Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Cole snorted with laughter. “Put that way, it does sound weird, doesn't it?” But there was one person he knew would appreciate it even more. He grinned, and shook his head. “Wait'll Simon hears about this.”

  * * * *

  “If he's looking for a job, it's because no one else will take him,” Sacchara told Vizar bitterly. He'd really hoped Lockmann would satisfy Vizar's criteria, so—whatever Daniel had in mind—they could get on with it. “He's so sick he can barely walk.”

  “What's the matter with him?”

  “He says pneumonia, and that he's on antibiotics. If it were up to me, I wouldn't trust him near the lab for a least a couple of weeks.”

  “What about his background?”

  “He could be what we've been looking for.”

  “Qualifications?”

  “Molecular biology. Some genetics.”

  Vizar nodded. “So he might not be up to speed on the genetics, but he could probably catch up.”

  “If he has the energy.”

  Vizar leaned back, thoughtfully. “Any background in zoology?”

  “Two semesters undergrad, plus general bio. Not a whole lot.” Justin turned a page in the dossier. “His work with fungi and viruses has been well-received, but it's all plant stuff. Nothing here on diseases in animals.” He shook his head. “I don't know if it would work.”

  “We tried it the other way around, and look where we are now.”

  “Maybe Caroline will clue him in,” Sacchara muttered.

  Daniel ignored it. “I suggest we try him. We'll plant something in the private lab at the house.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something that looks enough like Caro's research to get his attention.”

  “And how will we know that we've got it? His attention, I mean.”

  Vizar smiled. “That video set-up in the lab—”

  Sacchara interrupted. “It never worked with Caro. She just turned it off.”

  “That's because she knew about it. Caro put up with it in her lab here, even though she found ways around it.” Vizar chuckled. “She never really bought the idea that we were trying to help her out, by recording her procedures.”

  Sacchara smiled in reminiscence. “Remember how mad she got?” Then he sobered. “If she'd been a little more open, she might not be in this fix right now.”

  * * * *

  Since Cole already knew that he'd been away, Rick felt easy about doing a little research openly. He reached under the sofa and pulled out a couple of books he'd hastily tucked away when Cole had arrived. He turned to a marked page in one and started to read—quickly becoming deeply absorbed.

  Cole went into the kitchen, and came back a few minutes later with several beefy sandwiches for each of them, and a glass of juice for Rick. He put one of the plates on top of the passage Rick was reading. “Eat,” he commanded.

  “Already did,” Rick said, putting the sandwich aside so he could go back to his reading. “But, thanks,” he added vaguely, as an afterthought.

  “Force some of this down your gullet, you damned ingrate.”

  Rick looked up quickly at that. But, Cole was smiling. “Got your attention.” He handed the glass to Rick. In a falsetto, he added, “Now, be a good little man, and drink your juice.” He grimaced. “I feel like my mother.”

  Rick grinned. “As long as you don't start sitting in rockers, and hacking people up in showers you should be okay.”

  Cole decided to get back to what he considered was the point. “I think you should stay here tonight. You shouldn't be on your own, especially in that place.”

  “I'm not alone. I have my cat.” At the expression on Cole's face, Rick grew frustrated. He was tired of being sick, and having everyone—from Jace with his threats of hospitalisation, to a lady at the grocery store to that guy Sacchara from Genetechnic—offer him advice. “Cole, I don't need your help. I'm grateful for what you've done, but there's stuff I have to do.” He handed Cole back the empty glass, and stood up, books in hand. “My car's around the corner. I picked it up after I left Denaro's.”

  Cole nodded, set the glass on the table, and leaned back in his chair. He smiled pleasantly. “Saw it.” He yawned deliberately. “All that walking. To Denaro's. To your place. You must be exhausted.” He yawned again, watching what effect it had on the other man.

  Rick yawned and staggered a little. His voice was slightly slurred. “I saw her again today.” He seemed surprised; startled that he'd let down his guard. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “But Sacchara couldn't.”

  “That's because she's a ghost, Rick,” Cole said calmly. He stood up and removed the books from Rick's limp fingers. Then he stood there, watching while Rick tried to make his way to the front door.

  “She's not—a ghost. I don't think so. But, only me. I need to know why.”

  Cole went over and steered Rick back toward the sofa. Rick didn't argue with him. “Ghosts are picky that way,” Cole said. “Selective about who they visit.”

  Rick abruptly sat down. “So tired,” he said, frustrated. “Work—to find out what she did to me—”

  At that, Cole frowned. “Did to you?” he asked levelly.

  Rick was having trouble keeping his eyes open now. “When she touched me,” he admitted, appalled somewhere deep inside that he was revealing so much. Cole would never stay out of it if he found out. But, he couldn't seem to keep himself from talking. “Touched me here,” Rick said, rubbing his chest. “Did something to me. The pneumonia—

  Cole threw a blanket over him. Talk about your nightmares. It worried him that Rick might really believe some of this shit.

  “S'why I can see her,” Rick slurred. “Not getting better,” he went on. “Have to stop it.” He raised bleary eyes to Cole. “She's a monster. Hates them.” Rick gave Cole a weak shove. “Stay out of it. Jace and Simon, too. Too dangerous.”

  “Danger's my middle name,” Cole joked, for something to say.

  “Protect yourself,” Rick rasped out. “Don't let them get you,” he murmured. His eyes closed and he started snoring softly.

  Cole picked up Rick's empty juice glass. He peered down into it, then gave the contents a sniff. Shrugging, he looked from it to Rick and muttered, “Right on time.”

  * * * *

  When Rick awoke the next morning, Cole was already long gone. He'd left a note: “Glad you decided to stay after all. See you tonight. P.S. The soup's from Gena. I tested it, and I'm still alive, so you should be safe.”

  Rick grinned. “'Decided to stay’ my ass,” he muttered. “Wonder what he put in my drink?”

  He found a note from Jason by the phone. Apparently, Jason had already come and gone. “You were sleeping so soundly I decided to leave you to it.”

  Rick grin ended in a yawn. “Thanks to you, Jace,” he muttered. He had no doubts about where Cole had picked up the sleeping powder.

  Rick was feeling so much better this morning he could afford to be forgiving. Optimism must be in direct proportion to good health, he decided.

  He rummaged through his jacket pockets, worried for a minute that Cole might have hidden his car keys. No, they were there. Cole must have known I would've walked if I had to.

  When he got to Denaro's house he was actually whistling. Until he stepped inside.

  Someone was there. He heard a thump and scuffle from the second floor, and the cat was nowhere in sight. Lately, the cat had made a point of greeting him whenever he came in. Except when Denaro was already there. At those times, the cat made himself scarce.

  But, that wasn't Denaro upstairs now. Whatever else she is, Rick thought, she's not noisy. No, whoever had arrived here ahead of him was still snug within a human form, and—Rick winced as a crash echoed upstairs—a clumsy one at that.

  I have to move the car. He knew he had no chance to outrun or out-fight anyone right now, so he decided to outwit them instead. He shifted his car down the block, then waited until his unwanted visitor came back out the door.

&nbs
p; It was Sacchara. Rick sighed. If the man had given him any notice, it must have been closer to twenty-four minutes than twenty-four hours. What the hell was he up to this time? Rick decided to ask him.

  He pulled out into the lane, drove up, and turned into the driveway. Sacchara looked surprised, even stunned, but Rick pretended not to notice. “Hi, Justin!” he called out cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”

  Sacchara smiled. “Thought I'd bring you a welcoming gift.” He walked over to a car parked in front of the house next door. Rick made a quick mental note of the model and licence number. Sacchara pulled out a box of chocolates. “I know it's a few weeks late, but welcome to Genetechnic,” he said.

  Rick grinned. “You make me sound like one of your crew.”

  Sacchara smiled. “Maybe it's something we should talk about.”

  “Did you want to come in for a drink? We could talk now,” Rick said. He mentally crossed his fingers. If the guy said yes, all he'd be able to offer him was water—and out of the tap, at that. Rick's show of having “moved in” didn't extend to filling the cupboards in the kitchen.

  “No, I just came by to give you our customary welcoming gift. Better late than never.” Sacchara hesitated. “I'm glad you got here when you did.” There was an inquiry implicit in his tone.

  Rick smiled again. “One of my friends spiked my juice so I'd spend the night at his place. He doesn't think I'm taking good enough care of myself.”

  Sacchara studied him carefully. Rick felt like one of his own specimens. “You look a lot better than yesterday.”

  “I feel much better. Pretty soon, I'll be ready to go back to work.”

  “Great,” said Sacchara, with real enthusiasm in his voice for the first time. “But before you do, make sure to give me a call.”

  * * * *

  The moment Rick stepped back into the entryway, he knew that, for the second time, he wasn't alone. The identity of this visitor, however, was a lot easier to ascertain. This visitor always sent gooseflesh shivering down his spine.

  Maybe it was because he was feeling so much stronger today—or maybe because he'd just encountered Sacchara, but Rick was suddenly angry. And tired of being used. Cole was right, he thought—if Denaro had chosen to play gene roulette, and been trashed as a consequence, she had to be held at least partially accountable. And he wasn't going to let this hold she had on him—for whatever reason it existed—let her take him down in the dumpster with her.

  He stood there for a moment—nurturing his anger, and appreciating the way it chased all the gooseflesh away. A healthy anger. Then he deliberately re-opened the front door and slammed it, hard—enjoying the way it echoed off the cold, empty, designer walls. “Hi, Honey!” he yelled loudly, tossing the box of chocolates to the floor, where the sound echoed like a gunshot. “I'm ho-ome!”

  He began to pace as a way of ordering his thoughts. “Cole's right,” he began, lecturing to the empty hall. “If you were working for those lying sons-of-bitches, you deserve what you got!” he said harshly. “Everybody in the industry's heard of them. They're damned successful, but they're also twisted. Are you twisted, too, Denaro?” He was raging now—aware she'd been trying to manipulate him—and suspecting that at least part of his illness was mechanically derived from some stray molecules Denaro had released into his lungs.

  “I'm not going to let you use me, Denaro.” He stopped for a minute, and looked around the big room. She was still here—he could feel her.

  “If I decide to help you, it'll be on my terms.” He started pacing again. He dreaded what was coming, but he'd be damned if he'd let her know it. “Time's running out—for both of us. Contrary to what your friend, Justin Sacchara, thinks, I'm not interested in joining his stinking company—even if I get to live for free in a house as charmingly cold, sterile, and uninviting as this one.” Rick stopped, and cleared his throat before he went on. I just wish I could close my eyes. “If you were strong enough to pull that little stunt in your lab that day, you're damn well strong enough to come out and tell me what you need.”

  * * * *

  "Notes—"

  Her rasping voice, when it came, was from behind him—and he whirled around, startled, to face her. He suspected she'd done it intentionally, and his anger—which was beginning to cool—climbed a notch higher. Good, he thought. It gave him more strength to dictate terms. “First of all—no more games. That means no more creeping up behind me. You need me, remember?”

  He stared at her for a moment, realising that a lot about her had changed since he'd first seen her. That woman had been terrified, and desperately in need. The look in her eyes had haunted his dreams. This woman had gone beyond that. She was bitter, angry, and nearly without hope. He couldn't forget the malevolence in the look she'd given Sacchara.

  Judging from the way she tended to lose mass, they'd better make this fast. “You want me to get your notes. Where are they?” She faded away, and Rick frowned in frustration. He didn't enjoy these little encounters, and he didn't exactly want to prolong this one.

  There was a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. Denaro was now at the other end of the big room, her hand halfway into one of the decorative columns. "Here—”

  Rick waited until she'd moved before he put his own hand on the cool wood. The last thing he wanted was to touch her again. Even then, he hesitated. He felt like she was breathing down his neck—except, in this form, she didn't breathe. “How do I open it?”

  He had to strain to hear her. "Twissss—" The long hissing sound gave him the creeps. It took him a moment to decipher her meaning. Apparently, speaking without a palette takes some getting-used-to. He tried to conceal his shudder of distaste.

  He studied the column carefully. It was smooth, painted wood, broken only by decorative rings near the top. What the hell did she want him to twist? The ring? He tried the first one in line.

  It refused, at first, to twist. He didn't know if it was just torqued down, or whether he was still too weak to be giving the action any real power. He looked around for Denaro, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Don't I get a hint?” he muttered.

  Frustrated, he studied it for a moment, then went over to one of his rented tables, and picked up Joe Cherub, his good luck charm. He'd brought the plaster statue over from his own house in one of his weaker moments, to make the cold room seem less sterile. “Joe,” he said, “it's time to strut your stuff.” He whacked the base of the statue against the stubborn ring.

  He tried the ring again. It didn't exactly twist—the glue gave under the pressure, and the ring cracked, and slid down the column. There was nothing under it but unpainted presswood. “Now, look what you've done, Joe,” Rick said aloud. “You've broken the damn column.” He stepped back and stared at the exposed wood, lost in thought. Was Denaro screwing with him? Somehow, he didn't think so. She was too desperate for that.

  There were two more wooden rings, and Rick sighed. He might be more energetic than yesterday, but he wasn't ready for a major re-decorating project. “I'll do one more,” he said aloud, sure that Denaro could hear him.

  He pulled over a chair to reach the next ring. Balancing on the two flimsy arms, he decided he'd have to do it in one go—or else. He put all of his energy into one enormous twisting motion.

  The ring gave easily—spinning almost freely on what were, apparently, well-oiled threads. Rick, prepared for a little stubborn resistance, wasn't the least bit prepared for the free-wheeling motion.

  He flung out an arm, to grab the column as he sailed by, but his fingers couldn't get any grip on the smooth wood. With a loud, “Yow-w!", he toppled over on to the black and white marble of the tiled floor.

  “Ow!” he grunted. He rolled over, and found he was staring Joe Cherub right in the face. “Good luck charm—hell,” he muttered, rubbing the lump on his forehead. “Next time, I'm leaving you home.”

  It was a few minutes before Rick pushed himself up off the floor. He righted the chair, then climbed back up to see wh
at new damage he'd managed to do. At this rate, he'd be out another paycheque for repairs.

  He gave the ring another twist, and realised it was freely spinning. Carefully, he slid the ring up along the glossy paint. He could see there was a skinny, but wide gap in the wood.

  How the hell had Denaro ever reached it? The chair plus his considerable height must have made this well above Caroline Denaro's head.

  And a damn good hiding place. Rick reached up, to put his hand into the hole. He hesitated, remembering Denaro's spectral hiss. He wondered if he was putting his hand right into an adder's nest.

  * * * *

  Aaron Solomon wondered whether he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It had to do with incipient paranoia—the certainty that you're being constantly watched.

  Only, there was nothing imaginary about it here. During the past few weeks, security had been upgraded to the point where you couldn't pick your nose without the image being recorded for posterity. Solomon could understand it in the isolation chamber, where they were keeping a record of Caroline Denaro's activity—or lack of it—but the video link now followed him throughout the facility, even into—he was certain—the privacy of the apartment they'd so graciously provided him.

  It was there that he worried most about paranoid delusions. He realised he'd become almost accustomed to Denaro's spectral appearances—they still had the power to frighten him, but there were actually times when he was almost matter-of-fact about it. Sometimes, when he was alone like this, he'd wonder if that was a symptom of mental illness. Especially since no one else had admitted to him that they'd seen her.

  He scanned the room again, looking for a video camera. No sign of one, so they wouldn't have his nervous tic on tape—yet. The damned cameras were so refined they could catch every flaw.

  The thought echoed in his brain. He considered the flaws Caroline Denaro exhibited, every time she appeared—the missing skin, the exposed tissues, the occasional glimmer of bone. What would the video cameras do with footage like that?

  Footage like that. He'd always assumed the cameras couldn't record her image; that the otherworldliness of her would negate any resonance on film. Can it be that they know about Denaro's migrations—and haven't said anything about it? Solomon frowned. As long as they kept him afraid, he'd be too scared to do anything.