30. Not So Fast

"Play it again," said Harrison Rabbit, waving a stick-thin finger at the monitor.

"You've watched it fifteen times already," replied his colleague, blowing a foul stream of cigar smoke up at the ceiling.

"I want to watch it again," said Mr. Rabbit. "Is that too much to ask? And get those great feet off my desk."

Sighing, Feighan Rourke uncrossed his ankles, and put his feet on the floor. The computer chair squealed as he rolled close enough to reach the keyboard. He cued up the surveillance footage (of course there is surveillance footage) that they had withheld from their employer, Francis Sullivan. Rourke and Rabbit Arms and Ammunition was widely sought after, and accepted a fat paycheck for its security services. Feighan Rourke and Harrison Rabbit answered to no man, and especially not to a crass, two-bit, backwater small-timer like Francis Sullivan. In any event, they were hoping Frankie Sullivan was not going to recuperate from his unfortunate exposure to a certain neurotoxin. It would be inconvenient if some small irregularities of inventory at the Sullivan household came to be more closely examined.

"Lovely boy," Mr. Rourke commented, watching the monitor. He was a big guy, with dark hair and snappy blue eyes; in another life he'd been a professional athlete, a celebrated footballer. His claim to fame was twofold: in a draw against Germany, he had scored a difficult goal in an overtime kickoff, taking the match for Ireland. Then he'd thrown his career in the crapper when he french-kissed Michael Ballack in front of God and four billion TV viewers. In the light from the monitors, his face was craggy from smoke and drink, but he was still a handsome man.

"Lovely girl," rejoined Mr. Rabbit. "Very athletic." Harrison Rabbit had served twenty-two years in the British SAS. To the casual observer, he was fussy and sulky and maybe a bit of a prig. In reality, he was tough and weathered. He'd been a crackerjack soldier, practically deified by his unit. He got lost in the crowd, but that was the point. Dangerous men don't wear neon signs. They're soft-footed and sneaky.

"Look how quickly he woke up," said Mr. Rourke. "Interesting."

"Very," Mr. Rabbit agreed. "This bears further attention. Indirect exposure from seepage is one thing, but he was sprayed point blank, right in the kisser! Could he still be alive?" He laughed as the girl slapped the boy. It was still funny, after all this time.

"She seems fine," said Mr. Rourke, shifting his beefy frame.

"Just think what we could do with two such fine young acrobats on our pay roll," said Mr. Rabbit. "Why, the possibilities are endless."

"We'd have to find them first," said Mr. Rourke unenthusiastically. Sure, the boy was pretty, but the girl looked like a real bitch. And Rourke and Rabbit Arms and Ammunition had already made personnel changes. They had been forced to permanently retire a valued staff member for making absurd phone calls to the Sector Police.

"Hard copy her face, and his too, while you're at it," said Mr. Rabbit.

Mr. Rourke sighed. "He's probably six feet under," he said sourly.

"Don't be jealous," said Mr. Rabbit. "My interest is purely professional."

"I've heard that tune before," said Mr. Rourke, with a petulant Irish lilt.

"I can't believe they took the shoes," said Mr. Rabbit.

"Those brats," said Mr. Rourke.

"They'd be a fine addition to the team," said Mr. Rabbit.

"That young lad would be a fine addition to my bedroom," said Mr. Rourke, looking at the monitor.

"Oh, come along, Dorothy," said Mr. Rabbit, as always plumy and irritatingly British. "You don't want any of those apples."



Sam Carr's lab was cool and wonderfully quiet. Logan sat on a stool, watching the doctor put a slide under his microscope. He was enjoying the change of pace. Was it too late to get out of the adventure business, and become a lab tech? He had stopped by to tell Sam he was sorry for everything that was going on. Despite the purple, hand-shaped bruise on his throat, Sam had accepted the apology with his usual easy-going grace. The two men moved onto a discussion of Alec's situation.

"I can coordinate the treatment, but we're going to have to move him often." Sam said, without looking up. His voice was still hoarse.

"Different facilities, different names," Logan agreed. He shoved aside a thick mass of printouts, and leaned on the counter.

"Yeah," said Sam. "It's going to be complicated."

"We have the cash, and I can help you with the paperwork," said Logan, "Admitting privileges, whatever. I'll just insert you in those data bases. It won't be a problem."

"I hope not," said Sam. "That boy's life depends on access to treatment. And I don't want to get caught. I'd lose my license."

"I'll do whatever I can," said Logan. "I don't have a choice. Max's safety depends on this, too. We have to keep Alec under the radar."

Sam straightened with a groan, rubbing the small of his back. He tossed his glasses on the counter, and went over to the coffee pot. He poured out a mug and offered it to Logan. Logan shook his head. He wanted to hang onto his mellow mood for as long as he could. Who knew when the next crisis would erupt?

"You know," said Sam, looking at him, "I want to study this kid as much as anything else. Is that wrong?"

"No," said Logan. "I can appreciate that it's seductive."

"I got used to thinking of Max as a sport. Mutant singular." He took a sip of his coffee, making an appreciative noise.

Logan held his tongue. There was an army of transgenics out there.

"He's got a major case of road rash," Sam said out of the blue.

"Pardon?" said Logan.

"Yeah. I wonder how that happened. His back is scraped to hell."

"I have no idea," Logan said guiltily.

Sam drank his coffee. Logan looked at the floor, feeling like the world's biggest heel. It was not his custom to beat up on unconscious men. Had he been too hard on Alec? Alec was Alec, and it was more or less his nature to be in trouble up to his eyeballs. There was no point in wishing otherwise.

"It'll be good to have Max for a benchmark comparison," Sam said. "I just wish I had a copy of his history."

Logan shrugged. "I think you're safe in assuming he's disgustingly healthy."

"That's just it," Sam said. "He's not."

Logan was surprised. "What?"

"The humans--" Sam caught himself with an embarrassed laugh. "The other victims, they're critically ill. Between you and me, Sullivan has brain lesions. Barring some science fiction fix, he's not gonna recover from that. And that idiot who installed the system--it was like he'd had a major stroke."

"Wow," said Logan. "What about the wife?" He was disturbed by the doctor's telling slip. He considered Sam Carr to be an ally, and had entrusted him with some serious secrets. If Sam differentiated between human and transgenic on anything other than a clinical level, they were all in deep shit.

"Well," said Sam, "she was a Sparacino before she married Sullivan. They're circling the wagons. I think she was being a little too talky, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, they've whisked her off to a private institution back east."

"That's too bad," said Logan. "She's probably the only innocent victim in this whole mess."

"So get this," said Sam. "The security guy vanished."

"Vanished how?" Logan asked.

"I think somebody dropped the ball, and he wandered out of here."

"Jeeze," Logan said.

"Yeah. So, back to Alec. All of his stats are poor."

"What d you mean?" said Logan, shifting on his stool. "I thought you said he was on the mend."

"He's recovering from his exposure to the gas," said Sam. "That's not the problem. He's decompensating."

"Right," said Logan. "Psychologically."

"No," said Sam. "Physically. His heart isn't functioning properly. There's an oxygenation issue. It's probably why he was vulnerable to exposure in the first place."

"I don't understand," said Logan. "That sounds really serious."

"Look," Sam said. "For Alec, this exposure was like a massive dose of MDMA, or mescaline."

"Ouch," said Logan. "The X5's have serotonin problems to begin with."

"There you go," Sam said. "He was catapulted into a manic cycle. He was delusional. He was probably hearing voices, or seeing pink elephants. Fine, whatever, he's getting over it. But when I worked him up, I found all sorts of disturbing things. Can you explain to me why his blood sugar is too high?" Logan shook his head. Sam threw his hands up in disgust. He picked up a sheaf of paper, and waved it around. "Do you really think Manticore turned out a lot of Type II diabetics? And his cholesterol, how can he have high cholesterol? That really makes no sense. Then there's his sed rate."

"Sed rate?" Logan asked.

"It's not the most useful test in the world, but it indicates the presence of inflammation," said Sam. "He's having pain of some sort."

"What kind of pain?"

"When he wakes up," Sam said, "we can ask him. If he stops being crazy."

Logan was totally perplexed. "Now you're weirding me out," he said. "What does all this mean?"

"I don't know," said Sam.

"Does Alec have brain damage like the others?"

"He's suffering from cellular decay." Sam said carefully. "His immune system in general is compromised."

"I don't follow," said Logan.

"Well," said Sam, "it's beyond me too. The differential alone took up all my poor brain cells. It's not like I was able to come to any super-duper conclusions. I couldn't tell you how it's going to manifest."

"When did this start?" asked Logan. "Are you sure it wasn't the toxin?"

"This has been going on for a while," said Sam. "If you're asking me to backdate the deterioration, that's beyond my capabilities. You'll need one of your fancy Manticore scientists for that."

"It can't have been going on for long," said Logan. "He's only been out of Manticore a few months. They would never have let him out of the lab if he was just going to fall apart."

"Well, perhaps some catalyst is at work," said Sam. "Something he's come into contact with since then."

"Like what?" said Logan

"Your guess is as good as mine at this point," said Sam.

Logan made an unhappy noise. "No, it's not."

"Anyhow," said Sam, "I didn't say he was falling apart. I just said that this condition existed."

"Is it reversible?" asked Logan.

"You'll have to ask somebody who knows the answer to that," said Sam, "for example, not me. I just came into this story at the last possible second. I'm still trying to figure out what's going on. But I think we can manage some of it, for a while, with medication. His blood pressure, maybe."

"His blood pressure!" Logan said, amazed. "This is nuts."

"That's what I'm trying to express to you. I don't know if I'm being effective."

Logan sat up straight, as something occurred to him. "He's a clone," he said. "Were you aware of that?"

"No," said Sam. "I wasn't."





To be continued . . .