by Anna Gaffey
Another rush of imagery, direct from Con into Jake: the well-worn interior of a Dome shuttlepod, of a fueling station and endless silver stockpile tanks. Young Jake frowning at a tablet, his fingers sifting through formulae. The grey-gold mountains of a stellarcore storing ground. A thick white protective suit with polymerine faceplate. Young Jake sitting beside him in decon while the Dome air sampling system whooshed, collecting their breath. Then out and into a central passage, the main entrance to the skylit uppermost level of Saint Paul Dome, and…
—It was everywhere. Everywhere—
Sunlight mingled with the containment and filtered coldly through the polymerine. It must’ve been past the first shift lunch hour, because the market carts were open. People from all levels of Dome life had crowded into the area: working, people running to and from Courses, cramming for Courses, researching with colleagues, drilling facts, performing maintenance checks on conduits, marketing. A woman traded canned beans for a half a kilo of dried apples and distractedly handed a fruit to her companion, a girl of about fourteen. Four engineering crew patched a containment conduit, their conversation low and intense. At a common area nearby, a table of Course students argued with genial aggression about Reza and Ayckbourn and other names Con didn’t recognize.
No matter where he turned, it was the same. Every person was shrouded in grey. The fog, the sucking cloudiness covered everyone, and no one took any notice.
“What’s wrong?”
He turned to see Jake gazing at him with concern. Con shook his head. “No—yes—I can’t—can we go to my compartment?”
“Absolutely. What are you feeling? Maybe we should go straight to the labs.”
“No.” He almost shouted it. “Please.”
Jake looked taken aback, then a shrewd glint came into his eye. “It’s fine, just ease, okay?” He took Con’s arm and guided them both through the endless, milling crush of people, keeping up a calming commentary. “Just ease. It’s fine. I’ve got the equipment. I’ll run another monitor on you, see what’s going on with this. We’ll fix it, whatever it is. You’ll be fine.”
It was so typically confident, so typically Jake, but what good was that brilliance and confidence trapped and unaware under the murk? Con wanted to weep.
Maybe he was seeing something people didn’t see normally. Like existence of the soul, or maybe personality, or health. The body’s personal containment field. Protection. It didn’t have to be negative.
Under normal circumstances, he could’ve convinced himself, if only the creeping miasma didn’t look so damned virulent. The way it writhed around Jake’s head looked so wrong, so antithetical to life. Worse, it gave off a sense of satiation and contentment. Whatever it was, it was used to being there.
People whirled around them. Con brushed elbows with a middle-aged woman and a skinny man. Each time, a threatening warmth swept through him, and he wrapped his arms close to avoid further contact. Was he imagining this? Entries and scan points and corridors passed in a flurry of sparkling containment, and then they were outside Con’s compartment. Jake lifted Con’s limp hand and swiped Con’s thumb, and the door shot open.
The compartment was a 1000 cube, the standard assignment for single Defense folks on call. It had the basic furnishings of lighting, kitchen, warm and cold storage doors, bland settee, wall bed, table, all familiar only because of their nondescript ubiquity. All dusty and bare except for the table, which had a tablet well and piles of Con’s research gems. Other than that, he kept it reasonably clean, with nary a compromising document out on display.
“I’m gonna—” Con stabbed a thumb at the bathroom.
“Sure, great, whatever.” Jake busied himself with his bags. “It’ll take me a bit to set up properly anyway. Take your time.”
“Just a minute.” Con locked himself in, but he didn’t have a pressing need to piss. Instead he looked in the mirror.
No soiling haze surrounded his head. He was still clean.
Con tried to organize his thoughts. Out of however many people they’d just seen—hell, for all he knew, out of all the people in Saint Paul Dome, or in any Dome—he was clean. Some effect of the serum? Or was it a hallucination, some screwed-up side effect for his eyes only? How could he possibly know the difference? He choked back. What the fuck, anyway?
Calm down, officer. He laid a palm against the mirror and tried to regulate his breathing. He was whole, he was fine. He’d made the agreement, and Connor Griffin did not renege out of fear of the unknown or unexpected circumstances. So he’d continue down the path. Regardless of what he saw or didn’t see. He disinfected his hands in the sonic tray and smoothed his face into its regular mask of simplicity.
Back in the main area of the compartment, Jake had pushed aside the gems on the table and spread out his own. He jammed a fresh gem into his scanning tablet and pressed a tracker onto Con’s port. “Sit.”
Con perched on the settee and endured the scanning, and Jake’s growing exclamations at the readings.
“…incredible. Incredible. Con, just look at this, will you?” He grinned like a fiend and waved the tablet under Con’s nose, but pulled it back before Con could see more than a few squiggly lines. “Okay, so it’s incomprehensible to you, I suppose, but—just to be absolutely clear, how do you feel? Any pain? Even mild pain?” He grinned wider still. “Strange sensations that could be interpreted as pain by us mere mortals of inveterate fragility?”
“No.”
“Hmmph.” Jake eyed him sideways. “No more funny things vision-wise?”
Con had to say something now. The grey fog hadn’t dissipated after twenty-four hours. Suppose it never did? No. He’d wait. “A little blurriness.”
“That’s not just the stoicism talking?” Jake was really giving him the hairy eyeball now. “So. ‘Blurriness’ would describe what you saw out there. And on me, back at Monticello? Do you still see it on me?”
“Yes,” Con said. “I guess.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Sort of like a grey…veil. It moves with you.”
“Huh.” Jake frowned, and tapped at his tablet. “Physically, your vision looks good. No cataracts or glaucoma or anything like that, no deterioration of the optic nerve. And your brain’s healthy and happy to be here, according to the base scan. Occipital cortex function is fine. So it’s likely psychosomatic. Though that’s not really my area.” Guilt briefly flashed across his face. “It must’ve been the pain after all. I didn’t plan for that. But—well! We’ll compensate. I worked a bit on the tram back and I’ll make it better before the official test. Don’t want test subjects dying of nerve stress and shock, do we?” His fingers danced across the display. “In the meantime, look at this.”
Jake dropped the tablet into the well and activated the holo viewscreen. The table of results rendered into light, and the jumble of squiggly lines from Jake’s scanning hung large and tangible in the air above them.
A red line followed the bottom of the projected table in a steady pulse. Jake followed it with his finger. “That’s the average, me and everyone else in the world. Heart rate, blood pressure, and all that’s factored in for a general health reading. And best of all, the shitty immune response with a slight bump whenever we take a boost. Health lines. They’re not Science division evidence-standard, but they’ll do for our purposes. Until I can get you back in the lab.”
He pointed at a purple line, which ran slightly higher. “That’s the average of boost bumps. What our immune system response would theoretically be like if our systems could handle us walking around on perma-boost drips all day. Still not too high, right?”
Jake tapped the air, and a different line shimmered into view far above the others. The line pulsed and ran, a bright green continuous shout. “That’s you.”
Con stared at it. He felt good, yes. He didn’t realize he felt that good. He had to admit it now. While Jake did exude surety and arrogance, Con hadn’t believed he’d actually be able to fix the human im
mune system. Suddenly the uncertainty, the horrible pain, even the grey strangeness all seemed like acceptable damage. That healthy line was him.
“That’s equal with how you’ve been since the serum first took hold. Your enhanced human immune system doesn’t register anymore, so we need to do a deep structural test, see how they’re getting along. Or if the serum altered that on a fundamental level.”
“What do you mean, altered?”
“Oh, er—let’s get you in the lab before I speculate. But you’re looking amazing. Amazing. I’d love to see what you could do to a cold, or a virus.” Jake slapped him on the shoulder. “Can you believe this?”
“No,” Con said truthfully. “What’s next? More tests?”
Jake scoffed. “Oh, sure. It’s not universally viable yet. Have some faith in my methods. And we can do the big test now. We actually did it! Well, I did it. But you helped. I wouldn’t cut you out now.”
His hand tightened on Con’s shoulder, and on impulse Con leaned in toward him. Jake looked startled. He jerked back. “Wait—no. What are you doing?”
Too soon. Hells, Con should’ve known better. He did know better, and he didn’t care. He was revved up from the testing, he was shaken by the side effects to his sight, he was grateful, he was…more than grateful. Con sat back and stared hard at the holograph. His green health line thumped joyfully along, nearly brushing the ceiling with new heights. More than grateful. Well, he thought. That’s new.
“Sorry.” At least this was an off-the-books job. He looked down at his hands. They were still steady, which meant his face was still blank. Perhaps if he ignored it, the scalding revelation would go quietly back to wherever it had come. “I just remembered. I’ve got another appointment today.”
“All right.” Jake swiped the tablet’s display, and the holograph dispersed into nothing. He began to pack away his equipment. “We can set up another time for tests…”
“Sure. Yeah.” Con stood up and crossed to the kitchen. “Tomorrow, maybe?”
“Fine. But I’d like to monitor your vitals in the interim.” He picked up Con’s tablet, tapped in a few commands, and tossed a patch at Con. “I’ve set up your tablet to take in all the data, so you can just stick that on your port and it’ll start transmitting.”
“Got it,” Con said shortly.
Jake nodded. “Till tomorrow, then.” He crossed to the door and then paused, his hand above the thumbplate. “Con.”
Con offered a throwaway smile. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Jake snorted. “That’s never stopped me before. I’m not in the habit of fraternizing with test subjects. If you were intending to, ah, fraternize with me. I may cut or demolish some corners, but I like to keep a clear head while I’m doing it.”
“It’s not a problem. Really.”
“Would you just shut up for a minute?” Jake looked annoyed. “I—damn. What I’m trying to say is that I’m interested in, ah—”
“Fraternizing?” Con supplied.
“In exploring the possibilities after we go public. After the official prelim testing for the serum, I think.” He smiled, and Con’s stomach twisted in a sharp ache. “If you’re still interested by then. It could be a while. A week, even, if I’m not speedy.”
In two steps, Con was there, crowding Jake against the door, his fingers in Jake’s hair, his lips on Jake’s. Jake made a sound that registered somewhere between indignation and lust, but he was kissing Con back, his hands hot and urgent on the back of Con’s neck.
Abruptly Jake was dropped from the bewildering sensation of kissing himself.
—And that’s what happened between us—
What the fuck? Jake howled.
—What? —
What happened after that?
—Nothing notable. You left. I set up the transmitter patch and went to sleep—
We just left it like that?
—That’s all I know.—
You lying asshole, Con. You said you’d show me, and then you give me this expurgated shit. What’s the point of sharing these experiences with me if you’re going to censor it whenever you feel like it? It doesn’t teach me anything, I’m not going to be wiser, so why?
—I didn’t give you unlimited access into my thoughts, my feelings, my—
Jake shoved at the mental bond. As he hoped, Con shoved back, and when he did, Jake followed the feel of him and probed back into Con’s mind:
Shattered glass. Fire. Cards. Training. Surgical masks. Reading. An unsanitary smear of blood on a wall. Con’s hands around an anonymous neck, tight wire biting into his gloved fingers, a frygun sparking against a sweaty forehead, Alice Silverman, her eyes luminous with fear and anger. Alice. Alice.
The compartment seemed larger and emptier without Jake’s presence. Con tidied up the gems and tablets, then crossed to his storage unit. Behind the doors sat a small, exquisitely formed brown leather case: a Warringer.
It’s yours? The Warringer is yours?
—Get out—
Con took the case to the table and opened it with a stroke. The case chimed.
“That’s a standard Warringer sound.” Quinn Wendyflue Hark and her eager, jittery recitation. “I read about the creator, apparently he really liked the bob minor the ringers did at old-time Liverpool, long pre-Leech, of course—”
The case unfolded into a mound of black velvet. A tablet loaded with a gold gem sat in the center of it. Con plucked the tablet out of the velvet and dropped it into the table’s well. Instantly, the holoscreen glimmered to life, and he waited.
“Secure?” asked a familiar voice.
“No bugs,” Con said. The holo flickered, and then Alice Silverman appeared.
Con suppressed a shudder. She, too, was wreathed in the grey vapor. He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised. Worse, the cloudiness was beginning to look settled, comfortable. After all, Jake hadn’t seemed bothered by it. No one had…
Silverman cleared her throat. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Then get to it,” she said, her tone switching to absent. “I’m in the middle of something delicate.”
“We did a prelim test. He thinks he’s got a successful formula. Just a few more tweaks, and he’ll be ready.”
“You say thinks. Does he or doesn’t he?”
Con shrugged. “I’m not the scientist, ma’am.”
“Send me all the data on the prelim test, then.”
“I don’t have it.”
She scowled. “He usually leaves a copy with you. What’s happened? What changed? Did you compromise us?”
“You wouldn’t be talking to me if I had.” Con sighed. “Look. He’s going to be tweaking, he’s got to monitor me, we’ll be meeting a few more times before the big testing session. He doesn’t suspect anything. You’ll get what you need.”
“As long as it’s well before the big day.” She smiled. “And when I do, you’ll get your credits.”
The mention of the money galled him. “What will you do to him?”
“To Jake? Nothing, as long as he cooperates.”
“He’s not really the cooperative type.”
Her smile widened into a grin. “In all fairness, neither am I.”
“When should I report back?”
“The next time you meet with him. Which is when?”
“In a few days.” The lie slid easily off his tongue. “He’s got an appointment tomorrow with someone else, he didn’t say who.”
“Are you sure we’re still uncompromised?”
Con nodded. “If he marked me, I’d know.”
“He’s insanely intelligent.”
“I’d know,” he repeated. Christs, she’s demanding.
“All right,” Silverman said grudgingly. “Report back after you meet with him next. And Connor?”
The grey writhed eagerly around her, and Con tried to keep his expression smooth. Was this thing an aura of emotional states? It seemed separate somehow, connected but distinct.<
br />
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“I’m still alive. No life-threatening tests yet.” That should keep her until the next time she gave him a physical. He envisioned his green health line singing around the ceiling, and he kept his tone light. “That’s something, right?”
“For now.” The holo winked into nothingness.
Con sighed. He bumped the tablet up out of the well and laid it amid the folds of velvet, then let the Warringer collapse shut. He leaned back against the settee and closed his eyes.
—Please. Jake, I’m sorry—
Screams. Decon steam rushing from pipeflow overhead dispensers. Rebecca’s face, the yellowed sclera of her eyes. Skittering hands. Glass, shattered glass, and Jake looking out of a vid screen.
—Please—
The trial. Flickers of Jake’s haunted face in the witness box. Silverman passing in a corridor, her hand locked around Con’s wrist. Silverman trapping Con in a lift. Silverman’s face in holo, over and over, Silverman pushing a glass of tawny liquid across a table, Silverman shaking a tablet, raising a hand, brows knit together in anger, in confusion.
Earth. As seen from a ship’s porthole, the fresh blue-green-brown sphere surrounded by the dull silvery detritus of satellites, stations, experiments. Through the porthole, the containment shimmered and sparked, and the long, sleek side of the carrier was visible (tarnished, inscribed with the worrisome little etches of space debris) as it pulled away from the thronged host of spacecraft. A familiar bulk: the Leah Harmon. The chill stretch of the vault cycle intervened, and then she floated to a slow cruise before a smaller green planet. Selas.
Dark, nondescript crew quarters. Utilitarian rather than cushy, standard for a pilot of a lower personnel carrier. The chrono over the porthole read 21:01. Con stood up from his chair, thumbed the door panel, and stepped out into the square of light.
Long stark corridors. Flashing airlock signs and glowing egress symbols. Emergency pods. A shuttlepod bay. Steerage compartment. Quarters. Bunk doors. Rooms with dark, tiny access portholes. His ship. Clear now, with everyone on board Selas Station except Redbear and the other two. No one to see…what? Nothing. It would be nothing. The conference room was paces away. He tasted copper and salt, and something warm trickled down his chin. Blood? He’d bitten his lip. He rubbed at it and realized he’d forgotten to shave. He’d have to do that before he went over.
