Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  Galtrup cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, that’s where we take a superconducting electromagnet enclosed in a concrete case surrounded by several hundred pounds of C-4.” He balled up his hands to illustrate the concept. “With the magnet at full power we set off the C-4, compressing the field…and that’s how we did it - last October - we broke the 1000 Tesla barrier.” He glanced at Devon. “Needless to say we incorporate all sorts of monitoring apparatus in these experiments, but like here, most of it reads false or fails outright. That may also be true of our precision chronometers, which indicate that we lose a little time at the height of the compression, 10, 15 milliseconds.” He chuckled: “We just don’t know where the time goes.”

  A few of the scientists laughed at the nerdy joke.

  “Is this research for a military weapon of some kind?” Ishue queried, chewing on her pencil eraser.

  Galtrup focused on the reporter. “Of course I can’t answer that.” He paused thoughtfully. “As much as I’d like to think that we’re exposing the tip of some kind of temporal disturbance iceberg, the chances are it’s just consistent instrument failure. We can speculate about this all we want, but without additional hard data…” He shrugged his shoulders. “And this is the opportunity to get that data.”

  “We can contain it, Gill,” Sara encouraged.

  Go for it, Ishue thought.

  “I’m going to take all this under advisement” Gyttings said. “If we decide to proceed, we need to be ready. Let’s make the preparations and reconvene in 24 hours.”

  Day 1

  Saturday

  Gyttings-Lindstrom Research Unit,

  Eugene, Oregon

  After the meeting Ishue approached Gyttings who was engaged in a quiet conference with his senior staff: “…Let’s decide who we can…” he was saying when he noticed the reporter. “Can I help you, Ms. Ishue?”

  She wrinkled her lower lip. “Thought it might be a good idea for me to interview some of your terminal patients…” She glanced sideways at Lomax, then back at Gyttings. “A human interest angle. Good sidebar material. Good PR.”

  “I don’t think…” Chalmais began.

  “Why not,” Gyttings interrupted, “if you’ll allow me to read it before submission.”

  Ishue wrinkled her nose, then nodded.

  “Okay. Dr. Lomax is just about to do rounds. Go with him.”

  They zigzagged through the maze of crowded hallways, Lomax in the lead, followed by Ishue, then her two shadow guards. Always a step or two ahead, Lomax spoke to Ishue over his shoulder: “These folks are generally quite depressed and detached. Let me do the talking, Miss Ishue. Let me lead.”

  “Are we gonna dance?”

  Lomax stopped and eyed her suspiciously. “Flippancy aside, I know you think you know all about terminal patients…”

  Ishue shook her head. “No, I…”

  “There’s a delicate psychological balance at work here… conditional acceptance…”

  “I’ll be good,” she said, looking up at the tall, fatherly doctor. “Promise.” She made the Boy Scout salute.

  Lomax sighed. “Advanced Parkinson’s,” he whispered as they entered the first room, leaving the guards behind. No bed, rather an elaborate aluminum framework supporting a middle-aged male patient in a partially upright position.

  “This is Jimmy. Jimmy, this is the famous reporter, Ilene Ishue…she wants to talk with you a little…if you don’t mind.”

  Jimmy’s eyes got big and his face expressed his frustration at the difficulty he had forming words.

  “Jimmy runs a computer company,” Lomax said.

  Jimmy shook his head. “Nuh…ooo. Used do,” he slurred.

  “He can’t lay down or he’ll suffocate.” Then aside to Ishue: “If it weren’t for some clinical trial drugs he’s taking, Jimmy wouldn’t have made it this long. Are you comfortable Jimmy?

  With enormous effort he made an awkward shrugging gesture.

  “Do you know what INFX is?” Ishue asked him.

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  “Do you know that the INFX procedure is…fatal?”

  Jimmy cast his eyes down a moment, then back up, staring directly into Ishue’s, his expression thoughtful. Again he nodded.

  “Did you know there’s a problem with INFX,” Ishue said, “that the program may be cancelled?”

  The subtle shaking in Jimmy’s shoulders and arms intensified, his eyes grew wild, fearful. He strained to speak, noises that sounded like: “No. Please. You can’t.” An alarm went off on his monitor.

  Lomax pushed himself between Ishue and Jimmy. A nurse hurried in.

  “That was uncalled for,” Lomax scolded under his breath. He herded the reporter into the hall.

  “I just wanted to…gauge his…” she said, at a rare loss for words.

  He grasped her shoulders and squared her up firmly. “Look. For these people INFX is their future, their hope. They don’t harbor any fantasies about 11th hour miracle cures. They know the end is near. But they’ve all made a pact and INFX is a crucial part of it. Can you possibly, possibly understand that?”

  Ishue wasn’t sure she could, but she didn’t like his condescending tone. Like you can?

  Lomax turned, leading hurriedly down the hall. “No more bad news, even if it is true. Okay?” He led the reporter into a room with two beds occupied by elderly people, a man and woman. The room was crowded with monitors and various life support devices, clattering, clicking whirring sounds. Lomax moved between the two beds. “This is Steven and Lila. It’s Steven’s birthday today. How old are you today, Steven?”

  “Ninety,” he moaned.

  “Lila is 89,” Lomax said, propping up the old woman’s pillows. Translucent yellow skin drawn tight around a skull. A few white hairs. She couldn’t weigh much over 50 pounds.

  A nurse was putting drops in the still vibrant blue eyes, which struggled to turn toward Ishue. “You’re…Ilene…Ishue?” she labored. “Bless you. We heard about INFX because of you…your reporting. God…bless…you.”

  “What do you want for your birthday, Steven?” the doctor asked.

  “I-N-F-X,” he whispered, struggling to make himself heard. “We want to go together.”

  “Why?” Ishue asked him.

  “It’s time,” Steven said. “It’s just time.”

  Back in the hall, Ishue asked: “How many people - volunteers - do you have.”

  “Six in residence at the moment. I haven’t the heart to tell them…” he said this as they entered another room where curtains were drawn around the hospital bed, and he did not finish his sentence. “This is Gloria,” he said instead, gesturing to a woman slumped in an overstuffed chair beside the bed, apparently sleeping. She opened her eyes as they approached. “This is the reporter, Ilene Ishue.”

  She was about 35, thin, blond, her smile anxious but sincere, her movements nervous, abrupt, eyes red from crying. In this face Ishue saw suffering at the limits of endurance. “H…Hi,” she said, rising from the chair and wiping her eyes. They touched hands.

  The two women stood there awkwardly, until Lomax placed a gentle hand on each of their shoulders, offering a kindly smile.

  “And this is my son, Aaron,” Gloria said meekly, opening the curtains.

  Ishue could barely contain her revulsion at the sight of the body, hideous, deformed, virtually all his skin crusted scar tissue in various phases of healing and infection, red, orange, black, covered with patchworks of gauze, oozing, bleeding, his hands and feet gone, his face…gone.

  “Aaron was in a b-bad fire two months ago,” Gloria understated, her voice cracking. “He’s been in and out of surgery…ever…” She dropped into the chair weeping.

  How can anyone cry for two months, Ishue wondered.

  “Aaron is 12,” Lomax said, examining the carcass with a physician’s grace. “He’s sleeping now. He can’t talk. He can’t eat. He can’t see. But he can hear and he does understand us.”

  Ishue patted Gloria
on the shoulder. “We’ll talk later, honey.” She had to leave.

  In the hallway Lomax handed her a tissue. “Except for a feeding tube Aaron doesn’t need life support - per se - so there’s no quick and painless plug to pull. His mother believes in her heart of hearts that her little boy has stayed alive all these months for one, singular purpose. She thinks - needs to believe – that there’s some kind of divine notion Aaron will go through INFX.” He paused. “Follow me, Ilene, won’t you?”

  “Later,” Ishue said. Her body language and vocal tone said she was done, used up.

  “Come on. This will be much more upbeat.”

  Upbeat? What kind of cynical crap…

  “Really! Don’t you want to interview Justin Holt?”

  Her mood turned at once. “Holt? Here?”

  “Yes, I thought you knew.”

  They kept it from the press! “I didn’t. Is he going to go through INFX too?”

  “Already went.”

  The last door on the hallway. Next to the emergency exit. Ishue knew what it looked like beyond that door. A labyrinth of braces and pipes and wires. It was how she’d gotten in.

  Justin Holt…What a bonus! And it made sense he’d be here. The stories on all the Hollywood gossip shows about his depression. The suicidal thing. And Gwen…how she’d stuck by him. So tragically, romantically perfect. Better even than in their movie, Sailing to Byzantium.

  Justin Holt occupied two rooms, the outer furnished with chairs and a sofa. Ishue instantly recognized the seated woman, tall and pale and Nordic-featured except for jet-black hair. Shoulder-length now. Of course it had been years since Byzantium came out. She rose. “Miss Carlton; a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You’re the first press we’ve allowed.” The actress announced. “Justin is ready to tell his story now. Please come.” She led into the inner room.

  Justin Holt, nurse at his side. Justin’s upper torso propped up in bed, wearing a polo shirt, freshly shaven, hair trimmed and neat. He looked good…good color in the face and arms. A big smile, white perfect teeth. They were expecting me!

  While Lomax led the introductions, Ishue focused on Justin’s arms, trying to remember if he had any movement below the neck.

  “I’m a C-7,” he said in anticipation. “Quadriplegic. The arms are just for looks.” His voice contained no hint of bitterness.

  What depression? “And what good-looking arms they are,” Ishue chuckled.

  Justin Holt the movie star smiled with genuine sincerity. “I’m just glad to be alive on this glorious day in this glorious place.”

  Uh oh. “I’ll bite,” she said sweetly. “Why so glorious?”

  “Because we’re not alone. It’s not just about us on our own little planet in our own lonely corner of the galaxy any more. I’ve seen it. Life everywhere. Bursting at the seams. Layers upon layers. And we, children, just beginning to understand, to discover…”

  “Where did you see this?”

  “In the machine. Dr. Evans and I. Don’t get me wrong; this isn’t about technology and it isn’t about religion. The machine is an accidental doorway to god. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I want…can’t wait to go again.”

  Holt started to swoon, his neck muscles giving way. Lomax and the nurse moved in, supported him, helped him relax. “I don’t care if no one believes me,” Justin said weakly. “Just keep me close…to…the machine.” His eyelids dropped.

  “Not bad for a young man who wanted to end it all 36 hours ago,” Lomax said proudly.

  “All I know is he’s been absolutely elated since he popped out of that dreadful coma yesterday,” Gwen said, stroking his head. “He’s as happy as I’ve ever seen him...”

  At this Justin’s eyes snapped back open, wide and wild. “What the fuck? Where am I? Lomax?”

  “Yeah, Justin. Calm down. Relax now.” The doctor pushed past Gwen and placed his hand on Justin’s shoulder, as if he might have to restrain the paralyzed body. The heart-rate monitor doubled in tempo and his blood pressure alarm went off. Lomax motioned with his eyes for the nurse to ramp-up the Valium drip.

  “Justin?” Justin squeaked. “Why the fuck you calling me ‘Justin?’ Hey, I can’t move a goddamn’ muscle here…” He was looking at Gwen, who stared back in terror, unable to speak.

  “Who’s the dish?” he slurred, the extra Valium kicking in, his monitors slowing.

  “Oh, god, he doesn’t recognize me,” Gwen cried. “Justin! It’s me!”

  Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh my god! I get it! Unbelievable. Lomax, don’t drug me. Get Baker and Cochran in here. Shit…don’t…drug…” And he was out.

  “What the hell just happened, doctor?” Ishue asked.

  “Some kind of delusion,” the doctor said, prying open Justin’s eyelids, checking the pupils with a little flashlight.

  “Is he okay?” Gwen managed.

  “Oh sure,” Lomax said, trying to make it sound like this was completely normal, happened to every one of his INFX patients. He looked back over his shoulder at Ishue’s two guards and they moved forward to flank the reporter.

  “Wait a second. Who are Baker and Cochran?”

  But before she could get an answer the guards had escorted her out, back to her residence suite, the comfortable, windowless hotel-like room in the far corner of the complex. The room reeked of newness, the vaguely toxic smell of new carpeting, fresh paint, new plastic bathroom fixtures. She found her suitcases stacked neatly beside the dresser. The phone in the room had no dial. It also had no dial tone. She tried clicking it for awhile, but no operator came on the line. Then she flipped open her cell phone. No signal. She walked around the room twice, holding the contraption in the air at various attitudes and angles. Nothing. “That figures.”

  Though she had no intention of unpacking, she went through her suitcases, inventorying the contents. Only one thing was missing: her laptop. “That figures too.”

  Ishue took a quick shower, threw on jeans, a comfortable top and a constructed gabardine jacket. Destination: the commissary, a tastefully Spartan room, a dozen tables, lots of chrome, potted live trees, black-and-white tile floor, clear skylights above the exposed metal trusses glistening with winter ice overhead. Ishue’s two wordless guards got in the food line behind her, apparently starving by the size of the piles they heaped upon their plates.

  She scanned the half-filled room; nurses, orderlies, scientists, technicians. And over in the corner, Adel. She motioned for her guards to give her some space and approached the widow.

  “Please join me,” Adel said softly without turning. Ishue carefully slid her plate of veal piccata onto the slick granite tabletop. The guards sat nearby, their attention redirected to wolfing their food.

  Ishue relaxed against the leather seatback and began absentmindedly twirling a thick strand of brown hair around her index finger. “I’ve just come from visiting patients…”

  “A humbling experience,” Adel offered thoughtfully.

  She got the odd feeling the old woman was studying her intently from behind those black glasses, then reasoned she probably was, in her own way.

  Another moment passed. “You seem to have a level head on you, Miss Ishue. Can I trust you with something…important? Trust you to hold and safeguard some information?”

  “Not forever…”

  “Indeed,” Adel smiled. “But for awhile.”

  “Okay. I’ll save it for the book.”

  Adel leaned toward the reporter and lowered her voice. “I’m the only person alive who knows this. Mark thinks I should leave it with…someone, just in case…” She smiled awkwardly. “The day Mark disappeared…I was the passenger. And Mark was the driver.”

  “What?” Ishue digested this for a moment. “He intentionally…took his own life…and risked yours?”

  “It was the only way. We had to do it while he still had lucid moments. Before he got too bad.”

  Ishue was speechless. Hadn’t Deverson perished as a scientist condu
cting an experiment? No! The accident hadn’t been an accident at all.

  “We just wanted…you know, in case something goes very wrong, for someone else to know about it. It may prove to be important to the research…somewhere…down the line.”

  Ishue’s guards would not allow her access beyond the main corridor, people hustling back and forth, pushing carts loaded with papers, boxes, computers, medical equipment. So much activity for nine-fifteen in the evening. Too much. It looked like the company was in the process of hastily abandoning the facility. But that didn’t seem likely. Still, the thought struck her that she might wake up the next morning with everyone gone. Ilene Ishue, wandering around a giant R&D plant in her bathrobe and slippers, all alone. Silly. She tried calling out questions to some of these employees but they would not answer, instead hurrying by without acknowledgement.

  She left word with her guards for Chalmais to contact her, repeated her request for her laptop, then went back to her room and tried working on her story longhand. She listened to her tapes, read her notes. Too many loose ends, unanswered questions. The story was simply unwritable at this point.

  Ishue sketched the word LEMMINGS large across the page, distractedly doodling the capital letters into illegibility. After a few minutes of this she sighed loudly and turned on the television, channel surfing for some news. Too early for the local stuff, she watched CNN for awhile, hoping for something relevant. Nothing. It was strange, the world just going about its business, blissfully unaware of the high drama unfolding within these walls. She toyed with the idea of taking a bath. Too much hassle. Fully clothed, she curled up on her bed and fell asleep.

  Sunday

  Gyttings-Lindstrom Research Unit,

  Eugene, Oregon

  By the time the high windows along corridor J had faded to darkness, the drugs had taken their toll on Wayne. He was no longer cognizant, no longer making sense, could not even recognize his intimate partner of three-plus years.