Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(30)

Not that it mattered. Raul only had a couple dozen meters of slack in the tubes that formed his wormy rear end. He could slither back and forth through that amount of open space before their connection to the great central machinery brought him up short.

It allowed him to travel far enough to reach the corner where Stephenson had stacked his supplies. There were enough cases of the military “Meals Ready to Eat” to feed him for a year, along with a matching quantity of gallon-sized plastic water jugs. In addition, his space had the luxury of a camper’s portable toilet, little more than a folding chair with a toilet seat and plastic bags that attached to catch your business.

The most fascinating part of the waste disposal process was what he thought of as the “garbage disposal.” In reality, it was a matter reprocessor that separated its contents into their elemental components, then transferred that matter to the ship’s fuel storage, for later conversion into raw energy. Nothing was wasted. Everything became fuel: trash, human waste, everything.

Considering Raul’s physical limitations, that was a blessing.

At least he still had his upper appendages. Why the good doctor hadn’t yet taken his arms, Raul didn’t know. The mere thought of the loss of his remaining ability to move about horrified him more than the pain and deformities he had already endured.

Raul didn’t yet know precisely what Dr. Stephenson hoped to accomplish by connecting more and more of the alien machinery to new nerve endings in his body, but he was starting to get an inkling. Stephenson was attempting to create an advanced interface to the damaged shipboard computing systems.

At first, not counting the pain, Raul had experienced no response to the wiring that had been inserted into his eye socket. It was only after several hours, when the screaming in his head had quieted, that he had observed the anomaly. He almost thought he had imagined it, that it was a by-product of the madness into which he felt himself sinking.

It was only a shadow of movement at the edge of his vision, an alien something that dissipated as he attempted to focus on it. Then it reappeared, gradually approaching more closely, as if it gained confidence as it probed, skittering around the dark recesses of his mind, refusing to submit to direct observation.

But it had not been until after the amputation of his legs that the dreams had started. Vivid didn’t even begin to describe them. They made no sense; they were merely a sequence of incredibly vivid shapes in colorless gray scale. Raul could feel the scenes, almost as if they were extensions of his own body. Sometimes the dreams continued after he had awakened, their weird images and feelings blending with his surrounding reality.

Perhaps madness had already claimed him. But if that was the case, why did Dr. Stephenson seem so pleased with his progress?

Raul pulled himself to the end of his tether, feeling the tension in his arm muscles as he lifted his torso up off the floor. They were getting stronger. At least the confining stasis field was gone. He paused for several seconds, then turned, his arms propelling him back in the other direction like a misshapen lion pacing slowly back and forth in its cage.

Stasis field or not, Raul wasn’t going anywhere.





27


Freddy Hagerman kicked the chrome trashcan hard enough to send it spinning end over end, spewing its contents across the kitchen and into the living room of his East River apartment. He hadn’t wanted to kick the garbage can. He had wanted to kick the flat-panel TV set. But even with his newfound notoriety and big job with the New York Times, he couldn’t afford to be doing that.

Shit. Now he’d have to clean up the f*cking mess.

His gaze returned to the television screen as the president continued his press conference. Freddy watched as the man worked his way through his talking points and then began taking questions. Unbelievable. After the press feeding frenzy that had engulfed the White House these three weeks, you would think the entire executive branch would be making plans for life after a failed and foreshortened presidency.

After all, Freddy’s story had nailed their collective asses to the wall, exposing the ill-conceived and illegal testing being conducted on the alien nanotechnology. Then the botched FBI raid in Los Alamos had produced the single worst day in FBI history. Although they had managed to kill several of the rogue agents, the leader of the group and his female accomplice had disappeared. Although the FBI director had been promptly sacked, the president’s already battered image had worsened, something that didn’t break Freddy’s heart, not one little bit.

Freddy shook his head. He should have known some shit like this was bound to happen. Everything had been going a little too perfect. Stepping over a trail of coffee grounds, Freddy picked up his cell phone and pressed five on his speed dial.

His boss’s high voice sounded smug. “Hello, Freddy. I guess you’ve got your TV on.”

“Yeah, Charlotte, I’m watching it.”

“Sort of throws the conclusion from your big story into question.”

“Not at all. I know bullshit when I smell it. This is a cover-up.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. The president’s people have cooked this whole thing up.”

“Good luck proving it.”

“I’ll be needing travel authorization.” Freddy ignored the editor’s annoying chuckle. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow for California. I want to take a look into that clinic in Santa Barbara. After that I’ll be heading back to Los Alamos.”