Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Rick never expected to be called by his title, and he hated it when Cole ribbed him about it. Cole used to ridicule Rick's use of dung as a model substrate for fungal growth, and had taken to calling him “Dr. Dung.” The name had stuck, and Cole still used it whenever he thought Rick was getting too aware of his title.

  “Well, what do you think, Dr. Dung?”

  “Unfair. I haven't rubbed your nose in my Ph.D. for at least a week.” Rick squatted down and wriggled his fingers. “Here, Cat—” When the cat slunk across the floor to sit by his feet, Rick picked him up and rubbed the top of his head. “Here's your intruder. There's probably a window open.”

  Cole nodded, reached over and gave the cat a quick scritch on its belly. The cat promptly tried to bite his hand. Cole chuckled, and scritched its belly again, deftly avoiding the claws.

  “Quit bugging the cat. Are you going to show me this architect's delusion, or do I have to show myself?”

  “I'll give you the tour, as long as you remind me to lock that window before we leave. I don't want any vandals ripping apart my little hi-tech lovenest.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Wait till I get my furniture in here.”

  Rick snorted with laughter. “By that do you mean your Sega Megadrive, or your model railroads? You've heard of ‘Babes in Toyland’? Wait till the ladies get a load of you: ‘Toys in Babeland’.”

  Cole grinned. “You wouldn't believe how a hot arcade game can put ‘em in the mood.”

  Rick grabbed his shirt and gave him a shove. “Lead on, Don Juan. Next thing you'll be telling me is how they toggle your joystick—”

  * * * *

  On a previous expedition, she'd discovered that her lab was sealed—locked down against the possibility of her little toxin escaping into the environment.

  God damn it! she'd sworn at the time. How can they fix me if they're not even trying to find out what went wrong?

  She'd been there when Vizar and Sacchara had had their little meeting. She knew that Vizar wanted someone to carry on where she'd left off—because, as little as they understood the mechanics of it, in Vizar's estimation her procedure had worked. That means he must see some dollars and cents value to it, she reasoned. It didn't matter to him what price she'd had to pay.

  She'd even tried to approach Vizar personally, to demand action. The most she'd been able to do was squawk out a raspy "Help me!", which now seemed to her to have been overly melodramatic. Maybe a “Do it, or else” would have worked better with Vizar. He'd been so startled, all he'd been able to do was nod his head, which she'd optimistically taken for agreement.

  Why don't they get on with it? she wondered. She was terrified that they'd decide to terminate her body instead: to destroy any incriminating evidence. Knowing Vizar and Sacchara as she did now—after seeing the way they conducted business when no one else was present—she had no false impressions any longer about the personalities that ran Genetechnic. Most people viewed the future with a hint of awe—Vizar viewed it with an eye to control, even ownership. Control what went into the genetic make-up of a being, and you also managed its strengths, and its limitations. Vizar was playing at some levels that not even his closest cohort, Sacchara, knew about. Levels Caro had never suspected her research could sink to.

  What if they were to destroy her body, during one of those times when her being was somewhere else? What would happen to me then?

  At this point, she would welcome death, but she had the horrifying suspicion that, even if her inner self was in residence, the very act of her body dying would be enough to trigger another one of these little jaunts. Not in the normal fashion of the soul leaving the body, to travel away on those white lights death-freaks were always harping about, but on one of these empty wanderings, which would leave her without any hint of future: heaven, hell, purgatory—whatever was beyond.

  * * * *

  Rick whistled. The cat, startled, jumped out of his arms. Rick let it go. “This place is incredible, Cole.” He was looking up at the high ceilings, and large windows. “With all this light, it'd be a great place to work—” Rick was thinking about the poor visibility in his own, artificially-lighted lab.

  “Uh-uh. No fungus is going to wriggle its slimy way in here.” Cole stepped over and fiddled with a switch on the wall. “Wait till you see this.” A fountain, in the middle of a tiled pool of water, began to spurt streams of water.

  Rick's tone was sincere. “I've never seen anything like it—at least, outside of one of those architecture magazines. Congratulations, Cole.”

  Cole's eyes were shining. “Yeah. Not too bad, is it?”

  Rick grinned. “Not too bad at all.”

  * * * *

  I'm back. Caro was filled with a nearly overwhelming sense of poignancy, as she stared at the tiles where her feet had so often tread. There was that one rough tile. She could remember the cool feel of it under her bare feet—the rippling unevenness that made it different from the others. Funny how important the little things can be.

  The one thing that had eluded her wayward senses was smell. Vision wasn't a problem—only the overwhelming endlessness of it. At this point, she would have given a lot just to be able to close her eyelids, and shut out the world for a moment. It made those times of residence in her body seem almost restful.

  Tactilely, she found she was able to experience far more than she would have believed possible. The key seemed to be intense focus, in order to assume some semblance of her former being, and her hopes lay in eventually gaining some ability to manipulate. Intangible as she was, she didn't know whether she really needed her previous form: whether her arms and fingers were essential to achieving her goals. But, the thought of using any other shape—of seeing herself as a formless blob—horrified her. Even at her most detached, she couldn't concede that much of her identity.

  The soft swish and trickle of the fountain drew her attention. Someone must be here. The fountain was on a timer, and someone had activated it. She wondered who it was.

  They'd been quick enough to empty her house. It went along with the fiction they were spreading—the one about her sabbatical abroad. It had also given them an excuse to search the structure for her notes. She had no doubt that, wherever her furniture had ended up, it was getting the same treatment.

  If the intruder was that dipshit real estate agent, then Caro knew she was wasting her time. All she'd get out of it was the rumour that the house was occupied by something more than dust mites. Still, the idea gave her pleasure, and if they failed to rent it, it would give her the time she needed. Time to perfect her manipulation of the crude senses that were left to her. Time to learn how to regain her lab notes, and use them to her best advantage.

  * * * *

  Cole was practically jogging through the upstairs rooms, in his enthusiasm to show them off. “I could even take in boarders,” he said, “as long as I was discreet about it. There's lots of extra room.”

  Rick tried to picture Cole being discreet, and failed. He asked, “Did you show this place to Jace yet? Or Simon?”

  “Are you out of your mind? I'm not going to let Simon know until the day I move in.”

  Rick looked at him curiously. “Why not? Mr. Hi-Tech would think this was great.”

  “That's the point. He'll want to be my first boarder. I just want to make sure he approaches me for lodging, and not Genetechnic. He'd probably want to interrogate them on everything from how cheap the rent is, to why they'd rent such a big place to one person.” He grinned.

  Rick smiled. Approaching Genetechnic would be Simon's way of expediting matters—and of double-checking the landlord.

  Cole always told Simon he was a cross between a control freak, and a suspicious son-of-a-bitch. Rick agreed with Cole's assessment, but he understood Simon's reasons better than Cole did. Knowing what Rick did about Simon, however, it sometimes amazed him that the man put up with as much as he did from Cole. It said something for the depth of their friendship that Cole could call him names, a
nd Simon would stand there, imperturbable as always, and take it.

  Still, Cole was right about this house. It would be just like Simon to want to ensure that everything was on the level—and Cole didn't believe in delving too deeply into lucky opportunities that just happened to fall in your lap.

  “What about Jace?”

  Cole snorted in disgust. “Jace is as addicted to his work as you are.” He added obnoxiously, “I can almost understand it in his case. At least his patients are flesh-and-blood.”

  Rick ignored the jibe. “What's that got to do with living here?”

  “Too far from his work. Besides, I don't think he's even noticed he lives in a rat-hole. He's not there often enough to see the rats.”

  Rick looked intently around a small room on the second floor. For its size, the place had numerous counters and sinks. Superior lighting, and bench-high power points. He rubbed the marks on the bench, where it was obvious a moderately heavy piece of equipment had sat. He knew there'd be similar marks in his own lab, where a PCR machine had residence.

  Excited now, he inspected the rest of what he was certain had once been someone's personal laboratory. Knowing what he was looking for helped. He found a spot that was perfect for a small autoclave, and a refrigerator-size space where a large, refrigerated, high-speed centrifuge would have been used in his own lab to isolate RNA from viruses in plant cells.

  It took Cole a minute to realise he was giving his tour to himself. Impatient, he ran back in search of Rick. “Wait'll you see—”

  Rick interrupted him enthusiastically. “This was a lab, Cole! A fairly state-of-the-art one, too, for a small premises.”

  Cole shrugged, glanced briefly around at the counters and sinks, then up at the numerous windows. “If I can find a way to block out some of that light, it'll make one hell of a good darkroom.” He grinned and dodged out of the room, as Rick threw a wadded-up rag in his direction. Cole poked his head round the corner. “Sucker!”

  * * * *

  Sacchara walked into Vizar's office without knocking. “The real estate agent called. Some guy's made a deposit on the house.”

  “In that case, I want to get a crew in there, to give it one last going-over, before he moves in. Arrange it.”

  Sacchara nodded. “Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get someone on the crew who knows what kind of stuff we're looking for.”

  After he'd gone, Vizar walked over to the window, and stood there, lost in thought. He was recalling an uncomfortable encounter he'd had several days before. He muttered, “Maybe, if you're lucky, Justin, Caroline herself will come along to show you right where she left it.”

  * * * *

  Someone's in the lab. Caroline saw the stranger come running out of the room, but not before he called something to someone still within. Caroline moved intently in that direction, hopeful that one of her co-workers might finally have worked up enough enthusiasm to look for answers on his own.

  * * * *

  Cole, laughing, jogged back up the hall, oblivious to what lurked behind him. He walked into the master bedroom, and decided to make his mark, so to speak, by using the master bathroom. “I'm staking my claim!” he yelled loudly to Rick.

  Rick, still in the lab, heard him, grinned, and shook his head. The only part of this place he really envied Cole was this lab. The rest was modern, beautiful, but too big for his tastes. He was really happy for his friend, though. Cole had a knack of filling whatever space he went into. He'd have this one full of either people, or junk, or both, in no time at all.

  Rick became aware that the light in the lab had dimmed. He glanced up at the windows, to see if some clouds had rolled in. No, the sun was still shining brightly. Rick felt a shiver of uneasiness travel down his back.

  He was suddenly certain he was no longer alone in the lab. And this other presence had none of the charged momentum that he associated with Cole. Dimly, he registered the distant flush of the toilet. No, whoever was here, it wasn't Cole.

  Rick turned slowly, hesitantly. Every hair on the back of his neck stood erect, and there was gooseflesh dancing down his arms. He'd felt like this before—late at night, on a dark street in a bad area of town. He knew he was being watched.

  What he saw was almost enough to make him choke. It was a woman—but not all of a woman. He'd almost made the mistake—at first—of thinking she was flesh and blood. It wasn't until the light faded from her—in the most inconvenient places—leaving lurid visions of bone and flesh in her centre, that he realised how little she owed to the tangible. "Not much time—" she rasped. He found himself watching her lips with a kind of lurid fascination. They were so totally out of sync with her voice.

  He backed up against the lab bench. He wanted to say, “Get back,” but the words wouldn't come. His throat was suddenly so terribly dry.

  She drifted toward him, and Rick wanted to run. He found he couldn't, but it wasn't only the hard bench at his back that held him. It was the agony in the woman's eyes—the need.

  "Help me!" she begged. The effort was obviously draining her—in more ways than one. She was really beginning to lose it—her would-be flesh dissolving, in an array of exposed reddish gashes. "The meristematic genes," she rasped, loudly, and it seemed to echo in his brain. "Indeterminate. No time. My notes—here—"

  One of her hands reached out toward him. Rick, his eyes wide and wild, arched away as far as he could.

  * * * *

  "Rick!" Cole's voice broke through the trance that was holding him. Rick saw Cole standing in the doorway. His face was as white as Rick knew his own must be. "Rick!" Cole screamed. "Get the hell out of there!"

  * * * *

  Caroline knew she had only a moment more of tangibility. She'd watched Rick moving around the lab, with a sureness and pleasure that had mirrored her own in this place. He hadn't shown any shock at her words—only at her delivery of them. Or, she conceded, maybe he was just so shocked by the sight of her that he didn't even realise what she'd said. Still, he was the best hope she had. "Not dead," she tried to tell him, uncertain whether he could still hear her. "The genes—"

  Frustrated at her fading being, she gathered herself together in one last frenzied burst. Focusing on her hand, she brought all her strength to that one spot—determined to let him know just how real she was.

  * * * *

  Cole moved. He saw Rick arch away as far as he could, but dammit, there was nowhere for him to go. Cole made a dive at the fading phantom.

  * * * *

  At the same moment, Caro lurched forward, to touch Rick's chest. But her hand no longer had the structure of flesh and blood. In her panicky haste, she passed through Rick's chest wall, directly into his lungs.

  With a hiss, she withdrew, horrified at herself for the intrusion into another's body; seeing herself for the first time as these strangers must see her—as a ghastly spectre to be feared and hated. With a sob she dissipated, into her invisible, intangible, out-of-body nothingness—to flee through Rick's stiffened form, and back to where she could mourn her lost mortality alone.

  * * * *

  Cole pushed himself off the floor. “Is it gone?”

  Rick was silent. Cole looked over at him in concern. Rick was on his knees—one hand hanging on to the lab bench for support, the other pressed against his chest. “You okay?” Cole grabbed his arm. “Rick—talk to me. Are you okay?"

  Rick nodded, and started to get up. Cole helped him. “Let's get out of here.” Rick didn't say anything, only nodded again.

  Rick's legs were wobbly, but Cole didn't say anything more. Rick noticed, though, that Cole walked ahead of him down the stairs, as though he thought maybe Rick might take the most direct way down—headfirst.

  Once they were outside, Rick tried to act normal. The only problem was, he felt like he was looking at normal from the outside—trying to figure out exactly what the real Rick would say and do. Apparently, it was enough to satisfy Cole. The tension lines began to ease out of his face. Cole didn't want to talk ab
out what had just happened. Cole wanted to believe everything was okay.

  Only it wasn't. Rick's brain was already puzzling over what the woman had said. "The meristematic genes." Only plants had meristematic cells: cells that were indeterminate, with no other function than to produce more cells. The cells they produced could express their genetic heritage in a number of ways, according to the chemical environment in which they developed. In the case of the cambial meristem, for example, xylem, phloem—even other meristematic cells—were all somehow derived out of the same genetic pattern.

  It meant that, whatever genetic cocktail the woman had been whipping up, it had at least partially contained plant DNA. Plants had been genetically altered to produce mass quantities of animal products. Could she have been working on a project to make animals express some qualities of plant DNA? Rick shook his head. Was it possible? Or even likely? The results of such a project could be disastrous.

  Genes can be inserted into tissues easily enough. Rick had done that kind of research himself, and successfully combined plant protoplasts with fungal cells. Was it likely that someone had gone a step further? With a single gene, or with an entire damned strand? Some life form caught between two worlds. The thought was nothing short of appalling.

  I'm extrapolating. Taking one line, and what I've heard about Genetechnic, and making far more of it than I should.

  But, the woman must have been a Genetechnic worker—she lived in a Genetechnic-owned building, and was obviously familiar with science. Particularly plant science, he thought, remembering her words.

  And, he recalled, she sought me out in the lab.

  Rick glanced over at Cole, just in time to catch Cole looking at him.

  Cole asked casually, “What do you say we go by Jason's?” Cole might joke about his dedication, but he knew Jace was a damn good doctor.

  Do I look that bad? Rick, embarrassed, forced a smile, and tried to act casual about the whole thing. It wasn't easy. “Can't today, Cole. I have work to do,” he mumbled. He saw Cole glance at him again, then frown. Rick could guess the reason why. Cole had his colour back, but Rick had the feeling he was still looking pasty—right down to his lips.