Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  The artificial wind was blowing the dust and debris on the roof to hell and back. Cole raced for the door of the helicopter, just as it was jerked open.

  He froze. Simon wasn't the only one playing with guns. The helicopter held six people, all with medical masks and gowns. Most of them were armed, but for some reason Cole couldn't understand, they all kept their weapons pointed down. He finally realised that Simon must have switched the direction he was aiming, and only one man apparently hadn't noticed.

  Hadn't noticed, or had decided he was too close to the thrashing figure on the stretcher for Simon to risk a shot. This man held the muzzle of a very non-medical apparatus pointed right at Cole.

  They won't shoot me—

  Real people didn't do that. Nobody he knew, anyway. Things like that only happened in the bad part of town—or in the movies—not on the roof of a modern hospital—

  Then he remembered that Simon carried a gun. And, apparently, knew how to use it.

  He wouldn't let himself think any further than that. Cole was too angry. The hours of worry and frustration had taken their toll. These people from Genetechnic—and he knew that's who they must be—who did they think they were? His anger escalated another notch. Guns?!

  What do I do now? This kind of scenario was beyond his experience. Even now, some part of him was saying none of this could possibly be real. Cole shifted restlessly. He wasn't the kind of person who could hold still for long. Confrontation usually nudged him into action.

  As Cole's eyes locked on the steady hand that held the gun, adrenaline made the decision for him. The last of his fear was suddenly translated into fury.

  For hauling Rick out of here like this—for making me think Rick was dead—for making Rick sick in the first place. It might have been Denaro who'd touched him, but Genetechnic had sponsored her research. They have only one reason for taking Rick away from here, and it won't be to help him.

  Cole reached in and grabbed the end of Rick's stretcher.

  He couldn't see the gowned man's face—only his eyes. But, it was obvious to Cole that the moron was smiling. For just a moment, he wondered if he should yield and back away, but it wasn't like he was alone. Simon was behind him. And Simon had a gun.

  Cole refused to yield. He glared back at the man, his expression never wavering, and slid the stretcher a few centimetres closer to the door.

  Somehow, he figured if he could just outstare the guy, he'd win. That somehow he'd dodge the bullet, if it came. Cole edged the stretcher a little closer.

  He never heard it. The rumble and chugging noise of the helicopter was too loud to hear the soft pfut-pfut of the silenced weapon. At the same moment, Simon ploughed into him like a runaway truck. Cole didn't even know he'd been shot until he was on the tarmac and the helicopter lifted away from his head, tipping him off its metal skids.

  Right onto Simon.

  “Didn't anyone ever tell you,” Simon groaned, “not to take on six armed people at once?”

  “It didn't stop you—” Cole grunted.

  “I was armed, too, you fool.” He rolled over. “Are you hit?”

  “I don't feel anything—” Cole found a leaking patch on his forearm. “I still don't feel anything.”

  "You will." Simon pulled back his sleeve and checked it. There was a hole in Cole's forearm. It was bleeding heavily. “Can you move your fingers?” Cole wriggled them. “Just a graze,” Simon said dismissively.

  “Graze, nothing,” Cole muttered. “That's a genuine, honest-to-God hole.” He stared at it a moment in disbelief. It took him a moment longer to realise that the bloody marks on his sleeve weren't all his own.

  Simon's hand was dripping with the stuff. Cole grabbed it and twisted to look at him. Simon's face was white, and there was a large stain spreading from across the front and back of his right shoulder.

  “Shit, Simon!" Cole didn't bother unbuttoning his shirt. He slipped it off over his head and bound it tightly under Simon's arm and around his shoulder. “I was beginning to think you knew about this stuff,” he grunted, as he pulled his makeshift bandage tight.

  “Better than you know about this—that's for sure,” Simon complained.

  “Lie down. I'm going to get help.”

  “No way. If we're going to get Rick back, there's some stuff we've got to do.”

  “How'd you get shot, anyway?” Cole asked, momentarily forgetting that Simon had knocked him to the ground. “And how come none of them did?” Cole asked, feeling bloodthirsty now that he'd seen all the blood both of them were leaking. “You had the gun—”

  “I was too busy hiding behind you, you fool. Now, wrap up your own little scratch, and let's get downstairs, before I forget the serial numbers.”

  “Scratch, nothing! It's starting to hurt—”

  “Told you—” Simon got up on his knees, and leaned on his good arm. “You'll have to help me.”

  For lack of anything better, Cole took off one of his socks and wrapped it around his arm. Then, holding one end in his teeth, he managed a rough knot.

  Simon looked sick. He gagged. “Shock can make you sick enough,” he groaned. “Did you have to add your stink to it?”

  Cole hurriedly stuck his foot back into his shoe. “Shut up and save your strength.” Putting one hand under Simon's arm, he helped him get to his feet. “Do you want me to carry you?” he asked.

  “No,” Simon said seriously. The only way Cole could manage it was over his shoulders. “Probably make the bleeding worse.” He didn't say whose.

  Cole draped Simon's good arm over his shoulder, and put his other arm around Simon's waist. Simon could feel the blood from Cole's wound running across his ribs. “You're going to bleed all over my shirt,” Simon complained.

  “Very funny.”

  “If that sock's as filthy as it smells, your arm's probably going to rot off.”

  Cole knew Simon was talking to keep his mind off the pain. If the other man's shoulder was hurting even half as bad as the hole in his own arm, it's a wonder Simon was still conscious. Nevertheless, Simon's next words, “We can walk a little faster. At this rate, I'll die of old age by the time we get downstairs,” prompted Cole to retort, “Before you say any more, give me your gun. I'll shoot your mouth off for you.”

  When they'd made it down the first flight of stairs, Cole pushed open the door to the top level. Apparently, this was a half-floor; used mainly for storage. “Where's a wheelchair when you need one?” Cole grunted.

  “Is there a bullet in your leg you didn't tell me about?” Simon asked sarcastically.

  “No, but there'll be a boot up your ass if you don't shut up. The pain'll take your mind off your shoulder.” Cole half-dragged Simon over to the elevator. “This time, Simon—no matter what you say—we're taking the elevator.”

  “Lazy.”

  “Dumbass.”

  When the doors slid open, Cole saw their distorted reflections in the metal walls of the elevator, and sighed. Simon twisted his head to look at him. “Not only do we let Rick get away, but we make fools of ourselves in the process,” Cole remarked dismally, staring vaguely at his blood dripping on to the floor. “Jace ain't going to like this.”

  Simon sighed his agreement. “And when he finds out what I need to do, he's going to like it even less.”

  * * * *

  Jason and Sheryl Matthews were halfway through a systematic search of the south wing. Jason had a feeling it was a useless gesture, but it was one they had to make. Neither he nor Sheryl thought Rick would have been able to leave the hospital unassisted, and Jason—knowing that Genetechnic was probably eager to get their documents back—was sure he'd been removed to some other location, where they could question him.

  Jason was scared. If Cole and Simon were right, and Rick did have WTV, it might not take Genetechnic long to find out. Especially if his symptoms were anything like the ones Denaro had manifested.

  Jason saw Sheryl coming out of a room she'd just searched, and asked her, “How was Rick?
The last time you checked him?”

  Sheryl met his eyes, then sighed. “Not good,” she admitted. “He had some type of ulcers developing at the site of the IV.”

  Jason remembered one of the symptoms of Wound Tumour Virus: "tumours develop wherever wounding has occurred." Apparently, Rick's body considered the IV punctures a wound. This confirmation of his suspicions did nothing to ease his mind—but it did a lot to confirm his doubts about Rick's ability to wander out of here on his own.

  “We'll get somebody to help us search the rest of the floor,” Sheryl said. “I think things have settled down enough after the blackout.” She checked her watch. “The police should be here soon. I'd like to have the rest of this level checked before they arrive.”

  “Do you know where Cole and Simon went?”

  “The two men who were with you?”

  Jason nodded.

  “They took the stairs. I think they had some idea about checking the exits.”

  “I hope they have better luck than we've had—”

  “Not exactly—” Simon's cool voice interrupted him.

  Jason turned, and his eyes widened. "Jesus H. Christ!” he swore. "What the hell happened?!" In the next instant he was at Simon's side, taking Cole's place as Simon's support. "Get a gurney!" he yelled in the general direction of the nurses’ station. There was nobody there. "Damn it all!" Jason swore again. “Empty room?” he yelled to Sheryl.

  “There! To your right—” It was one of the last ones she'd checked on their search for Rick. Sheryl Matthews was already running. She picked up the phone and punched in a code blue, then flagged down George Lagordia for help.

  “We found Rick,” Cole said, “but we didn't get him back."

  Jason pushed open the door with his foot, and half-carried Simon over to the bed.

  Cole followed behind. “You should see Simon with doors,” he babbled. “They had a helicopter, Jace,” he went on.

  Jason glanced over at Cole, and saw the blood leaking freely through his makeshift bandage. At this rate, even Cole would bleed to death before they got help in here. “Shut up, Cole,” he ordered, but his tone was gentle. “Sit in that chair, and put your arm up in the air.”

  Jason stretched Simon out on the bed. Simon's face was white and his eyes were closed. He had more blood coming out the back than the front, and at first Jason assumed the blood on his shirt was his, too. He shoved the oxygen mask above the bed over Simon's face, then turned him on to his side. Using a hand on either side, he applied direct pressure front and back to Simon's shoulder. He wanted to slow the bleeding until Sheryl could get here with help and equipment. “Simon—are you still with me?” he asked anxiously.

  Simon's eyes opened a squint and he peered at Jace, then smiled wryly. With his good arm, he pulled the mask slightly away from his face. “Unfortunately, yes. Cole's stinky feet work a lot like smelling salts,” he muttered. “And that gentle massage you're giving me doesn't help either.”

  “You wanted me to remind you about that phone call,” Cole mumbled.

  Simon's eyes cleared. “Three eights, three fives, three twos,” he said. “Do it now, Cole.”

  Cole stood up and staggered over to the phone, and started punching buttons. “Do I punch ‘one’ first?” he asked wearily, listened for a moment, then started punching buttons again.

  "Sit down!" Jason demanded, exasperated. There was a spreading pool of red on the floor, and he suddenly realised that most of the blood on Simon's shirt was Cole's. “You'll bleed to death!”

  Simon reached up and gripped Jason's arm. “No, Jace. Let him call.” To Cole, he said, “Just tell them it's me—and where I am. They'll come.”

  Jason saw the expression on Simon's face, and the words died on his lips. “What's this all about?”

  Cole finished speaking into the phone, then stood there, staring at it stupidly. “Simon's making arrangements,” he told Jace slowly. “He's going to get Rick back—” He gave Jason a small smile, then quietly crumpled on to the floor at his feet.

  * * * *

  “Pull that curtain.”

  The lure of the sun on his skin had pulled Rick nearly back to consciousness. The endless thrashing—an almost autonomic response to the painful pressure in his throat and lungs—had eased, and he had the confused impression that his body was sucking in the filtered sunlight like a giant sponge.

  “He's not moving,” one of the men said.

  “Is he dead?” asked another.

  The loudness of the helicopter motor made it impossible for them to hear his breathing. One of them checked the portable monitor and shook his head. “Still there. He must like the motion. Too bad it's going to stop soon.” The tempo of the engine changed, then slowed.

  “Where do we stick him?”

  “Top level. The building's sealed off down below, and they want quick access to the landing pad.”

  “Let's go.”

  For a few moments, Rick's face and arms were bathed in sunlight. It was oddly satisfying, in the way that strong hunger is temporarily sated by the sweetness of a chocolate bar, or a thick steak dissipates a protein craving.

  The next moment it was gone.

  The corridors were dimly lighted. The fictional chemical spill had extended to a shut-down of all but emergency lights. Faced with the lighting crunch, his caretakers decided to move Rick's stretcher into one of the few rooms with large windows.

  “How are we going to isolate him in here?” The voice was annoyed.

  “Tell Vizar we need light. I can't work in the dark.” Rutgers was tetchy. “It's just too risky.”

  “Moving him like that was risky,” the other man, Sandler, replied. “One stray breeze, and he could have done us all. I'll also tell Vizar we need suits in here right away.”

  * * * *

  Eric Sterner felt like a fool. Calloway had asked him for protection, but he hadn't complied. Not his fault, really—more a matter of finances and company rules. I should have been willing to stretch both—-

  Now, he was being called in, to deal with a kidnapping, and two gunshot wounds. Far more in both finances, and administration costs. At least Blaisden should be happy, he thought. He won't have to deal with any lab tests now, unless Richard Lockmann is returned to the scene of the crime. Given the parties involved, he doubted that any of them would ever see Lockmann again.

  The first thing he noticed when he reached the third floor was that his people were standing around. “What's going on here?”

  Deanna Adamson, of their Forensics Unit, was obviously annoyed. “They won't let us in,” she told him quietly. “I was just about to ring you.”

  Eric approached the two figures in coveralls standing outside the door to Lockmann's former room. “What's this about?” he asked. “My Forensics people need to get in here. No one else is supposed to have access.”

  “We already have a Forensics team on site.”

  Eric turned toward the voice. This man was casually dressed, in slacks and a sports shirt. He held out a card to Sterner: Defensive Security Office.

  “Steven Hylton. If you need to see my credentials, I have a badge I can flash.” He smiled.

  “I don't get it,” Eric Sterner said. “Why your department? Is it because Genetechnic's involved? Or is it the kidnapping?”

  “Actually, neither,” Hylton smiled wryly. “It's more of a personal matter.” He hesitated, and his smile widened. “I understand we've been involved in this for a while. We just didn't know it.” He seemed to find the last amusing, as did some of the others on his team. There was a hastily suppressed sound of muffled laughter.

  Eric frowned. Calloway, he'd been able to understand. He'd even admired the way the man had stood up for a friend. This was something else. He didn't know where Hylton was coming from. “What about my report?”

  “This one?” Hylton held up the sheathe of typed copy that should have been residing back at police headquarters. “I'll file it for you.”

  Eric nodded. He knew
when he'd been dismissed. “That's it,” he told his Forensics people. “We're out of here.” He headed for the elevator. As he waited for the doors to open, he turned back to Hylton. “Tell Calloway I hope he heals fast—”

  Hylton nodded. “I will.”

  Eric Sterner gave an answering nod and disappeared between the sliding doors.

  * * * *

  Jace stayed with Simon as the anaesthesiologist went to work. The surgeon, Addison Kramer, was already in the room, and Simon asked him sleepily, “Delayed Primary Closure?”

  “Yes,” Kramer agreed. “How'd you know?”

  “Yeah, Simon,” Jace asked him sharply, “how did you know?”

  “Remember last year, when I broke my leg skiing?”

  “That time when it gave you so much pain, but you wouldn't let me look at it?”

  Simon nodded. “Well, I didn't break it skiing,” he admitted.

  “You got shot?” Jason's voice reflected his surprise.

  “Intercepted a bullet,” Simon corrected. Then, he was asleep.

  “Dr. Stratton, do you want to assist?”

  Jason nodded. “Damn right, I'll assist,” he told Kramer, more sharply than he'd intended.

  Kramer grinned. “Surprised you, didn't he?”

  “He sure did. Once you've opened him up, let me take a good look. Maybe I can figure out what makes him tick—”

  Kramer chuckled and bent to take a closer look at Simon's shoulder.

  Chapter Nine

  Caroline Denaro leaned against the door jamb, and made herself look at what she'd done. See what thou hast wrought. No amount of experimental error—no mutation—no perceived wrongs could excuse the vengeance she'd enacted on the two men lying upon the floor. "Compulsion,” she whispered, but the word was a hollow mockery—of her research; of the person she used to be. A person she could barely remember. Somewhere, years before, she'd become lost in her research. Her goals had all revolved around the spiral helix of a twisted length of DNA.