The trouble with the retinal scans this morning still had him worried. There were apparently some problems in their communication network. Maybe I'd better find a CD Writer, he thought. Smuggling out a CD would be a lot easier than any kind of hard drive.
But first, there was one more lab to explore. Down the hall, she'd said. He was feeling almost confident now—after the way he'd been able to explore Denaro's inner sanctum unhindered. For a moment, Simon considered taking the pirated computer with him, but caution won out. He hid it in the office, retrieved his cart of glassware, and pushed it down the hall and through the double doors at the end.
The first things he noticed were the lasers. Not only did this section have some of the highest-powered equipment he'd ever seen, but they had the security system to protect it. He knew that they'd already tagged both his ID number, and a scan of his face before he'd gone half a metre. Before he'd covered a metre, there was the unwelcome pressure of a gun at his back.
He was wrong. It wasn't a gun. It was something that he'd only seen in schematics. Something that he'd heard about, but never wanted to encounter. Something between the primitive firepower of a handgun, the cutting edge of laser technology, and the biting teeth of the latest medical advancements. Medical advancements in the field of pain feedback.
It was armed. He knew it first from the humming feeling against his backbone. He knew it next from the instantaneous stinging zap that rode through the nerves of his left shoulder, and down into his arm. They're not trying to kill me, he told himself. Stay in character.
It's only a warning.
They hit him with it again. The only relief was that his character could fall down on the floor and writhe in agony. Could yell every swear word in the book and not care if tears ran down his face. "Stop!" he squealed.
His character promptly vomited all over their floor.
“Oh, Jesus!” one of his tormentors complained. He took his distress out on the poor tech they'd found wandering where he didn't belong. “What (jab) the fuck (double jab) are you doing (jab) up here?” This time they held it for a full fifteen seconds. Some part of Simon's screaming synapses recognised that it had gone beyond question-and-answer time. They were getting back at him for the mess they'd have to order someone else to clean up.
His character writhed in its own vomit, and the smell made him want to vomit again. Fortunately, staying in character had its advantages: it meant he could pass out, without shame. Simon felt the blackness invading on his vision.
He forced his eyes open a slit, and did something that his character would never have done. Just before he passed out, he focused on his tormentors—and memorised their faces.
* * * *
He woke up in some kind of medical facility. He assumed it was their “sick bay", and that someone had forced them to bring him here.
“Mr. Coswill.”
I'm Mr. Coswill. It took a moment to penetrate—to realise they were speaking to him. “Yes?” he said weakly.
“What were you doing on Six?”
“Glassware,” he muttered. “Delivery.”
“No one ordered any stock.”
Simon nodded, then wished he hadn't. “Yes, they did,” he said. “Check the records. Jules was supposed to bring it—” He let his voice drift away.
Someone was shaking him. “What the hell did you do to him?”
“They told us to use it. They didn't say we had to limit the use.”
“Anyone with intelligence could see that—”
“Security outlines very clearly that—”
"Shut up!" Simon—aka Joe Coswill—told them. “You made a mistake.” He couldn't control the slight quaver in his voice. I'll be lucky if I'm not left with a stutter after this one. “I damn well want to see your supervisor.” The magic word. Simon was alert enough to see their exchange of looks. Neither of them wanted their supervisor notified.
“Is he okay?”
The doctor nodded. “Should be. It'll just take a while for his nervous system to settle down. You gave him a pretty good jolt.”
After that, they'd accompanied him to the cafeteria, and bought him a sandwich and a Coke. Simon acted reluctant, then reticent, then reserved. He didn't ask to see a supervisor again.
They accompanied him back to Six, then made sure he was adequately suited up to enter the lab.
All I need now is a pat on the head and a lollipop.
“You okay now?”
Simon had nodded. “Yeah.” He could have insisted on an afternoon off, and for a moment wondered if that would be more in character. More in character for Joe Coswill, perhaps, but not for Simon Kerrington. He wondered—for maybe half a second—before deciding he really didn't care what they thought. Apparently, his fake ID must have downloaded okay, or he wouldn't be standing here. That meant it had held up through both visual and computer checks. Short of laying these two out on the floor, it also meant he had the freedom to act the way he bloody well felt.
One of them—the one Simon pictured with a broken nose—couldn't resist adding, “If you end up in our section again, we'll use you as a test for the lasers.”
He was supposed to be scared—to go whimpering about his business.
Simon could almost read the man's thoughts: Don't push hard enough to make the guy turn tail and run. If he ran, someone would have to be notified—which meant someone else would be held accountable. Trouble. They knew it, and he knew it. All they wanted now was to put the broken tech back where he should have been, and pretend none of this had happened. To wave to the video cameras and say, “See, he's all right. No harm done.”
Simon smiled at them through his face shield. No harm right now, Guys, he thought. The harm was going to come later. And he was going to make damn sure it didn't happen to him.
* * * *
Simon stood in the anteroom long enough to ensure that the two monkeys at the end of the hall had returned to their cage. He decided to give it five more minutes, so Security wouldn't question the length of time he'd spent in the lab. After his incident down the hall, he couldn't afford to generate an overabundance of interest.
He picked up the portable computer and placed it on the lower tray of his cart. The first thing he needed to do was find a safe location to transmit from. A computer terminal in an empty room. Preferably one without security cameras.
It was more of a problem that he'd thought. Most of the “invisible” computers also held “invisible” software, that wasn't linked up to the maintenance network. In other works, not hooked up to outside lines. Simon went slowly from lab to lab, searching.
As he went, he thought about what Daphne had said. Canuga. He ran the name around in his head. For some reason, it was familiar, and he couldn't figure out why. Nobody he knew lived, or wanted to live, in Canuga.
When he finally found a free computer terminal, he typed in a quick message, then quickly prepared to leave—in a casual way, of course—as another technician came into the room. As he deleted the message he'd just typed—it was too glaringly suspicious to leave it live—he hoped someone had been fast enough to get it.
* * * *
“Uh-oh,” Cole said, yawning. “They're ‘moving the parcel’. Is that different from the ‘package’ you were talking about?”
“Where?” Wallace asked.
“There—” Cole looked at the screen in surprise. “Well, it was there. He must've been in a hurry.”
“Did it say where?”
“To Canuga. Does that make sense?”
Wallace shrugged. “Not to me. Did it say when?”
“Nope. If it helps, I know a Canuga. It's a little town along the rail line. I've modelled a module of it.”
“I'm sure Hylton will be really impressed. Should I tell him we can use your toy trains if we want?”
“Everyone's a smart-ass. Where's your respect?”
“I'll let you know when I find it. I'm going to call Hylton. Want anything?”
“A carob bar?”
Cole called him back. “Do me a favour. Ask Stevie-boy how Jason Stratton's doing. And tell Rick to call me.”
There was a momentary silence, and Cole turned to look at Wallace. “Is there a problem?”
“No. I'll let Hylton know you asked.” He turned and went quickly out the door.
Cole was frowning. “Now I know why he doesn't do field work,” he muttered. Splitting the screen, so nothing would interfere with his monitoring job, Cole stretched his fingers, then rapidly began to type.
* * * *
It smelled wrong. Simon had learned long ago to trust his instincts. They gave him the edge that kept him alive. To his way of thinking, “instinct” was half genetic orientation, and half deep-seated learning. He had a feeling it was his animal side that warned him about the other man in the room.
He was no technician. Within ten minutes of entering the facility, Simon had observed and acquired the peculiarly focused and seemingly irregular movements of the people he was planning to impersonate. Their work involved a lot of trolleying of parts and pieces, chemicals and machinery. They mixed reagents, and set up the experiments which would then be conducted by the science staff. Their place didn't commend much respect, but it didn't commend much notice, either. And the facility wouldn't be able to operate without them. Lowly, often more experienced than the people they worked for, the technical staff were like the emergency lighting system: reliable, dependable, invisible.
The other man in the room might pride himself on his stealth, but he could never be invisible to anyone who'd experienced his kind before. Simon knew the impulse—to delete the lines he'd just typed—had been the right one. Before Simon had seen his face, he'd already registered the smell of arrogance about this man—along with a taint of corruption, like meat that had just begun to turn. He would have felt foolish explaining it to anyone else—especially someone like Hylton—but Simon had learned long ago to trust his assessments. Hell, this man might be dressed as a technician, but he was so sure of himself, he didn't even bother to act the part.
“Don't I know you?” The inquiry was sharp and direct—like an implication of guilt.
“Probably,” Simon replied. “They notified you I was coming.” He hoped it was enough, even though he had the feeling this man's suspicions would never be waylaid by casually offensive reply.
“Name and number.”
Simon had played this one before, in other times and other places. He rattled off his false name, then spoke hesitantly, looking down at the badge, for his ID number. “CJT47-39129-8237.”
His adversary moved closer—so close that Simon was forced to back up until his butt hit the benchtop. He stood there, effectively hemmed in, while the man's fingers slowly typed in his access numbers. Simon was certain he was acting with deliberate slowness, in order to prolong the tension.
Simon was tense, but it wasn't with nerves. His pseudonym popped up on the screen, and some part of him silently thanked their hacker at Shatterly. The other part of him was trying to keep his anger from giving him away.
Some of it must have registered, and Simon guessed the other man's instincts were probably as refined as his own. Although he didn't say anything, his eyes narrowed to a slit. Simon realised his technical career might suddenly be cut short if the man managed to put another name to his face. Simon willed himself to look placid.
It was obvious he would have like it better if Simon had argued against his pushiness, or put up a fight. When he didn't, the man nodded, then left the room, as quickly and quietly as he'd come.
Simon knew exactly who he was. Judging from the scar on his forehead, he hadn't escaped from the Genetechnic episode unscathed either. On the roll call for the fires of hell, this man was only a few lines below Caroline Denaro.
Rick would have recognised him instantly. And Hylton would have killed him just as fast. He wouldn't have bothered waiting for one of his assassins to pull the trigger. In Hylton's code, you didn't disarm people, and then toss them off a roof, just because it was too inconvenient to keep them under guard. Especially if they were DSO.
Simon's hand suddenly ached for a gun. There were some people whose existence was an affront and hazard to everyone they encountered. Who trespassed, then dissected, the lives of others, as though sawing through a rough cut of beef. Who picked at what they wanted, stripped the bones, and tossed the rest away. Or fed it to the other hyenas, just to hear them laugh. One of those was Tazo Raeiti.
* * * *
Something had changed, but he didn't know what it was. Wallace glanced at the screen, but it was the same as before: tied into Cliatso's maintenance records—lines of data describing functions in progress, interspersed with notations or remarks.
Calloway wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked about as far from jovial as he could get. “Did you get any word on Jace?” he asked calmly.
“He's stable.”
Lie number one. Cole had just e-mailed Denis Rodrigal, who happened to be on line when his message came in. Rodrigal didn't spare him—he figured Cole had more than earned the right to know what was going on. He broke Jason's deterioration to him gently, even though he knew the black and white lettering was a cold way to reveal such bad news. He hesitated when it came to Rick, but he knew there was no point in subterfuge. Most of the staff in the hospital knew how badly Richard Lockmann had been injured, and that somehow, incredibly, he'd disappeared. If anybody had been tracing Rick's activities, this was already old news.
“Injured how?” Cole had typed.
“Bullet in the chest,” Rodrigal had written back. “Metal poisoning a distinct possibility.”
“What can I do?”
“Stay alive,” Denis had answered him.
“If Rick calls?”
“For his sake, you'd better let me know.”
* * * *
It was obvious to Wallace that Calloway wasn't buying it. Worse, he was looking angry. Wallace reminded himself that the guy was, essentially, untrained. He was the best Wallace had ever seen with the computer, but there was no duty or obligation to keep him at the keyboard if he felt his duty or obligation was required elsewhere.
“I wasn't supposed to tell you. Hylton's afraid you'll go into a panic or something,” Lou Wallace said, a little derisively.
“Uh-huh. I'm waiting.” Cole deliberately turned his back to the screen to let Lou know how things stood. “Make it fast.”
“Stratton's in a coma. It's not good.” Wallace hesitated. “I know he's a friend of yours—” He left it hanging.
Cole's anger had faded, and was replaced by a look of deep sadness. “Yeah.” He didn't trust his voice to say more.
“You heard about Lockmann?” Wallace didn't ask how. He could guess.
Cole nodded. “I heard someone shot him. What were his bodyguards doing?” he asked angrily. “Picking their noses?”
“One of our guys was killed.”
Cole was instantly remorseful. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” His lips creased, in what might have been a smile, if his eyes hadn't looked so sad. “I just keep thinking, that if I'd been there—”
“That you might be dead, too?” Wallace interrupted.
Something suddenly occurred to Cole. "The guy who was killed—!"
“It wasn't Kerrington.”
Cole sighed with relief. “Where's he? With Jace?”
“No—just about now—” Wallace glanced at his watch, “—he'll probably be looking for Rick.”
Cole nodded. He was starting to feel morose. He turned back to the computer, so Lou Wallace couldn't see the moisture in his eyes. His first impulse had been to hop on a plane, and hightail it back to the hospital, but he knew he couldn't abandon the DSO agent on the inside.
Cole began to wish he'd never agreed to help. He just hoped the guy inside would hurry up and get all his spy business over with. Cole realised his concern for Rick and
Jace was distracting him, so he forced himself to think about something else. “If I'm going to do all this spy stuff, I need a code name.” He sniffed, then quickly covered it with, “Something like ‘Greased Lightning’.”
“You can't have that one.”
Cole looked stubborn, and he opened his mouth to argue. “Why not?”
“Because our guy inside already has it.”
Cole's eyes widened. He swivelled back to glare at Lou. "Damn it all to hell!" he swore. “Is this your cute-sy way of telling me the guy inside is Simon?"
Chapter Eleven
For a while, Rick was uncomfortably aware of Eric's presence. It's the curse of the guilty, to live within the bounds of paranoia, he decided. His brain kept wandering off on little philosophical tangents, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep himself on task.
It wasn't only his injury. It was touching Denaro's stuff again—re-living the nightmare of discovery. He remembered how appalled, yet fascinated, he'd been at reading her journal. Now, though, there was a difference. When he read about Denaro's lab rats, he felt like he was reading about himself. Denaro had wanted to make a difference—to be remembered.
Well, she'd done it all right, in his life. It was one which would be with him till he died.
She'd affected Jason's life, too. They'd killed her, but she could still reach beyond her body, to destroy the living.
Rick shuddered. I'm getting morbid, he thought. That won't help Jace.
But will what I want to do help him either? Am I on the right track?
He wondered. Would the meristematic genes really give Jace an edge? In his own body, their effect was enhanced by the chloroplasts dotted throughout his skin, which supplied the energy for them to work. He supposed the same could happen with Jace, if they supplied him with nutrients through his IV. It wouldn't be the natural process that occurred in Rick's body, but he guessed it would work the same.
The speed with which Rick usually healed had been a point of interest—and argument—for Rodrigal, Rutgers, and others like them. Far from the somewhat limited restorative therapy that Caroline Denaro had envisaged, insertion of those bits of plant genome had activated some heretofore unrecognised potential in the human body. Plant and animal had come together to create a synergistic response, the sum of which was greater than either mechanism on its own. It was the reason Rick had made such a determined effort: he recognised that this might well be Jason's only chance.
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 17
