Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  “You can relax, Doc,” Dave assured him. “First thing that moves gets a one way ticket to the manure pile.”

  * * * *

  “Hi, Jack.” Rick took the package. “This for me?” he asked, looking at it.

  “Yeah. It came by courier.” Jack caught Geraldo's look, and told him, “It's not metal or plastic, and it doesn't tick. Satisfied?”

  “Who's it from?”

  Rick stood there impatiently while Dave shoved in for a closer look.

  Jack peered at the address. “Ackbar Something-or-other's—”

  “Ag-bar Biologicals,” Rick told him. “They send us stuff all the time.”

  “Anyway, it matches the package label inside.”

  “Did you order anything?”

  Rick shook his head. “But it might backdate from the time I was sick.” He grinned. “Some fantastic fungus I couldn't live without.”

  “You're still sick,” Dave told him. “Okay—open it.”

  Rick looked at the package inside, a little confused. It was larger than any he'd received before. Most of the specimens were in small plastic bags. Clear bags. This one was opaque. That bothered him, because he wanted to know what he was dealing with. He looked for the packing slip but it wasn't in the package. Should he open it under the vent?

  Stupid. Ag-bar sent out samples. For comparative research, anatomy, molecular testing. Things like that. Nothing dangerous. In fact, this was usually the high point of his day—to get one of their packages. It broke the routine, and gave him something concrete to play with rather than the little molecular messes he was always centrifuging or replicating or diluting.

  He tipped it out on to the counter, took his scalpel and broke the seal. Then, smiling, he peeled the back the plastic.

  And instantly got a leafhopper in his teeth. Startled—unable to react with his usual speed—Rick watched in shock as hundreds of leafhoppers hopped, pushed, and flew out of the bag. Within seconds, leafhoppers were exploding into his face, his hair. He wanted to warn the others, but he was afraid to get leafhoppers in his mouth.

  Jack was waving his gun, and Dave was trying to pick a leafhopper out of his nose. Rick stared as the bright insects fled the confinement of the bag, and spread out across his lab.

  Rick fumbled with the bag, determined to stop any more from sneaking out. For the most part, it was too late. The leafhopper army had made its escape. But, the bag wasn't empty. Whatever was left wasn't moving.

  Rick glanced around at his writhing workspace and sighed. It can't get any worse, he thought. Talk about your practical jokes.

  He tipped the last item out on to the bench. He fully expected a note or some gag, like a tube of insect repellent. Instead, he found a length of silver cord.

  He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly. Gooseflesh danced up and down his arms as he tugged the line, ever so slowly, out of its resting place. It snagged several times along the way, as whatever was on the other end brushed against the side of the bag.

  It was a lock of hair. Harsh, brittle, dried-out hair, that looked like it had been abused. Hair that was an improbable reddish shade, with half-inch roots of mouse brown and wiry grey.

  Rick's eyes dilated, and sweat coated his body. He'd seen hair like this once before. Close-up.

  Neglected hair, because its owner had been sick—too sick to tend to it. Hair had been the least of her worries.

  Dave reached for the hair, and Rick latched on to his hand. “Get out of here!” he ordered harshly.

  “What the—”

  “It's Denaro's hair!” Rick yelled at him. “Get out! Make sure you don't take the hoppers with you! Showers down the hall—use antibiotic!” He yelled the last to the thud of running feet.

  Rick stood there for a moment, uncertain where to start. Leafhoppers—the vector for WTV.

  Correction—one of the vectors. He glanced down at the hair on the bench, as he thought about the other. With a pair of forceps, Rick shoved the hair back in the bag.

  His eyes followed the swift green flight of a particularly large insect. It sailed halfway across the bench, then abruptly dropped to the surface, where it lay writhing—its six legs contorting in some kind of death agony. All around him, leafhoppers started dropping out of the air. He could hear the pflup of tiny bodies impacting on the counters and floor. Within five minutes, they were all dead. Someone had timed it perfectly—the package was opened, the delivery made, and the vectors killed—all within a space of fifteen minutes.

  Rick was still standing there a few minutes later when a team arrived, dressed in isolation suits.

  “Let's go, Rick,” Hylton said. For once, there was no impatience in his voice.

  Rick didn't say anything. He trudged along at Hylton's side, all traces of his fluid movements gone. He was still thinking about the silver cord attached to the wiry veins of matching silver hair.

  Chapter Five

  I promised Simon.

  The words from the inscription kept running through Rick's mind: “...may he learn to break the bonds that trap his spirit...”

  Right now, the words were attacking his nervous system, and sending it into overdrive. Rick couldn't sit still, couldn't lie down, couldn't relax. Every time he closed his eyes, a silvery cord would drift across his vision, followed by hordes of leafhoppers.

  He glanced at the clock. Hylton would still be up. And, if he wasn't, Rick didn't care. He picked up the phone.

  “Hylton.”

  “How're Jack and Dave? Dave took one up his nose.”

  “We gave them both some of your antibodies, but Denis doesn't think there's a problem. We found the one with Dave's name on it, so to speak, and tested it. No sign of virus. If any were infected, it wasn't from the hair.”

  “It was Denaro's hair.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Or a replica,” Rick insisted.

  “We'll look into it,” Hylton told him curtly.

  Rick wanted to slam down the phone. He fought against the impulse, and, instead, gave an equally curt “Good night". Then, he began to pace once more.

  He knew Hylton despised him. Hated what he was, and where he'd come from. Detested his accidental link with Denaro, and the trouble it caused. Hated the trouble it brought Steven Hylton and his team. Blamed one Richard Lockmann for the loss of life, that night when they'd stormed Genetechnic.

  My fault. Because Richard Lockmann had needed to help one person, he'd cost the lives of so many others.

  But I stopped the spread of a disease.

  Or, did I just ensure it was delivered into other hands, who could spread it equally well?

  A vision of that lock of hair flashed behind his eyes.

  He needed action. Usually, the only things that drove him into one of his mysterious nightly walks were the urge for a little self-identity, an outing from complacency, and the knowledge that he, too, needed to have some secrets lurking behind his smile.

  Not that his secretive side was all that mysterious.

  Not like Denaro, whose forays were more than physical.

  The lock of Denaro's hair, and the silver cord. The physical linked to the inescapable.

  Where had the thought come from? It gave Rick the jitters. Suddenly, the urgency to escape was greater than ever—and he had the feeling he was attempting to escape something far worse than the complacency of his everyday existence. Something far worse than annoyance at his caged state. Something far worse than the sickening weight of everyone's observation and concern.

  Unable to bear thinking of the first, Rick concentrated on the last. They'd never understand it—but their compassion was more painful than any objective observation. Mostly because it made him feel he had to measure up to their expectations. Because he sensed they'd instilled him with some kind of nobility or finer feelings that he didn't think he possessed—and measuring up to it—holding the smile and the display of geniality even though it killed him—made him feel like he was fighting aga
inst a never-ending wash of sand. Eventually, it would bury him, and the real Richard Lockmann—and he didn't really know who that was any more—would disappear.

  The urgency hit him again—like a riptide at the beach. It was tugging at him, and he knew he needed to flow with it. Otherwise, he'd be caught by the other thoughts that the damned book, and the letter, and a lock of hair—had inspired.

  Don't give yourself time to think—

  They'd tightened his guard, but it didn't matter. Rick's eyes were keener, and his movements faster. He'd be able to slip away.

  For just a moment, the promise to Simon hung around his neck like a slipknot that was slowly tightening. Then he realised he was the one making it that way. Simon was good company, and he wouldn't judge. And, if he'd heard about the book—and the rest—they could talk about it—

  He instantly felt foolish. The book hung heavily in his mind, with the weighty austerity of a massive bible, because of the fear it had triggered deep inside. To anyone else, it was just a book. An old, smelly book at that. Finlay's main concern hadn't been what was in it, but the fact that it was there at all. The other things: a chain letter, a bunch of insects and an old lock of hair—would be meaningless to someone else. A gag, like the fake e-mail. Something to laugh about.

  I can't go. As much as he needed release, he'd have to find it in the confines of his own rooms. If they found he was gone, he'd start a panic. More trouble.

  Rick had gone so far as to punch in Simon's number. Now he slammed down the phone, before it could ring.

  I don't need to talk. If I tell people what's scaring me, they'll think I've lost my mind.

  Or, worse—they'd be afraid he was contemplating leaving it.

  Rick had to admit it. He'd been the subject of the unwanted “gifts", and whoever had sent them knew he'd have no trouble understanding the message.

  Foolish to even contemplate going out. But was here any safer? Was anywhere safer? When the person you had most to fear—was yourself?

  * * * *

  Rick tried not to think about it, but he'd researched the topic too thoroughly. Little bits of knowledge, that he'd attempted to forget, kept popping up to plague him.

  The worst part of it was the attraction. Thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of people played with astral projection—with out-of-body experiences. They'd even coined a term that adepts used: OBE. There was a whole range of jargon and slang that went with the territory.

  Something about it had drawn him. There'd been a promise of infinite knowledge in it that acted like bait. Of freedom from sickness and pain that had been nearly overwhelming. Somehow, he'd overcome the impulse, but now the struggle against it lingered in his memory. That Richard Lockmann had been sick—sick nearly to death. The lure of being away from it all—of being on some other astral plane—of being able to explore vast realms of knowledge—all without pain or weakness—had been almost irresistible.

  Yet he'd resisted.

  Because of her.

  Some eager, puppy-like part of him had panted to go. Wanted to believe that his experience would be different from hers. Wanted to feel that there'd be no trouble finding his way back.

  Wanted to discount the lack of credibility in that nebulous “science". Wanted to throw it all to fate—and just do it. To Rick, so accustomed to the accountable, it had seemed a lot like running naked through the streets: the freedom and thrill of the novel; the tantalising lure of the unknown; the promise of liberation. Liberation from a sick body, and from the fears that drove him. Fears of death. Fear of Denaro. That was one of the things it had promised—that he'd never fear death again.

  But, Denaro was gone. And I'm well and strong. There was no sickness of body or spirit to make the temptation of an ethereal existence attractive. But it was his memory—of that time of attraction—despite the fact that he'd seen her; despite the fact that—even then—he had her lingering in his mind—that terrified him.

  I'm too active. I couldn't astral project, even if I wanted to.

  For just a moment, he felt safe. Until some part of his mind finished the thought. Said the unspeakable, that bothered him because it was out of his control.

  With my metabolism, I could never astral project.

  Except in my dreams.

  He had no control over his sleep. When enough light had left the sky, his body shut down. There was a certain period, of course—several hours at best—in which he could maintain.

  A shiver went through him. Some other part of him had control when he was sleeping. It was the same part that could sometimes turn a sane existence into wild flights of fancy—to create those wild visions that sometimes rocked his sleep. He was just afraid it might be the part that could succumb to the spark of temptation—the lure of being on that other plane, where chloroplasts residing in your flesh didn't matter, because you didn't bring your flesh with you.

  Especially tempting, if something in your unwanted flesh contained the means to send you there. If something about you made it easy to turn flights of fancy into reality.

  Rick suddenly realised, that for all he'd feared Caroline Denaro, he now feared someone else more.

  Himself.

  * * * *

  “He's not sleeping.” George Jackleby was insistent. Steven Hylton had told him he needed to report his observation to the doctor, and he was doing it.

  “What about his nightly shutdown?”

  “He's been keeping his special lights on. For several days now.”

  So it's deliberate. What is this? A bid for attention? Is he trying to make himself sick? With Rick, every missed sleeping period meant a loss of body mass.

  She attempted to hide her annoyance. “Thanks for the report, George.”

  She said it kindly enough, but Jackleby could tell she was irritated. He was silent, and she sighed. “Anything else?”

  “Look, Doc, I wouldn't have told you, but Hylton thought you needed to know.”

  “Absolutely.” She realised he'd picked up on some clue in her voice, and she knew she'd given herself away. Stiffening her back, she changed the subject. There was no excuse for unprofessional behaviour. “Are you my ‘guard’ this Thursday, George?” she inquired. “There's a thriller on TV—”

  “Say no more, Dr. Matthews,” he replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I'll bring the popcorn.”

  She put down the phone and stood there for a moment, looking at it without seeing it—thinking about this latest development in the Richard Lockmann saga. What was the fool up to now? She'd never particularly liked the man, but at least she'd given him credit for his intelligence. Depriving himself of his sleep cycle was foolhardy.

  She wondered if she should speak with him—try to discover his reasons. Maybe they were plant-related. Something, as his doctor, that she should know about.

  For just a moment, it occurred to her how much Lockmann was under her control. I'm his doctor. It was one hell of a responsibility—and one she didn't particularly cherish—but it also put her in a position of control. What he was doing now was going to put him in jeopardy, and make more trouble for the rest of them.

  To ensure Lockmann got his sleep—all they needed to do was turn off the lights—or the power.

  It would save everyone a lot of trouble.

  I'm his doctor. It helped dispel the vaguely guilty feeling that assailed her. The feeling that would have gone from vague to violent if Jace had been here.

  She punched in Hylton's number, to tell him what he should do.

  * * * *

  From her office, Sheryl Matthews could hear the phone ringing down the hall. After the sixth ring, annoyance was percolating through her. Stratton should have transferred his phone if he was going to leave. She strode out the door, practically slamming it as she went. The operator would eventually pick up the call, but it might be twenty rings—if the caller held on that long. If this was some kind of emergency—with Richard Lockmann, for example—she'd have Steven Hylton breathing down he
r neck.

  She knocked perfunctorily on Jason's door, then pushed it open. Her anger died as soon as she saw him. Jace was leaning back in his chair, and he looked so bad that her first impulse was to check his vital signs. He was so pale that his skin nearly matched the off-white wallpaper at his back, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  He'd taken a lot of time off lately with the “flu". Looking at him now, she wondered how she'd missed seeing what was right in front of her face. If this was flu, then it was serious enough to need monitoring. She cursed herself for her stupidity.

  She guessed he'd been trying to hide it from her, and that she'd caught him out. He resented the way she'd treated Lockmann—she knew it, and he didn't exactly try to hide it, but this went a long way to explain some lapses in his performance lately. He hadn't been working at the standard she'd come to expect, but she'd assumed it was because of his resentment. I should have known better. His laxness was so out of character. She made a mental note to amend some comments she'd written about him on his quarterly assessment.

  As the phone rang for the last time, Jason stirred. Sheryl quickly hid her concern behind a polite mask. Jason didn't need her guilt to stir him up right now. Any more than he needed to know how sick he looked.

  “Jason—what's wrong?”

  * * * *

  Jason opened his eyes to a squint, and saw Sheryl Matthews, his supervisor, standing in the doorway. Oh hell! he thought. “Nothing—” he started to say, but she'd already come into the room and was closing the door, “—but a headache,” he finished lamely.

  “Must be some headache,” she said, a little sarcastically. “I came in because your phone was ringing. Didn't you hear it?”

  Jace looked a little startled. No, he hadn't heard it, and he found the thought a little frightening. It showed on his face.

  She nodded. “That's what I thought.” She glanced at her watch. It was already after five. For a moment she vacillated. Guilt and concern made her want to deal with this tonight. Instinct, and the look of irritation on Jason's face, made her decide on tomorrow. “Ten o'clock tomorrow, my office. Be prepared to stay awhile.”