Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  “Sure, he went to work. But, he's been like this since he got back.” Jamaal fumbled with his cellphone. “I think I should call Hylton,” he said worriedly.

  “Wait,” Simon said. “I'll talk to him. Give me five minutes.”

  Jamaal nodded and stepped to one side. But before Simon could move, Cole had already pushed open the door, and was thundering down the hall. Jamaal sighed and shook his head, but Simon just grinned.

  Simon caught up with Cole in the doorway to the lounge. Rick was alternating between jogging around on his furniture—bouncing from sofa to chair and back again—and shuffling around the room in an impromptu cha-cha. Ever once in a while, he'd run halfway up a wall, push off, and swing from one of the overhead beams before dropping to the ground. His crystalline eyes were sparkling so much that the emerald lights in them almost seemed to be glowing.

  “Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho—ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha—ha!” Rick sang off-key in time to his cha-cha. As he went past Cole and Simon, his grin, if anything, grew wider. He gave Cole a shove, chuckled, and continued on his cha-cha around the room.

  “Cut it out!” Cole grumbled. “What's with you?”

  Rick stopped cha-cha-ing, and began to pace excitedly instead. “You won't believe it! Not only can I still do my work, but I'm going to be the best fuckin’ scientist they have in that place!”

  “Big deal,” Cole said. His temper was still running hot.

  Rick stopped and looked at him incredulously. He flung his hands in the air, in a gesture of exasperation. “Don't you know what this means?! I've been worried about this for weeks.”

  Simon chuckled. “I know you have. Take away your fungus and viruses and what's left? One boring—”

  “—and bored,” Rick interrupted.

  “—and bored—son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So you're back to rescuing radishes,” Cole commented. “I think you should do something worthwhile—like corn that jumps off the cob, or sugar-coated lima beans.”

  “Did I ever tell you you're sick?” Simon asked Cole.

  “Not as sick as whoever invented lima beans.”

  “Chocolate-flavoured okra?” Rick ventured.

  “Dressed in its own brown mucous,” Cole snorted. “That's so disgusting it makes my lima beans sound good.”

  “Hey—you're the one who said chocolate could make even dirt edible.” Rick grinned. “My life's finally going somewhere! Or, to make it easier for you to understand, Cole—” he gave Cole a slap on the back, “—my choo-choo's back on the track.” He snatched some paper off the table, crumpled it, and tossed it at the rubbish bin.

  “I phoned Jace,” he said to no one in particular. “This morning. While I was putting off facing my co-workers.”

  “I phoned him this morning, too. I woke him up,” Cole admitted.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Simon muttered. Cole stared at him expectantly. “All right—I phoned him, too. Just after Cole did. He seems to be okay.”

  Cole grinned. “I was going to tell him he had the dubious honour of being the first of us to get struck by lightning. But, he was too grumpy to appreciate the joke.”

  For want of any other outlet to dispel his nervous energy, Rick was still wadding up paper and tossing it at the bin. After a couple of minutes, and a pad's worth of crumpled paper, he was still itching with impatience. He admitted, “I just can't sit still.” Rick looked almost pleadingly at his friends. “I know it sounds lame, but I'm so jazzed I'm almost out of control.”

  “Give the man some fungus and a microscope and he loses his mind,” Simon commented. “And I accuse Cole of being crazy.”

  “Let's go for a jog, and then shoot some basketball.” Rick didn't give them a chance to say no. Humming the cha-cha under his breath, he gave Cole and Simon a push toward the door.

  Chapter Three

  “They transfused her—with Lockmann's blood. It's how they got control, but it may mean we've lost any advantages. That's why we've grabbed the ovaries. The virus can persist up to seven generations in the ovaries of WTV's insect vectors. If we had to settle for partial measures, they're our best bet for live virus. If that doesn't work, we also have some skin samples with chloroplasts—another storage area, in the membrane.”

  “I'd've thought any antibodies from Lockmann would hit the skin a lot faster than her internal organs.”

  “You saw what happened when his blood made its presence felt. What I'm worried about is the chemistry—the balance that gave the effect. I don't know if we can re-create it.”

  “Aren't there any other records, besides the video? What about the doctor? Where are his files?”

  “Gone. Undoubtedly confiscated by the DSO. They're running their own little research project, you know—using computer simulations to try to map Lockmann's mutation. Everything else is locked down tight at Genetechnic.”

  Shires looked confused. “Can't we get in?”

  Diaslio shook his head. “The facility's still open, but just barely. And everything's being monitored so closely that you couldn't slip a gnat's ass in or out of there.” He gave a wry grin. “That's why Hylton was playing it smart, when he did his little hit-grab-and-run. He took as much as he could, then notified the Disease Centre. Now there's going to be a federal inquiry, but nobody knows when. The Genetechnic staff are bailing in droves—trying to get at least a subpoena-length away.”

  “Can any of them help us with this?”

  “Denaro didn't share her research with anyone—not even Vizar knew the whole story. We still can't figure out how Lockmann got involved, except for the fact he moved into her old house. It's the one thing that didn't make sense—and it triggered the research we're doing now. We actually think Lockmann was brought into this by Caroline herself.”

  “But the time frame—” Shires argued. He'd been over it again and again, trying to make sense of Lockmann's role in this whole thing. They hadn't found anything to suggest Lockmann had corresponded with Denaro—by e-mail or otherwise. But his occupation was too much of a coincidence, as was his timing. It was possible he'd picked up the virus at the house, by touching something infected with virus, but all Denaro's furnishings had been removed by Genetechnic. “How long can the virus live on a wall, or a doorknob?” he asked.

  Diaslio shook his head. “We considered that, but it's more likely he found something Denaro had hidden on-site.” He paused. “There's another possibility, which I, personally, consider the most likely.”

  Shires met his eyes. “What?”

  “I think Caroline Denaro paid him a visit.”

  Shires looked sceptical. “Outside the facility? Not likely.”

  “Expand your mind, Shires. We're talking extra-corporeal existence here. What's going to stop her? Not walls, and probably not distance.” There was still doubt on Shires’ face. Diaslio was getting used to this. Nobody questioned the validity of his research; they all just had a hard time accepting it. “She was brilliant, Dan—a genius. She figured out Lockmann could help her, and used it.”

  “Then repaid the favour by infecting him with virus and mutating his body.”

  * * * *

  Rick turned off the lights in the bedroom, then moved toward the bed. He forced himself to lie there for as long as he could stand it. Then he paced silently, on tiptoe, as he waited for enough time to pass to take Jamaal, or Henderson, or Stipley—or whoever was monitoring him—off guard.

  He couldn't will away the restlessness, any more than he could will away the lure of the out-of-doors. Some part of him was longing for the sweet scent of the damp soil, while another part was responding to the heady brilliance of the moonlight beaming through his window, and the sound of the wind buffeting the house.

  He knew he was taking a chance, but he needed this to stay sane. Needed a night prowl away from his keepers. An outing without the guilt that would chase him if they knew he'd disappeared. After all, they were only doing their jobs. It was just that their jobs infringe
d so much on his freedom.

  He realised Hylton was being as reasonable as he dared. After all, if I end up as mincemeat in somebody's lab, Hylton will have to pay the price. Rick knew without being told that Steven had stuck his neck out in order to make Rick's life at least somewhat “normal". It hadn't been hard to figure out: Hylton couldn't have mustered up this much equipment and manpower without justifying it somehow. “Justifying it” must have included some damned good excuses as to why it was more sensible for Richard Lockmann to stay in his former abode, than move into one arranged by the DSO.

  What he was about to do made no sense, and he knew there was no excuse. But, he also knew he had to do it. The night outings had always filled a void in his orderly existence. When the sanity of work and research had made his life too tame, these little night jaunts had made him feel like he was living. He needed to live a little now.

  Cole found his release in wild nights on the town, and Simon tamed his devils with action. Jace confronted too many wild nights in the emergency ward to worry about having to look for excitement. But, nobody knew about Rick's secret side—the nights when the whistle of the wind and the shredded clouds and the glowing moon on the horizon lured him outside. He'd walk until he was exhausted; until he'd stomped away the last of his frustrations; until he'd moved like a wraith through dark alleys, enjoying the feeling of being the last person alive on the streets. There was a darkness about the entire exercise that thrilled him—gave him goosebumps. A tremor of evil about being abroad in the blackness, with only the moon for company, that reminded him of vampires, and phantoms, and things that went bump in the night.

  Denaro had knocked a lot of it out of him. For weeks now, he hadn't dreamed of going abroad in the dark. But, the events of his time at Genetechnic were fading some—or, at least, the dread of them was. What Denaro had become wasn't a ghost or a phantom. She'd been a human being who'd tried to play God. None of his horror had gone, but some of his reluctance had faded.

  Now, the only thing that held him back was the fear of himself—and his limitations. If he had some problem with his metabolism out there in the dark, he'd have nobody to rely on but himself. It wasn't even that which bothered him—he might fall into one of his deep sleeps, but he should be okay once the sun came out again. What worried him was getting caught. If they realised he'd escaped, after hours of not knowing he'd been gone, they might take it as a sign to curtail his freedom. And if daylight hit his house before he did, he didn't know how the hell he'd re-enter without them knowing it. If I'm not up with the sun, they'll come rushing in to see what's wrong, he thought. That was one of the problems with being a creature of habit—and having a weird physiology. Get enough courage to break out of one, and try to ignore the other, and all hell could break loose.

  He knew this was stupid, and he knew it was juvenile, and he knew there were a dozen reasons why he shouldn't go out, and no really good reasons why he should. But, some part of him needed this. It was the last step in a life that was gradually returning to normal—the last stage to feeling that he was a whole person once again. He'd spent day-after-day being cheerful, and pretending that nothing about his mutated body bothered him. Now, he needed this dark side—this pretence to being just a little bit mysterious and unfathomable—more than he ever had before. Needed it to face the daily grind with the bracing knowledge that there was more to him than the people around him would ever suspect.

  He tiptoed to the window and looked out, seeing clearly the laser sensors they'd set. Supposedly, they were to monitor anyone approaching his doors or windows, but Rick knew they were also to monitor him. After all, he reasoned, they're all so sneaky. How can they help but suspect everyone else is the same? He grinned, as he considered how much he was about to live up to their expectations. The only difference was, they wouldn't know he was doing it. The idea gave him a thrill, as he considered out-spying the spies.

  They didn't know he could see their light traps as clearly as flashlight beams slicing the night. His only fear was that one of them might have night vision lenses, and see him moving around in the dark.

  But, if I can't see any of them, he reasoned, then they won't be able to see me. He guessed that his night vision was at least as good as any lenses on the market. And I've been such a good boy, he thought, his eyes gleaming wickedly, that they won't suspect I'm up to no good. The thought filled him with anticipation.

  The wind chuffed past, and Rick used the sound to cover the noise of his leap over some of the light-beam barricades. Then, after making certain he hadn't stirred any action, he crawled between the next set. He felt a momentary pity as he visually mapped the locations of the four silent observers. What a boring job! Some small part of him was tempted to reveal his presence, just to liven up their evening, but he quickly suppressed it. With a smile and a quiver of gooseflesh, Rick shouldered his backpack, scaled the fence and disappeared into the night.

  * * * *

  “It has to be the strain of virus that's responsible,” Diaslio argued. “Lockmann brought her down with his blood—blood containing antibodies—”

  “Maybe that's part of the ‘chemical balance’ you keep talking about. The way I see it, it has to be a combination of virus and plant genes.”

  “Then why didn't it happen to Lockmann? The only difference I see is that he recovered from the virus. Denaro didn't, and it wasn't because they blew her away. She was dying long before they filled her with lead.”

  “Here's one for you: how do we know it hasn't happened to Lockmann? They're keeping him under pretty tight security. It's probably for his health, but it may be for everyone else's as well.”

  “Security that doesn't prohibit observation. If he has the same extra-corporeal abilities Denaro had, we've yet to catch them on video. No one's talked about it, either.”

  Shires nodded his agreement. “If Lockmann was running around outside his body, someone would have mentioned it.”

  “My guess is that it was the strain of virus that triggered it. Lockmann somehow got a mutated version—some strain that didn't have the same effects. Look at the differences in their appearance—either that, or Denaro got some extra gene sequences in her mutagen. That's one of the things we need to look at.”

  “What about the insanity? Can we afford to generate something that has that kind of result?”

  “But, was it insanity? It's not that atypical for people to report trouble finding their way back from ‘out-of-body’ experiences. In Denaro's case, the ‘out-of-body’ seemed to be a physiological response to what was happening in her cells. If her body was ejecting her, it must have been a pretty terrifying situation. Not living, not dead. She was helpless.”

  Shires grinned. “Until she got mad, anyway. And it was just too damn easy to vent her temper on inferior beings.”

  “She acquired a physical presence, distinct from her body. A fortunate accident. World hunger and world control resolved in a single line of research.”

  “I wonder if Lockmann's got it, but just doesn't realise it.”

  “The ECP?”

  Shires looked blank.

  “ECP: extra-corporeal presence. It may just be that he hasn't encountered the right set of circumstances or stimuli to trigger it,” Diaslio suggested. “Or maybe his body chemistry's off, or those particular genes aren't being expressed.”

  “Or maybe—like you were saying—he got the wrong strain of the virus.”

  Diaslio shrugged. He was beginning to like the idea of triggering Richard Lockmann into revealing what he knew—or didn't know. He turned to his computer, typed in a few commands, then pushed Print. “I'm printing a list of all known stimuli—hypotheses, folk tales, meditation foci—commonly used to stimulate ‘out-of-body’ experiences. Lockmann's case is different, of course, because it's a physiological response, rather than a mind-set, but he may still react to the stimuli, if he has it in him. Find a way to introduce some of these things, without his being aware of it.”

  “Hypnosis?�
� Shires asked, looking at the printout.

  “I never said it'd be easy.”

  Shires looked disgusted. “You never said it'd be impossible, either.”

  * * * *

  Rick had been walking for two hours when the first of the yawns hit him, along with an almost overwhelming longing for a drink. He fumbled in his backpack with shaking fingers, as he began to realise just what a chance he'd taken. He pulled out the third water bottle—slightly shocked to find that he'd already downed most of it. What am I going to do now? He realised he'd been totally absorbed with the weird lights in the sky, and the way they reflected on to the land—to the exclusion of all else. It was the thing he hadn't counted on—his susceptibility to distraction; the way his concentration made him lose track of time. I'm lucky I even know where I am.

  It was worth it. As much as he felt like panicking, he knew he wouldn't have traded the absolute freedom of this time for anything. Or almost anything. He yawned again. He'd give a lot right now for a drink of water.

  The way he figured it, he had about ten minutes of reserve. He didn't know which would get to him first: the lack of water, or the lack of light. Without the daylight to overload his sugar reserves, the water thing might well be manageable—at least until he could visit somebody's hose tap. But the overwhelming desire to sleep, as his body did its nightly shutdown, wasn't going to be stayed by anything but a strong dose of lumens. Rick yawned again, and this time, when he opened his eyes, he was on his knees.

  Only he wasn't alone. Someone shoved a bottle of water into his fist. Rick didn't even question it: he gave a bleary-eyed “thanks", and downed a large portion before he handed it back.

  He pried open his eyes enough to see Simon's smile. “Oh, it's you,” he muttered. “Wasn't I sneaky enough?”

  “Very. I'm the only one who knows about your weird proclivities.” He put Rick's arm over his shoulder and hauled him down toward his car. “Walk a little, will ya? My shoulder's still not that strong.”