“That’s wonderful news, Mr. Hunter. But you said there were serious implications. What did you mean by that?”
“You’ll just have to give me some trust on that one for now.” There was a glint in the eyes, and Kierkegaard decided not to insist.
“Would you be standing here now if Tamiko or Gage had performed well on the simulator?”
“No, sir. I guess I wouldn’t. It’s not pleasant to think that you’re losing your mind. I’m glad to know something else might be to blame. I also know that I’m the only one who has any chance of doing what has to be done in the time we have left. Even if I don’t know who this woman is, I can’t condemn her to death.”
Kierkegaard nodded thoughtfully. “I have come to know her. She’s a special person, Mr. Hunter. Worthy of some sacrifices, I think.”
The young man responded with a nod of his own.
“I’m sorry for. . . for all this,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He left the room, closing the door behind him. He had made his decision, but it brought him no comfort.
Once again he would immerse himself in the essence of another human being, but now he realized for the first time that his own psyche was also vulnerable. The mind of the mystery woman had shaken his own consciousness to the core.
# # #
Gerard Mannis wasn’t sleeping either. His computer alerted him to an incoming message, and as he read it, he wondered how the president would react. To the chief executive it would be shocking, but ultimately good news.
Mannis wasn’t so sure.
Had the submersible pilot really been determined to quit the project? Or had it been a risky ploy to prove that he wasn’t in league with their enemies? If so, the gamble had paid off. Who would question his actions now? If he was a traitor, who could possibly stop him? They would never know a thing until it was too late.
A long career of dark dealings had made it almost impossible for Mannis to accept anything at face value. Yet part of him wanted desperately to believe that Hunter was exactly what he seemed: a troubled but decent man.
He sat brooding for long minutes. Nothing came to him. After a time he simply sat up straight and began to tap quickly on the keyboard.
He had made his decision. He would trust Hunter.
If he was wrong. . . then God help them all.
33
The patient came back into range of their equipment moments before her plane touched down on the main runway at Langley. Hunter didn’t see her arrive—he was already suited up and waiting. Within minutes he was working to gently nudge Primus out of her parking space between cells. Signs of residue testified that some of the body’s cellular janitors had prodded at the ship as if it were undesirable trash left lying around by mistake.
Hunter had had a bad night, second-guessing himself in the lonely darkness, when it was far easier to believe he was simply going insane. Tamiko and Mallory noticed the pallor of his skin, but said nothing. Tamiko and Gage had been instructed to continue their practice sessions on the simulator when they could; but for now, Hunter was still the team’s only option.
Exhausted or not, their pilot would have to fly.
There had also been news from a tired but jubilant Lorelei Mallory.
She and her assistants had succeeded in identifying white blood cells “tagged” to attack bomb material. From a rough calculation of their total number in the patient’s body, she thought it was possible to extrapolate the number of bombs.
“Our best estimates put the number at between fifty and sixty,” she announced, looking for approval.
“Sixty bombs!” Gage’s shock expressed what the rest were thinking. “And we’ve found how many so far? Ten?”
Mallory was taken aback. She looked at Kierkegaard. “Well, we can run another test. Maybe our first estimate is high.”
“Your numbers are close to what I’d personally expected. It’s not your fault that we don’t like the facts we face. It only proves that we can’t let up. We have to keep going.” Kierkegaard looked at Hunter as he said it. They all knew the stamina of the Primus’ pilot would be put to the test.
In spite of the new urgency, or perhaps partly because of it, the first mission to the patient’s liver was a bust. Inferior as the computer-processed feed was, Hunter had no choice but to rely on it. He simply wasn’t able to relax enough for his special link to form, so he wasted valuable time navigating from the kidney through the lymphatic vessels into larger veins, and to the inferior vena cava. It was almost a relief to rocket along giant blood vessels after that demanding journey.
The liver was near the top of their risk assessment list, but it was terribly complex. Its tissues were nourished by blood from the hepatic artery, which branched off into the five main lobes of the liver, and then into each lobule, of which there were thousands. A blockage in any one of those places could cause serious tissue damage and shut down critical filtering of the blood supply.
There was also a second potential threat, equally dangerous. The blood to be filtered entered the organ via the portal vein. That blood was cleansed of its bile, which was then channeled off into the bile duct, and the clean blood was returned to the system by the hepatic veins. Blockages in that network might produce a backup of blood and bile that could ultimately be fatal.
Searching the entire organ would be a huge task, requiring dozens of trips through the labyrinth of tiny arteries, doubling back each time through smaller veins, then trying to cross back over to the arterial system through connections between adjacent blood vessels or through lymph channels before Primus could be dumped back into the larger venous system. Then the ship would have to make the round trip all the way to the heart and back to start the process over again.
After an hour of effort Hunter had found nothing and had to take a break.
The largest section of the hepatic artery was probably free of bombs anyway—it would be very difficult to block. The smaller blood vessels were full of floating obstacles and false targets, and so before long the endless procession of twisting tunnels began to blur together in his mind. He became afraid that he’d missed something in momentary lapses of concentration. Those seemed to happen more and more often, until he was nearly sure he’d dozed off. That was when he gave in. He had to rest.
He found a pot of coffee that had been sitting long enough to distill into a potent dose of caffeine. There were some day-old honey-glazed donuts sitting nearby, and he grabbed a couple. He couldn’t spare any time for a nap. If Mallory’s test was even close to being accurate, it could take weeks to eliminate all the bombs.
The enemy wouldn’t wait that long.
Somehow he had to put his fears aside and give in to the link. It was essential. With it, he found bombs; without it, he didn’t. But just knowing the solution didn’t make it happen.
When he went back to work after a half-hour break, the coffee-and-sugar infusion combined with his own anxiety to put his nerves on edge and he couldn’t relax. Unable to tap into the connectedness that had served him so well, he found nothing. The endless tunnels of the liver’s arteries were hypnotic in their monotony. Trying to find the bombs was like over-flying a petroleum complex to spot one particular round shape among all of the others.
After an hour-and-a-half he was forced to unplug again and eat some lunch. In desperation he lay down and closed his eyes for forty-five minutes, but it only upset his stomach and made him feel groggier than ever. The clock was running. He went back in.
His third attempt of the day was yet another failure.
Kierkegaard was in the room as Hunter wearily pulled off the helmet. The pilot anticipated the obvious question with a tired shake of his head.
“I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t know if anything is wrong. Maybe they didn’t plant any bombs in the liver. Or maybe I’m just not seeing them.” He waited a moment to gather his strength, then lifted himself out of the chair and peeled off the haptic suit. It was po
ssible that the enemy had passed over the liver, but none of them really believed that.
He had no choice but to take a longer rest. It was only late afternoon. He couldn’t focus on a book, so he sat in his room listening to Mozart. It was surprisingly soothing and re-energizing at the same time.
He took a long time over dinner. Bridges and Mallory sat with him, but no one said much. Once he’d stalled as long as he decently could over after-dinner coffee, he reluctantly stood and made his way to the mission room. He was still exhausted, and he knew it.
Paradoxically, it was his weariness that provided the breakthrough.
Back in Primus, still awash with fatigue, subconscious barriers began to break down, but so gradually that he didn’t notice it happening. Suddenly he became aware that he could see—really see. It startled him, and for a moment the increased perception threatened to vanish, but then a wave of warmth washed over him. It was the sense of belonging. . . connection. . . acceptance that he’d experienced before. A comfortable, secure feeling that was totally at odds with his anxiety.
He took a deep breath, and a ripple of relaxation spread outward through every muscle of his body. He adjusted his posture, renewed his grip on the controls, flipped the kill switch and watched the inner universe unfold its miracles before him.
His fears had been for nothing. His mind suffered no intrusions. Within a half-hour of mission time he hit pay dirt and made a kill.
# # #
Kierkegaard was waiting in the control room. His squeeze of Hunter’s arm in congratulations turned into a grip of support as the pilot nearly collapsed.
“I have. . . .” Hunter stopped to swallow and lubricate his throat. “I have to go back. Back to where we searched this morning. Search all over again. Redo the missions.” The effort to talk left him breathless. As he paused to gulp some air, he saw the look of consternation on Kierkegaard’s face and held up a hand. “Can’t explain right now. Explain in the morning.”
The older man hesitated, then nodded once, and again more decisively to prevent comment from the others who had begun to gather in the room.
He and Bridges helped Hunter stagger to his quarters and collapse on the bed, where he fell immediately and blissfully asleep.
34
The darkness was alive.
The darkness had eyes.
The eyes watched him, unblinking. He had thought they were all gone, but a few remained, waiting until the blackness was complete. Then he became aware of their hungry glow. They were all around him, like wolves at the edge of a fire-lit circle.
No. They were not eyes. Could not be. They were just indicator lights that somehow fed on the last dregs of current from the failed electrical system. LED’s. Those didn’t need much current. Mechanical, not alive.
But he was not alone.
He could feel it. There was someone there. . . a presence lurking like a ghostly apparition in his peripheral vision that vanished when he turned his head. A change in air pressure, like the nearness of another body.
What did it want with him? Why was it intruding on his death?
The presence was coming closer. He could sense it, somehow. Closer. Yet he could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing.
Now. . . right next to him!
He swept his arms through the darkness but they were no defense. The presence pushed. . . and penetrated. It was inside him!
His mind filled with images, fragments kaleidoscoping across his brain. Faces. . . places he couldn’t recognize. The images assaulted him like the surges of the current against the submersible. . . pushing, withdrawing, then pushing harder, displacing his own thoughts. Finally there came a moment when he knew that momentum had overcome inertia—and the battle was lost.
The submersible toppled. His mind toppled.
He began the long plunge into chaos.
The glowing readout of the clock said 4:02 AM. He slumped back onto sheets and pillow damp with sweat, his heart pounding.
He lay still for a long time, but eventually sleep claimed him again. This time he did not dream.
He awoke again at seven-thirty, breakfasted quickly, and carried his second cup of coffee to the control room. Kierkegaard was already there and turned to face him with a look of impatience.
“What’s this about going over the same territory as yesterday morning? That’s what you said last night, before you collapsed.”
“We have to search those arteries again. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t be serious. Why? Do you know how little time we likely have left?” The pressure was beginning to show in the project leader’s eyes.
“I wasn’t making a good interface with the VR system at first. When I finally did, the bomb I found was well hidden by debris.” He looked earnestly into Kierkegaard’s eyes. “There are still bombs in those arteries, sir. Bombs that I missed. I don’t want to accept the consequences of that.”
“A hunch? Is that what you’re trying to tell us?” Gage said.
“You know that we have no way of ever being certain all of the bombs have been found,” Kierkegaard said.
“I do know that.”
Their leader gave a ragged sigh. “All right, Mr. Hunter. Do what you have to do. But if you have any more doubts about your fitness for duty, let’s hear about them before we waste hours of precious time.” He left the room without acknowledging Hunter’s repentant nod.
By the twenty-seven-minute mark Hunter had found another bomb. It’s destruction brought a feeling of release as powerful as his anxiety and fear had been a couple of days before. It was almost as if the body around him recognized its liberation from an instrument of death.
As he continued the mission, he reveled in the keenness of his senses. He was aware of every swirl and eddy of the current. He could see everything, missed nothing; he was sure of it. He hadn’t even switched off the VR feed. He was able to push it into the background of his consciousness until he needed it. The link was strong and steady. Yet it took another hour of following the twisting tunnels before he spotted the next telltale shape.
Once again, it was surrounded by debris, evidence that the body had begun to detect the intruders on its own, though its defenses were no match for them.
Hunter deftly positioned Primus and prepared to ram.
Red. His world was flashing red.
He willed his mind to visualize the heads-up display, and its text screen.
“DO NOT RAM. TORCH NOT CHARGED.”
They were right. There hadn’t been enough time for a recharge. Not enough juice for a spark. If he’d cracked the shell he would only have spilled the ADP himself.
Now what?
“KEEP PRIMUS THERE. COME REST.”
Yes, he should take advantage of the break to get some rest, but the currents were strong and variable. Could he find a calm spot to park the ship? He tried an area just to the lee of the bomb, but it quickly became unstable—the sub began to drift.
Perhaps closer to the wall—a little eddy, from the look of it. Again, he relinquished the controls. The craft began a slow spin, but seemed to stay in place. He waited. No, it was drifting toward the outside of the eddy.
No good. He didn’t dare leave the bomb—he couldn’t be sure of finding it again. There was nothing to do but wait on station. How was he going to stay awake?
He concentrated on his vocal cords and willed them to say the words: “Can’t leave the ship.” Then he settled in for a long stay.
His vision was crystal clear, and myriad particles of every shape and size constantly drifted past. He enjoyed their varied patterns and colors, but he could identify almost none of them. Mallory is the one who should be here, he thought. A laboratory beyond her wildest dreams. A lifetime of research available with a few hours of observation. But to his untrained eye it was like watching leaves and twigs on the surface of a stream after a summer rain. Peaceful at least.
The spinning was annoying. Maybe
he could tuck in between the bomb and the blood vessel wall? He carefully nudged Primus into position. The flow of fluid over the smooth surface of the bomb’s silicon shell tried to pluck the sub away, but a slow, steady thrust from the main engine could keep the nose wedged in with only the occasional lateral correction every few minutes. The drawback was the lack of a view, only the featureless shell to the left and the artery wall on the right.
Or maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. As before, he found that he could see into the nearest cell. The shapes within were blurred by the intervening protoplasm, or maybe their edges were never sharp, fuzzy with molecules that weren’t quite distinguishable at that scale. Tiny engines of life, quietly performing their appointed tasks before his gaze.
His eyes were drawn to the large, dark shape so dominant near the center of the cell. The nucleus—home of DNA and RNA, the body’s blueprints and its ancestral archives. Code to the past, present, and future.
Those genetic chains were among the largest of all molecules. Was it possible to see them? He stared at the nucleus, and his concentrated attention seemed to draw it closer, as if with a zoom lens. He focused his full attention on its dark depths, and in it he saw. . . .
[A lake. . . surrounded by trees. Sunshine on water. Dappled green shadows. Birds flying overhead.]
What the…?
A memory of northern woodlands? But the view wasn’t one he recognized. His uncle’s place in Northern Vermont had similar trees, but more buildings, and docks along the water’s edge. This must be some other lake he’d seen. Why remember it now?
A ripple of fear went through him.
What brought that on?
He checked the status of the sub again. There was nothing wrong.
Focus on the cell—the nucleus of the cell. Yes, that was calming. A place of safety. . . .
[A small room—an attic room with a narrow window. Slanted rays of summer sunshine. A golden rectangle on printed wallpaper. Old. Faded, but warm. Familiar shapes: Winnie the Pooh, Tigger. . . the original illustrations, not the Disney versions. A single bed. Worn coverlet, with flowers.]
The Primus Labyrinth Page 20
