Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Hylton saw the tension building in Lockmann's face.

  Behind him, Johnson shifted uneasily. The window sill episode was all too fresh in his mind. He knew Hylton wanted to be in control of the situation, but Lockmann was too close to the edge. And—as intimidating as Rick might seem in this mood, most of the people around him were still more concerned about his survival, rather than about anything he might do. Let's face it—Rick might be edgy, but even at his worst, he didn't use it against anyone else.

  “Rutgers says you're still not ‘up to speed’.”

  “I'll work slowly.” He gripped the front of Steven's shirt. “I need to do this—” he said. It came out almost like a plea. Anything to get me out of here, and the proximity of well-meaning friends. Where I can lose myself—this self I don't know any more—in my work. At least in the lab, the number of people would be limited. He looked down at his fingers straining the buttons, and his chilly veneer cracked further. Rick tried to smooth out the wrinkles. “Sorry—” he mumbled.

  “Touch me again,” Hylton warned him, “and you'll be a damn sight sorrier.” He turned around and stomped out of the room.

  * * * *

  “Is he asleep?”

  Denis nodded. “Out like a light.” He grinned. “Sometimes I wish I could sleep as soundly as he does.”

  “Go for a coffee, Denis.”

  Denis frowned. “Why?” he asked baldly. “What's up?”

  “Nothing. I have an expert coming in to check him over. You don't need to be here.” Steven looked at Dave Geraldo, who was glaring at him in suspicion. “Go with him, Geraldo. You won't be needed here, either.” He glanced at his watch, then down the hall at a man who was carrying a briefcase. “Thirty minutes.”

  He turned away abruptly to greet the newcomer. “He's in here.”

  “Who is he?” Denis asked.

  Dave shook his head. “I don't know, but I don't like it. Can you check Lockmann over when they get through?”

  Denis nodded. “Do you think they're going to move him?”

  “Not tonight, anyway.” Geraldo gave a wry grin. “If he was going to do that, he wouldn't have let me know he was here.”

  * * * *

  “It was in the IV. The only reason we know is because we had the other ones tested. Two more were contaminated.” He handed the analysis to Hylton.

  “And it was some kind of hallucinogen, you say?”

  Phil nodded. “Nearly killed him.” He hesitated, then asked, “How did you know he was having problems?”

  Hylton sat back in the chair and tapped his fingers on the armrest. So far, he hadn't revealed what Sheryl had said to anybody. Johnson had heard part of it, but he'd kept it to himself. Steven was concerned that everyone's memories of Denaro were still too fresh. As fond as everyone seemed to be of Lockmann, making Rick's astral wanderings public knowledge might be like initiating a witch hunt. After all, Denaro hadn't started her out-of-body life killing everyone—that had come later.

  Hell, Steven admitted, I'm spooked myself.

  He looked at Phil Rutgers, who was still standing there patiently, waiting. Phil had suffered Denaro's little astral horror first-hand. He'd be a good test case.

  Steven knew he felt better knowing that Rick's out-of-body adventure was triggered by some chemical means, rather like a “bad trip". “Is he likely to have flashbacks? Aftereffects—more reactions to the drug?”

  “I'd say no. If he had that much of the chemical left in his system, he'd probably be dead.”

  Steven nodded. “Rick took a little wander out of his body the other night,” he said bluntly. “I just don't want it repeated.”

  Phil looked stunned. His face had paled. "Fuckin’ hell!"

  “'Fuckin’ hell’, is about it,” Hylton said. “If it's chemical, then I think it's controllable.” In spite of the situation, he couldn't help but be amused by the expression on Rutgers’ face. “If it's any consolation, his astral manifestation saved Sheryl's life.”

  “Self-preservation,” Phil gulped. “The fact it nearly killed him might keep his body from repeating the experience,” he said hopefully.

  “If it doesn't,” Steven warned him grimly, “I might be forced to help the process along. In order to preserve us all.”

  * * * *

  “All I could find was a small slit under his left arm. By the time I got there it'd nearly healed.”

  “Hylton must have put the light on it.”

  “Yeah.” Denis fidgeted with his spoon, then stirred his coffee for the fifth time. Even though he was essentially working for the DSO now, all this subterfuge was making him nervous. “I could be wrong,” he went on to say. “It was in a fold, so it could've been an old scar—”

  “Did it look old?”

  Denis frowned. “No.”

  Dave Geraldo smiled at him—a little compassionately, Denis thought. “Then it's not. Steven's backing himself up somehow.”

  “We've got plenty of skin and tissue samples. Rick'd be the first to tell us to take what we need—”

  “Nope.” Dave sipped his coffee. “More like some kind of tracking device. So he can find Rick if he disappears again.”

  “That might not be such a bad idea,” Denis said reasonably. “He almost died last time.” He grimaced, thinking how Rick would react if he knew. “But it would have been a lot better if he'd consulted with Rick first.”

  “That's the point. It's not a bad idea, except Steven was so sneaky about it. That means he's probably sure Rick wouldn't agree to it.”

  Spies, implants, mutants, lies— Denis thought about Rick's present state of mind. “He could've timed this a lot better,” he said quietly. “If Rick finds out, there might not be anything left to track.”

  * * * *

  Rick had finally consented to see Cole more out of consideration for his keepers, than for any other reason. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain himself again. Maybe it's because I'm not even sure where I'm coming from.

  But, he knew better than to say anything of the sort to Cole. The only negative answers Cole would accept were those delivered as ultimatums.

  “Look, Rick—”

  Only Finlay knew that how hard Rick had practised his “chilly, cold-hearted bastard act” in the mirror before Cole had arrived. Rick had decided he needed to get through to Cole, and the only way to do it was to portray himself the way he wanted Cole see him. Otherwise, Cole would make it his one-man mission to save Rick Lockmann from certain extinction. And Rick—even now—wasn't all that sure he wanted to be saved. I need the freedom to decide for myself. To come to terms with what he'd become, without the entanglements of sympathy, or the suffocating grasp of his friends’ hands. To learn to see himself through his own eyes, without the reservations he saw in everyone else's.

  Rick narrowed his crystalline eyes, so they appeared like chips of slivered quartz. “I can't, Cole. The ‘Rick’ you knew doesn't exist any more.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Rick ignored him. “When you insert a gene into a plant, you check to see if those characteristics you wanted are expressed. Whether they work in their new setting—and whether they're able to dominate any other combinations that were showing up before.”

  “I didn't ask for a science lesson—”

  “If successful, the plant becomes transgenic. I'm that plant, Cole. Denaro established a certain dominance in me. A pattern, that nobody can undo. I can't be like I was. I don't even know how any more.” He turned away. “There's too much in the way. I can't forget it, and nobody else should, either.” He glanced back, and met Cole's eyes. “Go away now. But, thanks—for everything.”

  “Wait, Rick!”

  “No. Tell the others I said thanks, too.”

  “You don't understand!”

  “You're right. I was stupid enough to think things could be like they were—that the changes to my body were only ‘skin-deep’.” He shook his head. “I just can't pretend any more. Whatever I am, I'll live with it,”
he assured him, “but I don't want anyone else to.”

  “That's stupid.”

  Rick shrugged, and gave Cole a small smile. “I'm not going to watch everyone else struggle to pretend I'm normal—or study me, for the first signs of failure: mental or physical. Just forget it, Cole.” He walked away, and opened the far door. “You've still got Simon and Jace. Plus an unending stream of female companions. It's not like you're alone.” He turned away, and closed the door firmly behind him.

  * * * *

  Phil Rutgers had already left Steven's office before the significance of Hylton's last comment hit home. He'd been so stunned by the revelation that he hadn't really listened to much else. He'd been too busy remembering what it had been like to have Denaro come at him out of the dark.

  Rick doesn't know.

  Phil was certain of it. If Rick remembered it at all, he probably thought of it as a dream. As far as Phil knew, no one had mentioned anything to him yet about Sheryl's injuries. Maybe it was good Lockmann hadn't exactly been in a receptive mood for conversation.

  If he knew, he'd be dead by now.

  Phil had already turned around, and was preparing to storm back into Steven's office, when the realisation hit him. There was one fear that outweighed all others in Richard Lockmann's view: causing harm to others. If he had realised that he'd gone so far as to project himself into another location, he'd have destroyed himself rather than taking the chance. He'd be too afraid of becoming Denaro in the flesh—or, rather, out of it. Too afraid of what it might do to his conscience, to have that kind of “freedom” at his fingertips.

  It was an isolated incident. Chemically-triggered, and unlikely to be repeated. Phil thought about it, and wondered whether he believed it. It was hard for him to forget that the other doctor, Aaron Solomon—Denaro's doctor—had died.

  But Caroline Denaro was not Rick. She'd been avaricious and a scene-stealer. Driven by the virus, and sick unto death.

  Not Richard Lockmann.

  Phil pushed open the door to Rick's room. Just inside the doorway, he stopped—an unconscious aversion checking his step.

  “Hi, Phil,” Rick said.

  Phil relaxed and let out his pent-up breath. Hylton had it wrong. Just like some people, when confronted with cancer. Just because someone else had cancer, didn't mean it was going to reach out and grab you. He studied Rick for a moment, while Rick returned his look curiously.

  “I'm ready for action,” Rick assured him. “Did you tell Steven?”

  “I talked to him,” Phil assured him.

  Rick was silent for a moment—fidgety, nervous, needing an outlet for his pent-up anxiety. “Well?” he finally asked. “What did he say?”

  Phil met the crystalline gaze, and his own didn't waver. There was no malice there. Unhappiness, guilt, and a helluva lot of worry—but no malice. No evil intent. Phil smiled at him. “He says he doesn't want a repeat of what happened the other night,” he said, with perfect honesty.

  Rick nodded. “All right. Should I talk to him again?”

  “That'd probably be the best idea,” Phil told him. “Let him see how well you're doing.” And let him realise there's nothing to fear. Phil recognised how much fear had built up in him between the moment he'd been told, and the time he'd pushed open the door. The best way to keep Steven Hylton from misinterpreting every aspect of Lockmann's behaviour was to continue putting them face-to-face, before things got too blown out of proportion. So blown out of proportion, in fact, that Hylton would decide he should eliminate the source of his troubles and cut his losses.

  Things could be worse. To Rick's surprise, Phillip Rutgers suddenly clapped him out the back and gave him an enormous smile. Rick looked at him in confusion. “I was just thinking,” Phil admitted, “how glad I am it was you this happened to, and not someone like Tazo Raeiti.”

  * * * *

  Sheryl Matthews lay down on the couch in her office—needing to be alone—needing to cry out the near-death trauma without anyone seeing her weakness. She hurt, but she couldn't go home. She was too afraid. She knew she didn't matter—not enough, anyway, for the bad guys to risk it again—but the rationalisation didn't help.

  She couldn't handle the visibility of a ward existence—not when she knew everyone on the staff. Even a private room would have its share of guardians: at the door, and in the people who came to visit her. She felt like a wild animal, who wanted to retreat and lick its wounds, but who was stuck in the display cage at the zoo.

  I want time to be ugly alone. To hurt alone. To be afraid, without anyone knowing I'm afraid. Then she wanted to cry because it was all too easy for her to be alone.

  Jason had been furious. She could tell from the tight clamped look to his lips, and the chilly look in his eyes. But, she'd insisted she was still in charge, and no one was going to counter her orders. She'd limped away, favouring her bad side. She'd refused the wheelchair he'd insisted on. Now, lying in her discomfort, she felt stupid—a troublemaker. And, she was sure Jason was going to find a way to go over her head.

  She'd crept up to her office and locked the door. Now, she lay there in solitary pain and misery on her couch—a little less certain of her wisdom, but nevertheless determined not to let others see her like this.

  Once again—it seemed something she was prone to now—she was wallowing in tears. Something she could never do on the ward, or even in a private room that wasn't really private. But it was something that needed doing.

  There was a pounding on her door, and then a voice, “Sheryl!”

  She tried to keep the hiccups out of her voice. “Go away!”

  He must not have heard her, but even if he had, he didn't let it stop him. With one kick, he shattered the lock. The door crashed back against the wall.

  "Why'd you leave your room?" He could be a damned intimidating man at times.

  Sheryl wasn't intimidated at all.

  “Because I'm in charge! Go away!” she said miserably. Why did this impossible man always have to show up in her weakest moments? “I never cry,” she tried to explain. She gave him a look at least as intimidating as his own had been. She was furious with him—angry that he'd caught her at a disadvantage once again. “The killers won't bother me here—I don't matter enough, you fool.”

  Steven Hylton was grinning now. “Not matter, huh? You do to me,” he said.

  * * * *

  “I'm taking her home,” Steven told Jace.

  “Whose home?” Jace asked him. He was smiling.

  “I don't see what business it is of yours, Stratton.”

  “That's what I thought. I'll need to see her tomorrow. And her surgeon will want to take a look at his workmanship.”

  “Just name the time.”

  “Watch for concussion—you know the signs?”

  Steven nodded. “What about pain?”

  “I've given her a prescription.” Jace grew serious. “It was a traumatic experience for her.”

  “Tell me something I don't know. Think I can't handle it?”

  Jace replied honestly, “I thought you might have seen too many traumatic events to remember how it felt.”

  “I remember. I'll take good care of her.”

  “See that you do. Whether Sheryl realises it or not, she's got friends. You're looking at one.”

  “Is that a warning?” Steven asked him, amused.

  “Take it any way you want, Hylton. But, it wouldn't do her any harm if you told her what I said.”

  * * * *

  “Rick told me to go away.”

  “He's been doing that for years. So what?”

  “So he actually meant it. He was so polite it hurt. Oh, he said to thank both of you, too.”

  “Did he say what was bothering him?” Jace was worried. They hadn't let him see Rick yet, and that disturbed him a lot. In his mind, it confirmed what he suspected: that Rick was feeling guilty as hell. Jace felt the only way to relieve his mind would be a face-to-face confrontation.

  Phil Rutgers agreed wi
th him, yet still refused to go against Rick's wishes. This was the other thing that had Jace concerned—like Rutgers, he'd seen delayed trauma before, in some of his patients. But Rick had not only the changes in his own body to deal with, but the changes he'd enacted in Jason's. Rutgers’ refusal to override Rick's wishes meant that Rick was far closer to the edge than Jace felt comfortable with—and that Rutgers feared Jason's appearance could act as a trigger. Jace shifted restlessly. I want to thank the idiot—not be the detonator that kills him.

  Jace wished he could've been the one to talk things over with Rick—to reassure him that he didn't hold a grudge. To help him get through this. Cole might have the oldest claim to friendship, but he wasn't exactly known for his compassion or listening abilities. Right now, Rick needed both.

  “Oh, he told me all right—”

  “What did you say then? Did you try to reassure him?”

  “I told him it was stupid.”

  “Send a moron to do a man's job—” Simon muttered.

  “Shut up, Simon!” Cole sighed, and Jace thought he'd never seen him so demoralised. He put a hand on Cole's shoulder. “He made a big deal about the fact that I'm still friends with you guys.” He looked at Simon and frowned. “A lot of good that does me.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “What?”

  Jace sounded exasperated. “The thing that's bothering him!”

  “Acting normal.”

  “Rick's never acted normal. Why should he start now?” Simon asked.

  “He's just doing his scientific act,” Cole said exasperatedly.

  Jace looked blank.

  “You know—cold, ‘reserve my body for science’ shit. Typical Rick. The time he needs us most, he tries to hide his head in a bushel.”

  “That's light,” Jace said.

  “What's light?” Cole asked, frustrated.

  “Light under a bushel. Or head in a barrel.”

  “What the hell difference does it make where you stick your head?” Cole asked loudly. “Right now, Rick thinks his should be on a spike.”

  “Pike,” Simon said, grinning. “Make your point."

  Jace groaned. “I'm glad I'm back. You've been spending too much time with Cole.”