Jason's eyes were dark. Simon found he couldn't read them any more. “Just try to keep me away,” he said.
* * * *
As the first of the sun's rays brushed his skin, Rick once again felt that tingling through his epidermis, like a brief, stimulating electrical charge. When he'd first realised what it was—the excitation of the chloroplasts residing in his cells—he'd been repulsed, like someone who'd just discovered they harboured a particularly nasty parasite. This morning though, he was totally unprepared for the surge of energy that swept through him. It seemed to pick up any wayward hints of illness, and dissipate them within minutes.
He remembered another time, some years back, when he'd felt something similar. He'd been working out, day after day, and there'd come a time when he'd reached some sort of peak. When the exercise, and his diet, and the amount of sleep he'd been getting all came together. It had been one of those times when he could outrun, outjump, outthink, and outlast anybody. That was the way he felt today.
Reason kicked in, and he wondered whether his euphoria had any founding in fact. He wondered if, the moment he stood up, he'd find he couldn't walk, or even stand. Had he been drugged? He discreetly checked the label on the bottle above, but it still appeared to be sterile water they were infusing into his veins.
He'd heard his mini medical crew discussing it during the night. Apparently, some of them thought he should be taken off the IV, but others thought they'd need it in case he experienced some kind of adverse reaction. Words like hyperglycaemia, and diabetic coma, sent a shiver down his spine, and made him want to pull out the IV himself. To someone producing as much sugar as he must be, a pouchful of glucose might prove fatal.
He also learned something else. They were terrified he'd take a turn for the worse, mainly because they were terrified of someone named Raeiti. Rick envisioned a hardened, scarred individual with a trigger finger and a bad accent. Someone he'd never want to meet.
No, he thought, that's not true. I don't give a damn. Whatever this euphoria was, it was making him feel untouchable. And that's dangerous, he tried to tell himself.
The energy running through him was like an itch he couldn't control. It started in his limbs, then moved into his backbone. He started to toss and turn at his forced inactivity—trying to dissipate some of his seemingly bottomless energy reserves. He knew it was unwise—that he was probably giving too much away. His captors would be expecting him to weaken about now. After all, he wasn't on anything but water, and his body hadn't been given any nutrients for hours.
But, in the end, he couldn't help himself. The restlessness became worse and worse, and for the first time in his life, he could sympathise with Cole and his rapid, quick-fire pacing. Finally, agitated and nearly frustrated out of his mind, Rick yanked the IV out of his arm. Then, while a sleepy Rutgers and his bleary-eyed staff watched in astonishment, Rick jumped out of bed and began to jog around the room.
* * * *
Raeiti's fury was burning through the phone lines. Tazo Raeiti was feeling vulnerable. One of his people had disappeared, and Raeiti had traced him to a biohazard area. Now, they'd found him—via the video. They'd also seen something else: flickers of barely seen movement, a thickened shadowing of flesh, the intimation of a female form. “He was lured there, Vizar—and I want to know what did it.” If Raeiti was vulnerable, someone was going to pay for it. “We were told this building was secure.”
“There are some things you can't secure, Raeiti.”
“If this is one of your biohazards, I want to know how to contain it, Vizar.”
“That's why I hired you,” Vizar told him coolly. He hoped the shakiness in his hands wasn't apparent in his voice. “Take a look at the video sequences from several days ago. Justin can find them for you.” He hesitated. “Justin's still available, isn't he?” Daniel had agreed with Raeiti's decision to retain Sacchara, but he hadn't inquired exactly how it was going to be done.
“He's here. I'll ring you when I'm finished.” The line went dead.
* * * *
Vizar studied the phone without seeing it. He was trying to figure out what motivation Caroline could possibly have. Resentment? Insanity? Hunger? The last made his gorge rise, but he managed to suppress it.
Or was this just a generalised hatred for humanity, brought on by the fact that she was no longer totally human?
She should be so weak by now that she'd be unable to get out of bed, let alone take on one of Raeiti's trained combatants. In some way, however, she was getting nutrients, and Daniel needed to figure out what it was. Justin's idea—of starving her out, or at least into submission—had been a good one.
There was always the insanity angle. The adrenaline that could be triggered in psychotics could make them appear abnormally strong, and maybe that's all this was. She'd somehow managed to coax a victim to her side, and then adrenaline had taken over.
They'd zoomed in on Morgan's and Solomon's corpses. The men were swollen and bloated, with mounds of flesh much like Caroline's own. Denaro's records had deliberately failed to list her method for gene transfer. With the speed of transmission they'd seen here, Vizar began to suspect she'd been using a virus.
At one time, months ago, Denaro had mentioned particle guns in her experiments with rats. He'd filed the information in his memory, because, even then, he'd suspected she wasn't being totally forthcoming.
But, it occurred to him now, she could have been deliberately misleading him. Her out-of-body visits hadn't exactly been filled with charm and good will. He knew she hated him, Sacchara, and Genetechnic nearly as much as she now hated herself.
Whatever she'd done, it was easily transmissible to Morgan and Solomon, with the new traits showing up within minutes. The only problem was, none of the genes expressed appeared to be desirable ones. No traits that would be marketable to their present clients. Nothing like what Caroline had promised.
Except for Richard Lockmann. For some reason, in him, her experiments had worked. Rapid, generalised, transgenic potential. Plant genes into animals; plant genes into humans.
Vizar's conscience was bothering him again. The deaths were mounting up. He wanted to believe it wasn't his fault; that he was merely the facilitator between the scientists and their research, between funding and results. But, Denaro had gone beyond his experience, and—up until now—Genetechnic had never deliberately marketed death.
I need to speak to Lockmann, he decided. As soon as they had the rest of Denaro's research, it was time for her termination.
* * * *
Phillip Rutgers was still staring at Richard Lockmann half-an-hour later, but this time, he was watching safely garbed in isolation gear. He wondered if it wouldn't be easier to gear up Lockmann, instead, so the rest of them could act unfettered, but he had a feeling the effort of making Lockmann cover up would be too demanding. Lockmann's vitality made Rutgers feel like a wrung-out dishrag. After hours of semi-sleep, he was feeling only semi-conscious.
Lockmann, however, was going strong. After he'd jogged for a while, he'd politely requested reading material, and was now working his way through his second copy of Planta. His mind appeared to be working as fast as his body. He didn't appear to be able to slow his rate of activity, either. The entire time he was reading, he continued to pace the floor.
Rutgers wished he could feel comfortable with Lockmann's transition; enough, anyway, to close his eyes on the entire thing and get some sleep. But, as he'd already been reminded by the four remaining members of his staff, Lockmann was likely to suffer a burn-out at any moment—a complete metabolic collapse. Soon, if he didn't slow down, they'd have to restrain him.
Rutgers groaned, which made his patient glance his way inquiringly, to stare at him with those vivid green eyes. Weird eyes, with layered pinpoints of crystal that seemed to go on forever. Phillip had already marked in Lockmann's chart that the change in his eyes had given him some trouble. It had been so bad at first that he'd wondered whether his patient was partially blin
d. Lockmann would walk into things, almost as though he wasn't seeing them. And his first efforts with reading had been painful to watch. But, whatever the problem was, Lockmann seemed to have adjusted. He was now, obviously, reading fluidly.
* * * *
Rick had almost panicked when he'd realised what problems his altered vision was going to cause. There was so much light—everywhere—emanated by objects, reflected by objects, rioting through the window, seeping down from the artificial lighting, that Rick was literally blinded by it. His body had told him to jog, but his brain had not yet learned to filter out objects from their auras. To his embarrassment, he'd run into furniture, knocked over chairs, and sent trays flying.
It took a while, but his brain finally began to make the distinctions he needed to manoeuvre. When Rick had requested a journal, it hadn't been for entertainment—he wanted to ensure he could still read. If necessary, he intended to force his intellect to adapt to the new light patterns he was seeing. He couldn't function in his work—in his life—without retaining some of his basic skills.
It was also to stop himself from thinking. He didn't want to think that he might not be able to go back to the life he'd had before—that these people might be here to ensure that he didn't. He'd think about that later, and what exactly he was going to do about it, after he determined how well he could function.
Once he had the journal in hand, he had to fight to tune out the dancing lights around the letters. He was frustrated, and began to pace faster, unaware that he was doing so. By the time he'd read through the first article, his brain had learned to compensate; picking out the printed word from the reflected radiance on the paper.
When the crisis hit him, it wasn't in the form of nutrients—but water. He became aware of a gnawing demand from his body, but it took him a while to place it. Unlike what he was accustomed to, this thirst didn't originate in his mouth or throat, but was more like a systemic ache. He looked around anxiously for a tap.
“Could I get some water?” Rick asked Rutgers. Lockmann was shivering now, and was wobbly on his feet. “I really need some water,” he repeated, a little desperately.
Rutgers snapped out of his sleep-deprivation-induced vagueness. The crisis they'd been expecting had come. “Get him some water,” he told Stacely. “STAT.”
Stacely scurried into the anteroom to get a pitcher and cup.
But it was too late for that. As Rutgers turned back to his patient, Lockmanns’ crystalline eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
* * * *
“I thought you said he was conscious.” Daniel Vizar stood next to Phillip Rutgers. They were both staring down at Lockmann's comatose form on the bed.
“He was. Conscious, active—apparently unimpaired.”
Daniel glanced up at the bottle of liquid being transfused into Lockmann's veins. “Water? Isn't that mostly a placebo?”
Rutgers was nervous about having Vizar at his elbow, and annoyed because he was nervous. “It's something we're trying,” he said. He didn't want to tell Vizar they were scared to go straight to a dextrose drip. That they'd almost lost their patient once already to what had appeared to be hyperglycaemic shock.
Rutgers glanced at the monitors and sighed in relief. This was bottle number two and he could see from Lockmann's vital signs that he was starting to respond.
There was something else that was bothering Vizar. In order to come in here, he'd been forced to don isolation gear. In Denaro's case, they'd set it up for long-term observation, and had a special chamber for that purpose. In this case, however, it seemed weird to him that they were isolating themselves, rather than Lockmann. Wouldn't it have been easier to tent him, rather than themselves? He questioned Rutgers about it.
Lockmann shifted restlessly on the bed, and for the first time, Rutgers smiled. Then, he met the eyes of some of the other people on his staff, and started to laugh. “Wait till he regains consciousness,” he told Vizar. “Then, by all means, give it a try.” Stacely gave a loud guffaw, and Rutgers started laughing so hard he was crying. “I'd love to hear what he says.”
Vizar stared at them like they'd all gone mad.
* * * *
“What's wrong, Jace?” Not only had Jace failed to show up until after lunch, but his expression was so grim that Cole asked worriedly, “Is it Simon?”
That only made it worse. Jason was positively glowering now.
“I hate to be the one to tell you, but you left your bedside manner in the hall. Do you want me to help you look for it?”
“No.” Jason thought for a moment, then made his decision. He drew back the curtain, to reveal Cole's latest guardian, who was reading a sports magazine. The man, Finlay, looked up in surprise. “Whatever you're planning, Cole, it's not going to happen,” Jace said angrily. “And if this guy can't stop you,” he went on, jerking his head toward the man in the chair, “then I'll find a way to do it myself.” He turned around and stomped out of the room.
Cole was startled, but he realised Jace had been forced to put up with a helluva lot in the last few days, and the stress was starting to show. Cole met Finlay's eyes, and hoped his own looked suitably ignorant and confused. “Do you know what the hell he was talking about?” Cole asked.
Finlay's lips curved in a half-smile. “I think he was warning me to keep my eyes open,” he replied.
“Don't let me stop you,” Cole replied. “I just live here.” He added, “Since I'm so popular—when I need to use the bedpan, do you want to call in the other guys, so they can watch, too?”
Finlay smirked and drew the curtain back around the corner of the bed.
* * * *
Raeiti came swiftly through the door, just in time to hear Rutgers’ comment, and the snorts of laughter from the medical team. Vizar noticed him first, and even through the isolation garb, could see that Raeiti's temper was still running hot.
Raeiti ignored him and went directly to Rutgers. He grabbed him by the arm, and spun him around. “Before you get too fond of your patient,” he spat out, looking at Rick the way he would at a cobra, “maybe you should take a look at some videos Mr. Vizar neglected to show you.”
“Raeiti—” Vizar let his anger show.
“No, Vizar,” Raeiti said. “The first thing they should have checked was if he's contagious.”
“That's why we're wearing this gear, Raeiti. Just in case.”
“Not good enough,” Raeiti said coldly. “I want to know how contagious. If he's anything like her, he'll try to use it.”
Rutgers just stared at him, confused. “Come with me, Rutgers,” Raeiti demanded. “The rest of you, too.” He glanced at Daniel Vizar in disgust. “Mr. Vizar will watch your patient while we're gone.” He led the small group through the door.
Daniel Vizar glanced warily at Rick, then moved to follow. Just then, Justin Sacchara came sailing in through the door, to land on the floor. As he was struggling to his feet, two of Raeiti's men took up their stations in the room. They were armed.
* * * *
After the lunch trays had come and gone, Simon repeated his exercise of the night before: he quietly climbed through the window, edged along the ledge, and eased his way in through a window around the corner from his and Cole's rooms. The elderly gentleman in that room was a sound sleeper. This was Simon's third visit, and not once had the fellow awakened.
Simon was feeling weary, but there were details to be worked out. He knew if he did it now, he might have time to get a rest before it was time to leave. But first he needed to locate Jason, and find an empty bed.
He knew better than to stay in his own room. Hylton had no intention of including him—he'd be too much of a liability. Too slow, too weak, and too opposed to killing Richard Lockmann. So, Hylton would find a way to ensure that he wasn't included, probably with barbiturates. Something hidden in his evening meal, perhaps. Anything that would support Hylton's story that they'd tried to bring him along, but it had obviously been beyond him. They hadn'
t even been able to wake him up. It didn't matter that it was fiction. Everyone concerned knew it; even expected it.
I bet Hylton expects me to go along with it, Simon thought. Both of us know it'd be a helluva lot easier on me.
Now, all they'd find was an empty bed. Until Simon chose to meet them.
There'd be no alarm raised. With guards outside the door, Steve Hylton would know who'd instigated his exit. And why.
Simon went to the closet, and borrowed a pair of trousers and a shirt. The shoes were beyond him, so he didn't bother. They'd be enough of a hassle later on.
He took a cautious look into the hall, then walked slowly until he came to the elevator. Then, he went down two floors to a ward he'd visited earlier today, where there were likely to be some empty beds. He poked his head into several rooms, until he came to one that was empty. He went straight to the phone. “Can you page Dr. Stratton, please? Ask him to come to room 229.”
Exhausted, Simon sat down on the bed. Sheryl Matthews had come to check on him this morning, instead of Jace. Jason hadn't even been in to see him today, which was a good indication of his feelings. Simon couldn't afford to worry about it—in fact, he'd do everything in his power to cultivate Jason's anger. From what he'd seen, Genetechnic's people were well-armed, even if their medical staff didn't know how to use their weapons to their best advantage. He'd be willing to bet there'd be others at the complex more able and skilled with weapons, and with no hesitancy using them. Simon knew, as Hylton did, that in his present condition he might well get another bullet for his trouble.
If Jace even suspected such a thing—or cared—he'd find a way to stop him. And Simon couldn't afford to let that happen. Simon knew Hylton too well. The man had already decided Richard Lockmann was a risk. Too great a risk to have at large. He never intended to let him go.
No, Jason might think the worst of him, but at least he wouldn't get in his way. He gave a grim smile. Jace wouldn't be happy to see him, but at least Jace would help him to be prepared.
* * * *
Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy Page 20
