Aftermath (16 page)

"I'm past this," she complained. "You need a junior gymnast, not an old lady." But she was already two floors up.

"Go on." Seth gestured to Art. "It will swing back up as soon as we're off it. We don't want to leave anybody with a ready-made entrance."

Dana was up at the third floor, crouched by a window. Art hated heights, but he knew he would get no sympathy from the others if he stopped to explain that. He climbed, approaching Dana as she swung her wrench. The sound of breaking glass was incredibly loud. It went on and on, ringing out into the distance as Dana broke away the jagged edges of the hole she had made. Art, just below her, turned to stare out through the falling snow. It had eased off a little. He could see for maybe half a mile. On all that white plain, nothing moved. He followed Dana, scrambling carefully past the jagged edges of the broken window to land on all fours on top of a metal desk. The surface was icy to his hands, and his breath frosted the air. It was as cold inside the building as outside.

He climbed down, feeling his heart pounding. Was it relief at escape from outside danger, or fear of what they might find on the fifteenth floor? If the telomod treatment was no longer available, he and Seth and Dana were dead. Not dead immediately, not maybe for six months or a year, but dead.

Without a word, they left the room. It had been some kind of administrative center, with cabinets and lifeless terminals and blank displays scattered in among the broken file trays and desks. Useless junk, Art thought. Objects from a past age, which looters hadn't even thought worth stealing. Would they ever have value again?

No lights showed on the central bank of elevators, with their smashed-in doors. It was going to be stairs, then, twelve more stories of them. Art put his head down, ignored his knee, and climbed steadily in the lightless stairwell. It was a consolation, when they came at last to the fifteenth floor and emerged into the building's dim interior light, to see Dana and Seth panting as hard as he was. His daily walks on Catoctin Mountain were paying off.

"Now we find out," Seth grunted, and hurried forward. Dana went after him. Art, much more slowly, followed. He had given up hope of finding Doctors Lasker, Chow, and Taunton, the three key members of the telomod research group, here at the Institute. Now it was a question of discovering where they had gone, following them, and persuading them to continue treatments.

And then that was no longer the question. Art knew the truth before he entered the lab. Even in the freezing air, the scent of corruption filled his nostrils. He stepped forward, to where Dana and Seth stood in silence at the open double doors.

The lab had always been messy, but with the organized messiness of a medical research facility. Now it was a chaos of broken glassware, smashed electronic equipment, and overturned furniture. A pitched battle had taken place here, in among the long workbenches.

What had they been fighting over? Probably something as simple as food or fresh water. There were plenty of genome readers, scanning probe microscopes, and gas chromatography units, but the big jars of distilled water on the lab shelves had all vanished.

In any case, the reason for the fight did not much matter. And the outcome had been inevitable. With fists and improvised clubs against guns and knives, the staff of the Institute hadn't had a chance. It had been a planned attack, too, with assistance from someone on the inside, because the doors and windows of the Institute showed no signs of an earlier break-in.

Seth stepped forward and paced the cluttered space between two of the benches. He stopped halfway along. "Here's Dr. Mackerras," he said, softly and without emotion. "And here's Janina—she was the lab technician who gave me my treatment. I always liked her." He took two more steps and leaned over a body. "I think this is Dr. Chow, but his name tag's gone. And half his face has been blown away."

Dana and Art, without a word, separated and began their own inspection of the space between and around the workbenches.

"Dr. Rothstein," she said after a few seconds. "And Gil Senta—he was the first person to interview me, when I wanted to join the program. Here's somebody I don't recognize—probably from outside, he's dressed differently. Dr. Lasker is underneath Gil. Looks like she died of gunshot wounds. Three of them, in the head."

Art seemed to be the lucky one, if that was the right word for it. The aisle along which he walked was a jungle of shattered glass and twisted metal, but he saw no people. Then he turned the corner, and wasn't lucky after all. Four bodies, ice-cold when he moved them to see their faces, lay tangled together.

"Dr. Taunton is here," he said. He did his best to keep his voice neutral, as Seth and Dana had done. They would realize, without histrionics or explanations on his part, that his words spelled doom for all of them. Dr. Taunton was the third member of the triumvirate. The three leaders of the telomod treatment group were all dead, and telomod therapy still had a big experimental component. Even if living members of the Institute's support staff could be found, they lacked the knowledge needed to adapt treatments to changing circumstances.

Art kept walking the aisles. The damage to equipment, when you looked at it more closely, was not so bad as at first sight. Given good technicians—and electrical power, and spare parts, and working microchips—it might be made to work again. None of those things was available; but nothing was so complete a disaster as the loss of the top brains of the program.

Seth Parsigian had given up on his own inspection. He climbed on top of one of the workbenches and sat cross-legged amid the mess. His arms were folded, and he hunched forward with his head bowed.

"All right," he said as Dana and Art walked over to join him. "We got us a setback. Question is, where do we go from here?"

"They're dead," Dana said. She clutched Art's arm, hard. "All of them. Even if some technicians got away, they don't know enough to help."

"Maybe in some other city, on the West Coast . . ." Art said. But as he spoke he knew he was offering false hope. The telomod treatment group had drawn its members from all over the country. There were even a couple from Asia and Europe. Why would they come all the way to the Institute if the same thing could be found anywhere?

Seth picked up a long splinter of glass and fingered its edge. "No, no. It's hard enough to travel locally. We'd be chasing rainbows lookin' for another group someplace. Anyway, we don't have time for that."

Finally he raised his head, to stare at the other two. "We're down to long shots. How much risk are you willing to take?"

"Anything," Dana said at once. Art nodded agreement, but he was thinking:
Down to long shots? Wasn't this trip to the Institute
already
a long shot?

"Any amount of risk," he said. "If I knew what to do. Do you have something in mind?"

"Oh, yes." Seth acted amused—there was a smile on his face, no matter how little it seemed to belong there. "How long since you joined the telomod program?"

"Nearly three years," Art said, and Dana added, "Closer to four for me—my anniversary is next month."

"That right? Me, I'm one of the old-timers—in the program near five years, started when they didn't hardly know what they was doin'. Got scars to prove it. And I got a lot more years to go, touch wood." Seth slapped the black bench top, which was hardened plastic. "I'm not about to give up."

Dana glanced at Art, a look that said,
Is Seth losing it? What's he talking about?

"Back then," Seth went on, "Lasker and Taunton were already involved. Dr. Chow arrived four months after I had my first shot of telomerase inhibitor, two months after my tumors started shrinking and I began to think I might have some kind of chance. Old Chinaman Chow was a new boy compared to me. And 'cause I was one of the first, I heard some of the old history, back before my time. See, Lasker and Taunton knew what they were doing, but the techies round the labs told me they weren't the brains behind the project. The real genius, the spark who started things going here, he was somebody else."

"I never heard of anybody like that," Art said slowly. "And I think I've met most people around the Institute."

"Yeah. See, he was never at the Institute. He was a big-brain research scientist, doing his own thing at some ol' college. He never had a hands-on role in the application of telomod therapy, but he knew more about the basics than anybody. And I'd bet money—if money meant anything now—that you did hear of him."

"I'm sure I didn't."

"Me neither," Dana added.

"Ah. Neither of you ever heard of a man called Guest?"

"Never," Dana said, while Art stood staring.

"
Oliver
Guest?
Doctor
Oliver Guest?" Parsigian laughed aloud at the expressions of understanding and disbelief on their faces. "Ah, now you're gettin' there."

"Grisly Guest," Dana said.

"The child murderer," added Art.

"One and the same." Seth nodded casually. "From around these parts, too. Local boy makes good."

"But he worked on clone research, not telomod therapy," Dana objected. "The clone king. He knew more about cloning than anybody. At least, that's what they reported during the trial."

"He did telomods, too. A real broad-gauge maniac, old Oliver. You didn't hear about him from the telomod group, because he wasn't somebody the project was goin' to advertise when it went lookin' for grants and experimental subjects. His name was a no-no at the Institute. But I checked him out after I heard. He started the whole ball rolling for the telomod treatment. Without him our program wouldn't exist. Then he got a bit sloppy, and they nabbed him for his after-hours hobby."

"He was found guilty," Art said. "Fifteen children—"

"—eighteen, by the time they was all done. Found guilty, and iced down for six hundred years. He was under forty when it happened. Which means that he ought to be alive now, in that Q-5 judicial sleep place down south of here where they put the weirdo cases. Wake him up, and he can treat us. If we can get to where he is, through all the shit that's flyin' around since Supernova Alpha.
And
if he's alive, I don't know how quick they spoil when they're not bein' looked after.
And
if we can
control
him, so he don't add us to his little list. That one may be the toughest—I reckon he's one smart and crazy son of a bitch."

Seth pushed himself off the bench. Hot, dark eyes challenged Art and Dana. "See now why I ask you: How much do you want to live? How much risk you willing to take?"

* * *

How much do you want to live?

Art lay on his bed at the Treasure Inn, shivered in spite of his warm clothes, and tried to answer the question.

It had been on his mind as they struggled back from the Institute through a whiteout blizzard that reduced visibility to a few yards; on his mind as they cooked and ate rice and beans; on his mind as darkness descended early, and the chances of anyone else reaching the inn faded to zero. On his mind now, in the middle of a long night when he could not sleep and time seemed to have stopped.

How much do you want to live?

The faint creak of the opening door would not have awakened a sleeper. It brought Art to full alert and had him reaching for the gun at his bedside.

"Who's that?" He was ready to fire into the darkness.

"Dana." She spoke in a whisper. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. I can't sleep. What do you want?"

"Nothing special. I just didn't want to stay in my room. It's next to Seth's, and I could hear him prowling and prowling. I don't know if he ever sleeps."

"Everybody sleeps—even Seth. Maybe he feels as wound up as I am. What were you going to do here?"

"Nothing. Feel a bit less nervous, I guess. I was going to stretch out on the floor."

"No need for that. It's a double bed." He felt he had to add, "Don't worry, you'll be safe with me."

He heard a skeptical grunt in the darkness. "Sure. How many times have I heard that line? In another universe, before I got sick, before Supernova Alpha. Come into my bed, you'll be safe with me." The mattress dipped to the left under her added weight. "
You can trust me;
men have been saying that since I was twelve years old. It's one of the three big lies. Move over."

Art slid to the right, at the same time as a groping hand touched his.

"My God. You're
freezing.
No wonder you can't sleep. Here, this will help."

He felt a rough blanket laid over him, and a warm body moved against his. It was hardly a personal contact—there were layers of clothing between them. But it was oddly soothing.

Soothing.
What did it say about your age and condition, when you found the midnight arrival of an attractive woman in your bed
soothing
?

"He's not really asking us, you know." Dana's voice was muffled against his shoulder.

Art didn't have to inquire who and what. "You're right. Seth's going to do it anyway, no matter what we want. The only question is, do we help?"

"It will be illegal—though I don't think there's much law enforcement at the moment. And it will be dangerous. The media didn't have anything good to say about Oliver Guest, but they agreed on one thing. He is brilliant, and he's ruthless. We'd be releasing a monster. Could we control him?"

"I don't know." Already, Art was feeling warmer and more relaxed. "Maybe we ought to think of it this way: If Seth brings Oliver Guest out of judicial sleep, are his chances of controlling Guest better if we are involved?"

"I think they are, but that's still not the real issue." Dana wriggled, the contours of her body fitting more comfortably against Art's. "I don't trust Seth—I do trust you, or I wouldn't be here—but he does have a way of asking the key question. For a chance to go on living, how far are we willing to go?"

"And what's your answer?"

"What's yours?"

"You show me yours and I'll show you mine. I think we need to wait and see."

"That's a cop-out." Dana snuggled closer and put her arm over Art's chest. "Let's not debate it tonight."