Symbiont (Parasitology Book 2) (48 page)

“You couldn’t even let the gardeners go home to their families, could you?” The question seemed nonsensical, but it was the only thing I could think of to say. Nothing would have put the sheer incongruity of the scene into words, and so I didn’t even bother to try.

“They were safer staying with us, and they recognized that.” There was a shifty note to his voice that made me suspect he wasn’t telling the full truth, that there’d been a lockdown or something that kept those low-level employees on the grounds until it was too late, and there was nowhere else for them to go. I didn’t bother calling him on it. When had he ever told us the full truth, about anything? Even when his own life was on the line, Dr. Steven Banks was still trying to play the angles.

“That’s why I chose Dr. Cale’s brand of monster over yours, you know,” I said quietly. “At least she was always honest about what she was.”

Nathan’s hand tightened on my knee, but he didn’t contradict my assessment of his mother. I think we both knew her too well for that.

Dr. Banks stiffened but didn’t say anything.

Fishy broke the silence. “Gee, will I be glad to go back to crazy science land, and no longer be sharing a van with the issues party,” he said, amiably, and started down the hill toward SymboGen.

The buildings around us seemed cleaner somehow, like they had been cleared out before they could take anything more than superficial damage. I kept a tight hold on Beverly’s leash, watching warily for signs of ambush. It wasn’t until we were almost to the front gates that I realized the fizzing sensation in my head was gone. There were no sleepwalkers nearby, unless Dr. Banks was holding some inside the building for further study. If they were in airtight rooms—and they would have to be, to keep them from upsetting each other—I wouldn’t be able to pick up on them. The thought was sobering. If he got me into one of those rooms, no one would ever find me.

I didn’t have time to dwell on that new and disturbing idea. Fishy pulled up in front of the security gate. I was somehow unsurprised to see that it was still manned, although the two men who were waiting to check our IDs were wearing full
SWAT gear and carrying assault rifles—a far cry from their careful inoffensiveness of days past. Fishy rolled down the window.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “As you can see, we have your fearless leader captive. You want to go ahead and buzz us in?”

“Sir?” asked one of the men, sounding utterly baffled as he peered past Fishy to the handcuffed form of Dr. Banks. Confusion was an understandable sentiment. Fishy was pretty darn confusing when you weren’t prepared for him.

“I’m their hostage, Kirk,” said Dr. Banks, sounding more annoyed about the situation than anything else. “Go ahead and let us in.”

The man—Kirk—blinked. “Do you want me to notify Security?”

“Uh, hostage-taker right here, remember?” said Fishy.

Both men ignored him. “It won’t be necessary,” said Dr. Banks. “I’m in no immediate danger. Just open the door.”

“Sir, this goes against the protocols that
you
established—”

“I know full well who established the protocols, Kirk,” said Dr. Banks. A hint of steel had crept back into his tone, stiffening and sharpening it. This was something he knew how to deal with: a disobedient subordinate was easy pickings. “Now let us in, or you’ll have your termination slip by the end of the day. And you know what that means.”

Kirk went pale. “Yes, sir,” he said, and retreated to the booth with his companion. The other man flipped a switch. The gate rolled slowly open.

“Man was pretty terrified of being fired,” observed Fishy, as he restarted the engine and rolled forward through the opening.

“Any staff whose family was able to survive the initial outbreak and survive the trip to SymboGen has been allowed to have that family stay here with them,” said Dr. Banks. “Living space is tighter than we would prefer, but sheltering those people was the only humane thing to do.”

“I bet it also made an excellent PR opportunity,” said Nathan.

“Not as good as it should have. People kept getting distracted by the chaos on the streets.” Dr. Banks sounded disgusted. How dare people die when he was trying to capitalize on showing some basic human decency? “Anyway, everyone who works here knows that space is limited, and that we’re doing serious research to try to resolve the problem. Anyone leaving my employ will have a choice between heading to the official government quarantine facilities in Pleasanton, or being turned out onto the street to do as they will. It’s remarkable how many have chosen the latter.”

Fishy pulled into a parking space near the building and twisted to stare, openmouthed, at Dr. Banks. Nathan and I did the same in the backseat, neither of us quite able to process what the man was saying. Finally, Fishy managed, “You mean you’re turning them out to
die
just because they don’t work for you anymore?”

“Resources are limited,” said Dr. Banks coolly. “Can you really tell me your precious Dr. Cale would do any differently?”

Fishy shook his head. “You are a piece of work. Let’s get you back into your ivory tower so that I can go back to where the monsters are the only thing I have to worry about fucking me over.”

It was strange to be climbing out of a vehicle in the SymboGen parking lot like nothing had changed; like the world was still the way that it had always been before. The doors would open automatically at our approach, releasing a gust of perfume, while tinny elevator music played in the distance. And Chave would be there, my straight-laced, by-the-book handler in her impeccable business attire, ready to take me off to whatever tests and appointments they had scheduled for me…

But Chave was dead. She had been a double agent for Dr. Cale, and her implant had eventually decided to take her over.
I’d never known her well enough to really miss her, but I’d known her well enough to grieve for her. That would have to be enough.

Nathan took the hand that wasn’t holding Beverly’s leash and squeezed it firmly. I squeezed back, and together, the four of us started toward the doors to SymboGen.

The closer we got, the more apparent it became that the illusion of normalcy was just that: an illusion. The grounds were still being maintained at a minimal level, but none of the dead or dying flowers had been replaced. It was late November; the flower beds should have been a riot of poinsettias, and every hedge should have been dripping with tinsel and no-break glass balls. Instead, the early fall plants were still in place, being coaxed along to keep things looking as functional as possible.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed. “Who are you keeping up appearances for?” asked Nathan. “Who could possibly be looking at your hedges right now?”

“It’s been important to downplay staff losses and their impact during this crisis,” said Dr. Banks. “The people we’re working with want to look at us and think that we’re weathering the storm without getting wet. It builds their confidence. You understand.”

“Image is everything with you people,” said Nathan. He sounded disgusted. I was just glad he was the one doing the talking. I wasn’t sure I would have been able to shape the words.

“Son, image is everything with everyone, no matter what you try to tell yourself.” The glass doors leading into the lobby slid smoothly open as we approached. The cool air that drifted out to greet us was perfumed—apple, orange blossoms, and fresh corn, a far cry from the sugary chaos of Captain Candy’s—but the music wasn’t playing. That was almost a relief. “Or are you trying to tell me you’d still be so interested in that little girl whose hand you’re holding if we took her pretty chassis away
and handed her to you in a jar? You love the woman, but you love the look, too. Don’t think you’re any different from me.”

“I am different from you,” snapped Nathan. “I didn’t cut somebody’s head open and shove a worm inside to get the look I wanted. I fell for a miracle, not a science project.”

“Just keep telling yourself that,” said Dr. Banks, and he stepped inside.

The lobby was empty: they must have been running on a skeleton staff. That, too, made me feel a little better. Anyone who wasn’t here was probably either dead or in the quarantine facilities that Dr. Banks was using to keep his remaining staff in line. Either way, they would probably have been happy to return to work if it meant that their lives would also return to normal.

Dr. Banks stopped when we were halfway across the lobby. “Now’s when you untie me,” he said, a new serenity in his tone. “I’m home.”

“I’m not seeing where this changes anything,” said Fishy.

“Then you’re a fool,” said Dr. Banks. “I still haven’t decided whether I’ll let you have your girl. You’ll be pleased to know that I’m leaning toward ‘yes,’ since she’s useless to me now and you’ve given me something much better.” The smile he slanted in my direction stopped just short of becoming a leer. I managed, barely, to suppress my shudder. “That does lead to the greater question of whether I’m intending to let any of you leave here alive.”

“Dr. Cale thought of that,” said Fishy mildly. “Or did you genuinely think she just went ‘sure, I’ll let my son and his girlfriend and my favorite handsome, dashing, suave assistant go off with the man who killed humanity’ and pushed us out the door? I knew you were arrogant. I didn’t know you were stupid.”

For the first time since we’d arrived at the SymboGen gates,
Dr. Banks looked uncomfortable. “What are you talking about?”

“Get us to the elevator and I’ll explain.” Fishy nudged his elbow. “Unless you’d rather stand right here until the timer runs out?”

“Timer? What timer?” Dr. Banks started walking again. He was virtually stomping as we crossed the floor, but no one came rushing to his rescue.

I wasn’t the only one to notice that. “Huh,” said Nathan. “No one’s coming to find out who we are or why we have you in handcuffs. I wonder why that is? I mean, everyone enjoys working for a heartless despot who treats human lives like tissue paper, right?”

“The timer I started when we left the boat,” said Fishy calmly. He gave Dr. Banks another nudge. “It’s amazing what you can do with C-4.”

“You can’t really expect me to believe that Surrey would let you blow yourselves up just to spite me.”

“Not us: me, and you,” said Fishy. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not inner circle. That’s cool with me, because I don’t feel like taking on that kind of responsibility. But I’m totally down with grabbing hold of you while Nate and worm-girl run for the hills, and letting my explosive buddy”—he patted his pocket—“do the talking for me. I’m tired of this game, Doctor. I’m ready to log off and go home. I don’t suggest you push me.”

Dr. Banks gave him a startled look before pressing the call button for the elevator. “Son, I have serious concerns about your mental health.”

“Suits me,” said Fishy amiably.

I hung back, leaning close to murmur to Nathan, “Does he really have a bomb?”

“Not that I know of,” replied Nathan, equally quietly. “He
was originally planning to stay on the boat. But I honestly can’t be sure.”

“Swell,” I said.

The elevator doors opened. The four of us got inside. As soon as the doors closed, Fishy undid the handcuffs holding Dr. Banks’s arms. The handcuffs promptly disappeared into Fishy’s pocket, where they would wait until they were needed again.

“About damn time,” sniffed Dr. Banks.

If there is anything in the world more awkward than sharing an elevator with someone who hates you and considers you to be less than human, I don’t know what it is. Dr. Banks initially reached for the button that would have taken us to his office. I reached out and grabbed his wrist before I could think better of it, stopping him mid-motion.

“Tansy’s not going to be in your office,” I said. “She’s down in the lab, isn’t she? Take us there. That was the deal.”

“That was the blackmail arrangement,” said Dr. Banks. He yanked his wrist from my grasp and pressed the button for the lowest level of the labs. “Happy now?”

“No,” I said. “I’m here. I’ll be happy when I’m not here anymore.”

Dr. Banks shook his head. “You’d think that after all this time, you might have finally learned how to be grateful.”

“I don’t think you’re the man who’s going to teach me that.”

The floors slowly counted down as we descended. Beverly kept her nose pressed against the base of the door. She growled occasionally, not on every level, but on enough that I had a strong suspicion I knew which floors were being used for sleepwalker resource.

I tensed as we started to slow. Finally, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, revealing the empty hallway. The drums in my head pounded harder than ever. The hall should
have been packed with technicians bustling to and fro, their hands full of lab equipment and clipboards, while Sherman—the old Sherman, with his tailored suits and ready smile—waited for me to come into his care. This was supposed to be my home away from home, and instead it was just one more place that was never going to be the same again.

Nothing was
ever
going to be the same again.

Dr. Banks led us out of the elevator and down the hall, stopping at a door I had never seen open before. He produced a key card from inside his pocket and swiped it in front of the door, unlocking it. He grasped the handle, pausing to look at me gravely and say, “I’ll understand if you want to stay out here, Sally. I’m sure your boys can keep an eye on me.”

Something about his tone was hesitant, even tender, like he had dug through his false affection and his too-real scorn until he hit whatever deep bedrock of actual compassion he still had buried under the persona he had worked so long and hard to build. I lifted my chin, feeling the muscles in my jaw tighten, and said, “I go where they go. Tansy’s my sister. I owe it to her to be able to do this.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and opened the door, revealing a stark white operating theater. There was a narrow bed—more like a cot—in the middle of the room, and there, naked and strapped down, was Tansy.

Her head had been shaved, and tubes snaked out of her, carrying and delivering fluids. A large bandage covered the right side of her scalp, concealing whatever terrible incisions Dr. Banks had used to extract samples of her implant. She didn’t react at all to the door being opened, but I could see her stomach muscles tightening and relaxing very slightly as she breathed. She wasn’t dead yet. It was a fairly near thing.