Vision Page 3

The weird thing was he meant the “lucky bastard” part. “Excuse me if I pound your face in,” Dustin told him. He reached out a fist, lost his balance, and nearly toppled. Josh caught and steadied him. “What happened to the stinger, anyway? I might want to put it in my trophy case.”

  A little sheepishly, Josh pulled a drawstring bag out from inside his shirt.

  Dustin snorted. “You're kidding!” He shook his head. “I don't believe you! Shouldn't it be in a lab or something?” He hooted. “What is this? A totem against evil spirits?”

  Josh ignored him. He undid the string and reverently drew the spine halfway out of the bag. “See?” he said, in a hushed whisper, his voice awed. It also held a trace of envy as he added, “Do you know how lucky you are? I'll need a detailed account of everything you saw—”

  Dustin rapped him with a crutch. “Lucky, am I? (rap) If I'd come back limbless (rap), you could have written a (swing—miss) fuckin’ paper (hop—rap) on it!” He shook his head at the gleam of acknowledgment in Josh's eye. “You are going to write a paper!” He raised his voice, some of his own amusement gone. “Are you out of your mind?! They'll crucify me!”

  “I'll keep your name out of it...”

  “Until the paparazzi, or whatever they are, get their hands on it! How many people in the hospital records have had a dinosaur tooth—” At the look on Josh's face, Dustin added a derisive “—or whatever—pulled out of their hides?”

  “They don't know!” Josh explained. “I told them it was a pointy rock.” He watched Dustin's agitated pacing. It would have been pacing, anyway, if Dusty could synchronise his crutch and leg actions. After observing him for a while in silence, he asked, “How're you feeling?”

  “Great,” Dustin growled at him. “They'll crucify me!”

  “You said that.” Josh went over and coaxed Lolita off Dusty's shoulder and onto his own arm. “Good girl, Lolita.” Dustin wasn't looking too good. In fact, he looked damn sick. Josh realised he'd been so wrapped up in the thrill of discovery, that he hadn't been all that observant. “Want a drink of water?” he asked now, as he urged the cockatoo back onto her perch.

  Dustin nodded gratefully. “Thanks.”

  Josh was gone for nearly a minute. When he came back, he had a glass of water, and a couple of pill bottles. “Let's see: anti-inflammatories, antibiotics, painkillers. What do you need?”

  “A good night's sleep and some peace and quiet,” Dustin replied. He wobbled slightly.

  Josh took one of the crutches and helped him over to the couch. “You're pretty hot,” he remarked. He smiled slightly, anticipating Dustin's retort. It didn't come.

  Instead, Dusty only shivered and muttered, “I don't feel ‘hot'.”

  “You don't look so hot, either,” Josh replied. Dusty's face was flushed, and his eyes slightly glazed.

  The phone rang. “Could you get that?” Dustin asked. The phone seemed a long way across the room.

  Josh was carrying on quite a conversation, but Dustin tuned it out. He was staring, rather blankly, at the wall. It took him a while to realise he wasn't thinking about anything.

  Correction. He was thinking about how much his leg hurt, and how much he wasn't going to think about it.

  “Let's go,” Josh said curtly. He helped Dustin to his feet and pulled an arm over his shoulder.

  “What's up?” Dustin asked, confused.

  “You are. All the way out to the car,” he muttered, half-carrying him down the hall. “They cultured the bacteria in your leg—”

  “From the spine,” Dustin said confusedly.

  “Yeah,” Josh said worriedly. “They've never seen it before. They're going to hit you with some other antibiotics.”

  “Who was on the phone?” Dustin asked.

  “Valterzar. He wanted to come by and pick you up, but I told him I'd handle it.”

  Dustin took it about the way Josh had figured he would. He pulled away and leaned back against the wall. “No. He's not my doctor. I've talked to my doctor,” he said quietly, “and he suggested I come by tomorrow.”

  “This isn't something to play with, Dusty.”

  “He's management. I don't need a manager.” Dustin hobbled back down the hall. The heat in his body inflamed his temper. "It's a free country!" he yelled at Josh. "Who do they think they are? Why would they tell Valterzar first, before they'd tell me?!”

  Josh followed him down the hall. At Dusty's words, though, he stopped. “I don't know,” he admitted. “The ‘Bail-Out Squad'. Because we're not normal—”

  "But don't you see it?" Dustin roared. Today, because of Ren, because of the dreams he'd dared to hope for, it was more important than ever. “We'll never get a shot at it, Josh! Not if we don't make a stand now!”

  “But it'd make a hell of a lot more sense to make a ‘stand’ when you can stand up!” Josh bellowed back. He lowered his voice slightly. “I'll call Erik—”

  "Fuck Erik!” Dustin yelled. “He's an easy out. Always the easy out! We never take responsibility for the havoc. Fuck it all!" At the expression on Josh's face, he slammed a fist into the wall. “I don't need a manager,” he repeated, but most of his anger was gone now, lost in something resembling despair. “I just want to live, Josh,” he whispered. "Really live.”

  “I'll take you to another hospital. No Valterzar. No connection—to anything. They can call for the results. Just come with me, Dusty.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “Come with me,” he urged.

  Dustin stared at him for a moment. His eyes looked so glassy with fever that Josh wondered how he was seeing.

  “It's a friend thing,” Josh assured him. “No easy out. Friends help each other.”

  Dusty nodded slowly, and let Josh take his arm. “Just do me a favour,” he said, with a trace of a smile.

  “What?” Josh tugged Dusty's arm over his shoulder. Dusty sagged against him and Josh boosted him up.

  Dusty turned his head and grimaced at Josh. “No dinosaurs,” he begged.

  Josh grinned back. “Wouldn't think of it,” he said.

  * * * *

  “I can't go now.”

  She realised, as soon as she'd said it, that she'd been too blunt. Now they'd want an explanation. She wasn't stupid or naive enough to think they hadn't already checked her current work projects, to see whether she could be spared without jeopardising her employment. They were always very careful about that. If there wasn't a good enough explanation, and if she persisted in her refusal, then they'd find a way to “convince” her.

  She wondered whether the others received calls like this. Urgent requests for help couched in a neediness she couldn't refuse. They knew how sensitive she was; how a negative answer would haunt her later. It was only lately that she'd also begun to wonder whether that negative feedback was also predetermined and set up—against the unlikely contingency of a refusal. Feedback modelled and analysed to offer maximum regret, so refusals wouldn't become the norm.

  The last time, refusal had been succeeded by immediate fill-in duty at an Australasian plant pathology conference. Since she'd been planning to attend anyway, there was no excuse she could use not to lecture. After all, Fusarium was the subject of her research, and she was considered an expert in her field.

  As a student, she'd managed many of the lectures the same way a lot of the other students did: by tape recorder. There were some classes she couldn't miss, of course, but she'd always had a very small exam room to test in. It wasn't until later that she wondered why and how she'd been singled out for exam privileges. With the egocentricity of the young, she'd come to the conclusion it must owe, at least in part, to her superior grades. After a while, she'd taken it in her stride and not bothered to ask why. The alternative was too uncomfortable in many instances for her to tolerate; the interference, with everyone in the lecture theatre so tense and agitated, nearly unbearable. It destroyed her own focus, so she couldn't concentrate. Wrong answers, and right answers, anger and angst were being flung at her from all directions. She'd nearly flunked o
ut her first quarter.

  But then, it had all changed. She'd learned to substitute the tape recorder for her presence, and transcribe the lectures in peace, and exams had somehow been arranged to minimise her problems. She'd been so grateful that she hadn't allowed herself to consider too deeply the whos and whys—then. She'd graduated magna cum laude, and gone on to do a doctorate.

  Conferences were considered an important part of professional development, and she'd figured out a way to manage those, too. Generally, with the focus on the lecturers, the situation differed from those university classes where attention was frequently scattered. A third of the crowd at a conference might be students, but at that point, they were out to impress potential employers. It made a lecture scene nearly bearable for her. That, and the fact that what she couldn't bear she could recoup from abstracts and transcripts of the talks. Acceptable, and definitely more tolerable.

  Except when she was the lecturer. She had a feeling they'd set her up for it as surely as they'd set her up for singular exams. With the intense focus centred on her, her mind was no longer her own. She'd prepped for her talk, of course, but she could never have prepared for those moments behind the podium. Never have known how scattered her concentration could become, or how desperate she'd feel as her own thoughts were displaced by those of a hundred others. How the tension of a speech-giver could give way to panic as she spoke words that weren't her own, but fragments of others’ thoughts. Or how much angst she'd feel as her hard-won professionalism was ripped apart in front of her peers, and her reputation ridiculed by the unheard laughter of the students. In the end, her focus had given way completely, and she'd gone into deep shock, and collapsed on-stage, in front of everyone. They'd carted her away by ambulance, made some excuse about delirium brought on by a recurrence of malaria, and flown her home.

  Covered her ass, her reputation. Saved her. Bailed her out.

  But the lesson had been learned. Thwart the “system", and you were in for it. They might cover for you afterwards, but you'd have to pay first.

  It had been the single worst moment of her life.

  Until recently—when she'd seen Dustin in that bed. She'd realised then that she valued his life more than her own. It was why she didn't want to leave now, when he was so sick.

  It wasn't hard to guess it was also the reason why they were so insistent that she go.

  * * * *

  Dustin never remembered the drive to the hospital. All he was aware of was the endlessness of it. He was so hot he would cheerfully have shed his skin, if someone had asked. And then he thought someone had, and he remembered arguing—telling them to leave his skin alone—but they poked and prodded him anyway.

  When he woke up, the room was dark. Then, his vision cleared, and he noticed the nightlight, above his bed. The agitated beeping of the monitor assured him he was still alive. The way his body felt assured him that Josh had respected his wishes. No insta-cures. Dustin felt a brief surge of pride, and gave a wide smile. I can do this, he thought.

  “Never figured you for the gutsy type,” came a cool voice from his right.

  Erik.

  Dustin's nigglings of pride burnt out in a surge of anger. He didn't know who to be angrier with: Josh or Erik.

  Dusty turned to look at him—his mouth opened to comment. He snapped it shut when he saw him. Erik looked exhausted. There were circles under his eyes, he needed a shave, and his clothes were wrinkled. “How long have you been here?” Dusty asked.

  “Three days, five hours, and—” Erik looked at his watch, “—eighteen minutes. Josh said you didn't want to go for the cure, but—”

  “But what?”

  Erik shot him an embarrassed grin. “People don't always know what's best for them.” He shrugged. “I was scared to leave,” he admitted baldly. He came over to the bed and rested his hand on Dustin's arm. “You gonna live now?”

  Dustin didn't know what to say. This was the old Erik—the one he used to know, before he got rich and famous. Dustin could only nod, and grin.

  It was enough for Erik. “Good,” he said, giving his arm a quick squeeze. “'cause I'm leaving now.” His eyes were moist as he turned back, at the door. “Welcome back, my Friend.”

  * * * *

  “But we want to know why—”

  Valterzar stood up abruptly. Fatigue was making his temper short. Not only was Dustin his responsibility, he was a friend—even if the man didn't know it. “It's covered,” he snapped, knowing that he sounded far from the psychiatric professional they'd hired him as. “If he wants to go it alone, it's his business—”

  “We have a certain investment in his welfa—”

  “His right," Valterzar practically growled at him. “He's not under arrest, is he?” His eyes narrowed. “I didn't think so. That means he still retains the rights of a self-governing, self-determining individual. I respect his decision.” He headed for the door. “Enough said.”

  “You can be replaced,” Smythe warned him.

  “Probably,” Valterzar told him, shrugging. He stood there for a moment, thought it over, then said, “Try telling someone who gives a damn.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Three

  “Don't look so distracted,” Josh told her. He grinned as he added in an exaggerated whisper, “People will begin to think you're strange."

  They were walking down a muddy street, lined with narrow, tin-roofed houses. Ren was reading as they went, but Josh was doing an on-going battle with a persistent pig. It was a young boar that had broken out of somebody's pen and it kept coming around, to sniff his boots. Ren thought it was hilarious. Josh thought it was a pain in the ass.

  “They'll be too busy looking at you and the pig to notice.” She continued searching through a report on gene therapy.

  Josh was bored. He discreetly kicked the pig out of the way for the fourth time. It gave an irritated squeal and turned on him.

  Thank God for steel-toed boots. “You could've helped me,” Josh complained.

  “I don't want to smell like pig.”

  “What's so interesting, anyway? Not that I really care.”

  “Triggers.” She glanced at him, uncertain whether to tell him what she'd been thinking. “Have they ever sent you out with anyone before?”

  “No. What're you thinking? That I'm the ‘trigger’ for what happened to Dusty?” It was what he'd been worried about himself.

  “Or vice versa.”

  “One drawback—we've spent time together before. Most of our lives, in fact. Never had any results like that.”

  “I know. That's what's bothering me.” She lowered her voice. “This is about genetic triggers. Maybe we have built-in timers, set to go off.” She looked embarrassed. “I know it sounds stupid, but I wonder. Two years ago, and that thing with Erik. You and Dusty.” She hesitated, then closed her eyes. Josh guessed she was checking their surroundings for negative feedback, to see whether anyone was monitoring them. “I just don't want to stir up anything, or give them any ideas.”

  Josh's jaw was set. “They shouldn't have trained us as scientists if they didn't want us to do some self-analysis. Do you really think we might have built-in detonators?” With Ren, you had to take these things seriously. You never knew whether it was something she'd come up with on her own, or that she'd “picked up” from someone else at Symtech.

  “All I'm saying is that we should watch out.” She put the paper back in her bag. “Dusty's right. I'm sick of being a victim. It makes me feel so—so—”

  “Wimpy?” Josh asked.

  She grinned. “Yeah. The ‘predictable’ doesn't help, either.”

  “I think, for the moment, I'll put your little trigger idea out of my head.” Josh looked at her in disgust. “Or—I would—if certain people hadn't made such a big deal about it.”

  She was still smiling. “Well, you did ask.”

  “'You asked for it',” he mimicked. He complained, “Now, all I can see
is your damned paper in the background.”

  “I put it away,” she told him.

  “Big deal. With me, it doesn't matter. My brain's focussed on it.”

  “Better than focussing it on that pig's backside,” she told him.

  He grimaced. “Stop that!” he hissed. “You're driving me nuts.”

  She grinned. “Here's another one for you: did you ever think maybe the reason we're so predictable, is that they have someone precognitive on their team?”

  “I hope Dusty never marries you,” Josh told her irritably, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You'd drive him crazy, inside of a week.”

  * * * *

  She was, indeed, the merriest person he knew. Meredith Feiderman was as intense a personality as any of the others—and just as much in denial, Lawrence Valterzar thought. In her, though, it took the form of a zestful appreciation for life.

  Lawrence walked up to her door, grinning as he noticed the new paint. The colours had changed yet again. This time, the panels were bright yellow, with a lavender frame. Cheerful. Alive. Enough to ward away the most fearful of spirits.

  He wondered if it was enough to bring her peace. Merrie was a frenetic goer and doer. In the six years he'd known her, Lawrence had been constantly on the watch for burnout. He knew what drove her, but couldn't help but admire the ways she'd found to manage it. Her house was nearly always filled with people. That was the other thing about Merrie—her dread of being alone.

  She'd explained it to him once. “It's not loneliness,” she'd sighed, after a particularly frenzied round of people, painting, and partying. “As long as there're people present, I don't have to worry about their state.” At his blank look, she'd added kindly, “About whether they're alive—or dead.” She'd grinned a little flippantly then. “They're just people.”

  It sounded like a sensible approach. Sometimes her flippant remarks seemed to be the only sensible thing about her. As long as she kept moving, and didn't linger too long on anything, she didn't have to think. She fed herself and her constant guests with a seemingly endless quotient of children's stories, which she illustrated herself—all in the bright colours she so favoured in her surroundings. Merrie had a brilliant mind when channelled, but she didn't take any chances. She made sure the stimulus was present, to occupy her brain, before she'd let down her guard. And because writing could be such a solitary occupation, she ensured hers wasn't, by doing her artwork and prose in company.