Beyond Regeneration

by Jenny Schwartz

She retreated with no more than a confused murmur of thanks and farewell.

  Nicola let the door swing shut behind her and Charley. “Do you need anything from John’s house—notebook, recorder—before I drop you at New Hope?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” She didn’t record interviews, just as she hadn’t asked to tape the discussion here at Jabberwocky.

  “Don’t tell me you have perfect recall.” Nicola half-laughed.

  Charley shrugged. “Years of practice.” There had been situations in Africa where any sign of note taking would have silenced the witness. “I get by.”

  “Yeah.” The younger woman glanced at her. “I guess you do.” Perhaps Charley wasn’t the only person revising judgement.

  Just what sort of pathetic fool had Nicola originally judged her to be?

  Charley buckled herself into the car, and changed the subject. “Does Janz Weaponry trade in mercenaries?”

  “No.” Nicola’s assessing gaze turned to one of surprise. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “Someone told me Michael trained with his own mercenaries.”

  Nicola frowned at the narrow driveway as they rocketed along it. “I’d believe Michael trained with mercenaries, but Janz Weaponry doesn’t supply them.”

  The response made Charley curious. “Is Michael that dangerous?”

  “Lethal.”

  And if Nicola thought Michael lethal, then he was way beyond dangerous for Charley.

  Nicola slowed the car for the turn onto the road, then accelerated. “But Michael’s rational. There would have to be a damn good reason before he’d kill someone.”

  “Has he?”

  Nicola shrugged. “That I couldn’t tell you.”

  They drove in silence for a short distance, both considering the idea. Charley was unable to banish the memory of Lillian’s dead body, and its appearance the morning after Lillian had demanded a meeting with Michael.

  “Do you think Michael’s trying to position Janz Weaponry as the premier defense contractor?” Vaguely she was aware of the car’s speed, but this time her mind was too busy with its various puzzles to spare the time to worry.

  “It’s not done that way anymore,” Nicola said. “Companies that supply every war need, from toilet paper to trigger switches, went the way of the dodo years ago. Sure, you still get the odd group running around promoting themselves as the one stop shop for war, but the game is really controlled by the specialists. Of course, some people would argue that the big corporations simply don’t mention that they control most of the specialists.”

  Charley listened.

  Nicola’s was an insider’s view of provisioning for war. She spoke of it casually, driving equally casually with one hand on the steering wheel and an elbow resting on the window frame. “Janz Weaponry is an old-fashioned outfit. Michael only took over from his uncle a couple of years ago. Janz makes and sells general issue weapons, no nuclear or chemical weapons. They have political influence, but they’re losing ground at the elite level to some of the specialists in the cutting edge technologies. Michael’s not stupid. He’s not going to give up the income stream generated by traditional weapons, but he needs a new specialization if he’s going to head a corporation with political clout. He can’t take on an established specialist, because that costs huge money and the odds are against him. Bio-enhancement is Michael’s attempt at taking on the future. He’s kept it low key.”

  Charley interrupted. “No. It doesn’t add up. Using guinea pigs like you, Aaron and Ted isn’t low key. Low key would be using civilians. There must have been a chain of command decision that okayed your involvement, and that sort of thing doesn’t go unnoticed. Like any profession, there’s gossip.”

  “Yeah.” Nicola agreed in principle. “But this time there wasn’t.” She slowed the car, then pulled off onto the side of the road, cutting the engine. “Since you asked…” She twisted in her seat to face Charley. “There’s some history you have to understand.” But then she stopped.

  Charley had seen interviewees re-assess their decisions before. She withdrew her attention. Nicola was the type to respond to freedom better than to pressure to talk.

  In front of them, the road stretched away with the typical straightness of Australian roads intent on bridging the gap between here and there with the least possible fuss. Give it a couple of months and the road would shimmer with heat. Then travelers would be grateful for the partial shade of the tall eucalypt tree Nicola had parked under.

  Patterns of bright glare and dull shade shifted over the car’s bonnet, the restless movement testifying to the constant wind high up that drove the clouds across the sky. Incongruously, Charley remembered the country holidays of childhood when her family had broken the drive for cool drinks and fruit, and a chance for the kids to stretch their legs and run off their whines.

  Exercise had stopped solving her problems years ago.

  Nicola cleared her throat. “Some of this, you’ll know.” She’d decided to go with the impulse to confide in Charley. “Since the Second World War, Australia’s been closely tied to the United States as the dominant Western, English-speaking nation. After the Cold War ended, when it looked as if the United States would be the world’s superpower, Australia stayed close, but no longer sycophantically close. The politicians seemed to feel that the need for safety had lessened, and criticism of the US as well as the re-statement of our own separate identity was possible. There was a tentative move to establish Australia as part of Asia.”

  “Which it is.”

  Nicola shot her a glance that suggested she didn’t quite agree

  But the Asian-focus Nicola was discussing as history—to be fair, she would have been a kid—Charley had lived through.

  Nicola picked up the pace of her history lesson as they approached her era. “Then September 11 happened and the Australian Government suddenly wanted to enroll as the United States’ fifty first state. The politicians signed the Free Trade Agreement, sent soldiers to Afghanistan and Iraq, and generally jumped when the United States said jump. The majority of Australia’s security services when along with the government. They were used to working with, or working for, the United States. Not all of them, though. A few of the senior men had been in Vietnam during the war and later in the Middle East, and they had doubts not only about US activities, but about Australia being associated with them.

  “The thing is.” Nicola hooked an arm through the steering wheel, thinking. “Security personal, no matter how senior, can’t buck government policy. If they do, then the country’s no longer a democracy. But what they can do is keep a few things hidden from the US, and open up their own conversations with other nations and political blocs. Sensory bio-enhancement is one of the secrets we’ve kept from the Americans.”

  And from our own government. Charley got the indirect message. There was a point, though, that she had to protest. “But Michael—”

  “Is a US citizen,” Nicola finished. “It doesn’t matter. Michael has his own reasons for keeping quiet. His political influence has waned in Washington. Control of sensory bio-e would give his company, and him, back that clout, or allow him to establish himself with powerful allies outside the US. Don’t make any mistake, Charley. Sensory bio-e will change the world.”

  Nicola unwound herself from the steering wheel and started the engine. She seemed relieved to have the explanation done with.

  Charley, on the other hand, was faced with a new question, one which should have occurred to her earlier: Nicola, Aaron and Ted showed intense commitment to the new world their sensory bio-enhancements had opened up to them, but were they prepared to use their new reality in a conflict situation? All three were from a security forces background. Did that mean that even with their recent experience they agreed with Michael in letting the military be the first-adopter of such a revolutionary technology? The new world of sensory bio-enhancement could be co-opted to the existing world of power struggles.

  Charley stared blindly ahead.
Was there any other choice?

  Chapter Eleven

  Nicola drove into the New Hope car park, and neither turned off the engine nor shifted into neutral.

  Charley took the hint and unbuckled her seatbelt. “Thanks for the lift, and the information.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t thank me for anything.” Nicola’s brusque tone suggested she regretted her confidences. “We’ve dragged you further into a game you didn’t choose.” She shifted into reverse, and Charley slid out of the car, slamming the door.

  She watched the car zoom out of the car park. Nicola would learn soon that sometimes life didn’t give you a choice. You had to deal with a situation as it stood.

  Charley swiveled towards New Hope, and was struck by a thought.

  “Oh, boy.” In the avalanche of fact, description and speculation, she’d overlooked what she’d initially believed to be a central issue: not once had the trio asked about Lillian’s death. Charley frowned. “And I thought that’s why they wanted to talk with me.”

  It was odd that Lillian’s death hadn’t been mentioned at least once.

  The day was warm, the sun almost hot. Fallen gum leaves crackled as she walked across the car park. The small gravel stones rolled and slid and clicked underfoot. Not even Nicola could cross this car park silently.

  Crunch, crunch. The noise annoyed Charley. It made her progress sound definite, as if she knew where she was going and what she would do when she got there.

  “Huh.” The truth was, she’d no idea what anyone was doing, least of all herself.

  She reached the rough-cut lawn, and the silence of her footsteps was a relief. She forced herself into a semi-determined jog up the porch steps and inside the main building. The last two years had taught her that sometimes it was possible to fake what you needed to feel. She’d faked satisfaction with her life. Now, she pretended she had direction and an objective.

  As little as she wanted to, she needed to talk with Alan, both about the QNA and about Lillian. Her determined pace faltered. She really didn’t want to approach a newly bereaved widower.

  A woman in a nurse’s uniform occupied the reception desk, a phone tucked close to her ear. She glanced at Charley, who met her questioning gaze with a nod and a smile that said, Hi. Yes, I belong.

  The woman turned back to her phone conversation, willing to believe Charley if it meant one less task in an overly busy day.

  “Charley,” Jack called from his office.

  Her shoulders jerked. He must have watched her walk up; perhaps even seen Nicola drop her off. Was his hail a reprieve from having to talk with Alan, or, by his grumpy tone, a nastier option? “Hi,” she said weakly.

  “How did you get here?” He swiveled away from his computer to frown at her.

  Charley smiled—not because Jack was grumpy and harassed, but because it reassured her. The Jabberwocky trio were way wrong. Grumpy and harassed wasn’t the manner of a lover. She bit her lip to stop a giggle as his frown deepened and his glasses fell off his nose. Was this the face of a man in love? No! It was reassuring to know the trio could get some facts wrong.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  She perched on the arm of a chair, facing him across the desk. “Nicola dropped me off. She called at your house and invited me to Jabberwocky.”

  He tossed his glasses on the desk and rubbed a hand over his face. If the wind changed and his face set, with that scowl, he’d resemble a gargoyle. “Was it Michael’s idea?”

  “I don’t think so.” Her desire to giggle, died. “He wasn’t at Jabberwocky.”

  Jack acknowledged the information with a grunt. “Are you writing up Jabberwocky’s story of sensory bio-e?”

  She halted the idle swing of her foot. It was a good question. The trio hadn’t asked her intentions as a journalist. Why not?

  “I’m not sure,” she said, finally. The story didn’t hang together yet. It wasn’t just that it was unfinished, it was the presence of strange players. She couldn’t draft the story until she understood something of the unknown thought patterns and motivation of the superhuman trio, and just what the hell the QNA were. The latter point brought her back on track. “Jack, is Alan around?”

  “Alan?” Jack was barely paying attention, busy with some thought of his own. “He hasn’t come in, today.” He replaced his glasses and stood. “Which reminds me. I should check the lab in case the QNA need anything. Alan usually looks after them.”

  Charley grimaced. This was her opportunity to visit the lab, and her skin crawled at the thought. Nervous dread tangled with curiosity and knotted her stomach. She walked with Jack down the corridor to the lab. “Did you speak with Alan? Has he phoned in?”

  “He probably needs some privacy. If you have questions about the QNA, I can answer them.”

  “Hmm.”

  Jack paused with his clawed hand on the door to the lab. “What is it?”

  She shook her head; unwilling to confide in him when her suspicions of the QNA’s effect on her were so amorphous and inexplicable. She needed to talk with Alan, who’d shown a similar awareness—or so she suspected.

  Run, or face her fears? She braced herself as Jack opened the lab door, but even that didn’t prepare her for the avalanche of memories.

  Shock slapped her. The memories weren’t hers.

  She saw Lillian lying on the rocks; not from the distance at which Charley had herself viewed her, but close to, looking down.

  Lillian’s cold face, stripped by death of color, blurred and was replaced by a younger version of her face, framed by a veil of white, smiling with triumph and happiness. Then the superimposed face vanished and Charley looked again at Lillian’s dead face, heard the quiet step of police and the wash of waves against the rocks.

  “Lillian,” Alan’s voice whispered, and the vision vanished.

  A new face appeared. A young girl, her expression blank with suffering. Her body, small and slight and barely clothed, showed the scarring of chemical burns. Charley was looking at her from a child’s height, and from a child’s desperate need to disbelieve. Again, she heard Alan’s voice, but young and unbroken. She couldn’t understand the Vietnamese words, but she felt the overwhelming helplessness of his youth. In some alarming manner she knew the issues he struggled with. In the morning, he and his family would leave. They had a new life waiting in Australia. Alan wanted to give the girl, surely about his own age, hope, but she only stared at him, and finally, shrugged, dismissing him. The girl had already learned that no one would save her.

  Charley’s final vision was darkness pierced with light. The heavy, swirling emotions lifted. She was in a cave. She gripped the doorframe of the lab as she experienced a suffocating sense of enclosure and a paradoxical feeling of freedom, of a burden released. The light that pierced the darkness switched off, leaving her suspended in a void. She sensed, though, Alan’s relaxation. Whatever place this memory recalled, here, he felt safe.

  The memories had slammed fast into her mind and body, before she could deny them. But now her own outrage and repugnance froze the cascade. This was an intolerable invasion of Alan’s privacy. Her anger surged out, and the memories ceased.

  She couldn’t be sure, but she had a sense that the QNA were shocked at her response and in retreat. And it had to be the QNA. These were real memories, even if they weren’t hers. She took two deep breaths and opened her eyes.

  Jack was walking purposely around the lab, obviously unbothered, carefully checking the QNA’s state of health. Evidently, he’d noticed nothing wrong with her or the energy in the room.

  Something intangible brushed against her mind. She sensed a cautious query from the QNA. What had prompted her emotions, her anger? The being couldn’t comprehend it.

  For herself, Charley utterly gave up denying that she was dealing with an alien intelligence. One that seemed benign, but that could change, or be a lie. She dug through her memories, trying to convey without words the invasive cruelty of exposing a person’s memories to a
stranger.

  Can you understand? she asked.

  Apparently, the QNA could. Her own memory bounced up a picture of herself at five, being scolded and standing ashamed of some minor crime she hadn’t known was wrong. Using a swear word, maybe.

  She let her breath out in a long release of tension. The QNA were apologizing and explaining. Apparently, they were willing to learn. Oh, God, they…it…was definitely sentient.

  “I’m going to see if I can find Alan,” she gabbled, and withdrew without waiting for Jack’s response.

  She paused just outside the back of the central admin building. From there, she could see the Dos’ house. She ignored it in favor of counting her breaths and slowing her heartbeat.

  A client, coming out the back door, bumped into her.

  “Sorry.” Charley moved aside, grateful that it wasn’t Jack. She couldn’t handle questions at the moment.

  “My fault.” The young man, barely out of his teens, smiled. “I was racing around, as usual.” Tender pink skin at his neck hinted that under the tracksuit he wore, his skin was regrowing. “I’m Jamil.”

  “Charley.” She couldn’t snub his friendliness.

  “I know. Staci told me about you, that you’re a journalist.” He looked towards the Dos’ house. “Lillian was a good nurse.”

  “Really?” The unprompted commendation surprised her. No one else had praised Lillian or regretted, personally, her death.

  “She never made a fuss.” He looked at the stump of Charley’s arm. “You know how some people act like a physical disability or injury means you’re also mentally disabled?”

  “I think they’re just uncomfortable and unsure how to act.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Lillian did her job and expected you to do your part in the regeneration process. It was good. Coming here, I felt in control of my life again.” The self-revelation obviously embarrassed him. His face flushed and his gaze slid away. “See you around.” He jogged off.

  Charley looked back at the Dos’ house. In thinking of Lillian’s death, Charley’s absorption in its cause and where it fit in the complexity of the situation at New Hope had obscured the basic issue: a woman was dead. Her potential for good, her dreams, the work in progress of her life, were ended. Jamil would miss Lillian’s professional kindness; probably others would, too. Alan would be missing his life partner.