Molly held my hand through all of the tests. One of the doctors asked, very politely, if they could sample my spinal fluid. And my bone marrow. Another wanted deep-tissue extractions from various major organs. They assured me these were all very simple procedures, which could be carried out under a local anaesthetic. I declined. The doctors tried to argue with me, insisting that they knew best. I stopped them with a look.
“You don’t insist to a Drood,” I said. “Let’s see what you can do with what you’ve got, first.”
The doctors turned to Melmoth, and he nodded reluctantly. “Eddie Drood is our guest. We are here to help, not pry.” He stopped as a thought struck him. “I know you won’t agree to a DNA test, but how about a semen sample?”
Molly grinned suddenly. “I could give you a hand . . .”
“No,” I said very firmly.
The medical staff then took it in turns to hit me with a series of prepared questions, first about my medical history, and then about my torc. What it was, how it worked, how it was protecting me from the poison. I didn’t have answers to most of the questions, and I refused to talk at all about the torc. The doctors switched to psychological questions about my childhood, my upbringing, my feelings about my parents, my sex life . . . I refused to answer any of those either, though Molly seemed quite ready to discuss that last one.
“Come on!” she said. “This is for Science!”
“No it isn’t,” I said.
I could tell some of the medical technicians were surreptitiously trying to scan my torc while I was being distracted with questions. I could feel it tingling at my throat. I wasn’t worried. My torc was quite capable of looking after itself. One of the machines suddenly exploded, another went up in flames, and one just disappeared. Everyone became even more polite after that.
Melmoth darted all over the place, peering over shoulders and sticking his nose into everyone’s work. Always ready to offer an opinion or debate each new piece of evidence. The medical staff seemed used to it, in a long-suffering sort of way. As Head of the Science Division, the white-haired young man was presumably beyond criticism by the rank and file. When the staff members finally ran out of unpleasant things to do to me, they split up into small groups to discuss their findings, and what it all meant. There was a lot of furtive glancing back at me, but no one said anything to me.
Molly was gripping my hand so hard by now, it hurt.
“Well?” I said finally. “Talk to me! Have you found anything useful?”
Melmoth had been darting agitatedly back and forth among all the groups, so the doctors looked to him to be their spokesman. I sat up on the bed to face him.
“We’ve learned a great many things,” he said carefully. “But not much we didn’t already know, or at least suspect. We’ve located the poison in your system, but we have no idea what it is. None of us has ever seen anything like this. Its chemical composition makes no sense. And we have seen a great many unusual things in our time Under the Mountain.”
“Could this unknown poison be of alien origin?” I said, just as carefully. “As in, from another world?”
That stopped them all short. They looked at one another and consulted their notes again. More whispered discussions, some of them quite energetic. Melmoth moved from group to group, getting a consensus, before coming back to me.
“We’ve checked the poison against all the examples of alien material we have on file, but we haven’t been able to establish a match. That doesn’t mean the poison isn’t alien; just that it’s not from anywhere we’ve encountered before.”
“You’ve had aliens here?” said Molly.
“No one wants to die,” said Melmoth. “Anything else would have to come under patient confidentiality. Suffice it to say, every alien species we’ve encountered has turned out to be totally incompatible with the human genome. An alien poison should have no effect at all on a human body.”
“So Monkton Farley was wrong,” I said. “I must make some time to rub his nose in that.”
The doctors and nurses looked at me silently. They’d done all they could, with what they’d got. They looked to Melmoth.
“I’m afraid the situation is brutally simple, Eddie,” he said, curbing his normal enthusiasm. His new composure gave his voice a certain grim gravity. “Your body is breaking down as the poison advances, and will continue to do so. Until it can’t function any longer. Your torc is fighting a valiant rearguard action, slowing the poison’s progress and keeping you alive, but it’s burning up your body’s resources to do it. Anyone else would have been dead long ago . . . but it seems there is a limit to the miracles even a Drood torc can perform. The best we can suggest . . . is that you allow us to remove your mind from its dying body and download it into something else.”
“My mind?” I said. “What about my soul?”
“We deal in science here,” said Dr Melmoth. “For that side of things, you would have to consult the Soul Witch. Or Bishop Beastly. He’s our Head of Death-related Studies.” He smiled briefly. “We do our best to cover all possible areas . . .”
“Bishop Beastly?” said Molly. “That’s a name and a half. Why . . . ?”
“Because he loves animals.”
“Oh . . . ,” said Molly.
“No,” said Melmoth. “I mean like Saint Francis of Assisi.”
They were trying to cheer me up. I could tell. It wasn’t working.
Molly was more disappointed than I was that the doctors couldn’t help me. She let go of my hand and sat down on the bed with her back to me. So I couldn’t see her face. I wasn’t disappointed, because I never really thought they could do anything. Droods have the best medical people and equipment in the world. I only agreed to come to Under the Mountain because . . . well, because there was always a chance. Molly had allowed herself to hope. I knew better. Hope just gets in the way of doing the job. Melmoth cleared his throat to draw my attention.
“The medical staff have asked me to say . . . they are willing to keep working on your blood and tissue samples. Who knows what we might discover, in time . . .”
“No,” I said. “I want all my blood and tissue samples assembled here and destroyed, right now, right in front of me. Don’t even think about keeping anything back. I’d know.”
“Of course you would,” murmured Melmoth.
I watched closely as they destroyed the various samples, one after another. Until one of the doctors refused to hand over his.
“This is a Drood!” he said. “We may never get a chance like this again! Science must take precedence over one patient’s foolish and selfish wishes!”
I got up from the bed, and he fell quiet. I armoured up, and the medical staff all but fell over one another, backing away from me. Shock and even horror filled their faces. It was one thing to have heard about golden strange matter, and quite another to face a Drood in his armour. I raised one golden fist, and slowly grew spikes out of the knuckles.
Melmoth took the samples from the no-longer-protesting doctor, and I watched silently as they were destroyed. The medical staff didn’t say a word. The doctor who’d spoken out couldn’t even look at me any more, because when he did, he started shaking. I suppose I should have felt like a bully, but I didn’t. When it was all over and done with, Melmoth gestured quietly to the doctors and nurses, and they all quickly filed out. I waited until only Dr Melmoth was left, before armouring down again.
“Drama queen,” said Molly.
I sat back down on the bed, trying to hide how bone-deep tired I felt. All my muscles were aching, like I’d just run a marathon. The urge to hide inside my armour and never come out again was growing stronger. Molly realised something was wrong. She sat beside me, and glared at Melmoth.
“There must be something you can give him! Some drug that would just . . . keep him going!”
“It’s the torc,” Melmoth said kindly. �
��It won’t let us interfere. It’s practically running Eddie’s body now. That’s why I suggested downloading Eddie’s mind. His body is on its last legs, and it’s only going to get worse.”
He produced a silver hip flask from inside his coat, and handed it to me. I tried it. Pretty good brandy. I took a long drink, savouring the warmth as it went down. It didn’t make me feel any better, but that would have been asking too much, anyway. I passed the flask to Molly, and she took a good belt before handing it back to Melmoth. He took only the merest sip, before putting the flask away.
“You’re still welcome to try any of the solutions you’ve seen,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Thank you.”
As far as I was concerned, that was it. I was ready to go. Melmoth must have sensed that, because he leaned in close and lowered his voice, even though we were the only ones there.
“Before you leave . . . I really would be very grateful if you’d step into my private office. Just for a moment.”
I wasn’t keen, but given how much of his time and attention he’d already granted me, with not so much as a word about payment, I felt I owed him that much. I looked at Molly, and she shrugged, so I nodded to Melmoth.
* * *
His private office turned out to be pretty basic, just a desk and some chairs. No comforts, no personal touches, all the papers on his desk neatly arranged. No windows, of course. It reminded me of the Management’s office, at the Wulfshead. Melmoth sat down behind his desk, and Molly and I sat down facing him. Melmoth started to say something, and then stopped. He didn’t seem too sure about where to begin.
“Would you like a cup of tea or something?” he said.
“No,” I said. “Nothing. Just get to the point.”
Melmoth laced his hands together on top of the desk and leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be bothering you with what is, after all, internal Survivors business, but there are people above me I have no choice but to answer to. And they insisted I ask you, so . . . You must have wondered why we’ve all gone out of our way to be of assistance to you, and never once raised the question of payment. Or even asked a favour of your illustrious family.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” I said.
“Right,” said Molly.
“We wouldn’t normally even allow a Drood access to Under the Mountain,” said Melmoth. “We were pretty sure your family wouldn’t approve of many of the things we do here. And your relatives do have a tendency to shut down anything they disagree with. Often quite suddenly and violently.”
“But you couldn’t resist the chance to examine a real live Drood,” I said.
“That was undoubtedly part of it,” said Melmoth. “But we need your help. Your investigative skills. Someone here . . . is killing people. How he gets away with it is a mystery. We have surveillance coverage in every room, every corridor, every lab. Everyone is under constant observation, for their own protection. The staff and the patients. But someone is killing people when no one is watching. It has to be someone fairly high up who knows our system and its inevitable blind spots.”
Molly and I looked at each other, and then sat up straight, giving Melmoth our full attention.
“You have a murderer running loose inside the Institute?” I said. “And your security people haven’t been able to find him?”
“Exactly!” said Melmoth. “Which should be impossible, given their resources and manpower.”
“Who’s been killed?” said Molly.
“Seventeen victims, so far,” said Melmoth. “Twelve men, five women. All medical staff. Never a patient or a volunteer.”
“So he’s targeting well people,” I said.
“That seems likely, yes,” said Melmoth.
“How did they die?” I said.
“Another part of the mystery. No wounds, no injuries. Just . . . found dead. We thought the first few were natural causes. But seventeen, in less than a week?” Melmoth shook his head. “Could there be any worse crime than to kill someone who’s dedicated their life to preventing others from having to die?”
“Have you questioned the Immortal?” said Molly.
“Of course!” said Melmoth. “First suspect we looked at. But it couldn’t have been Django Westphalion. He wasn’t present in Under the Mountain when the murders occurred. And even with his teleport bracelet, he couldn’t get in without contacting us first, to get the security shields lowered. A lot of people wanted it to be him, just on general principles. We have some idea of the many sins his family is responsible for, down the centuries. But . . . no. It can’t be him. Hard as it us for us to accept, the murderer has to be one of us. The people who really run things here are the Overseers. They founded the Survivors, and still set general policy. They insisted I bring you in on this.”
“Hold it,” said Molly. “Some of the original founders are still alive?”
“Apparently,” said Melmoth. “I’ve never met them. Don’t know anyone who has. Anyway, they felt we needed an experienced outsider. Someone with an independent background. We were still arguing over who might be suitable, when Django said Eddie Drood wanted to come here. We took that as a sign. Your reputation as a solver of mysteries precedes you. And you too, of course, Ms Metcalf.”
“Of course,” said Molly.
I looked at her, and we both got up and moved to the far end of the office so we could talk quietly together.
“We don’t have time for this,” said Molly. “We can’t take on a lengthy murder investigation. We just can’t. Not now. I mean, even talking to all the right people will take ages.”
“We have to try,” I said.
“Why?” said Molly. “We’ve spent too long here already! Wasting our time . . . your time. You’re the one who’s always in a hurry.”
“They helped us, so we have to help them,” I said. “Sometimes it really is that simple.”
“Even when you’re dying?” said Molly.
“Especially then,” I said. “We have to do right, when it matters. Because if not us, then who?”
“You’ve been getting broody again,” said Molly. “You know I hate questions like that.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know. Don’t worry; this won’t take long.”
She looked at me sharply. “You’ve already figured something out, haven’t you? You know something!”
“Let’s say I’ve seen something,” I said.
I turned to Melmoth. “We need to talk to the Overseers.”
He shook his head. “No one talks to them. Even the three Department Heads have no direct connection. All instructions arrive anonymously, from outside Under the Mountain. Just as well; it means we get left alone to get on with our work.”
“Why do they need to be anonymous?” said Molly.
“Since we don’t know who they are, we can’t speculate as to their motives,” said Melmoth. “Well, actually we can and we do, but . . . we don’t dare ask them. Not if we want to go on working here.”
Molly looked at me. “Does this remind you of the Wulfshead Management?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” I said.
“With your permission,” said Melmoth, “I’ll call in the other two Department Heads.”
“Yes,” I said. “I think that would be wise.”
Melmoth raised his voice. “Come in!”
The door opened and the Soul Witch swaggered in, with a general air of I’m here, so the party can start now. She was followed by a large, more-than-portly gentleman in a full scarlet cardinal’s gown, complete with a tall golden mitre. I wondered how he kept it balanced on such a round head. His face was all curves and dimples, with deep-set eyes and a knowing look. For a man of his size, he moved with surprising grace, and I sensed a real strength buried under all that bulk. He bestowed a warm a
nd avuncular smile on me and Molly, but I wasn’t convinced.
“This is Bishop Beastly,” said Melmoth. “Head of Death-related Studies.”
“Bishop?” I said. “Of what Church, exactly?”
He smiled a fat smile. “All of them, dear boy. This is no place to be making enemies.”
He chuckled loudly, and ripples spread across his vast form like a slow earthquake. He insisted on shaking my hand, and then Molly’s, with his huge podgy fingers. For a man who looked like he never said no to a second helping, or turned down a dessert, there was nothing weak about his grip.
“What do you do here?” I said. “Exactly?”
“I cover the spiritual side of things,” said the Bishop. “Because someone has to. These two deal in body and mind; I deal in those matters that concern the spirit. What good does it do to survive, if in the process you compromise your soul?”
“Have you seen some of the things they’re doing here?” I said.
“Alas,” said the Bishop, “my position is largely advisory.”
Dr Melmoth and the Soul Witch exchanged a knowing glance behind the Bishop’s back.
“I saw that,” said Bishop Beastly.
“No you didn’t,” said the Soul Witch.
“I didn’t need to,” said the Bishop. “You’re so predictable.” He smiled knowingly at me and Molly. “Think of me as the designated conscience of this facility. Someone has to be in a position to say, No, no farther; that is a step too far.”
“Either you’re not saying it enough, or they’re not listening,” I said.
“It is that kind of facility,” Bishop Beastly admitted. I didn’t care for his smug and superior attitude, like the cat that always expects to get the catnip. I also got a definite feeling of undercurrents of violence running deep inside him, just waiting for an outlet. For an excuse to punish someone. The Soul Witch and Molly were looking at each other thoughtfully, like two predators agreeing to share the same watering hole for as long as it suited both of them.
Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA Page 24
