“Believe me, sir, even before I knew it was Emma, I took this project very seriously. It was never my intention to… invade her mind.”
“I do believe you,” Kierkegaard nodded. “You’ve never struck me as the voyeur type, and I must accept the blame for implanting our psi amplifier in your neck and not telling you about it. In hindsight that was clearly a mistake—just more of this damned secrecy and paranoia.”
He slapped a palm lightly on the desktop, his strongest concession to emotion. “Now that I know how far your enhanced capabilities extend, I can’t agree with our Washington friend about your contact with Emma’s mind. I’ve always believed that some part of us has a far greater awareness of the body’s state of health than our conscious minds ever recognize. Bodies sometimes heal themselves in miraculous ways.” He shook his head with a bemused smile. “It could be that, all this time, her unconscious mind has been your greatest ally.”
“I can’t quite believe I’m hearing you say that,” Hunter said with a look of surprise. “I came to the same conclusion some time ago, but I couldn’t rationally accept it. Even now, with all that’s happened, I can almost convince myself that it’s a dream.”
“You can believe in a submarine the size of a virus, run by remote control and virtual reality, and yet you can’t accept that the human body is aware when it’s sick, and why? That’s a measure of our modern hubris.” Kierkegaard sighed. “Whatever we believe or don’t believe, the evidence is there. You’ve become incredibly adept at locating and destroying those bombs. Perhaps some part of her thinks you can solve her emotional wounds as well.”
The idea was utterly fantastic, and cruelly daunting. Hunter had never felt so inadequate in his life.
Before he had a chance to say anything, Kierkegaard leaned over the desk and spoke again.
“I’m going to get the team together in twenty minutes to announce our next step. I need you to go back in, Hunter,” he said softly. “All the way in. As close a rapport with her mind as you can achieve. She’s come down with a serious fever, and we have no idea at all whether it’s because of an HIV-type bomb, or Primus, or some damned flu germ… or even whether the cause is physical or psychological. We just don’t know—but maybe she knows, deep down. That’s where you’ll have to reach her.”
His eyes narrowed. “What we do know is that time is running out. The deadline is forty-eight hours from now, at noon. After that we’re on borrowed time—she’s on borrowed time.”
Hunter gave the barest of nods and got to his feet. Before he reached the door, he turned.
“What if the enemy finds out where we are and what we’re up to? Shouldn’t we have more protection for Emma?”
“More protection than we have now can’t easily be hidden,” Kierkegaard said. “I have a strong feeling that our opponents do know what we’re up to, and have known for a long time; but as long as there’s any hope that they don’t know where we are, we can’t risk blowing our cover with conspicuously heavy security.”
Hunter was alarmed to see the fatigue in Kierkegaard's troubled face.
“At some point we have to trust to luck,” the director said. “We must be due for some by now.”
# # #
Hunter lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. His head reeled, still trying to accept that the patient was Emma, not the first lady. Now he could see clues that he’d missed. When they’d met, he’d thought Emma was a doctor or real estate agent because of the device hanging at her hip. It was probably both a bio-monitor and the virtual reality relay itself, the conduit that linked Primus with its control center. For the two days she was out of contact, she must’ve been too far for its signal to reach. Did that mean the rest of the time she stayed on the base? That alone would have ruled out the president’s wife.
Then there’d been the flash of a vision as he was about to touch the first lady’s hand, just after touching Emma’s. Children laughing and dancing. He’d thought it was a memory of Dyandra’s days as a school teacher, but now he remembered that Emma was a professional dancer, or had been. It was one of the few things he knew about her. She probably taught dance classes.
It was all clear enough in hindsight. What wasn’t?
Other things were far from clear. Could he carry on as if nothing had changed?
He needed to probe deliberately into Emma's mind, as invasively as Primus delved into the cells of her physical body. That had been distasteful enough when he’d thought he had the implied permission of her husband, and with a nation’s security at stake. It was much worse now.
Because there was one more element that changed everything.
He realized that he was falling in love with her.
57
“We’re not sending Primus to the brain.”
Kierkegaard’s words drew a mixed reaction in the room. Most were relieved, but Tyson and Mallory looked puzzled.
“I’m convinced that an attack on the brain would be an act of revenge only, not persuasion,” he continued. “We can’t say with certainty that they have not sent bombs to her brain, but we have to assume they will not trigger any until they know they have lost. We don’t have enough resources to cover all potential threats, so we will have to focus our efforts where we can still sway the course of events.” He stepped to the side to reveal the view screen. It showed a diagram of the lower abdominal area.
“What has us very concerned right now is our patient’s fever. We don’t know what’s causing it; however, the scans we performed while trying to find the bomb launcher have revealed something new, as you can see. There's a dark spot at the edge of her right ovary where it joins the fallopian tube. So far, we haven’t been able to determine the composition of the dark area. It’s not metal. There’s even the possibility it is some kind of ovarian cyst. But I don’t believe that.”
“You think it’s another bomb launcher? Or one of those HIV bombs?” Gage asked.
“Those wouldn’t have to be stationary,” Hunter interrupted. “In fact they’d be more effective if they weren’t.”
Tyson nodded. “Unless they were too large to be mobile. In which case they’d need to be disguised.”
“Hormones.” Lucy Tamiko sat forward quickly. “What if it is to release something that looks like estrogen or progesterone?”
“I don’t follow you, Doctor,” Kierkegaard said.
“Ovarian hormones can have a powerful effect on neurotransmitters, particularly serotonin. What if that thing on her ovary is releasing something chemically similar, or even forcing production of natural estrogen to abnormally high levels? Our blood monitoring doesn’t check for that. It might have been overlooked on a general blood work-up too, because the IUD she’s using is the type that releases a synthetic form of progesterone.”
“Serotonin is a neurotransmitter chemical that regulates dozens of body functions,” Mallory added. “Particularly brain functions. Neurotransmitters trigger nerve synapses so that signals can proceed along the neural pathways. Without them, the message stops. Serotonin itself acts on more than a dozen different synaptic receptors, and high or low levels can affect everything from pain sensitivity, to mood, to appetite, to quality of sleep. It can constrict or dilate blood vessels, stimulate or depress the heart rate—its presence or absence affects the pH of the brain itself.”
“Would it affect the immune system?” Tyson asked.
“Absolutely,” Mallory replied. “It could affect nearly every body system, over a period of time.”
“All right,” Kierkegaard said. “But why would they go that route? What would be the advantage?
“It’s a means to wreak real havoc in the patient’s body,” Tamiko answered. “A serious imbalance of serotonin could give her hallucinations, make her suicidal, produce agonizing migraine headaches, or even put her into a sleep so deep it would be almost like a coma. All of it would be reversible—without the permanence of an infection from something like HIV. As you said befor
e: leverage, not just revenge.”
“And it might easily look like an auto-immune disease at first,” Bridges added, “and fool us into thinking they’ve detonated HIV bombs. Perhaps that’s what’s causing her fever.”
“Poor woman,” Tamiko muttered. “It could be making her want to slit her own throat one minute, and the next, make her randy as a racehorse.” She gave a meaningful look at Hunter, who looked away in discomfort.
“Dr. Tamiko, a little sensitivity, please.” Kierkegaard moved to the end of the table again. “All right, then. That is Primus’ next target. You know what to do by now. Dr. Bridges, please see to it that our patient’s blood is tested for elevated levels of estrogen or progesterone, or anything similar that we can find. That’s all.”
As they filed from the room Hunter fell in beside the psychologist.
“It would seem,” Bridges said in a low whisper, “that our dear Emma’s husband has some serious explaining to do. But Devon has already had their quarters checked—the man’s not there.”
Husband!
Hunter nearly stopped in his tracks. Instead he faked a cough and asked, “Their quarters?”
“Married quarters here on the base. He’s a military man, stationed here. All we could find out is that he’s on assignment somewhere. It would seem he managed to get some leave time at home in the past few weeks. Damn him.”
Not trusting himself to say anything more, Hunter followed the doctor down the hall until their paths separated. Then he closed the door of his room and stood leaning weakly against the wall.
She was married. Why hadn’t he known that? Had he heard but forgotten? After all, he’d believed all along that the patient was the first lady—he hadn’t given any thought to the daughter. Even so, shouldn’t he have picked that up from his contact with her mind?
Was Tamiko right about Emma? Was she suffering from a hormonal imbalance so severe that his interaction with her subconscious mind was enough to give her orgasms? His own mind had apparently interpreted her reaction as something more meaningful—had imagined a relationship that wasn’t there. Now he felt dirty, haunted again by the thought of violating a married woman.
Yet Kierkegaard was ordering him to go even further.
What choice was there? Her life was still in the balance. Surgery could remove the device on her ovary, but Bridges would be very reluctant to operate, given her condition. Was it the cause of her fever? In the time remaining to them, there might be only one way to learn the answer quickly enough.
Primus.
Damn it. He was no miracle worker. None of this was ever part of the deal. His feelings for her, least of all. Yet he could no more abandon her to her fate than he could deliberately harm her.
He’d just become a hoary cliché from romance literature—he could never have her, but he had to save her.
58
A body racked with pain. A soul filled with fear.
Both call out for attention. They are different, but they are one.
How can both desperate pleas be answered?
On one level, Primus plies the waters of the bloodstream, closing in on the new site; on the other, her tendrils of consciousness advance with trepidation, like cautious fingers gently seeking a hand to clasp, seeking salvation from the terrifying fate that beckons.
On the scale of Primus, the new device is gargantuan, the size of a city. Its smooth, dark surface has accessed dozens of small blood vessels, each fed by a narrow rimmed slot. Outlet vents—possibly hundreds of them—spew a clear fluid not visible on its own that gently ripples through seams of protoplasm like a current over kelp. A current of insidious purpose, masking itself as one of the body’s own.
Yet the outpouring that is the device’s weapon is also its weakness. It has created an open space of clear liquid between the surface and the surrounding tissue, just large enough for Primus to pass. To have traveled through each of the affected blood vessels individually—advancing, backtracking, seeking new routes—would have been the task of days. Instead, the monstrous manufactory has provided a path.
It is far too large for the Primus to destroy. Even if it were flammable, such a conflagration would do too much damage to the surrounding tissue . . . but what about the vents? Can they be closed, or blocked? The ridges running the length of the slots, top and bottom… are they rigid? Could they be squeezed together?
One way to find out.
Primus’s manipulator arms respond nimbly and smoothly like extensions of one’s own hand. The claws extend and spread just widely enough. Like the tips of finger and thumb, they press gently against the flat rims, then squeeze.
It works! The slot pinches together like stiff dough, sticking shut where the lips meet. The flow is blocked.
With a slight nudge sideways, it is the work of only a few moments to seal the other half of the slit. Then it is finished. One outlet is out of commission. Only one vent of hundreds, perhaps, but if a sufficient number can be closed, perhaps the symptoms will ease enough to permit surgery.
YOU’RE BACK.
Yes.
There is an image of a darkened room, walls striped from dimming light leaking through closing shutters. Then it is nearly black. Void. Empty, although not for long. Someone waits outside….
HE WILL FIND OUT. HE WILL KNOW. HE WILL RETURN!
No. He is not a threat to you anymore. He will be caught and punished.
NO. HE IS HERE.
The room pulses with hurt, like ripples of dark flame washing along its walls. It is the grip of the fever. Lancing shards of glassy pain pierce through like knife blades. A dark figure is in the doorway.
NO! PLEASE, NO!
Light. There must be light. Open the blinds—tear them down. He must not be allowed to hide in the dark.
Fingers grip, muscles contract, wood splinters.
(The claws of Primus contract—another vent is sealed.)
Curtains now, rod bending, snapping, fabric tearing.
(Another vent closed.)
Shutters. Twist their latches, fling them open.
(Another vent, and another.)
Light beams slice through the shadow, scattering and reflecting a complex geometry of luminance, cool where it touches. The pain recedes a little.
The dark figure is indistinct, braced against the rush of radiance as against a powerful wind, but weakening… retreating.
Tear down the walls! Batter out bricks. Smash the prison.
(Primus moves like an automaton, pinching, squeezing. The flow begins to falter. The current is weak now in many places. So weak that the tissue walls close in, but the craft slips through.)
Light. Cleansing, purifying light! The room is suddenly vast and bright. The dark presence has fled, to hide once more. Not defeated, but at least repulsed.
The pain is not gone—it is too great. But there is comfort. There is hope. There is healing.
THANK YOU.
I don’t deserve thanks. I’ve violated you, too. I’ve invaded your being without permission. I had no right. Maybe I’m no better than he is.
NO! THAT’S NOT TRUE. YOU CAME TO HEAL.
YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION, WITH ALL MY HEART.
COME TO ME.
There is a meadow, the tawny grasses rippling in a warm breeze, hazy blue sky beyond. A gentle scent of wildflowers, and the occasional hot tang of cinnamon.
Someone is coming.
It is she, parting the grass with slow strides as she glides up the gentle slope, her hips swaying seductively.
Her hair catches bright glints of sun in its black curls. Golden rays fall on naked skin the color of mocha. (HOW COULD I HIDE FROM YOU?)
She circles, slowly, shyly revealing herself. Warm, dark eyes. Full lips. Full, round breasts, nipples brown and large. Her shape is the form of fertile womanhood, natural and vital.
She faces him as she circles. Then, slowly, she steps forward.
Her touch is like fire a
nd ice at once. Skin sparks with the contact. Lips moist, radiate their fever heat.
The world dissolves into raw sensation. Two become one.
Time is exiled. Love remains.
There is the smell of…
sun on skin.
tang of sweat Sound of…
jasmine vanilla shallow breath
mango pounding heart
wood smoke nails over skin
rustle of hair rustle of leaves
Light of… salmon sunrise soft trill of flute
burnt ebony aged ivory gliss of bells
polished coal swelling rhythm
fired clay sea blue Touch of…
latté mocha chocolate warmth softness
amber sunset moist breath firm muscle
flowing hair pliant lips
Taste of…
Toffee salt peppermint
honey
Fire, panting, sweet, musk, glistening, slick, drumming, squeezing, coruscating color, driving pressure, brilliant, hot, roar…reaching…reaching…
Oblivion.
Eons later, the world coalesces into meadow again. She lies stretched out on the grass, face down and relaxed, smooth skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. A long, lovely expanse of coffee and cream.
No. There is something else. Patches of another color. Red. Blotches of angry crimson either side of her spine, and another larger one closer to the center. Farther up her back, a darker shade beginning to spread.
Something is very wrong.
She’s hurt. Injured. And she knew all along, but hid her back. Until after….
Oh no. What can we do? What can we do?
In the control center, Tamiko looked up at the sudden spike in the bio readings. She’d seen them like that once before.
“You’ve got to hand it to Hunter,” she muttered with a twinge of jealousy. “He does know how to tickle a lady’s fancy.”
The Primus Labyrinth Page 31
