Damn it! That made no sense. That wasn't a room he remembered. He must have dozed off. Why hadn’t he awakened in the control room?
At least the sub hadn’t drifted. There was still a little time left before the recharge was complete. He needed to stay awake. Stay sharp.
He looked at the cell again. The nucleus, floating motionless. . . .
[Faces. Children’s faces. Unfamiliar, but friendly. Happy. Laughing. Dancing. An impression of space. Echoes. Wood
. . . the smell of wood, and wax. Very large windows along one wall behind thin, white drapes. Small hands grabbing, clasping. A babble of voices. An urge to call out to them. To dance with them. . . .]
Red. Flashing red.
The alert. The charge was complete. He struggled to gather his wits. It was time to destroy the bomb and get out of there.
# # #
“You were right, Mr. Hunter.” Kierkegaard greeted him as the helmet came off. “There were two bombs that you—and Dr. Gage—missed yesterday.”
“It’s not something that gives me any satisfaction, sir. I would much rather have found them the first time.” He stretched his stiff limbs.
Just then Bridges and Mallory entered the room with worry showing on their faces.
“Is something wrong?” Kierkegaard asked.
Bridges went first. “I was doing some scans and noticed some extraordinary activity in the patient’s thalamus—which is an area of the brain,” he said for Hunter’s benefit.
“If memory serves, it’s more or less the gateway to the cerebral cortex,” Kierkegaard said. “Virtually all of the brain’s sensory information comes to it through the thalamus. Why would you be concerned to see activity there?”
“I said extraordinary activity,” Bridges reiterated. “There should have been less than usual—the patient was resting, with very little sensory input.”
“Do you think a bomb has gone off there?”
“No, nothing like that,” the doctor replied. “Extra electrical activity—it was doing a lot of extra work.”
“What would cause that?”
“I. . . No, I’d rather not speculate on that right now.” Bridges gave a puzzling glance at Hunter. “I’m just concerned about anything out of the ordinary.”
“Ordinary isn’t a word I’d use for any of this.” Kierkegaard raised an eyebrow. “And what’s bothering you, Dr. Mallory?”
“It’s the test, sir. The new blood test. I performed another analysis and, well. . . our earlier estimates of the bombs weren’t too high.” She hesitated. “I’ve checked my work twice.”
“And. . . ?”
“The actual numbers are even higher.” She swallowed hard.
“There are more than twice as many bombs as we thought.”
35
“What was all that about the thalamus? I didn’t get what you were hinting at.”
Kierkegaard and Bridges were alone in the director’s office. He settled heavily into his chair, while the doctor continued to pace the floor.
“That’s the problem,” Bridges answered. “It is only a hint. A sign of strong sensory activity when there should have been very little. Very little physical sensory information, at least.” He looked up to see if his friend had caught his meaning.
“You’re saying it could be due to other senses? Extra senses?”
“You know the evidence as well as I do,” Bridges said. “It’s why we decided to do what we did to Hunter. One of the main reasons we recruited him in the first place.”
“The studies were very convincing regarding the role of the thalamus in extra-sensory activity. We hoped that such an ability would enhance the VR interface.”
“Which certainly seems to be the case.”
“With Hunter, yes. But what does she have to do with it?” Kierkegaard leaned forward. “Activity in his thalamus was expected, but why hers?”
Bridges raised his hands off the desk. “We don’t know enough about psychic phenomena—their nature or the rules that govern them. Do they answer to the laws of physics? There are many who believe that quantum properties are involved, but we really have no idea. It’s difficult enough to even accept that these things exist, let alone try to quantify or measure them in any way. We simply don’t have the tools.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’m saying that we did some tinkering to create an artificially enhanced psychic environment. The goal was to improve Hunter’s interface with Primus, but how do we know that’s all it did? Maybe instead of turning on a flashlight beam we turned on a bare bulb that lit up a whole room.” His voice softened as he looked into the other’s eyes.
“I’m saying we may have awakened far more than we bargained for.”
# # #
Hunter destroyed two more bombs in new areas of the liver. He didn’t experience any more strange images, but his mood became unpredictable. His normal equanimity could suddenly evaporate, leaving him pessimistic and anxious. He tried to counteract it with deliberate happy thoughts—but only once. The resulting swing the other way turned him giddy, and made him fear once again for his sanity.
As he wearily took off the helmet and began to unfasten the suit, he was aware of a strange longing. A need he couldn’t identify until Lucy Tamiko walked into the room, bringing more 3D maps of the route he would follow next.
It was the need for female company.
She looked up at him and frowned. “Are you OK?” she asked.
“Better for seeing you,” he replied. Gage gave a snort and left the room.
“Lame, Hunter. You can do better than that.”
“It wasn’t a pickup line. I meant it.”
“Sure, because I’m Suzy Sunshine spreading cheerfulness wherever I go with my naturally bubbly personality.” She stepped around him to get to the main computer station. He gently took her arm.
“Lucy, why is it so hard to believe that I might be glad to see you? I could use a little company, as a matter of fact.” He smiled. “At least in Fantastic Voyage, they had a team. You could be my Raquel Welch.”
“In your dreams.”
“Seriously, though. To everybody else these missions only last an hour or two. To me, it’s like spending all day by myself.”
“You spend all day inside a woman. Isn’t that a guy’s idea of paradise?”
He released her arm, glad to see her smile. He waited while she finished loading the data, then they headed for the door to get some dinner. Before they reached it, Kierkegaard stood in their path.
“I’m glad you’re both here. There’s a little. . . wrinkle.” He made a face. “We’ll be having a visitor tomorrow. Not for long, I hope. We’ll need you about eleven, Mr. Hunter. Then there’ll be a tour of sorts closer to noon.”
The pilot exhaled heavily. “Don’t tell me some Defense brass just has to come for a little sightseeing. With something this important going on?”
“Someone a little higher up than that.” Kierkegaard turned to leave.
“The president.”
# # #
Tyson joined Hunter and Tamiko at dinner. He looked drawn and tired, but refused to reveal what he’d been working on.
“It’s mostly out of my hands, now,” he said. “Kenneth will finish it off. Hopefully by sometime tomorrow.”
“Oh, good.” Tamiko smirked. “Maybe you can both show it to the president.”
Tyson’s fork tipped and spilled his beef noodle casserole back onto the plate. “The. . . the president?” he asked. “He’s coming here? Good Lord, why? I can’t show it to him. It may not work!”
“Relax, Skylar.” Hunter laughed. “I’m sure that’s not the reason that he’s coming.”
“He’s coming to watch part of a military exercise they hold here from time to time.” Truman Bridges slipped his plate onto the table and slid into a chair. “And to take the opportunity to award some medals to a number of officers from the 1st Fighter Wi
ng who distinguished themselves during the last Gulf conflict.”
“Lucky them, getting their medals from the president himself,” Tamiko said. She reached over and snatched a carrot from Hunter’s plate.
“Well that’s the official reason. You don’t expect him to come here without a good cover story, do you? That would not be wise.” Bridges took a long drink of iced tea. Tyson was looking from one face to another.
“Why come here at all?” Tyson asked. “What does he hope to accomplish? He probably won’t understand our work. How could he?” He pushed the rest of his plate away. “Perhaps I should see if Dr. Gage needs my help.” He began to rise, but Hunter waved him back down.
“Skylar, seriously. He’s not coming to see your new gadget. I have a feeling he has a. . . personal stake in all of this. Beyond politics. Am I right, Doctor?”
Bridges scowled. “You know I can’t answer that, Hunter. But just politics would be reason enough. Anyway, you shouldn’t be speculating about such things here. It’s not secure.”
“We’re in a closed facility in the middle of a United States Air Force base. How much more secure do we need to be?”
“Truman is right,” Tyson said. “You should be more careful, Hunter.”
“OK, OK.” The pilot threw up his hands. “If a person can’t gossip a little, how’s he supposed to have any fun around here? I’ll just shut up and go drive a submarine for a while.” He left his dessert untouched and stood to leave. Tamiko stood too.
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “It’s my turn to do the monitoring.” She fell into step beside him, and they headed for the main lab.
“Skylar’s right,” Hunter said. “The president shouldn’t be coming here. There’s nothing more we can do that we’re not already doing.” He shrugged. “Hell, he probably won’t want to talk to any of us anyhow.”
Tamiko reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let it get to you,” she said. “But if there’s anyone he’s going to want to talk to, it’s you.”
# # #
He pushed himself and did two one-hour missions that evening, with an hour of recuperation in between. He found no bombs. He had a strong feeling that the liver was now clear, but he was more loath than ever to risk missing anything.
At Hunter’s request, Tyson tried to shorten the duration of the electrical charge sent to the torch tip, to extend the time between recharges. It hadn’t worked—the torch wouldn’t light.
“Even so, the recharge times are already much better than I had expected. I’ve kept track of the charge data from the beginning of our missions.” Tyson brought up the results on the computer monitor and pointed a finger. “You see? The recharge time has actually improved considerably from the first few missions, with a rather dramatic improvement in just the last three. I have no explanation for that. According to physics, it should vary very little.” He shrugged and gave a weak smile. “Just lucky, I guess,” he said, then excused himself and left to check on Gage.
“I’ll take any luck I can get,” Hunter said quietly. Tamiko pulled herself wearily out of the chair, and they walked slowly out of the room.
“Feel like a nightcap?” she asked. “I could use a little something just to shut my brain down and let me sleep.”
The pilot shook his head. “Nah, I need to stay sharp. I’m pretty sure that alcohol really affects my. . . uh, interface with the VR unit. I should probably be at my best tomorrow, don’t you think?”
She gave him a look of disbelief. “One drink? That’d be out of your system by morning.”
“Ah, but for me it’s way too easy for one drink to become two, or more. I’m trying to be a good boy.”
“Well I guess there’s a first time for everything,” she teased. They had arrived at her door. “I think I still have a few swigs in a bottle somewhere in here. I suppose that will have to do.” She pushed the door open and took a step in.
“Of course, there are other things that can help you sleep better,” he offered, his cheek dimpling as he tried not to smile.
“Nice try,” she laughed, turning back to face him.
“I was thinking of buttermilk.”
“Of course you were,” she nodded, then leaned closer. “You’re a strange one, Hunter.” Slowly she brought her face to his and kissed him lightly on the lips. Hers were full and warm, and he willed himself to take in every trace of the sensation while it lasted. She drew back, and brought her mouth close to his ear. “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she said softly. Then, as she began to withdraw into the room, she smiled and said, “But don’t stop trying just yet.” And the door quietly closed.
36
Kierkegaard joined them in the mission control room the next morning.
“Mr. Hunter,” he asked, “Are there any more bombs to be found in the patient’s liver?”
“I can’t say for certain, sir. There’s still quite a stretch of artery within the organ that we haven’t covered yet, as well as some of the other vessels that service it. . . ”
“Mr. Hunter.” The project leader held up a hand. “Do you believe there are any more bombs to be found there?”
The question took the other by surprise. “No, sir. I don’t think there are.”
“Then we won’t waste any more time there. Prepare the ship to move on.” He either didn’t notice or simply ignored the shocked faces around the room. Tamiko’s reaction was disbelief, since she’d worked for hours to map and plan the remaining routes through the organ, but she said nothing. “Where next?” their chief asked. “The spleen? Is that still your next choice?”
“We should check it.” Gage was the first to recover. “At this point there are many choices that would be about equal, wouldn’t you say?” He looked to Tamiko and then Bridges. “The pancreas is another possibility. Even the gall bladder, or some of the important glands—if they were disabled the patient could suffer a number of serious but non-fatal results. Or do we want to start looking at some of the more critical systems now, like the lungs?”
“The spleen.” Hunter said abruptly. “You, uh. . . you said that was pretty delicate, didn’t you? And likely to cause a bad bleed if damaged? I. . . .” He faced Kierkegaard. “I think we should go there.”
The other man gave him a long look. “Very well. Let’s get started.”
As Kierkegaard left the room, Tamiko muttered, “Terrific. Like I needed an extra navigational challenge. The splenic artery is full of twists and bends, and a lot of branches that shoot off toward the stomach. You’re going to have to be sharp to avoid taking a wrong turn.” She sighed and rolled her chair over to a nearby computer station. “Give me a few minutes.”
She hadn’t been exaggerating. The approach to the spleen took all morning. The sudden appearance of a cluster of white blood cells at just the wrong moment blocked him from taking a turnoff he needed, and he had to continue along the aortic artery and around the whole main trunk of the bloodstream to take another shot at it. The current was very strong and allowed no margin for error.
The second time, he knew the best position to place the sub as he approached the junction, and made the turn successfully, but the forceful blood flow carried him too close to the far wall of the splenic artery and Primus was immediately swept into one of the offshoots toward the stomach. Tamiko had to scramble to find a likely-looking series of anastomoses that would enable him to double back. Once back on course, the circuitous route taken by the artery meant that Hunter had to use reverse thrust from the engine to slow the sub down and let him stay as close as possible to the middle of the channel. Then, just as he was nearly to the hilus of the spleen, the entry point for the arterial blood, another offshoot swept the craft away again. It took three tries before he could return to the main artery.
When he finally made it into the spleen itself and the blood flow had slowed, he found a place to park Primus and jacked out.
“Not a good start to the day.” He slumped,
with a long exhalation of breath. “I’m hitting the shower before the president gets here.”
He was on the tarmac when Marine One touched down. The big Sikorsky VH-60N Blackhawk swept dust into the air with its huge rotors. Hunter and Kierkegaard waited for the rotors to slow considerably before walking toward the craft. Before they got close, the big side door opened and two marines in blue dress uniforms disembarked. They quickly stood at attention on either side of the hatchway and saluted as their commander in chief appeared and stepped down to the ground. He was followed by a pair of dark-suited men in sunglasses who immediately began to scan the surroundings.
Hunter stopped walking, struck by an overpowering sense of the surreal: this scene he had witnessed so often on television screens,
Hunter was waiting for Kierkegaard to make another move forward when motion at the corner of his eye caught his attention. A long, black limousine rolled across the runway toward the landing zone. The limo stopped just short of the aircraft’s tail and a Secret Service agent quickly got out of the passenger side, made his way to the back of the car, and opened the rear door.
Out of the limo came two women. The first was well-coiffed, in her early fifties, conservatively dressed in a grey-green skirt suit. The other was a slim, younger woman, in her mid-twenties, with a pale blue pantsuit and a posture very similar to her companion. Hunter recognized the first lady. That meant the second woman must be their daughter. . . what was her name? Emily? No, Emma. He was pretty sure it was Emma.
From where he stood he could see that she was pretty, with fine features and the same mocha skin and curly jet-black hair as her mother, except the first lady wore her hair in a short, professional cut. Emma let hers hang loosely to her shoulders. She gave a broad smile into the morning sun, then embraced her father as he joined them. She was wearing some kind of pager or cell phone on her hip. Was she a doctor? A real estate agent?
The Primus Labyrinth Page 21
