Taji's Syndrome (48 page)

“Frankly, Professor Thayer, I don’t. We know very little about TS. It’s been a puzzle every step of the way.”

“Why is that?” Thayer all but pounced on the question.

“Speculation at this stage might be irresponsible,” the General interrupted.

“But there has been so much speculation already, General,” Thayer said, silencing his infuriated guest. “Please, Doctor.”

“The reason we know so little about TS,” Jeff said, speaking with care, “is that we have every reason to believe that we are dealing with a disease that is the result of genetic manipulation. Through some accident—we haven’t been able to determine what accident—the altered genetic material was introduced into the carriers before they were born.”

“Deliberately?” Thayer asked with a quick glance at General Warren that stopped his objection before it was spoken.

“Probably not,” said Jeff. “I did say accident. These carriers then became . . . ‘active’ might be the best word, when they reached puberty, This is a highly communicable disease, and once it started . . . well, we all know what happened.”

General Warren could contain himself no longer. “If you are suggesting that the Army or any branch of the Armed Forces had anything to do with—”

“We’re not suggesting that,” Thayer soothed. “However, you will admit, General—won’t you—that various branches of the Armed Forces were and are actively involved in genetic research.”

“That’s—” He was about to claim security, but Thayer touched the President’s letter which was on the table.

“General?” Thayer said.

“Certain amounts of such research have been undertaken,” he said stiffly.

“Is such research continuing?” Thayer asked.

“I am not aware of any specific projects,” he evaded.

“But you do know it hasn’t been discontinued,” Thayer persisted.

“You could say that.” General Warren glowered at the letter. “It would be irresponsible for me to say more at this time.”

“Would it?” Thayer had a way of smiling that was not at all pleasant. “Missus Channing, in the course of your illness, how many tests were made on you?”

“You mean while I was in quarantine?” she asked. “I really don’t know. I had a high fever and I was very disoriented. As you probably know, many people with TS suffer from hallucinations during the . . . terminal phase.”

Jeff supplied the answer. “Since Missus Channing had signed a Public Benefit contract, over one hundred thirty different tests were carried out on her before she began to improve. Once the PK was confirmed, another sixty-seven were administered before she left quarantine.”

“That’s a lot of testing,” said Thayer. “And after you left quarantine, what then?”

Irene felt suddenly very exposed, almost shamed. She stared down at the polished surface of the table. “I was . . . I was transferred to a private hospital for study and recuperation.”

“And while you were there, what happened?” Thayer had that eager, predatory look to him now.

“Well, I was approached by two agents from the ESA, the Executive Security Agency, asking me to volunteer for their work. When I refused, they placed agents in the hospital to keep an eye on me. I have documentation on this,” she went on, looking the General directly in the eye.

“There are copies on file with the producers of this program,” Thayer added.

“The ESA is not part of my service,” General Warren said stiffly.

“Tell me, Missus Channing,” Thayer went on as if General Warren had not spoken, “did the agents placed in the hospital make any attempt to interfere with you?”

“While I was there, no; once I left it was another matter.” She glanced at Jeff. “We have records to support this; I’m not rambling and I’m not making it up. When I left the hospital, I took certain prescription drugs that supposedly were the same as the ones I had been given in the hospital. I was still in my personal physician’s care”—that was one way to describe her time at the cabin with Dale—“and it was through him that we discovered that substitutions had been made at the hospital. The investigation that followed revealed that the ESA agents were responsible for the substitutions.”

“If you had not been under your personal physician’s care, what would have happened if you’d taken those drugs?” Thayer asked, leaning forward.

“I don’t know. But at the least I would have been semiconscious and hallucinating because of them.”She stopped. “I know that the PK is the reason. I know that’s why you can’t find the survivors.”

Thayer did not linger with Irene Channing. “Doctor Taji, would you agree that survivors of TS are difficult to locate?”

“I’ve said that,” Jeff said. “And there are increasing indications that the decision to isolate the survivors is a military one.” He looked at the General, his mind alive with questions he longed to ask. This opportunity was so tempting that Jeff had to force himself to keep still, to control his urge to challenge General Warren to explain why the survivors were being sequestered. “We need to find these survivors,” he made himself say. “If we’re going to find a cure for all TS victims, we must have the survivors.”

“General Warren? What’s your response to that?” Thayer asked genially.

It was a moment before the General replied. “I don’t think any of you appreciate the potential of psychokinesis. We have here a defense so enormous that you cannot begin to grasp its full implication. A country with people with this . . . ability, can render itself invulnerable. The people who can move objects with nothing more than the power of thought give us an incalculable strength.”

“And the people who have the ability? What about them?” Thayer asked. “You are detaining them. We do have habeas corpus in this country. It seems to me that you and your colleagues are in violation of the law. There is also the matter of the Public Health contract most of them signed, which exempts their participation in military experimentation.” He sat back and waited to hear General Warren’s response.

“That was to protect us from biological warfare,” snapped the General.

“The reason why that was necessary is obvious,” Thayer interjected.

General Warren turned on him. “You smug, self-satisfied prick! You’re treating this like the people were immune to rabies or anthrax. This isn’t like that at all; it’s something brand new and we have an obligation to see that it is put to the most effective use!”

“Which you are to determine?” This was not Stewart Thayer but Irene Channing who asked. She had risen to her feet. “You are speaking about the people who have survived TS as if they were soldiers in your army, part of your weapons system to be programmed for the best field application. Well, General,
I am one of those people, and I say to hell with you,
to hell with your vision of a psychic secret weapon. None of us owe you anything. We’ve been through enough.” She sat down suddenly and turned to Thayer, prepared to apologize for her outburst.

“Missus Channing, you are wonderful.” Thayer addressed the camera. “The question seems to come down to whether people who possess special abilities—ESP, PK, or any of the rest of them—can or ought to be compelled to employ those abilities for the government. By extension, anyone with special attributes, either biological or intellectual, might be required to put those attributes to work at the whim of the state or its branches. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is totalitarianism at its worst. If we are going to portray ourselves as the champions of liberty and the helpers of the oppressed, the least we can do—that we
must
do—is see that these survivors of TS are released and permitted to resume their lives, however they see fit.” He paused, his intent stare now on General Warren. “Well, General? What is it going to be?”

“It’s not my decision,” General Warren said, for the first time his authority appearing more like bluster than strength.

“Whose is it?” Jeff asked.

“Well, ultimately, it’s . . . it’s the President’s decision.”

Thayer tapped the letter. “Oh?”

General Warren refused to look at it. “President Hunter was very ill. We had to take action. We had to be prepared.” He rose. “That’s all I’m going to say. You are not an official body and you have no power to—”

“Make you speak?” Thayer finished for him. “No, we don’t. What you decide to do is up to you. Pity you didn’t give the same options to the TS survivors.”

“Break,” said the producer’s voice from speakers. “It’s a very good start.”

“Start?” General Warren bellowed, now driven past his limit. “There isn’t going to be any more of this . . . this—”

“You needn’t stay,” Thayer said, and winked at Irene. “I think we’ve covered the pertinent points.”

General Warren stood, rigid with wrath. “You haven’t heard the last of this.”

“Good God, I hope not,” said Thayer. “And General, neither have you.”

—Mason Ross—

It was a sticky night, hot and clinging. The others were indoors, but Mason sat by the swimming pool, his feet in the water, as he played back the interviews with the latest batch of released survivors. Most of them were relieved, a few were angry. He listened closely, paying attention to every word as if seeking a coded message.

“Mason?” Ace Hardy asked as he stepped outside.

“I’m okay,” he said, sighing.

“Doesn’t sound like it to me,” Ace said.

“Well, I am. I was just . . . listening to some more of those guys the Army sent home. Hey, it sounds like they were in a war, doesn’t it.” He held up the tape recorder. “It’s like what they do at the front, or when the refugee train pulls into the station. Isn’t it.”

“A little; you could say that,” Ace answered carefully.

“Also,” Mason went on a short while later, “I was thinking about Loren Protheroe. I wish I’d known about . . . about how sick he was. Maybe I would have worked harder to understand TS, you know?”

“We all miss Loren,” said Ace. “There’s lots of people to miss.”

“I know,” said Mason. “They told me my Mom’s still alive. That’s something. She won’t talk to me, or answer my letters, at least she hasn’t yet.”

Ace came a few steps closer. “Give her time.”

Mason did not look at Ace; he stared out over the roof of the stable to the waning moon. “Yeah. Everyone says give it time, just wait, eventually everyone will forget, something else will happen and TS won’t matter anymore. Isn’t that what you’re telling us? Everyone will be treated and then we can all go home again.” He lowered his head. “Of course, that isn’t real easy to do anymore, is it? The twins don’t have anyone left except a couple old relatives who are as nuts as the twins are. Steve Channing can go back to his Mom; he’s lucky. Laurie doesn’t have anyone left. Gail’s Dad’s a little like my Mom. He never answers her letters. Harold—who knows what will happen to Harold. He’ll probably run away again, and one of the times you won’t find him.” He kicked his feet slowly, watching the crinkle of the water.

“And you? Don’t you think your Mom’ll want to have you with her, once the worst of this is over?” Ace dropped his voice so that it was just above a whisper. “Mason, you’re a very bright kid. Surely you can look beyond what’s going on right now?”

The sigh was unsteady. “Sure. You bet. I can look beyond now, and all I can see is this place. No one’s ever going to forget we’re TS carriers. No one. Before we’re anything else, we’re TS carriers. Hell, it isn’t safe to let us out in public yet, and not just because people can get TS from us, but because we might get lynched.” For a short while it appeared that he was trying not to laugh, or cry; his breath rasped in his throat.

Ace had seen Mason depressed before, but he realized that the despair that had claimed the boy was more intense than before. Though he felt out of his depth, Ace wanted to help the boy. “It’s a risk. There are people with long memories, and some of them aren’t very sensible.”

“Who can blame people for being mad at us? We might not have done it deliberately, but TS happened because of us.” Mason looked at Ace for the first time. “Nothing’s going to change that.”

“It didn’t happen because of you,” Ace said firmly. “It happened because someone screwed up a genetic experiment and somehow your mothers were exposed to it. You’ve got to keep a sense of perspective about this, Mason. You can’t let this wear you down.”

“Right. Right right right,” Mason said, the sense of the word lost in its repetition. He stared down at the blue-green light from the pool. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Not bad,” Ace said cautiously.

“Not bad at all,” Mason agreed. “I’ve been listening to those interviews, the ones with the survivors, with the PK? They sure got a rotten deal: TS and then military experiments. One of them said that they thought the carriers ought to be killed for the good of everyone else, that we were too dangerous to be permitted to live. She called us mass murderers, even though she said she knew we didn’t do it on purpose.” He kicked his feet again, more slowly than before.

“She didn’t mean it that way,” said Ace, wondering if he ought to get more help.

“Yes, she did,” said Mason. “She meant every word of it. She wasn’t angry or vindictive, she was . . . she was tranquil and sensible. I was thinking, you know. She could be right.” He looked at Ace again.

“Mason—”

“I mean, six, seven kids against a quarter of a million people? You don’t have to be good at strategy to know where the best odds are. I mean, more kids get killed in traffic accidents every day and we don’t ban cars, do we?” He cleared his throat.

“Mason, come on. It’s late and the weather’s awful.” He started toward the boy.

“We don’t get nights like this in Seattle. Even when it warms up in the day, it cools off at night. This is like taking a bath in warm pudding.” He took his tape recorder in his hand. “You come any closer, Ace, and I’ll hit this on your shins.”

“Hey, Mason!” Ace chided, more concerned than ever.

“Let me talk a while, okay? You don’t have to listen, if you don’t want to.” The tape recorder was still in his hands, and although he looked away from Ace, it was evident that he was aware of where the tall physician was. “When this started, when Kevin died, Dad and I made a pact: we were going to hunt down TS and wipe it out. We were serious about it, you know?”