“Put a cork in it, Calloway!”
They couldn't see Jason any more. The splatting drops overlapped each other, then runnelled down the windscreen. Not even the windshield wipers could cope with the deluge.
They might not be able to see Jace, but they could hear him. “This is so fuckin’ great!” he was yelling, at the top of his lungs.
“Jace is enjoying himself,” Rick said. It was punctuated with a big yawn.
“Uh-oh. Rick's about to go bye-bye,” Cole said. He pulled a lamp out of the glove box and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. “Here, Rick,” he said. “Catch a few rays.” He shone it in Rick's face.
“Not in my eyes, you idiot.”
“I thought you weren't supposed to do that,” said Simon. “Doesn't it interrupt your cycle or something?”
Rick shrugged. “Not any more than this little party interrupts your sleep.”
Simon looked doubtful, but he didn't say anything.
Rick decided it was time to be blunt. “It's my life, Simon,” he said forcefully. “If you don't want me to run—the way you told Cole—”
Simon gave Cole a dirty look.
“—then you'd better lay off.” Very deliberately, he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, along with a lighter. He'd brought it along intentionally, so he could give them a little demo if they needed it. This had been going on too many weeks, and he couldn't take it any more.
Still, he thought sheepishly, I'm glad Jace is outside. He could just imagine what Dr. Jason Stratton would say if he saw him with a cigarette, considering how damaged his lungs were. “If I want to do this—” Rick lit the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, “—or this—” he unbuttoned his shirt and grabbed the light from Cole, then made a point of playing the light over his exposed skin, “—then I'll do it. And no one is going to fuckin’ well stop me,” he said aggressively. He spoiled it by accidentally inhaling, and going into a coughing fit. It went on for several minutes, by which time the cigarette had exited the window, and Rick's eyes were streaming. "Ouch," he said, when he was able to talk again.
Simon was smiling. “I didn't get what you were saying. Do you want to show me again?”
Rick wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Very funny.”
“Do you want to explain it to Jace the same way, or do you want me to have a talk with him?”
“I'll explain it if you want,” Cole offered. “If he saw you smoking, he'd boot your butt—and I don't mean the cigarette.” He sniggered.
“We all know how tactful you are, Cole,” Simon said sarcastically. “I'll talk to Jace, Rick.”
Rick nodded. “Thanks. Sometimes, I wish he wasn't my doctor, but—for crissake!” he said, looking directly at Cole, “—don't tell him that. He'd take it the wrong way.”
The rain had lessened slightly, so that they could almost see out the windows again. Suddenly, the sky lit up, in a series of blue-white flashes—reflecting off the droplets that ran down the windows.
“Beautiful!” Rick muttered.
Cole wiped a window with the back of his sleeve. “I missed the shot!” he said morosely.
The lightning was closer now. The rumble of the thunder vibrated the car.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Simon. “Jace must've liked that one.”
Rick peered out the spot he'd wiped in the windscreen. “Where is Jace, anyway?”
Simon wiped his window some more, and Cole wound his down. “Yoo hoo!” Cole bellowed. “Mr. Lighting Man!”
Simon jiggled one finger in his ear. “You're deafening me, you asshole!”
Rick wound down his window, too. He poked his head out, and looked out across the grass. Suddenly, his keen eyesight picked up what the others had not: someone lying on the ground, some distance away. He jerked the door handle and yelled to the others, "He's down!" He was out of the car, and loping across the grass before Simon could even open the door.
Jason was lying on his side. When Rick turned him over, to search for injuries, he was completely limp, and Rick began to panic.
Simon reached them first, followed by Cole.
“He's breathing,” Rick assured them.
In the light from the headlamps, Simon took over. “Do you think he got hit?” he asked tersely.
“No way,” Cole said firmly, as much to reassure himself as any of them. “Unless it travelled,” he amended, gulping.
“Ground charge?” Simon put his ear against Jason's chest and listened to his heart. “He may have taken a jolt, but his heart's okay.” He glanced at Rick. “See any bleeding?” If it was there, Rick would be able to see it.
Rick shook his head. He was shaking in his efforts to remain still. The adrenaline rush, combined with the time under the lamp, had sent his energy levels soaring.
Cole looked at him. “Pace, Rick,” he urged. To Simon, he asked, “What should we do? Call an ambulance?” He heard the sound of running footsteps, and saw David Geraldo and Gabe Finlay coming their way, guns drawn.
Simon was still checking Jace over—looking for signs of bullet wounds or other injuries that might not be bleeding through his clothes.
“Is he hit?” Geraldo asked.
Simon shook his head. In spite of the time Jason had spent in the rain, he still felt hot. “Rick?” Rick was at his side in a second. Despite the fact Simon had had a month to come to terms with the changes in his friend, Rick's speed still took him by surprise. “Does he feel hot to you?”
Rick felt Simon's arm, and then Jason's. He nodded. “He's running one helluva fever.” He sounded almost relieved. Better a fever, than electrocution.
“I still think we should get an ambulance,” Cole said. “Just in case.”
“No ambulance,” Jason muttered.
“Jace—do you hurt anywhere?” Simon asked.
Jason was shivering. “Nowhere and everywhere,” he said. “I think I've picked up a flu bug.” He tried to sit up. Simon helped him. “Sorry, Guys—”
“In that case—” Rick bent down, tugged Jason up, and threw him over his shoulder. He started at a trot toward the car.
Jason felt embarrassed. “R-Rick-k—” His voice wobbled as Rick's gait jiggled him up and down.
“Don't try to stop him, Jace. He's having a sugar buzz,” Cole said.
Finlay just shook his head. “I still don't see how you can do that, Lockmann. He weighs more than you do.”
Cole ran ahead and opened the back door, so Jace could stretch out on the back seat. “Lay his wet body on my flash upholstery, Rick. I don't mind.”
“Give me a minute, and I'll drum up some vomit, to add to the water, Cole,” Jace told him.
“Did I ever tell you I planned on installing an ejection seat?” Cole replied.
Jace sniffed the air. “What's that?” he asked in concern. “Smells like smoke.”
“Must be ozone from a lightning strike,” Rick said quickly.
Jace met his eyes. “Then you must have taken a hit in the mouth,” he said drily. “Remind me to schedule you for a rectal exam—so I can shove my boot up your ass.”
Rick grinned. “Just pretend you're delirious. None of this happened.”
Simon nodded to Geraldo and Finlay. “Everything under control.”
“Sure,” Finlay said to Geraldo. “An everyday occurrence for these clowns.”
Rick smiled at them. “Thanks—for being there just in case.” He threw a jacket over Jace, then turned to watch as another bolt of lighting shattered the night sky. “Did we convert you?”
Geraldo nodded. “Yeah. The next time there's a thunderstorm, I'm going to shut the windows, pull the drapes, and hide myself under the bed.”
* * * *
“What about Lockmann?”
Chesner shuffled through the photos littering his desk. “We've got reconnaissance shots—even satellite recon. Finding him isn't the problem.” He looked up, a wry smile curving his lips. “Nor is keeping track of him.”
“What's the problem, then?”
&nbs
p; “Justifying it. Genetechnic's already got a federal inquiry on their hands. No one can suspect we're involved in this.”
“Got it covered.” Samuelson flung a file down on his desk. “There's a splinter religious group that's gone terrorist in the last couple of years. Some of them are already under observation. Brentworth, who works in Security at Genetechnic, is a member.”
“So, if we take Lockmann, Brentworth gets the blame.”
“That's the idea. It shouldn't be too hard to pull off. Throw around a few religious icons, a few questionable memos—”
“Plus Brentworth disappears.”
“Of course. He's susceptible to influence. The five-figure kind.”
“Cheap date. What if they find him?”
“He'll have no idea who we are, or where we've hidden him.” Samuelson asked, a little hesitantly, “What are you going to do with Lockmann when you get him? Clone him?”
Chesner grinned. “Not ‘in house’. As much as cloning might increase our product range, I'd rather leave that to someone else. A lot depends on the market. I'd prefer not to ‘slice and dice’ him.”
Samuelson's sigh of relief was audible. “Good. I like the role of procurer a lot better than ‘butcher’.”
Chesner grew serious. “Remember, Rob—Lockmann's not wholly human any more. That gives us a little more leeway in how we treat this.”
“You know that—and I know that—but does Lockmann?”
Chesner shrugged. “It doesn't matter what he does or doesn't know. My point is that his value far exceeds what any ‘human’ has a right to expect. And most of the changes in him seem to be advantageous.”
Samuelson still looked doubtful.
Chesner's eyes met his. “Look at it this way: if a new surgical technique is developed, that can save lives, it should be shared, right? Or when a compound like insulin can be mass produced, it should be readily available to everyone. It's the same with new pharmaceuticals—everyone should have a shot at them. Well, so should the traits Lockmann now has in his gene pool. For crissake, Rob, the guy now has the answer to world hunger running around in his cells. You can't keep that kind of thing a secret, or isolated. It's got to be available to the masses.”
“Or at least to those willing to pay for it.”
“So—to make it more available—the more people who get something for their money, the better.”
* * * *
Rick stood outside Entadyne for a minute, staring at the building with new eyes. This was the way it always was now: the stuff he'd grown so accustomed to in his past life that he'd never really noticed any more would take on a whole new complexion.
Like the skin on my face. He put off entering the building for a few minutes more, while he considered every excuse he could come up with for opting out of the next quarter hour. The quarter hour when everyone would inquire about his health, talk about how skinny he'd become but what a great tan he'd acquired, and either ask bluntly about his eyes, or turn away quickly in deference to his sudden handicap. Then, if things went true to form, some people would want to know whether he'd suffered some kind of vision loss. They'd only belatedly realise that he wouldn't be here unless he could see what he was doing. Then, they'd be embarrassed, and so would he. Their humiliation, his humiliation. Humiliation was like anger—it took some people a while to get over it, especially if their embarrassment had been a product of concern. They would try to act like everything was fine, and so would he. All of which made it harder to just act normal.
Steven Hylton had warned him about his files. Genetechnic had been behind a break-in at Entadyne and had confiscated most of his background information, plus a large number of his notes on current projects. There was no proof it had been Genetechnic, of course, and any damage had been random enough to be thought of as vandalism, but Rick knew his work-station had been a write-off. His supervisor at Entadyne had called him about it at home, when Rick was still too sick to care. At that point, he'd been too focused on Denaro, and his research on her, to even fully comprehend what was going on at Entadyne. Now, he wondered what he was going back to.
The silent weight of his keepers’ eyes told him he'd better get a move on. Many of his “keepers” were quickly becoming friends, but the pressure of being watched still bothered him. And any inquisition would be better than the frustrating circumstances that sometimes made him feel like he was chained to his house. He'd finally recognised—about a week ago—that his mind was at least as impatient as his body. He needed the discipline and focus of his work. He was just afraid that the sugar rushes through his body would keep him from having either. Can I hold still long enough to make slides and gels? he asked himself. Can I tolerate long hours of painstaking research on my computer? Part of him was terrified that his body wouldn't allow his mind the concentrated effort it craved.
To lack that ability to focus—the chance to lose himself in his work—could be the final frustration. The thing that could take him down, and plunge him into despair. He'd accepted just about everything else—even enjoyed the energy surges and the speed he'd acquired—but he didn't know if he could tolerate the loss of that ability to tune out the world. After the last month, with the world on his doorstep, he was craving oblivion. Hell, he didn't even have his computer any more. Jace had pulled it out of his house, along with the virus samples, and Denaro's notes. Rick knew why, and he knew better than to ask Jace about it with all these observers around. He was fairly certain that Simon could have told him, but he was also confident that Simon would handle things appropriately. In the meanwhile, though, Rick was going stir-crazy. Every part of him was allowed to roam these days—within reason, of course—but his mind.
The DSO knew he wasn't about to traipse about in large crowds because he was feeling too insecure. It wasn't only his eyes. It was the speed which drove him, and the way his metabolism had been so quirky at first. Rick had often pictured it in his head: he'd be there, walking down the street, and no one would notice him. He'd be wearing dark glasses, and no one would even know that something about him was “different". Then, all of a sudden, his metabolism would go wild. And good ol’ Rick would be passed out on the ground, and the place would be crawling with DSO and ambulances, helicopters, and police. Anonymity? There was no such thing any more.
He'd only recently begun to feel confident again. His metabolism was manageable as long as he kept water on hand, and avoided downing anything else. The artificial lighting at work might be a problem, but he'd brought along a grow light bulb, just in case. He didn't plan on taking any chances.
Patting the bulb gingerly where it was nestled in the rucksack, he pulled open the door. Then, before he could change his mind, he donned a pair of slightly shaded fake glasses, gritted his teeth, and bounded up the stairs.
* * * *
Tazo Raeiti repeated what was, for him, quickly becoming a religious ritual. Donning isolation gear, he walked over to the freezer and opened it. The other people in the room looked at him sceptically, but nobody dared to argue.
He reached down and gripped one of Denaro's bagged ovaries in his fist. Then, he squeezed. The frozen chunk of meat wouldn't give, of course, but it was the act of encircling it—using his force on it—that empowered him. Some part of his conscience was still smouldering over allowing her to rise from her frozen grave. He needed to feel that—if she should suddenly appear here—he would have some control.
It was all foolishness. Obsessive behaviour, like someone clinging to a rabbit's foot, or stroking a lucky stone. Something to make him feel, that if the virus got loose, it wouldn't touch him. He knew it was superstitious nonsense, but Denaro had taught him respect for those things beyond the natural.
As he returned the meaty chunks to their frozen resting place, he closed and locked the lid with the finality of sealing her casket. One more spadeful of soil on her resting place. Each time, the repetition and sense of control helped to diminish his fears a little more, so that he was able to function almost normally�
��without Denaro's shadowy presence lurking in the periphery of his vision. The doctor had told him it was a remnant of the bullet wound in his head, but Tazo Raeiti knew otherwise.
The sceptics were waiting again—pretending to go about their business while they watched him warily. They were afraid of him, but they should have been more afraid of what lingered in the box. If they knew what she was capable of, they would never have allowed her remains to sit in their midst.
Tazo turned away from their hidden stares, after offering them all a grim smile. Just as their faces were slightly contorted behind the visors that protected them, so was his smile distorted. The whiteness of his face with the slash of a smile gave his visage a macabre quality, which focused their eyes.
The stares were now on his back. “Don't worry,” Raeiti assured them. “Continue as you are, and you'll meet her—soon enough.” He chuckled and vanished out the door.
* * * *
Jamaal stopped Cole outside Rick's front door. “You can't go in there,” he said.
“What's wrong?” Cole frowned and tried to push Jamaal aside. It was like pushing a rock. “Is he sick or something?”
Simon's car came tearing round the corner. His parking job was nearly a side-slide, and a tyre squealed as it scraped the curb. “Uh-oh,” he muttered under his breath when he saw the altercation brewing on Rick's doorstep. Cole looked ready to punch something. If it turned out to be Jamaal, Cole could end up with a broken arm—or worse. Simon jumped out of the car and ran up to the house.
“This clown won't let me in,” Cole told him angrily.
Jamaal ignored him. He said hurriedly to Simon, “I don't know what's wrong with him.” He flicked his head toward the door as another loud thud sounded through the wood. “He's gone nuts or something.”
“Cole's always nuts,” Simon retorted coolly, deliberately diffusing the tension. “Right, Cole?”
But Cole was listening to the ruckus going on inside. “Are you sure he's alone?”
Jamaal nodded. “Johnson looked in the window when it first started.”
Cole thought of something else. Something that might just be enough to send Rick over the edge. “Didn't you let him go back to work today?” he asked angrily. It was the reason Cole had come by—to see how things had gone.
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 3
