Transhuman (32 page)

But then he thought of Tamara Minteer.

She's been playing the cold-shoulder game. But maybe in a few days out here she'll warm up a little. Or I'll warm her up.

*   *   *

S
PECIAL AGENT JEROME
Hightower was surprised to find his cell phone didn't work, not even outdoors. Impressed by the Army's security measures, he went to Colonel Dennis's office to ask for an available landline.

The colonel wasn't in, but once Hightower identified himself and showed his FBI credentials to the colonel's aide—a middle-aged woman who somehow looked frumpy even in a sergeant's uniform—she smilingly pointed him to an unused office two doors down from the colonel's.

“You can use the phone in there,” she said, in a strangely girlish, high-pitched voice. “Just dial nine to get an outside line and then give them the security code: five-five-five.”

Hightower's director back in Boston was in a conference, the director's secretary told him. Hightower explained the difficulties of putting through his call.

“I'll tell him,” said the secretary. “Hold on.”

I've got nothing better to do, he said to himself.

It took a couple of minutes, but the director finally came on the line. To his impatient questions, Hightower gave a terse report on where he was.

“Abramson's going to be kept here indefinitely,” he said. “Looks like my job is done. He's in the hands of the Army and this Rossov guy.”

For a moment the director said nothing. Then, “Okay. You're right. Our part of this operation is over. Come on home.”

Nodding, Hightower said, “I've got two weeks of vacation time coming—”

“I can't spare you for two weeks!” the director shrilled into the phone. “Bad enough you've been traipsing across the country. I need you back here!”

“Just a couple of days, boss. A long weekend. I want to hop down to see my family.”

“A long weekend?”

“Yeah. I'll be in the office next Tuesday. Okay?”

Another pause. Then a reluctant, “Okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Bright and early Tuesday.”

“Depends on the airline schedules,” Hightower negotiated.

“Tuesday,” said his director. Then he hung up.

Hightower carefully replaced the phone in its cradle and got up from the desk, thinking, I can get a kachina doll and send it to little Angela. The kid can use all the spiritual help she can get.

 

Family Reunion

T
HE NEXT THREE
days were a blur of activity. Helicopters arrived and took off again constantly; the base was awash in the growling thrum of their rotors and the billows of dust they kicked up as they ferried in the equipment for Luke's laboratory, including a diesel-fueled emergency generator that was installed behind the lab building. More helicopters brought half a dozen lab technicians. Luke spent the time supervising the construction of his lab and getting to know his new team of researchers.

There were eight of them altogether, including Gunnerson and Holmes, who were the only scientists among the crew. The others—all men—were young civilian employees of the Army. But they seemed eager to work with Luke, aware of his reputation, and full of energy.

The empty first-floor room quickly filled with soldiers wheeling in heavy crates while the technicians pried them open and set up the sparkling new sets of equipment on lab benches that had just been nailed together, sanded, and painted by other young soldiers.

Luke was in the midst of his bustling lab, supervising the installation of a high-definition atomic force microscope, when a voice from the door called, “Dad?”

He whirled to see his daughter standing in the doorway, one hand grasping a roll-along suitcase, the other clutching her handbag. Lenore looked slightly disheveled, a little bewildered, but she was smiling cheerfully.

“Norrie!” Luke ran to her and wrapped his arms around her tiny form.

“Daddy,” she said, breathlessly. “Where's Angie?”

Luke laughed with delight. “I don't know. She's around here someplace. Probably out taking a walk with Tamara—Dr. Minteer, her physician.” He felt glad that Angela's wrist had healed and the cast had come off the day before.

Del came thumping down the stairs from the second floor and dashed to his wife, clasping her in his long arms. Luke stepped aside, smiling at the sight of the two of them: Del was a good foot taller than Lenore; he had to bend over like a weeping willow to hold her.

“Angie's fine, hon,” he told Lenore before she could ask. “She's out behind the building, playing with some of the other kids.”

Other kids? Luke felt surprised, then realized that of course plenty of the personnel on this base would have their families with them. He just hadn't paid any attention to that, until now.

Lenore left her suitcase by the door and went out with Del to find their daughter. Left standing there, Luke debated going after them, but decided not to.

Leave them alone with Angie; no sense butting in. Besides, I've got plenty of work to do here.

*   *   *

T
HAT EVENING, THOUGH,
they had a family reunion dinner in the base's mess hall. Angela sat between her parents, laughing happily as she gobbled her dinner. Her face still looked gaunt, with wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but Lenore didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she doesn't care, Luke thought. At least Angie's hair is growing back in.

He and Tamara spent most of the dinner explaining the child's condition to his daughter, with Del listening intently.

“But the cancer's gone?” Lenore asked, over and again.

Sitting beside Luke, Tamara assured her each time she repeated the question that the tumors were gone.

“And we've inserted a second p53 gene,” Luke added. “That'll help her immune system fight off any new cancerous cells that might arise in her.”

Del summed it up. “She's going to live, hon. Our little Angie's going to be all right.”

In that instant, Luke forgave all his son-in-law's anger and insults. It was fear, he realized. Del was frightened that Angie was going to die.

“And she'll be … normal again?” Lenore asked.

Tamara said, “The progeria symptoms are fading.”

“Her telomeres are coming back to normal,” Luke explained. “She's going to be fine.”

Lenore's eyes went misty. She turned to Angela and hugged the child. Angie put up with it, but was more interested in the peach pie dessert that the camp's cook had personally carried to the table.

Across the mess hall, Novack sat alone, picking at the lousy Army food while watching Luke and his family. And Tamara.

*   *   *

L
UKE WALKED WITH
Tamara through the chilly darkness back to their building, watching his daughter and her family strolling contentedly several paces ahead of them.

“We'll have to change our sleeping arrangements now that Norrie's here,” he said.

“She can bunk with Angela tonight,” Tamara said. “Then tomorrow your son-in-law can move to my room and I'll move to his.”

Luke felt his eyebrows go up a notch. “We'll have to share the bathroom.”

In the darkness, Tamara's silky voice sounded amused. “Does that bother you?”

“Norrie and Del might get the wrong impression.”

“Or maybe the right impression.”

Luke's brows hiked up toward his scalp.

But then Tamara said, more seriously, “Your PSA count is still rising.”

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, feeling almost nettled at being forced back to reality.

“You really should have your prostate removed.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I'll treat it the same way we knocked out Angie's tumors.”

“With telomere inhibitors? Luke, that can be dangerous for you.”

Thinking of the incontinence and impotence that often followed prostate surgery, Luke muttered, “Not as dangerous as the side effects from surgery.”

“Do you have the tissue samples that they took back in Portland?”

He nodded. “I packed them in with our other stuff when they moved us here.”

She hesitated, then said, “Luke, I don't like it. You're taking telomerase accelerators, and now you want to take inhibitors?”

“Just for the prostate.”

“But you have no idea what the results will be. You'll be messing with your cellular chemistry too much.”

Luke said flatly, “No surgery. Surgery is an admission that you don't know how to cure the condition.”

“Your ‘cure' could be worse than the disease.”

Still thinking of impotence, Luke replied in his best John Wayne intonation. “Not hardly.”

 

Welcome to the Gulag

O
NCE HIS LABORATORY
was up and running, Luke settled into a happy routine. Gunnerson and Holmes were top-notch researchers, and although neither of them seemed totally happy working under Luke's direction, rather than independently, they got along together without too much friction.

God knows how much Fisk is paying them to work under me, he mused. They're both giving up a lot to stay here.

His PSA count was still climbing, despite the telomerase inhibitors Luke had one of the camp medics inject into his prostate. No discernable reaction after nearly two weeks. Luke tried to shake off his concern. Needs more time, he told himself. The effect of the accelerators is still dominant.

At least, he thought, I've got plenty of material for a paper. He spent most of his evenings writing a research report for Fisk's people. As it took shape, he began to think of publishing it in
American Cellular Biology
.

But when he tried to query
ACB,
which had published most of his earlier papers, he found that neither his laptop nor his cell phone could send a message out of the base.

Luke marched off to see Colonel Dennis.

Sitting behind his Army-issue steel desk, the colonel listened patiently to Luke's complaint, then spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

“No one can communicate with the world outside this base,” he said, “unless it's through our monitored landlines. Army security, you know. What we're doing here is top-secret work.”

“But that's not what
I'm
doing,” Luke protested. “My work has nothing to do with what the rest of you are doing.”

Another spread of arms. “My orders are that you're not allowed to communicate with anyone except Mr. Fisk,” said the colonel.

The freaking privacy agreement, Luke realized.

“But this is a scientific research paper,” he countered. “The Fisk Foundation will be fully credited as the funding agency for my work.”

Dennis shook his chubby head. “You can ask Mr. Fisk to allow you to publish,” he suggested.

“How can I ask anybody anything if my phone and my laptop can't get through?”

“You can place authorized messages through the base communications center.”

“Authorized?” Luke snapped, feeling nettled. “Who gives the authorization?”

“I do.”

“And you won't authorize my query to
American Cellular Biology
?”

“I'm afraid I can't. Orders.”

“Orders? From who, Fisk?”

The colonel stiffened. “I don't take orders from Mr. Fisk. My orders come from my superior officers.”

“Who take orders from the White House, eh?”

“Ultimately,” said Colonel Dennis.

Rossov, Luke thought. He stared at the colonel for a long, silent moment. A middle-aged, overweight nobody in a soldier suit with silver eagles pinned to his shoulders. Career Army man, just following orders.

Without another word, Luke got up and strode out of the colonel's office.

I'll stop working, he said to himself, zippering his windbreaker as he stepped out into the brisk, bright morning. I'll go on strike, that's what I'll do. See how much Fisk and his mother-loving lawyers like that!

But by the time he'd walked halfway back to his own building he saw Angie playing with a bunch of other kids while Lenore and Tamara stood off to one side, chatting like old friends. The kids were running around an open area, kicking up dust on the bare ground, tossing a ball back and forth and shrieking happily.

I can't stop working, Luke realized. I've got to monitor Angie's condition. And my own.

He turned around and headed toward the mess hall. When in doubt, he reminded himself, sit down, have a cup of coffee, stay calm, and
think.

The mess hall was almost empty, with only a handful of civilians and a couple of women in uniform at the tables. Luke went to the big gleaming coffee urns, poured himself a cup of regular, and headed for an unoccupied table.

Almost as soon as he sat down, Nick Pappagannis came over, holding a mug in both hands, and sat next to him.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

“No,” Luke lied.

Pappagannis sipped at his coffee, then put the mug down carefully on the wooden tabletop.

“You've got the look,” he said.

Luke stared at him: dark, unhappy eyes and bushy black mustache.

“The look?”

“We all get it, sooner or later.” Pappagannis glanced up at the ceiling briefly, then asked, “Ever been to the Sistine Chapel?”

Luke shook his head.

“There's a fresco on one of the walls. By Michelangelo. Everybody gapes at the ceiling, of course, but this painting always gets to me.” Pappagannis tapped at his chest with a clenched fist.

“Why?”

“It's supposed to be Judgment Day. God's deciding who goes to heaven, who goes to hell. There's this one guy, he's just been sent to hell. Damned for eternity. The look on his face—that's the look you just had.”

Luke didn't know what to say.