Transhuman (34 page)

They walked in silence out past the last of the buildings, to the perimeter fence.

Luke reached for the wire, but Tamara pulled his hand away.

“It could be electrified,” she warned.

“It's not.”

“How do you know?”

“Nick Pappagannis told me. Besides, government regulations would require warning signs every so many feet if the fence was electrified.”

He closed his fingers around the wire and shook the fence as hard as he could. It barely budged.

“It's climbable,” he said.

Tamara looked shocked. “You're not thinking…”

He looked up to the top of the fence and the coils of razor wire.

“Luke, a man your age can't bounce around like a teenager.”

“Maybe.”

“Besides, what would you do once you got over the fence?” she insisted. “There's nothing out there for twenty miles or more.”

“Forty-seven miles,” he corrected. “Pappagannis has seen the maps.”

“What are you thinking of?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I'm just taking a walk through the moonlight with the best-looking woman on the base.”

They heard a jeep rumbling toward them, then saw its headlights approaching.

An MP in a white helmet and a black holster pulled up alongside them. A sergeant, Luke saw.

“Sir, you're not supposed to be this close to the fence, sir.”

Luke put on a surprised expression. “We're not? I didn't know that. Nobody mentioned it to me.”

“Base regulations, sir,” said the sergeant. “For your own safety. Please stay on the other side of the perimeter street, by the buildings, sir.”

“Okay,” Luke said. “We were just taking a walk.”

“Would you like a lift back to your quarters, sir?”

Shaking his head, Luke said, “No, that's okay. We'll walk back.” He took Tamara by the arm and started back toward their building.

“They must have cameras looking over every square inch of the base,” he muttered.

Tamara pointed to the top of the nearest lamppost. “I could have told you that.” Luke saw a slim, unobtrusive camera pointed toward the fence.

“Thanks,” said Luke.

She laughed, and they headed back to their quarters together.

 

The Key

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
as he was dressing, Luke realized he needed a haircut. His hair—dark brown now—was nearly reaching the collar of his shirt.

He heard a tap on the bathroom door. “Can I come in?” came Tamara's muffled voice.

“Sure,” Luke said, bending down to pull on his shoes. “I'm decent.”

Tamara entered his bedroom and went to the desk chair to sit. She looked quite serious.

“I've been thinking about last night,” she began.

Still sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, Luke said, “What about last night?”

Instead of answering him, Tamara hiked a thumb toward the bathroom door. Luke nodded understanding, got up, and went with her into the little room. It felt crowded with both of them in there; no place to sit except on the toilet. He felt the warmth of her body, so close, smelled the flowery scent of her perfume.

Luke grinned at her. “Want to shower together?”

An impatient frown flashed across her face. She reached past him and turned on both of the sink's faucets.

“That ought to scramble their microphones,” she whispered.

“You're learning,” Luke whispered back.

“You're thinking about jumping the fence and getting away from here, aren't you?”

He nodded.

“That's crazy!” Tamara hissed. “Even if you get past the fence, where are you going to go?”

“That's not the important question,” he whispered back to her.

“You'll just be killing yourself.”

“I have no intention of killing myself.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

He grasped her shoulders, gently, and looked into her troubled emerald eyes.

“I don't intend to spend the rest of my days here in this glorified rat trap,” he whispered urgently. “And I certainly don't want you or Norrie and Angie to be stuck here, too.”

Tamara frowned at him. “But there's nothing you can do about it. You can't go traipsing out in the wilderness like a Boy Scout. They'll find you and bring you back. If you don't get yourself killed first.”

“I got you into this. I'm going to get you out of it.” Before Tamara could reply, he went on. “But first I've got to know why they're doing this to us. What do Fisk and Rossov want? Why have they locked us away like this?”

Tamara had no answer.

“What do they want? That's the key to everything. Once I find that out, then I can figure out what to do.”

“Don't do anything foolish,” she warned.

He grinned at her. “Foolish? Like standing in a bathroom almost cheek to cheek and whispering secrets to each other?”

*   *   *

N
ICK PAPPAGANNIS WAS
a font of knowledge about the base and its environs.

At lunchtime that day, Luke trudged alone to the mess hall, looking for the biochemist. He spotted Pappagannis sitting with Marlo Gunnerson and a trio of other researchers. Carrying his tray to their table, Luke pulled out an empty chair.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“The more the merrier,” Gunnerson said.

“We're discussing possible vectors for anthrax,” said Pappagannis.

“Pleasant lunchtime conversation,” Luke said.

“Shop talk,” one of the other researchers replied, with an uneasy smile.

Luke listened to their discussion, grisly as it was: how a terrorist might maximize the deaths caused by unleashing anthrax bacilli in a crowded city. This is what they're interested in, he said to himself. This is the work they're doing. Shop talk.

One by one the others finished their lunches and left the table. Finally only Luke and Pappagannis remained.

“Your work is really important,” Luke said.

Pappagannis seemed in no hurry to return to his lab. “So is yours,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“I guess,” said Luke, mopping up the last crumbs of his cheese sandwich. “Apparently even the White House is interested in what I'm doing.”

“That's why you're here,” Pappagannis said, with a cynical smile. “Your reward for being brilliant.”

“I don't understand it,” said Luke, with a shake of his head. “All I'm trying to do is save my granddaughter's life.”

“By curing her of cancer.”

“Glioblastoma multiforme,” Luke murmured. “Why would the White House be interested in that? I mean, I'm supposed to be working for the Fisk Foundation, not Washington. Hell, the National Cancer Institute dropped my funding last year.”

Toying with the end of his mustache, Pappagannis asked, “The Fisk Foundation? And you wound up here?”

Luke nodded unhappily. “Why would the Fisk people want to keep me isolated like this?”

Pappagannis's heavy dark brows knit in concentration.

Luke continued. “They won't even let me contact
ACB
, for God's sake.”

“They don't want you to publish,” said Pappagannis. “That means they want to keep your work secret.”

“But what good would that do Fisk?” Luke asked. “I've already signed a privacy agreement. Do they intend to keep me from publishing?”

With a knowing smile, Pappagannis said, “Fisk wants to keep your work in his hands. He wants a monopoly on your cure for cancer.”

“You think?”

“Of course. He'll have your cure for cancer in his hands, and anyone who wants to be cured will have to pay his price. That's capitalism, pure and simple.”

“But why is the White House involved?” Luke wondered.

“They're in cahoots with Fisk, naturally.”

“I don't understand.”

Like a patient teacher explaining something to a backward student, Pappagannis said, “The people in the White House want to make sure
they
get your cancer cure when they need it.”

Luke shook his head. “Sounds like one of those nutso conspiracy theories to me.”

“Some conspiracy theories are right,” said the biochemist. “And anyway, look at how Washington handles health care. The politicians nearly shut down the government a couple of years ago because they couldn't agree on a budget, remember?”

“That's got nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn't it? Once you get politicians involved, head for the hills.”

Silently, Luke retorted, That's just what I intend to do. Head for the hills.

 

Action

F
OR TWO DAYS
Luke went about his business as usual. Except that he bought a handful of granola bars, several packets of trail mix, and a six-pack of bottled water at the base's Post Exchange. Then he zipped his stash into the capacious pockets of his windbreaker. He couldn't fit all six water bottles, though; he had to settle for three.

He transferred the report he had written for Fisk from his laptop to his cell phone, then checked twice to make certain the entire paper was stored in the phone's memory. Finally he stripped the blanket off his bed and wrapped it into a bulky roll.

From his moonlight stroll with Tamara a few nights earlier Luke recalled it had taken four or five minutes for the MP to get to them in his jeep. I'll have to get over the fence in four minutes or less, he thought. He nodded to himself. I can do that. I'll have to do it.

He tried to go through the next day perfectly normally. But as he sat in the mess hall that evening with Tamara, Lenore, Angela, and Del, Luke felt nervous, jumpy.

“Are you okay?” Tamara asked.

“Sure,” he snapped.

From across the table, Lenore asked, “Are you coming down with something, Dad?”

His brows furrowing, Luke said, “What makes you think that?”

“Your hand's trembling.”

Luke looked down and, sure enough, the spoon in his hand was shaking noticeably.

“It's a little chilly in here, that's all.”

“Finish your soup,” said Lenore. “That'll warm you up.”

“Eat it all up like a good boy,” said Angela, grinning at him.

“Yes, Mama,” Luke said meekly.

When they returned to their quarters, Luke checked his overstuffed windbreaker and the rolled-up blanket, then went into the bathroom and tapped on Tamara's door. She opened it immediately, as if she had been expecting him.

“Uh … I'm going for a walk,” he said.

“I'll come with you.”

He shook his head. “Better not.”

“It's cold out there.”

“I'll be okay.”

She looked up at him, worry clearly etched on her face. “You're sure?”

“Positive.”

She said nothing. Luke grasped her slim waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her soundly. She clung to him and whispered hurriedly in his ear, “Don't do it. Please. Stay here. Stay with me.”

It took every ounce of self-control that Luke possessed to disengage from her. “I'll be back. It's just a little stroll, that's all.”

Tamara said nothing, but tears filled her eyes.

He pulled on an extra shirt, then took his windbreaker and the blanket and almost ran downstairs. Outside in the night, it was cold. A sharp wind was keening down from the mountains. Even the half-moon riding over the crests looked icy, chilled.

Luke wrapped the stuffed windbreaker over his shoulders and toted the blanket roll under his arm. The streets were practically deserted; he saw only one couple—both in army khakis—strolling away from the mess hall.

A jeep puttered by, and Luke's heart thumped. The soldier driving it paid him no attention and turned off at the next intersection.

Luke stopped in the shadows of the last building before the fence. No one else in sight.

All right, wise guy, he said to himself. It's now or never.

Quickly he stepped across the street, pulled the windbreaker off his shoulders, and tossed it over the fence. It didn't quite make it. The windbreaker hit the coiled razor wire at the top of the fence and bounced back to the ground with a thump. Cursing himself, Luke grabbed it up and heaved with all his might. The windbreaker sailed over the razor wire, empty arms flapping, and landed on the fence's other side.

Good thing the water's in plastic bottles, he thought. Now comes the tough part.

Swinging the blanket around his neck, he backed away from the fence a half-dozen paces, then ran to it and jumped as high as he could. His fingers clutching the wire fence, his shoe tips finding some purchase, he clambered to the edge of the razor wire.

Hanging there by one hand, he yanked the blanket off his neck and threw it over the sharp prongs of the coiled razor wire. It wasn't much help; Luke felt stinging cuts on the palms of his hands as he struggled over the coils. He heard his pants rip and felt a slash of pain on his inner thigh. Missed the balls, he thought gratefully.

But he was atop the wire. Without hesitating to think, he swung over the coils, grabbed the wire beneath and hung his full length, then let himself drop to the ground.

He landed with a thud and collapsed onto the dusty ground. His right ankle flared painfully. It's not broken, he told himself, hoping it was true. It's just a sprain. I just twisted it.

He was breathing hard, and both his hands stung nastily. In the pale light of the moon he saw his hands were bloody. Then he heard the coughing rumble of a jeep approaching.

Scrambling to his feet, he scooped up the windbreaker and awkwardly stuck his arms through its sleeves while he hobbled away from the fence. The ankle really hurt; so did his hands and thigh.

Over his shoulder Luke saw the headlights of the jeep. He limped as fast as he could toward a fair-sized rock and huddled down behind it.

He could hear the voice of the MP in the jeep, but not make out his words. His tone was clear, though. He was phoning back to his headquarters, telling them that somebody'd been at the fence. Luke realized his blanket was still wrapped around the razor wire. A dead giveaway, he thought. They'll come out searching for me.