Beyond Regeneration

by Jenny Schwartz

  But Solomon, when Charley suggested just that, proved surprisingly reluctant.

  “I thought you’d want to see New Hope,” Charley said, startled. In fact, she’d surmised that entrance to New Hope was her sole appeal for Solomon.

  “Of course, I’m interested, when Bradshaw has time,” he backtracked. “But Margaret River seems a nice town, and coffee shops can be more private than private places.”

  Her eyes widened. Private? What was going on with him? She didn’t demur further, and got in his car to find out.

  Given her curiosity, she was amazed and annoyed to find herself confiding in Solomon; moving the focus very definitely from impersonal interview material to a very personal issue. “Jack offered me a place at New Hope to regrow my hand.” She hadn’t meant to say it, but perhaps after decades in the profession a doctor, like a priest, exuded the aura of a confessional. Certainly, she trusted Solomon to deal sensitively with the matter.

  “And you don’t want to accept the offer, even though common sense says to snatch at it?” he asked perceptively.

  Her agreement was shaky.

  “It’s a normal response, Charlotte. Survivor guilt. Why should you be physically whole again if your husband’s still dead?”

  She sucked in a painful breath.

  “I deal with situations like yours quite often. I’m a regeneration specialist. I hear more tragic stories than yours, although your pain is as real as anyone’s. If Bradshaw wasn’t emotionally involved with you, he’d have counselled you through this stage,” Solomon noted her rejecting gesture. His voice gentled further. “Talk the decision through with someone, a professional counsellor. Healing the physical body is sometimes only the last, least stage. Sometimes the hardest healing is emotional and mental.”

  Tears pricked her eyes and softened her mouth so that she had to catch her lower lip with her teeth to keep from betraying herself.

  Not that Solomon failed to catch the signs of strain. “Life needs courage. You’ll do the right thing. I hope you always will.”

  An odd comment, but one she was in no state to pursue.

  Solomon had evidently scouted the town. He parked in front of a cafe that overlooked the sea but was mostly empty at this quiet hour on a weekday.

  Despite lunch being not that long ago, she couldn’t resist the café’s cake selection. Maybe it was the determined healthiness of the menu at New Hope? Whatever the reason, she ordered a slice of baked cheesecake. It arrived as a large slab, topped with fresh cream and a jumble of berries.

  “Delicious,” she said after the first bite. She was thankful Solomon had dropped further discussion of her personal decision. She glanced at him.

  The toffee cake he’d ordered didn’t hold his interest. He was staring at her with an intensity her earlier confession and current pleasure in the cheesecake hardly warranted. “What is it?”

  “Charlotte, I think you were aware that after the conference I was flying back to Chicago?”

  She nodded.

  “I got as far as Singapore when I received some news,” he paused. “Charlotte, does Bradshaw recognize the implications of his breakthrough?”

  “I’m sure he does.” She had no idea where Solomon was going with this conversation. “Jack’s an intelligent man.”

  He stirred his coffee. “Clever can be naive.” He frowned at her from under his heavy brows. “In Singapore I learned of Michael Janz’s involvement with Bradshaw.” He paused for emphasis. “Michael Janz is Janz Weaponry. He inherited the business, but he’s kept it going strong. He’s a very dangerous man.”

  “I’ve met Michael.”

  Solomon stared at her.

  She wished he wouldn’t. His intensity was putting her off her cheesecake.

  “So Janz is here.”

  “Yes. He dropped into New Hope.”

  “What is he like, as a person?”

  “I barely spoke with him.” She considered the question while savoring a bite of cheesecake. “He appears to be many of the things expected of a rich man. A conspicuous consumer.” She recalled the sports car and the watch he’d worn. “Arrogant, attractive. I suspect he can be charming.” Although his style of charm hadn’t appealed to her.

  “Uh huh,” Solomon grunted an agreement. He seemed seriously disturbed. “Michael Janz is smart. Not genius level, but a sharp dealer. He knows a lot of people, in a lot of places.” He gave the last phrase an odd twist, but continued before Charley could catch the nuance. “Janz likes power.”

  “Hmm.” Her response was noncommittal, because a lot of people liked power.

  What made Michael unique was that as the Janz heir, he’d been born into a degree of wealth in which money had lost meaning. Power became the only measure of status. It was a cliché to think that the pursuit of power could twist a person, but that didn’t make it less true. On the other hand, power used with an awareness of the wielder’s responsibility, could keep a person sane and grounded in the real world, no matter his or her wealth.

  “His company supplies mercenaries. It sources and contracts them out.” Solomon narrowed his eyes, expecting her to be appalled.

  Charley bit into a blueberry and enjoyed the explosion of tart sweetness. Why was Solomon so determined to extract a response from her? She was a journalist of low status and few connections. She’d let her network lapse over the last couple of years. Yet he was either wildly lucky in the buttons he was attempting to push, or else he’d gone to the trouble of investigating her past.

  Reporting in Africa had introduced her to the reality of mercenaries. Africa was a rich hunting ground for them: men who’d lost their youth in war and now knew no other trade. They’d learned to hate with an impartiality that encouraged the delivery of death.

  However, she couldn’t imagine Michael recruiting mercenaries such as those. His company would recruit from the ranks of those trained by governments, men with killing skills honed in providing sanctioned death.

  In the sort of employment agency Solomon was suggesting, the resumes would give normal people nightmares.

  He interrupted her thoughts, impatiently. “Janz has trained with his mercenaries.”

  That startled her. “Trained how?” Weapons handling or physical endurance? Hand to hand combat or strategizing? It made a difference. Blood and death, or tactics?

  Solomon shrugged; either not understanding the distinction, or not caring. “What do the details matter? Normal people don’t train with mercenaries. Janz bankrolls biological and chemical weapons development. The man has no morals. He’d do a deal with anyone.”

  “Like who?”

  “China, ex-Soviet states.” Solomon lowered his voice. “Iran.”

  In other words, Michael operated in the standard, beyond-morals, no man’s land of any weapons company.

  The interesting question was where Solomon, a doctor, had learned all this about Michael. Charley asked.

  His fork, loaded with toffee cake and cream, froze midway to his mouth. “Learned? About Janz?”

  She nodded and sipped her coffee.

  The mouthful of cake balanced on his fork wavered and fell. He scraped at it absently, frowning. “A friend of mine, retired now, has CIA connections.”

  Her hold on her coffee cup tightened. “What’s the CIA’s interest in Michael Janz?”

  Solomon put down his fork and pushed his cake plate aside. The cake was mostly uneaten, just an excuse. He leaned forward. “There are rumors that Janz is funding secret research on the military application of Bradshaw’s bio-enhancement.”

  Jabberwocky. She eyed him warily. How much did Solomon know about it, and from whom had he learned it; the CIA again or someone closer to home?

  Had Lillian been selling information?

  Charley leaned back from the table, cradling her coffee cup. “Am I meant to be surprised?”

  “You’ve heard of the research?” Solomon’s eyebrows flew up, revealing wide, astonished eyes.

  She kept her voice cool, a touch i
mpatient. “It’s a logical deduction. Michael’s business is military-generated wealth and he had early, inside information on Jack’s breakthrough. They were partners in New Hope, after all. I’d be more surprised to hear that Michael ignored the potential to develop super-soldiers.”

  “Super-soldiers. Good phrase. Yes, that’s exactly why we have to know the details of the experiment Janz is bankrolling. Do you think Jack’s involved in creating these men?” He shot the last sentence at her.

  She put her coffee cup down on the table. She resented the crude attempt at manipulation, first by applauding her terminology, and then, by employing the casual “Jack” in place of the usual “Bradshaw”. If Solomon thought he could so easily present himself as on Jack’s side, on the side of the angels, then he had seriously underestimated Charley’s professional cynicism.

  “You would have to ask Jack,” she said.

  “But would he give me an honest answer?” Solomon held up a pink, well-scrubbed hand. “I’m not questioning Bradshaw’s essential honesty, just saying how it is when people as powerful as Janz are involved. They distort the world around them. Janz may even have manipulated it so that Bradshaw believes the experiments are in the interests of national security.”

  “Wrong card.” She smiled wryly. “Australians aren’t as idealistically patriotic as Americans.”

  “My point still stands.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Solomon, you were kind to me in Sydney, providing interviews and introductions, but I don’t owe you any favors. If you’re leading up to ask me to act the spy during my visit at New Hope, then I refuse.”

  “Charlotte.” His voice dropped portentously. “I hoped I’d made it clear. Michael Janz is dangerous. If Bradshaw’s working secretly for him, then Bradshaw is in over his head.”

  “That’s Jack’s decision to make.”

  Solomon waved aside the interjection. “Even if Bradshaw emerges unscathed, who will be able to counter Janz’s super-soldiers? I have friends, Charlotte, powerful friends who can challenge Janz, but they need to know the details of any secret experiments.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Solomon.” She stood. “I can’t help you. My advice, for what it’s worth, is that you talk to Jack. I’ll get a taxi back to New Hope.”

  “Wait, Charlotte. Think about this. Sensory bio-enhancement is ideal for terrorists.”

  She checked a moment, then walked out. She felt cold inside.

  Would Jack really have gone into partnership with a monster such as Solomon had made Michael out to be? There might be tension in the relationship between the two men, but she thought that at bottom, Jack trusted Michael. Which raised the question of Jack himself. How well did she know him? He’d been kind to her, years ago Eric had liked and respected him, and he was a successful regenerationist, famous now. But why was he so interested in her?

  Charley rubbed the stump of her arm. This was ridiculous. She did trust Jack. She was like the clients at New Hope who willingly entrusted to him their hopes for wholeness. Jack could be trusted.

  So if she was going to deny the doubts Solomon had planted, the question was, why had he planted those doubts? It seemed to her that his interest in Jack’s breakthrough, particularly in sensory bio-enhancement, went beyond professional concern. There was a note of avidity. It brought home to her that a whole lot of people around the world were interested in what Jack was achieving in this quiet seaside town.

  Her thoughts spun, turning upside down.

  Maybe Michael wasn’t being devious in offering her the story of Jabberwocky. If there was interest, pointed interest, in Jack’s work, maybe Michael believed that there was some protection for sensory bio-enhancement and its trial subjects in going public. Sometimes publicity could de-fang a monster. Sensory bio-enhancement couldn’t be effectively stolen by governments or other interests if it was in the public domain.

  Charley put “find out about Jabberwocky” at the top of her mental To Do list.

  Jack would not be happy.

  She grimaced. She’d been walking swiftly and blindly through town. Now, she saw a small supermarket opposite, located on a corner of the main street. If she popped into it and bought a few things, it would make her walk seem purposeful. Solomon could be watching her, and she didn’t want to reveal to him that he had disturbed her so greatly.

  Inside, the supermarket soon showed that Jack’s garden was far from being the only eco-conscious effort in the area. Organic produce spilled from the shelves.

  Distracted by the bounty, Charley wasted ten minutes just drifting, mentally planning menus. A child, pushing past her to reach the ice creams, startled Charley from her long-forgotten fascination with food. She’d been a competent cook, better than Eric anyway, and Africa had taught her to appreciate the full shelves of a supermarket.

  Finally, aware of Jack’s bare fridge, she selected sufficient food for dinner and breakfast—she could hardly enter New Hope loaded down with groceries—and asked at the checkout the location of the taxi rank.

  Jack emerged from his office as Charley, having paid off the taxi, carried her newly bought cooler bag of groceries up the steps.

  “Dinner.” She lifted the bag a trifle higher by way of explanation. “I thought I could feed you in exchange for the lodgings,” she added when he looked oddly from the bag to her.

  “I remember you bringing Eric lunch when he was an intern.”

  The surprise of the comment shocked her into answering it, even smiling a little at the memory. “Eric was so busy that year. Bringing him food was a way of sharing time with him.” She recalled the minutes snatched in the cafeteria or, better, in the small garden full of the dark green, glossy leafed plants that grew best in the perpetual shade between the two wings of the hospital.

  Jack resettled his glasses and cleared his throat. “Give me twenty minutes to clear up a couple of things and then I’ll take an early mark.” He held out his hand for the cooler bag. “I’ll put this by your luggage.”

  Charley relinquished the bag and squeezed circulation back into her hand. She walked with Jack into the office. The front desk stood empty. A small green light showed that an answering machine was filtering calls. Okay, so maybe, despite the busy typing she’d heard earlier that afternoon, Lillian’s role hadn’t been successfully filled, yet.

  Interested to see what other changes Lillian’s death had already wrought, particularly the attitude of New Hope’s clients, Charley wandered further into the building.

  She saw Alan Do standing in the doorway of the QNA lab, looking back into the room. Her heart squeezed. She wanted to turn and run. Instead, she braced herself for the unpleasant task of expressing sympathy. Condolences couldn’t be shared at a distance. As much as she hated and feared her reaction to the QNA lab, she walked up to Alan as he stood at the door. She stopped by him, near enough that she could touch his shoulder.

  Her words of sympathy vanished unsaid as a muted explosion of emotion overwhelmed her. It was like walking into a wall of memories. Her family’s pity and worry after Eric’s death as they tried to find hope for her to cling to; and reaching further back, memories where reassurance was possible—the horrible haircut that would grow out; her mom promising that Melinda Jones in second grade would be friends again, tomorrow.

  Charley gasped.

  Alan’s head snapped around. He held onto the door frame with a grip that should have splintered the wood.

  “What…?” she began.

  But Alan didn’t wait. He brushed clumsily past her and was almost running as he turned the corner of the corridor.

  A few seconds later, she heard the slam of the side door.

  She slowed. She’d started instinctively after Alan, but she wouldn’t catch him. Instead, reluctantly, she turned back to the QNA lab. At the doorway, breathing shallowly, she waited for the same sharp memories to stab her, but she felt nothing more than her own anxiety.

  “The door’s shut,” she said, blankly. She stretched out her hand and
tested the door handle, but either the mechanism was self-locking or Alan had taken the time to shut it before he ran.

  “Did you want to go in?” A short man in his early fifties had entered the corridor behind her and was watching her curiously.

  The breath whooshed out of Charley, and she leaned against the wall. With the door closed, the bombardment of memories had ceased. She tried to push the memories back behind the curtain that let her operate in the everyday world.

  “Uh, no,” she said, awkwardly. She rubbed the stump of her arm.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Pardon?” She looked up. “Oh, yes. I’m fine.”

  The man stood relaxed, hands in his pockets. “You must be Charlotte Weiss. I’m Keanu Trawling, New Hope’s psychologist. John asked me to come in today in case anyone needed counselling after Lillian’s death.” It was an invitation to talk.

  “Has Alan spoken with you?”

  Keanu shook his head. “Alan’s a man who keeps himself to himself. I used to wonder how he and Lillian got together.”

  “How does anyone?” Charley asked without thinking. Her brain was whirling with thoughts of the QNA. Could they be the trigger for the powerful emotions that overwhelmed her in the lab?

  It couldn’t be. That would mean communication through the aether; and that concept hadn’t lasted beyond the Victorian era. Thought waves, ESP, it wasn’t possible. There had to be some other, some sensible, reason why she reacted so strongly and emotionally within the orbit of the QNA.

  But what, then, explained Alan’s flight? And he had fled.

  “Good point.” Keanu laughed, apparently reassured as to Charley’s state of mind by her slight cynicism.

  She could barely recall what she’d said.

  “I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah,” she replied vaguely. She wasn’t going anywhere. It seemed she had added more questions to her list. With a huge effort, she turned her back to the lab, and walked away.