Out of Time r5-2

by Cliff Ryder

  In his lap, his hand trembled, and he frowned, staring out into the growing darkness.

  Three weeks later, Alex sat in the doctor’s office, trying to remain calm. He’d have better luck staring into the business end of a gun than staring at that damned clock. The door popped open, nearly sending him off his seat. The groan of new leather betrayed him, and he fought to relax his muscles, to sink casually back into the chair.

  Under normal circumstances, Alex would be utilizing one of the doctors who had been specially selected to serve the agents of Room 59. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance and Alex wanted his situation to be private—at least until he could figure out what was going on and what to do about it. His mandatory time off after a mission was almost over, and he’d soon be sent out again. He needed to know what was wrong before that happened.

  Alex had chosen Dr. Britton because he had a reputation for being discreet, he was one of the top in his field and he was close to home. He was also blunt and to the point, which Alex appreciated. As Dr. Britton stepped through the door, Alex’s eyes riveted on his face, he shifted the file folder from one hand to the other. That folder bore the fruits of a battery of tests. It held Alex’s fate.

  “Sorry it took me so long.” Dr. Britton eased into his own chair; the wheels scraped across the plastic mat as he moved closer to the desk. “I had to take an emergency call.”

  “No worries, Doc. It’s not like I have somewhere else more important to be.” Alex dry swallowed and recrossed his legs.

  “Let’s see.” Britton sighed, licking one finger and turning quickly through the various lab results until he came to the one he wanted. “I’ll start with the good news. You’ll be happy to know that you’re in wonderful physical shape. Heart good, lungs good, muscle tone impressive. That’s all going to be a help to you with the bad news.”

  Alex offered up a tight grin by way of reply and recrossed his legs. Patience eluded him.

  “The bad news is that there is one problem and it’s a big one,” the doctor said.

  He paused, Alex supposed, awaiting a response.

  Alex gave none.

  Dr. Britton nodded. “I’ll put this as simply as I can, then. No sense fooling around with it. Your MRI showed extensive lesions—we call them plaque—on your brain and spinal cord, and the fluid we took from your spine has elevated protein markers. You have multiple sclerosis, and based on the history you’ve given me, it’s very progressive.”

  Alex felt the small lunch he’d eaten earlier rise into his throat, and his head spun. “MS. Like Muhammad Ali?”

  “Not quite. Ali has Parkinson’s disease, which is also neurological, but has a different progres-sion. MS causes lesions on the brain and affects different parts of the nervous system based on where the lesions are occurring. Most forms of MS progress slowly, or more commonly relapse and remit, with recovery between. The symptoms are mild, often unnoticed at first, then build to larger problems over time.”

  “Like, decades, right?” Maybe he had time.

  Time to live, to work, to find a cure. Room 59 had access to all sorts of classified things. For all he knew, some government agency already had a cure that hadn’t been released to the public yet.

  The doctor shook his head. “Not decades, Alex.

  That’s not the form you have.Your tests indicate that you most probably have primary progressive MS.

  Its onset is much more dramatic and, I’m afraid, it doesn’t afford you as much time before you get into some serious and often debilitating symptoms.”

  “How long?”

  Dr. Britton scanned his chart, avoiding looking up at Alex.

  “Come on, Doc. Just give me the worst case and we can work back from there.”

  “Alex, there’s just no real way to predict how MS is going to progress. Sometimes it can take quite a while before you run into serious problems, and then one day you wake up and can’t get out of bed. With the problems that you’re having now and the location and size of the lesions it could be as little as a few months, maybe less, maybe more.

  It’s not a predictable disease.”

  Alex’s face betrayed him. He could dodge bullets without so much as a tic, but this had thrown him into a spin. His grip on the arm of the chair loosened and he felt the tremors start again.

  “Months.”

  “I’m sorry, Alex. This disease isn’t something that I can give you a shot for—we can’t even predict with any accuracy the symptoms you’ll experience from one day to the next. Muscles spasms, tremors, pain, blindness—there are so many neurological possibilities.” He slid several prescriptions across his desk and sighed. “There are some medications that will help relieve some of the symptoms for a while. They will help lessen the spasms a bit, make the pain more tolerable. But the disease has a mind of its own. It’ll take its own course and have done with you when it damned well pleases.”

  “What can I expect? I mean—” Alex didn’t know what he meant. He wanted the doctor to tell him he had years before he went shopping for a personalized license plate for his wheelchair. He wanted the doctor to guarantee him a few years before he became totally useless.

  More paper slid across the desk, this time in the form of fat pamphlets. Alex took them without really looking at them.

  “You can read these and they’ll give you a better idea of where you’re headed. There are also plenty of informative Web sites on the subject. Do some digging and you’ll get a handle on what’s known about the disease. We’ll want to repeat several of the tests in a month, especially the MRIs, and then again in six months if you’re still—”

  Alex’s head snapped up, eyes glaring daggers.

  “Alive? If I’m still alive?”

  The faint smile disappeared from Dr. Britton’s face. “No, nothing that severe. But given what we’re looking at, if you are still walking I admit I would be surprised.”

  Alex stood shakily. “I know. Not your fault.

  Sometimes, shit just happens, eh?” He turned toward the door, the pamphlets clutched tightly in his hand. “I’ll be back in a month. Then again in six.”

  Dr. Britton stared after him, frowning. “Call me if you have any concerns, Alex. And try to minimize your stress. There are many worse neurological diseases than MS. It’s not fatal. I could have told you that your life is ending.”

  Alex laughed harshly. “You just did.”

  Britton slumped back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he said. “You’ll want to take some time with this at first. Just remember that stress makes MS symptoms worse. Go easy for a bit and maybe the symptoms will settle down a little.”

  Alex nodded sharply, then left, stalking down the hall toward the elevator. His face was steady and he hadn’t blinked since opening the door to Dr.

  Britton’s office. The Muzak droned in the elevator, but he didn’t hear it. He stared straight ahead, stoic and silent. He showed no reaction at all until he stepped out onto the sidewalk and the bright midday sun assaulted his eyes.

  There he stood, Alex Tempest, master spy and assassin, husband, father and soon…useless. For the first time, he became aware of the pamphlets in his hand. That hand trembled as it brought the pages closer to his line of sight and he grimaced.

  Multiple sclerosis. Didn’t that just beat the hell out of the band?

  He realized he’d never really thought about walking. Everyone just takes for granted that they can. It might have been easier if it had been a death sentence. That would have been devastating to most people, but Alex Tempest was not most people. He had thought at length about the manner and time of his death. He’d always figured that he’d die in a blaze of glory, bullets raining down on him from every direction. He’d hoped he would die in brave, heroic fashion, maybe even in the process of saving someone’s life. Death like that was something he could face.

  But he’d never imagined something like this. A disease, wasting him away, helpless in the face of an enemy he couldn’t see, couldn’t fight.
It wasn’t even a good disease, the result of a life of excess or debauchery. If it were, he’d at least have something to show for it—some good memories.

  Two blocks down the street was a dark little bar called Pete’s. Alex headed in that direction, the pamphlets clutched in his trembling hand. The prescriptions were tucked neatly into his wallet, folded twice to ensure a good fit. His free hand gripped the door handle and pulled, allowing him entrance to a world inhabited solely by the lost.

  Inside, the bar was dark and the air smelled like stale beer and smoke. The faintest scent of burned French fries wafted out of the kitchen and the phone rang shrilly against the soft hum of voices.

  Alex slipped onto a stool and flagged down the bartender. “Double Black Jack, neat.”

  The bartender nodded, and then reached for a glass. It was artfully filled and pressed into his hand.

  Alex traded him a twenty for it. “Four more. Line

  ’em up.” He downed the first one and tried to smile.

  “Tough day?” The bartender was too young and too innocent to know anything about bad days.

  “Last day.” The hint of sadness in Alex’s voice was unmistakable and it was enough to make the bartender leave him alone with his liquid friends.

  Alex sipped at the second drink and spread the pamphlets out on the bar. Might as well know what he was up against. He flipped open the fat one, skimmed the opening details and gore, then cut straight to the dos and don’ts. He hoped that he’d find some secret remedy contained in those scant pages. Instead, he found bad news and more bad news.

  Chief among the don’ts was drinking. “Fuck you!” he grumbled to the pamphlet, then slammed it shut and tossed back the third shot. The bartender stared at him for a moment, then turned away in silence.

  There were few dos included. Not much advice and little or no hope. Apparently, nothing much helped, beyond doing none of the things you enjoyed up until you were left drooling in a wheelchair and then killed by something stupid, like a cold, when your immune system finally collapsed.

  He thought about his wife, Brin, and his eyes welled with tears. He’d have to tell her, but he didn’t know how he’d do it. She was strong and brilliant and amazingly self-sufficient, but this would devastate her. And he didn’t want to think about what the news would do to their daughter, Savannah. She was Daddy’s girl, tried and true.

  Alex smiled as he thought about her, her sweet face, her tiny hand in his. Then he frowned. She was a little over two. If the disease progressed quickly, she might not even remember him, or worse, she might only remember an incompetent in a wheelchair who could never help her or protect her.

  Alex thought he would rather be dead in some hell hole than face his wife and daughter with this kind of news. Dead that way, he was making a difference. He was a warrior, and if he couldn’t fight this disease, he could damned well go out fighting.

  And who knew, he thought, maybe he was strong enough to beat it for a while. The power of the mind, his body was still in great shape, maybe he could will himself to overcome the disease. He shook his head and took another swallow of the burning liquor.

  If not, what good could he do himself, his family or the world, with this damned disease?

  He swallowed as the answer came to him.

  None.

  Denny Talbot heard the faint tone in his earpiece that indicated someone wanted to speak to him and he slipped on the wraparound-style sunglasses that allowed him to access the virtual world of Room 59. Using his avatar, he keyed in the codes that would transform the digital green lines of nothingness into what looked like a normal office in seconds. When it was done and his avatar was seated, he said, “Enter.”

  Kate Cochran, the director of Room 59, came through his virtual door at a good clip, her platinum-blond hair bouncing around her neck as she moved. She had one of those damnable red folders in her hand, which meant this was important—life-altering important.

  Denny leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest. Everything in the Room 59 virtual world could appear as real or unreal as the user desired.

  He preferred reality to the strangeness of a dream, so his office mirrored reality to the smallest detail.

  “A red folder,” he said without preamble. “What do you have for me this time?” A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “Something big,” Kate said. “And very juicy.”

  She tapped the folder and set it on his desk. “Rare-steak juicy.”

  Denny started to reach for the file but she pulled it back just in the nick of time. “Okay, why don’t you fill me in, then?” He smiled, full on, and laced his fingers over his belly as he rocked slowly in the chair.

  “Ever heard of a company called MRIS? Medical Robotic Imaging Systems, Inc.?”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “They’re a high-tech medical-imaging firm, mostly working on the research-and-development side of diagnostic equipment. They’ve even developed a successful prototype of a nanobot camera—

  nanobots are tiny robots that can be injected into a person’s body—eliminating the need for such things as endoscopic procedures and upper GIs. It still needs a lot more testing before they can go public with it, but it will happen soon enough.

  They’re privately funded, very quiet and already making hundreds of millions of dollars a year,”

  Kate said.

  Denny nodded, wondering where this was heading.

  “Last year, MRIS opened a facility in China, up in one of the northern provinces, specifically for the continued development of this nanobot imaging system.”

  “Where’s the part where this concerns us?”

  Denny asked. Kate could be blunt, but she could also drive a man to distraction with too much detail.

  “Apparently, that isn’t all they’re up to. Yesterday, we got a communiqué from one of our assets in China. Site intel and surveillance shows that MRIS isn’t just working on the imaging systems.

  Seems they’re also building some sort of related biological weapon. According to the Chinese, the biological end of it is complete. It’s just the weapon part—the delivery system—that needs work.”

  Now his interest was piqued. He sat forward and leaned both elbows on the desk. “And they want us to eliminate the threat.”

  “Bingo.” Finally, she tossed the file across the desk, watching it skid slowly into Denny’s hands.

  She took a seat in a chair and crossed her long legs, watching his face as he accessed the information and read through the file and scanned the pictures.

  When he was done, Denny slid the folder back and shook his head. What he’d read had made him sick, deep inside. The particular nerve gas MRIS

  had created was very spooky. They’d found a way to use the nanobots to deliver a payload specifically designed to kill slowly in order to maximize suffering and increase the contamination rate. “They’re right,” he said. “We need to stop this. Now.”

  “Pai Kun completely agrees,” Kate said. “It was one of his who that initially got the intel. But he wants us to take the lead on it, rather than using a local asset.”

  “Why?” Denny asked.

  “He thinks we’ll have a better shot at keeping things quiet and suspicion away from any of his local assets,” she said. “I think he’s right.”

  Denny stared at the folder for a long moment, and then glanced up, another question in his eyes.

  “Who do you want to send?” he asked.

  “I was thinking of Alex Tempest. This is right up his alley. He’d be perfect for it.”

  Denny shook his head. “He’s great at blending in, but even he might have trouble looking Chinese.”

  A crease formed down the middle of Kate’s forehead and she frowned. “He pulled off that mission in Korea just last year,” she countered. “I think he can do it.”

  “Maybe,” Denny admitted. “But he’s only been back from that mission in Mexico a few weeks or so. And things didn’t go very w
ell down there. I was thinking of giving him some extended downtime.”

  Kate nodded thoughtfully and studied her shoes for a moment. “There’s nobody better suited for it,”

  she said. “And we can’t afford a failure here. Who else has his level of experience, let alone his training?”

  “I can think of a few—”

  “Who else will get the job done or die trying?

  Come on! You know damned well that nobody else we’ve got right now is capable of taking this on with any kind of certainty of success. There’s only Alex.” Kate paused for a moment and studied his face with the trained eye of an interrogator.

  “We mandate three weeks minimum between missions, Denny. He’s had that and is probably sitting on his hands waiting for something else to do by now. Maybe sending him back out is what he needs, more than extra time off.”

  Denny thought for a moment. He knew Kate.

  She had all the tenacity of a bull terrier. He could tell her no until the cows came home and still not win the argument. “All right. But you have to promise not to try and influence his answer in any way. Not to pressure him into it. I’m still waiting for his full report on what happened down in Mexico, but I’ve got a bad feeling right now where he’s concerned. If he says no, then we’ll find someone else, okay?”

  Kate nodded her head slowly. “You know I would never, ever try to push an agent into taking on a detail he wasn’t ready for.”

  Denny stood his ground, frowning. “Promise me.”

  When several beats passed without an answer from Kate, he glared at her, staring daggers.

  “Promise or you can ask him yourself.”

  She held up her hands to ward off the heat of his eyes. “Okay, okay! I promise I will not try to influence his decision in any way. Happy now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. Good luck chatting with Alex.”

  Kate rose, tucking the folder under one arm and pushing open the door. Once outside, she shoved the door shut and Denny sighed, then disconnected from his virtual office.