to the glassware washroom.
* * * *
“I need to see him.”
“Rick,” Sheryl said gently, one hand on his arm, “it won't do any good. I don't think he'll even know you're there.”
“He'll know.” Sheryl could tell from the way the monitor was acting that Rick was beginning to get upset.
“What's going on?” a voice asked behind her.
She smiled at Rick reassuringly, then twisted to meet the other men's eyes. “Rick wants to see Jace.”
Berhoeven, who'd entered with Hylton, looked surprised. He shook his head. “He's not going anywhere for another twenty-four hours, at least.”
“You don't know how well I heal, Doctor,” Rick told him firmly.
Rutgers walked in on the last. “And you don't realise how well you're not healing this time.” He came over to the bed. “What happens when you hit a plant with poison?”
Rick frowned. “It all depends.”
“An evasive answer, if I ever heard one.” Rutgers grinned. “You can't super-heal and run your way out of this one, Lockmann. We've got you down for the duration.”
Hylton saw the expression on Rick's face. “Would it do him any harm to be wheeled down to Stratton's room?”
“It wouldn't do him any good,” Andy Berhoeven answered astringently. He couldn't believe anyone was even considering such a thing. His own lack of sleep and the blatant stupidity of these people was beginning to work on him. “Are you out of your minds? The man's been out of surgery for less than five hours.”
Phillip Rutgers winked at Rick. “Take a look at this, Berhoeven.” He snipped at the bandages covering the front of Rick's chest, and pulled them back.
Berhoeven, his movements jerky with anger, peered over the other man's shoulder. “What the hell?!” he whispered in disbelief. It could have been five days since surgery instead of five hours.
Rick grinned, but there was an edge to it. “I told you I heal fast,” he said.
“It's not the injury I'm worried about,” Phillip explained to Andy. “It's the metal residues in his system.” His eyes met Rick's. “Tell me the truth, Rick: you're still not feeling up to par, are you?”
“I feel great. More than ready to walk down the hall, if I have to.” Rick frowned, as his eyes sought Steven Hylton's. “If you want my co-operation, Steven, then it has to work two ways. I'm already responsible for one man's death,” he said, referring to Rickardson, “and if there's anything I can do to help Jace you've got to let me do it.” His hand clenched in a fist. “Don't you see?” he asked miserably. “It's my fault! Jace is sick because of me!”
“Calm down, Rick,” Phillip warned. Sheryl was looking in alarm at the monitors.
Steven Hylton held Rick's eyes for a moment longer. A dozen things were going through his head: the risk Simon Kerrington was presently taking, the likelihood of Stratton's death, the mistakes he'd made in guarding this man, his own surprising reaction to Lockmann's illness. Life had been a lot easier when his conscience had been a little quieter. He glanced at the other people in the room, and caught the looks on Jamaal's and Johnson's faces. There was something there—something remarkably like compassion. Richard Lockmann may have been the one to contract that wretched plant virus, and the genetic changes that went with it, but there was something about it that had infected them all. Steven had to admit: if he'd had a chance to farewell Rickardson, the way Lockmann wanted to farewell Stratton, he would have taken it.
“Let him go,” Steven said. All eyes looked at him in surprise—especially Jamaal's, and Johnson's, who were stationed on the inner door. Steven, slightly embarrassed, gave a wry grin. “Just don't let him die while he's doing it.”
“This is ridiculous! You can't let—”
Hylton interrupted. “With all due respect, Doctor—shut up.” He nodded to Rick, and quickly left the room.
Johnson whispered to Jamaal, “I don't believe it!”
“No kidding!” Jamaal replied. “The weirdest thing is it took a mutant to help Hylton figure out how to be human.”
Johnson sniggered and leaned back against the door.
* * * *
Rick gripped Jason's hand and watched helplessly as his friend writhed on the pillow. He remembered what it'd been like: all the painkillers in the world hadn't been able to counter that agony of having your skin stretched by the tumour growth. And, Rick thought, his expression growing bleak, mine was mostly in my chest. Jace's is in his head.
He remembered Jason's concern w
hen he'd been ill, and the way he'd tried to rescue him, even though he'd obviously been scared to death. The way Jace had stuck with him, even when Denaro had been lying less than a metre away. The way Jason had transfused the blood into Denaro's distorted form, even though Rick had no longer been conscious enough to insist on it. Damn it, Jason! Rick cried silently. Why you?
I survived this. There was a chance Jace would, too. But how would it leave him? Would he have motor control? Memory? How much brain damage would it cause?
But, Jace wasn't going to make it. Rick could see it in his face—feel it in the fevered hand that lay limp in his. Rick's vision picked up the odd colour to his complexion—the colour that was synonymous with morbidity. Rick had spent so much time in the hospital since his mutation, that he'd come to recognise the look in others.
Why did I live? Rick forced himself to think objectively; to try to discern the factors that had given his body the advantage over the virus. He kept coming back to the mutation: to the meristematic genes that Denaro had given him. He was certain it was those—rather than the photosynthetic ones—that had given him the edge. His photosynthetic genes had delivered the strength to put the others to work. And the virus had done the delivery work.
Rutgers survived. Rick was sure that was timing, more than anything. Phillip had received the antiserum almost immediately. He'd succumbed, but it had been a light case, and he'd recovered rapidly. Not like Jace at all. Jace's immune system had fought the stuff for a month. Then, when the virus was at a high titre, and all the fight had gone out of him, he'd succumbed. We should have given him the antiserum at the beginning.
But they hadn't known whether it was safe. And they didn't want to risk infecting anyone unnecessarily.
Besides, I didn't know what close exposure Jason had to me—at a time when nobody knew I was a vector.
It wasn't until he realised Jason was seriously ill, that Rick had put the entire thing together. Hell, I wouldn't even have done that if Cole hadn't told me about what Jace did for me. How he tried to resuscitate me. Rick's lips creased in a small smile. So I could be sufficiently grateful.
I'm grateful, Jace. Afterwards, he didn't know whether he'd said the words aloud. All he knew was that Denis Rodrigal looked at him strangely.
“Are you okay, Rick?” he asked.
Rick nodded. “Could I have a few minutes alone with him?”
Rodrigal glanced at Rick's IV, and then his expression.
“There're some things I've got to tell him,” Rick insisted.
Rodrigal stuck the bell into Rick's hand. “If you feel weak or weird or anything at all, push it,” he ordered. “I'll be right outside.”
Rick nodded. He looked down at Jace again, and unconsciously sucked in his breath in a gasp. It was a mistake. He went into paroxysms of pain and shallow coughing. It took him a while to get control.
Rodrigal looked in, and saw tears streaming down Rick's face. Fortunately, from Rick's point of view, he misinterpreted the cause. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Rick managed. “A few minutes more?”
Jason's dying. There was no point in denying it. That would be a waste of time.
I need to do something to change it. Jason needed an edge—something that could bring him through this. Something like an extra boost of healing genes.
The moment he thought it, Rick felt like he'd delved into something dirty or evil. Like he was Denaro in disguise.
Jason doesn't want to be mutated. It had been one of his first questions—the one that had scared him. He didn't want to be changed. He was afraid of Denaro, and what she'd become.
But, it doesn't have to be like that. Rick knew Jason would be the first to commend gene therapy in curing genetic diseases. I'm not talking photosynthesis here, Jace, Rick thought, as he looked down at him. There were four vials. Rick had a nearly photographic memory when it came to things he'd read, but he'd scanned Denaro's notes so rapidly that he hadn't taken it all in. What he had taken in, was that some of her experiments had worked.
Jace would never agree to it.
To save his life? Rick looked at him closely. There was only one way to find out. Rick shook him roughly, to try to penetrate the pain—and drug-induced haze in which they'd left him. At least, this way—with all the drugs they've given him—maybe he'll give me an honest answer. The only way to know—and to find out where Denaro's research and samples had gone—was to ask.
* * * *
“He hasn't been moved—he's been shot.”
“Dead?” Chesner asked worriedly. It might be easier to abduct his corpse, but alive, he was worth a lot more.
“Not yet. And his doctor friend—” he looked down at his notes, “—Jason Stratton, is isolated upstairs. Nobody'll say why.”
“The virus?”
Samuelson shrugged. “Whatever it is, he isn't expected to live.”
Chesner ran his fingers through his hair. “Get someone into the hospital, and keep him there until we find out more about Lockmann.” He fidgeted with his pencil, and Samuelson knew he was nervous. “They'll lock him up so tightly now, that we'll never get our hands on him.”
* * * *
“Jace?” The sound was little more than a whisper, but it sounded loud in Jason's head. He had the impression of an echo, as though someone had been calling him repeatedly.
“Rick?” he ventured. His memory wasn't working very well right now, but he was sure he had the right name to the voice. He tried to force open his eyes.
“Jace!” Rick glanced at the doorway, and back to his friend's face. “Where's Denaro's stuff? From my house?”
For a moment, Rick thought he'd drifted away again, but then Jason's eyes focused. “Why?”
“The healing sequences might help you, Jace.”
Jace started to shake his head, then stopped, as the pain hit him. “No—”
“I don't want you to die,” Rick told him. He knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he didn't have the time for anything else. In the next five minutes, either Jace was going to pass out—or I will, he thought, as he felt a fogginess descending on his vision—or Rodrigal will be in here to take me away.
“Dying?”
Rick gripped his hand. “I won't do it unless I need to, Jace. Unless there's no other way.”
“But Denaro—”
“No,” Rick assured him. “I won't give you that one. Just the healing ones. I promise.”
Jason saw the earnestness in his expression. “I believe you, Dr. Dung,” he said.
“Where are they?”
“Sterner's house. Simon says,” Jace continued, with the whisper of a smile, “safest place.” He hesitated. “What'll you do?”
Rick sighed, as he thought of the task lying ahead of him. “Steal it,” he replied. “And get it to you somehow.”
He was glad Jason couldn't see very clearly, or he would have known something was wrong. Jace must have sensed something, because he asked, “Everything okay, Rick?”
“Never been better, Jace,” Rick said. “Never been better.” He moved over to a window, and quickly undid the latch. He scared himself when he almost didn't make it back to his chair. He gripped Jason's hand a final time, then depressed the call bell. He suddenly realised that if he didn't, Rodrigal was going to find him on the floor.
“Rick,” a voice said quietly in his ear, but he was feeling so exhausted he could only nod. He felt, rather than saw, the movement as they took him back to his room.
* * * *
Rick didn't remember falling asleep. He'd already decided that as soon as he got back to his room, he'd take off. By the time he pulled his watch out of the drawer, he found he'd lost five hours.
Sheryl Matthews came in with the first rays of sunshine. “How are you, Rick?” It surprised him to realise that his answer mattered. She was actually smiling at him. It said something for his state of mind that he thought he'd dreamed her attitude of the night before.
But he didn't think he'd dreamed anything el
se. He felt both angry and guilty for the loss of those precious hours—the ones that might spell life or death for Jace. In his concern, he ignored her question and asked one of his own. “How's Jace?”
She fidgeted with the machinery for a moment, and he knew she was wondering whether to tell him the truth. He held his breath while he waited for her answer. In fact, he held it so long that her eyes flicked rapidly to his face to see whether he was all right. Even after all these weeks as his doctor, she was accustomed to patients who breathed regularly.
“He's in a coma, Rick. I'm sorry.”
“What are his chances?”
She couldn't answer. He felt like a fool for asking. After all, she'd worked closely with Jason as his supervisor, and they'd established a kind of rough friendship. “Not good,” she managed to choke out. “Excuse me.” She quickly exited, but not before Rick had noticed the puffiness around her eyes.
She's sure Jace is going to die. It's just a matter of time.
Rick decided to wait until Rutgers came in to examine him. That was the moment when his bodyguards on the door always stepped outside. It must also have been their time for break, because he'd noticed the night before that they came in smelling like coffee and cigarettes.
Rick squirmed with guilt, overladen with impatience and nerves. The last thing he wanted to do was get any of Hylton's operatives in trouble with their boss. As he waited for Phillip to wash up, he scrawled an explanatory note on a scrap of paper.
The thing that bothered him the most was his weakness. It might interfere with what needed doing. And Jace couldn't spare the time for anything to interfere. I have to sneak out of here, Rick worried, and sneak back in through Jason's room. How the hell am I going to do that?
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 13