Amanda's Story (19 page)

She slid off her bed and looked in the mirror. She had seen her face reflected in Moore's mind and the mirror's reflection confirmed it. She touched her bloody cheek and began to laugh. Moore paused in the airlock.

“Are you okay?” he asked, ducking his head back into the cell.

His clear but confused thoughts floated across the room to her. “I am very okay.” Her acceptance of the assault only confused him even further. He paused a moment longer and then returned to the airlock.

Amanda looked back at the mirror. She was already developing a first-class shiner, but it was a small price to pay for clarity. Her mental aberrations weren't aberrations at all; in fact they weren't even hers. She hadn't actually seen Cameron Lambert dancing with his newborn baby; she had somehow tuned into the young man's powerful memory of the event. It was the same with Colonel Bennett arguing with Dr. Martin, and with Price abusing his wife. She had become a receiver for the memories, thoughts, and emotions of those around her.

“Damnation,” Amanda drawled.

“I appreciate that a single incident should not prompt precipitous actions, but neither can we ignore it,” Marcus Sobel said to Nathan Martin.

Sobel's clipped and precise elocution was more than an affectation; it was a defining characteristic. Sobel's appointment as Director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention coincided with the untimely retirement of Stanley Cripps. Sobel had been Martin's chairman at NYU, and the pair had managed to maintain a professional relationship for twenty years. The appointment of a protégée was fairly common practice, so Martin's nomination to Director of Special Pathogens was met with little resistance. Sobel was the epitome of insider politics. He was groomed from an early age for high places, his family's wealth afforded him an Ivy League education, and his father's connections ensured a position of respect and power. He possessed an uncanny ability to surround himself with people of great ability, insulating him from the mundane duties of his position and ensuring that they were done exceptionally well. He saw in Martin the tenacity of a bulldog and the look of one as well. He was comfortable that Martin would always get the job done and never pose a threat to him politically.

“It has been dealt with, Marcus.” Martin had had a long discussion with Scott Price, before the younger man was fired.

“Which leaves the larger issue of the young lady. I have given you great latitude, and a good deal of our budget, both of which are in very short supply at the moment. I believe that without any further developments, once this last set of cultures and antigen studies has been completed, we will be in a position to release Mrs. Flynn. Don't you agree?”

Martin had to bite his tongue as a comment about Sobel's inability to interpret a clinical situation nearly made it out of his mouth. “Of course, that is one way of proceeding.” He paused for Sobel to respond, but his boss just waited for Martin to convince him or hang himself. “When I was a resident. you gave a lecture about how humanity's future will be affected by the emergence of more resistant and pathogenic microbes. Do you remember?”

“Vaguely.” Sobel's tone made it sound like his mind had already shifted to the next order of business.

“You posited that unless the rate of scientific advancement kept pace with population growth we would ultimately reach a tipping point. That the interaction between the human biomass and the microbial biomass would inevitably lead to ‘pandemics of biblical proportions.' That was the very term you used.”

Sobel took a long moment. “Unfortunately, I am still of the same opinion. However, you have yet to prove that this patient represents anything more than a potential PR nightmare.”

“Marcus, you have to let me do the job you hired me for. This woman is everything that you talked about, only in reverse. Instead of humanity selecting out more virulent pathogens, the pathogen has selected out a more resistant human. This is a singular opportunity—for everyone.” Martin's implications were blatant but effective. He knew that Sobel had aspirations well beyond the CDC.

“All right, Nathan,” Sobel finally said. “I will give you a little more time to complete your work. A little more time, and then one way or another this situation must be resolved.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Thank you for your work on this, Nathan. Hopefully, we will all learn something from it. Now, on to other matters …”

They talked for another fifteen minutes before the director dismissed Martin. He walked back to his office wondering what Sobel meant when he said that he hoped “we will all learn something from this.” His tone had made it sound like both a rebuke and a compliment. That was the trouble with Sobel: you never really knew where you stood.

Five minutes later Martin threw a muted greeting to his secretary and immediately retreated to his office and computer. The EDH 1 virus in all its glory popped up as soon as Martin moved his mouse. It was the best electron microscope image they had and he was thinking of making it into a screen saver. His division had amassed a tremendous amount of information in record time. In less than three months they had isolated, cultured, dissected, and created a simple screening test for infection. Unfortunately, none of it came from their single test subject. She remained stubbornly resistant to revealing her idiosyncratic resistance. All the progress they had realized had come from blood and tissue samples collected from the bodies on site—bodies that ultimately and foolishly had been destroyed. After twelve weeks, Amanda had contributed nothing to their cause.

Martin idly studied the image on his screen; he had caught himself doing a lot of that lately. EDH 1 was completely unique, which itself was unique. Every other known virus shared characteristics with at least one other virus, which was one of the primary means of identifying and categorizing them. Only EDH 1 was unlike everything that had come before; it was literally in a category of its own. Its size, shape, clinical characteristics—everything made it completely alien and horribly dangerous if it were ever to reappear.

He closed the file as a mixture of personal and professional dissatisfaction welled up. Special pathogens were special because of their ability to infect, and in most cases kill, quickly and in large numbers. They were mostly viruses, and the CDC's ability to treat the outbreaks was fairly limited. His department's job was mostly about containment of the outbreak, isolation of the pathogen, and laboratory studies that were aimed at that giant breakthrough that would ultimately arm them with the clinical tools to stop an outbreak rather than just contain it. One day, in some lab, this nut would finally crack, and the medical world would radically change. He tried to bury his innermost secret under a pile of medical imperatives, but knew that the desire for his lab to be the one, the only one to finally discover that silver bullet, was what drove him.

EDH 1 and Amanda were the key; he knew it, and the opportunity was slipping through his hands. He already had the preliminary results of the final pathology and antigen studies, and like all the rest they were negative. He could hold the results for maybe a week, but eventually Sobel would receive them and pull the plug. All he needed was one positive result—just one, and that would justify the extreme measures necessary to finally unlock Amanda's resistance.

He toyed with the idea of falsifying one of the reports, but that would do him no good. The CDC staff members in Tellis were reporting their results directly to Sobel, and as they worked in labs outside of Martin's control they had no real loyalty to him, and he had no real sway over them—certainly not enough to have them falsify a report. An even darker thought occurred to him. They had synthesized a relatively pure form of the virus. It was possible that if Amanda was re-exposed to EDH 1 her immune system would rapidly deploy that holy grail of defenses.

He felt that he should turn off his office light and sit in the dark if he was going to consider such radical, unethical, and illegal behavior. He put it out of his mind, but it bounced right back with greater force. If she indeed was the key to curing outbreaks of hemorrhagic fevers, or even simply future outbreaks of EDH 1, was it immoral to challenge her resistance a second time? If six months down the road an outbreak of Marburg or Ebola killed a thousand Ugandans, would he be morally responsible because he didn't avail himself of every resource? Or worse yet, if years from now EDH 1 reappears and threatens tens of thousands, possibly millions, could he or anyone else say that putting her at risk was unjustified?

Those are questions for an ethics committee, not a physician,
he told himself, and then sat quietly, afraid to follow his train of thought. He returned to his computer and checked on the progress of the tissue cultures and found that they had created more than two hundred test doses of EDH 1 for study purposes.
It is possible,
he mused, and wondered if he could get Sobel to sign off on it.

It took a full day for the bruises to completely develop into a pair of first class black eyes. A medic had closed the small laceration beneath her left eye with a bead of super-glue, and nearly three days later Amanda could barely see it.

She stretched and gave herself a momentary break from another of Dr. Martin's endless forms. What a difference a few days made. She wasn't schizophrenic or psychotically depressed; she wasn't even suffering from post-traumatic stress; she was something more, something different. Telepath. Psychic. Seer. She wasn't even certain what she was, aside from happy.

Her new talent gave her life a focus. Something to concentrate on between Martin's questionnaires and examinations. She had moved out of her “cell” and began to freely interact with the staff while secretly using her new toy. She was still little more than a passive receiver of thoughts and emotional energy but was beginning to learn how to fine-tune them. She had found that true clarity required either isolation or at least close physical proximity—contact if possible—but that was still something she tried to avoid.

She also tried to avoid examining the ethics of her new talent. She knew that what she was doing represented the ultimate invasion of personal privacy, but, she rationalized, she was only having some innocent fun with it. She would never use anything she learned for her own benefit. Besides, this was something that she hadn't asked for and was completely out of her control. The voices came to her; they were invading her sanctuary.

“Knock, knock,” Colonel Bennett said, walking into the empty recreation room.

“Well hello,” Amanda said warmly. Her receptive greeting generated a spark of excitement in Bennett, and Amanda felt it just as keenly as the colonel.

“I haven't seen you in a while and wanted to check in.” He pointed to her face. “I heard what happened. I also understand that you didn't want to press charges.”

He was too far away for a good connection, but his emotional energy was clear. A cool shade of blue seemed to warm her face. The synesthesia was becoming a familiar part of her life. “I was never asked whether I wanted to press charges or not.”

His warm blue darkened, and she felt small, circulating red splotches in his emotional color wheel. “I see,” was all he said, and a single name,
Martin,
floated in the ether between them. “I should have expected as much, but it always surprises me when I am lied to so directly.” He pulled up a chair opposite her and let the moment of unpleasantness pass. “What are you doing?”

“Contributing to the deforestation of the planet.” She waved at a thick set of forms. “I'm fairly certain that I've answered these same questions three other times. Are they running out of forms and tests?”

“Yes,” he said, giving her an unexpectedly direct answer.

His tone suggested that this was more than a casual visit, and she felt his mind shift from social mode to professional mode. “I'm concerned about your safety,” he said without preamble, and his mind added that he was powerless to do anything about it. “The virus that you were exposed to appears to be a new form of hemorrhagic fever. Similar to Ebola or Marburg.”

“I've heard that.” She had actually overheard it weeks ago from some less-than-discreet staff members. She had visited Newton Moore a day earlier and had learned even more.

“Martin is determined to figure out how you survived. He's convinced that you are the key that will unlock a giant medical mystery.” A rising tide of powerful emotions obscured Bennett's thoughts, and the harder she listened, the more difficult it was to hear. “He is also convinced that you are not being entirely forthcoming.” His carefully chosen words told her more than his hidden mind.

“And you're not entirely convinced that he's wrong,” she surmised.

He hesitated, and his gaze dropped to the paperwork on the table. A long, quiet moment passed and then Bennett looked up. “No, Amanda, I don't think he's wrong,” he said with conviction.

Her heart dropped as she stared into his brown eyes. Despite their age difference, his interest in her went beyond medical responsibilities, and he was willing to risk that for the truth. His sincerity shone brightly and she was embarrassed by her secrecy and duplicity. “So I will ask you not as a physician or as an officer in the United States Army, but as a concerned party. Are you telling us everything?”

She had always been proud of the fact that she was a hopelessly transparent liar, but at this moment, as her faltering eyes betrayed her, she regretted her transparency. He waited patiently as she chose her words carefully. “Nothing I can tell you will help answer your questions.” She wanted to tell him everything, but a sudden wave of distrust stopped her.

“So there is something to tell.” Amanda immediately sensed his frustration with the word games.

“Doctor Bennett, I have told you everything I know about what happened in Honduras and before. I have no idea how I survived, but I do know that the answer is not going to be found among these stupid questions.” She flipped the small sheaf of papers and felt his heart slip a little when she addressed him so formally.

“So tell me what happened after Honduras, Amanda.”

Her mood darkened. “I tried to tell you before and you wouldn't listen.”

He stared at her impassively, and then a look of recognition crossed his face. “You told me that you were still infected and had been seeing things. Are you saying that you still believe that?”

“It's not a question of belief, and if you approach it with that attitude, there's no point in discussing it.” Amanda folded her arms and looked away. His doubt and patronizing tone grated on her. Their connection was strong, and a loudspeaker in Amanda's mind broadcasted his thoughts. Bennett's disbelief colored her emotions and suddenly she was furious with the man. “Fine! You want proof?” she said angrily, and she grabbed Bennett's wrist. Intent on uncovering and then divulging a closely held secret, Amanda instead found herself falling through space. Bennett's thoughts, memories, and desires swam around her, and she felt the line that separated their individualities begin to blur and then dissolve. Their lives began to intermix and Amanda couldn't tell if the images that flowed through her were from her life or Bennett's. Each was powerless to hide anything from the other as for the moment they shared a single identity.

Abruptly, she slammed back to Earth and into her own mind, suddenly feeling more alone and isolated than ever before. Her sluggish mind had a hard time reorienting. She was confused about where she was and how she had come to find herself in such an odd room with an unconscious man sitting next to her. Her thick brain slowly pieced her disjointed memories together and familiarity began to return.

Bennett groaned and lifted his head. “Oh my God.” He swayed in his chair as he tried to right himself. “I suddenly have the worst headache of my life.” He looked at Amanda, confusion still painted across his face. “Hi there. I was hoping to see you today.”

Amanda sensed his sudden and complete disorientation but didn't dare probe deeper. “I'm right here,” she said tentatively, not completely certain where “right here” was.

With wide eyes and a perplexed look on his face, Bennett looked around the room. “Yes you are,” he answered, and began rubbing both his temples. “I forgot what I was supposed to tell you.” He waited a moment, then his smile faded. “I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Dr. Martin wants to put you back in isolation.”

“You sure you're all right, Colonel?” His aide had been the fourth person to ask him that question in the last three hours.

“I'm fine, Corporal; just a headache.” He guessed that he must look like hell. “Has Mrs. Flynn been moved back to isolation?” The last thing he wanted right now was to discuss his state of health.

“Yes, sir.” The corporal had taken the hint. “Begging your pardon sir, but I don't understand this sudden turnaround.”

It had been a terrible mistake to turn this facility over to a civilian agency and then expect his men to blindly follow orders. Tellis Medical Facility was not just a secret military hospital—a fact that had been lost on most outside the military chain of command. It was staffed by the Combined Services Medical Group, a small and highly cohesive group of exceptionally well-trained medical professionals who had been assembled to respond to and treat a full range of medical emergencies. Every individual under his command had been hand-selected. Just to be considered, an applicant had to have scored in the top one percent on entrance aptitude tests, and had to have demonstrated their ability to work and think independently. It was easier to get into the Special Forces than the Combined Services Medical Group.

“It will become clear soon enough,” he said as he walked into his office and closed the door on Corporal Tator's follow-up questions. In a normal unit such questions would not be tolerated; Corporal Tator would be told directly and severely that it was not important for him to understand, just to follow orders. But in this unit it was necessary in most situations to understand the reasoning behind the orders to accomplish them.

Bennett spun his smooth leather chair around and slid into it. It was his one luxury forty-seven feet below the surface of Oklahoma, and at this moment he was beyond grateful for it. He had been walking around in a fog for the last few hours, an unexplained headache pounding away at his temples. Something had happened earlier and for the life of him he couldn't recall what. The day had been somehow reset. He remembered waking up that morning; he remembered his workout with some of the Group; he remembered starting the day with a phone call from Martin, and then not much beyond that. It was late afternoon, but his mind told him that it still should be mid-morning. He ran through the medical differential diagnosis that would explain both a memory gap and the atypical headache, and if he were anyone else he would recommend a CT scan of the brain, looking for a hemorrhage. He had access to a CT scanner, as well as every other form of medical hardware, but he was not anyone else. He was the commanding officer of this post, and while some of the rules of military command were allowed to be relatively lax, the rule concerning the infallibility of the commanding officer had always been adhered to closely.

The phone on his desk ran loudly and he answered it before the third annoying ring. “Yes,” he said, uncharacteristically terse.

“You wanted to be informed when Dr. Martin had arrived. He was just cleared through the main gate.”

“Did he bring anything with him? Any medical supplies?”

“I don't have that answer, sir, but I will shortly.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” He hung the phone up quietly. Martin's sudden phone call, and now appearance, coupled with his instructions to re-isolate Amanda Flynn, was nothing short of ominous. If he hadn't had access to her lab results, his first thought would have been that Martin's team had found something with their reexaminations, but he knew that all the tests had come back negative. Martin was a driven SOB with a fairly flexible moral line, and he was certain that the man from Atlanta was about to step over it.

Bennett's thoughts of Amanda suddenly triggered a memory of a short conversation that seemed to have been set out of time. He was talking about some paperwork with Amanda, who despite her bruised face was absolutely radiant. He puzzled over the unattached memory, concluding that he must have seen her during his lost morning. He teased at the fragment, hoping that it would reveal its context, but it remained little more than an image. He let it go and surrendered to his headache by searching his desk for some ibuprofen. He took a full dose, four tablets, and washed them down with the stale remnants of that morning's coffee.

It would take Martin at least ten more minutes to reach the facility, which gave Bennett ten minutes to make a decision. From the moment Amanda had arrived at Tellis, her official status had always been somewhat undefined. She wasn't a soldier, and all the civil rights that defined her as a US citizen had been suspended. Bennett didn't know if due process had been served, or whether it had been postponed because of exigent circumstances; all he knew was that Nathan Martin had in his possession documents from the US Attorney General that in effect made Amanda the property of the CDC, and that he had been ordered by his commanding officer to turn his facility over to the man from Atlanta, and to keep her presence at Tellis a secret. After watching Martin in action for three months, Bennett was convinced that Amanda's presence on US soil, even her survival, had also become a secret known by only a few dozen people.

In the twenty-eight years he had been in the United States military, he had never come close to disobeying an order. Even as a medical resident at Walter Reed, he had been creative enough to technically follow orders that were ill-conceived and potentially dangerous without harming the patients under his care. If he picked up the phone and dialed one of the two numbers that were listed in Amanda's chart, no amount of creativity would protect him. His best defense would be to simply state the truth: Martin had illegally ordered him to hold a US citizen, against her will, while he performed medical experiments upon her person. A flash of her naked “person” burst before his eyes in startling detail. The power of the image forced him to reflexively push away from his desk, and he waited for his office to reform around him.

That was strange,
he said to himself. His heart was racing, and everything about him was brighter and louder as the adrenaline surge reached his brain. He was attracted to her, both physically and emotionally. He had lost the love of his life eleven years earlier, and it had taken him nearly that long to accept the possibility that perhaps he could be happy with someone else. But there were proprieties; he wasn't a teenage boy lusting after a picture in a magazine. Amanda was more than just a pretty face, and the connection that he had hoped for extended far deeper than a superficial physical tryst.