Immune (29 page)

Dr. Stephenson smiled to himself. As long as the kid remained useful, he would keep on living.

Heather yawned, stretching her arms until her fingertips touched the headboard of her bed. As she opened her eyes, she could just see the peach-colored light of dawn beginning to lighten the sky outside her window. Thinking back on the last three weeks, Heather was amazed at the changes she saw in herself.

As much as she had feared the antipsychotic drugs and fought with her parents to keep from taking them, the daily dosage had turned out to be the best thing they could have done for her. She was sleeping again. Heather smiled at the thought of it. She hadn’t even known how much she had missed the ability to drift off to sleep and the wonderful feel of waking up to greet a new day.

Even more importantly, the disturbing mental fugues were gone. No more freaking everyone out while she made an unscheduled trip into zombie land. Her parents were so thrilled to have their daughter back to normal that their joy surpassed Heather’s own.

There were a few downsides to the medication, but those were manageable. The biggest of these was a mild drowsiness she experienced after taking the pills. Heather had also acquired a very slight tremor in her left hand, something that Doctor Sigmund said was a fairly common side effect of the drug. While Dr. Sigmund was monitoring that, it was such a small effect that she decided to stay with the drug, unwilling to change what was working unless it became absolutely necessary.

Heather had to agree with that logic. The only thing she hadn’t shared with Dr. Sigmund was the troubling nature of her dreams. Usually Heather couldn’t remember them. But these last few nights she had awakened with fragments of the same dream in her mind. A long black limousine lying on its roof against a tree, windows broken out, the gaping holes splattered with blood. As disturbing as this was, it was the viewpoint that bothered her more. She appeared to be gazing at the limousine through some sort of telescope, the lens lined with a crosshair and tiny little tic marks.

She concluded the dreams were probably just caused by the bad news that had been all over the television. The FBI director had been assassinated, and that agent in North Dakota. All the news reports blamed the two killings on Jack Gregory, but despite a considerable body of evidence to back it up, Heather didn’t believe it. For some reason the probability calculation in her head yielded only a 3.754 percent likelihood that Jack was the killer. After the way he had saved her life, the numbers would have to be a heck of a lot worse than that before she would believe it was Jack.

Sliding into her robe and slippers, Heather made her way down to the kitchen. Grabbing the can of Maxwell House from the cupboard, she spooned the coffee into the filter basket, poured in a container of water, and turned on the pot. Another oddity.

She had never liked coffee until three weeks ago, always making herself tea instead. The change had happened that morning after getting her first night’s sleep, the day after she began taking the antipsychotic drug risperidone. She had slept until 6:30 a.m. When she had walked down the stairs, the rich smell had been so enticing that she had asked her dad for a cup. That had been the first morning in a long while when she had sat at the breakfast table with her mom and dad, just enjoying their company. Something about that moment had etched a pleasurable association into her brain. Morning plus coffee equals comfort, or some nonsensical equation.

Without waiting for the pot to finish brewing, Heather poured herself a cup and returned the pot to its spot beneath the brewer. Sliding open the glass door that led out onto their back deck, Heather turned to look out to the east. The sun was just rising, the yellow brightness replacing the pink of sunrise. What a glorious day. She took it as a good omen for the first day of the new school year. After the summer she had endured, everything about school’s return filled her with anticipation.

Her reverie was interrupted by Mrs. McFarland’s arrival in the kitchen. By the time breakfast had come and gone, Heather found herself rushing to get through the shower and make her way over to the Smythe house. Mark and Jennifer were already downstairs waiting for her.

“You’re looking perky this morning,” Mark remarked, the worried look, with which he had been watching her the last few days, absent from his face.

“Thanks,” Heather replied, sliding onto the couch.

“Let’s just hope we’re all feeling that way after the first day of school tomorrow,” said Jennifer. “I’m not looking forward to the razzing we’re likely to get over that science project.”

“Look at it this way,” Mark said with a smile. “We’ve already been thoroughly hosed. Might as well grin and bear it.”

“Uh-huh,” his twin snorted,

“Is that a new backpack?” Heather asked, pointing at the brightly colored bag beside the door.

“Yeah. Dad picked it out. This will be its first and last usage.”

The look of disgust on Jennifer’s face made Heather laugh despite her best efforts to contain it.

“I don’t know,” said Mark. “I think the school colors thing you have going there shows good spirit. You just can’t get too much green and gold.”

Ignoring his sister’s scowl, Mark tossed a pamphlet in Heather’s lap.

“Have you taken a look at the student handbook?”

“Since when have you started reading the student handbook? How’d you even get one?”

“Mom picked it up at the PTA meeting. I thought it might be good for a few laughs.”

“So was it?”

“I think a couple of rules got added just because of our junior year.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for one thing, the school dances section expressly states that sophomores and freshmen are not permitted to attend junior-senior prom.”

Heather chuckled. “They had that rule last year. It was waived because our junior class didn’t raise enough money.”

“Yes, but this year they highlighted it in boldfaced letters. And get this part…No peeing in the hallway.”

Heather made a grab for the book, scanning rapidly down through its pages before she noticed the snicker.

“Mark!” Her foot just missed him as he dodged sideways. Fortunately, Jennifer landed a punch into his shoulder.

“Ouch.”

“What does it say about displaying your butt in public?” Jennifer asked.

“Okay, okay,” Mark said, holding up his hands in protest. “I was just trying to add a little levity. No use getting personal.”

Seeing his wink, Heather smiled. God it was good to have things back to normal.

The blackness in the room softened as it moved away from the corners. Faint hints of red illuminated the objects that occupied the space, the luminosity changing as the red numerals on the digital clock switched to a new time: 4:16 a.m.

This time of night was the quietest. Even the latest of night owls had already found a way home from whatever sport had kept them out and about. Before long, folks on the early shift would be making their way to relieve sleepy compatriots at the local mini-mart stores, but not yet.

Sitting up in his bed, his back propped up by a pile of pillows, Mark let his eyes roam freely. His night vision was improving with use, but then again, what wasn’t? Since that first time they had tried on the alien headsets on the starship, his entire brain and nervous system seemed to be constantly adjusting neural connections, always seeking optimization. Their last visit had accelerated the process.

All three of them, Mark, Jennifer, and Heather, had experienced it, although the effects had been different for each. Apparently, gaining the use of the other ninety percent of your brain still left room for plenty of individual differences.

No longer requiring sleep left plenty of extra time for thinking. It was something Mark was thankful for. The days were filled so full of activities that there was little time for learning about the ongoing changes to his mind and body.

The list of changes scrolled through his mind: strength and reflexes that were off the charts, perfect memory, enhanced hearing, enhanced vision, speed reading. Although his thought processes were up across the board, he had acquired a special affinity for languages that was every bit as amazing as Heather’s savant mathematical abilities and Jennifer’s computer wizardry. It had gotten to the point that his mind could master a language as he listened to it or read it.

Mark had discovered another odd ability by accident, during one of his language practice sessions. He had been listening to a language tape, copying the native speakers’ pronunciations and intonations when Jennifer had walked into his room.

“You sound just like the people on the tape.”

“Thanks,” Mark had replied.

“No. I mean exactly like them,” Jennifer had said. “The men and the women.”

“Right.”

“Play it back in your head if you don’t want to believe me,” Jennifer had called over her shoulder as she ducked back out into the hallway.

As he thought back on it now, his twin sister had been right. Replaying the scene in his mind, he compared the sound that had come from his mouth to that from the tape. He had been so intent upon matching the tones of the native speakers that he had somehow managed to mimic their voices so effectively he could barely hear any difference from the original.

He would have been thrilled with his progress if not for the difficulties he had been having controlling his emotions. Yesterday he had even snapped at his mother, an action that brought tears to her eyes. And although he had apologized, guilt had plagued him the rest of the day.

Without a doubt, Mark’s raging adrenaline rushes presented such a danger that he had been focusing his attention on finding a way to control them. So far, he had enjoyed only limited success. Meditation worked but wasn’t practical. Most situations that produced an emotional response found him in the middle of an activity, which provided no opportunity to sit down, cross his legs, and achieve a meditative state.

While meditation had its limitations, it provided complete relief, something that had led Mark to practice it every chance he got. He had read every book and article he could get his hands on about the various meditation techniques.

A Rosicrucian technique had become his favorite, allowing him to achieve the feeling that his mind was truly disconnected from his body, free to float around as he willed it. Starting with a sequence of deep, slow breaths, Mark focused on feeling just his toes, one at a time. Once his mind was completely focused on a single toe, he would allow his consciousness to move to the next one, gradually working his way up the body until it got to his scalp. Although the technique took a considerable amount of time, the euphoria he felt upon completing the exercise made him reluctant to come back down. Mark was sure that the key to self-control lay buried in a deeper understanding and skill with meditation, but so far that key had eluded him.

Sitting there in the darkness, a sudden sense of being watched nudged him, the intensity of the feeling making his scalp tingle.

Night’s blackness draped the outside of his window, its face unbroken by any hint of a presence there. His door was closed, and there was no sign that someone stood waiting just beyond that. Mark’s senses heightened to a level that he could taste the air moving in and out of his mouth. He allowed them to sweep the room free from his conscious will, relying on the thought that whatever hidden clue had alerted him would guide him to the source.

Down the hall, he could hear Jennifer’s rhythmic breathing. No doubt she was as awake as he was, lost in her own thoughts and meditations.

Whatever it was that had disturbed him felt closer than Jennifer. Not far at all. The conviction that something was here in the room with him grew stronger with each passing second, although he couldn’t see anything that appeared to be out of place.

The glowing red numerals on the clock beside his bed shifted to 4:24 a.m. The subtle change in room lighting would have been nearly invisible to him only a few months earlier, but now the slight shift in intensity pulled his gaze to a spot an arm’s length past the foot of his bed, just below eye level. There was nothing there, just a general sense of wrongness about that point in space.

As Mark focused his vision at that spot, the clock numerals changed once again. It happened so quickly that he could almost believe he had imagined it, but he hadn’t. Mark played the scene back in his mind. In that instant when the light had changed, the smallest of glints had reflected back at him, as if from a tiny bubble of dew at the tip of a blade of grass.

Swinging his legs out from under the covers, Mark rose from the bed, keeping his eyes locked on the tiny pinpoint of wrongness as he moved slowly toward it. Whatever it was, it was damn hard to see, even with his enhanced neural pathways processing the data. Reaching a spot only a couple of feet away from whatever it was, Mark stopped.

Despite the dim light, he could now see the distortion more clearly. There was nothing there except for a pinpoint that blurred his vision of what lay beyond. There was no sign of whatever might be causing the distortion.

Mark circled the spot slowly, positioning himself so he could look back through it toward the glowing clock on his bed stand. There it was, suspended in the air. A tiny pinpoint of nothingness, ever so slightly twisting the light that passed through it.