The Second Ship Page 19

  “Please close your books and take out a single blank piece of paper and a pencil. Ms. Gorsky has left instructions for a pop quiz.”

  A low groan arose from the group as the spell broke.

  As the lengthy quiz progressed, Mrs. Johnson moved among the desks, glancing down at each student’s work, once again causing the male members of the classroom to lose all semblance of concentration. Heather had no doubt the quiz would set some sort of record in gender-gap performance. From what she observed out of the corner of her eye, it would be a miracle if any of the guys scored above 50 percent.

  By the end of the class, Heather’s impression of Mrs. Johnson had improved significantly. Heather had to hand it to her; the woman was a consummate professional. Mrs. Johnson collected the test papers and moved through the scheduled work with such comfort, self-confidence, and skill that Heather wished Ms. Gorsky could be out permanently.

  Well, come to think of it, she had wished for that long before Mrs. Johnson’s arrival. Her reflections were interrupted by the sound of the bell and the subsequent jumble of movement and noise that accompanied the hourly student migration pattern.

  As Heather opened her locker, Mark stepped up beside her.

  “Have you got an oxygen tank in there? I think I need some.”

  “You and about fifteen other guys.”

  Suddenly Mark straightened, a more serious look settling on his chiseled features as Mrs. Johnson walked past.

  “What are you looking at, basketball puke?” Doug Brindal’s grinning face came nose to nose with Mark’s. “Haven’t you already learned not to chase after women out of your league?”

  The snarl that twitched at the corner of Mark’s lips barely registered in Heather’s brain before he moved, lightning fast. Mark grabbed a fistful of Doug’s shirt, just below the throat, and slammed him back hard into the locker. Doug dangled in Mark’s grip, his feet barely touching the floor.

  Heather lunged forward, grabbing Mark’s arm, trying to pull it free, but the corded muscles felt like rolled steel.

  “Mark! Stop it. Please!” Heather begged as several students swung their gaze toward the commotion.

  Mark glanced down at her, sanity leaching rapidly back into his face as he loosened his grasp on Doug.

  The senior stepped forward, giving Mark a hard shove in the chest that somehow failed to move him. Pushing his way through the onlookers, Doug yelled back, “You’d better watch your back, Smythe. I will be.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Heather pulled Mark into the crowd and down the hall toward their next class. As Jennifer joined them, Heather leaned over to her friend and whispered, “Someone please call the testosterone police.”

  42

  The rat lay on its side. Its pink left foreleg twitched periodically, as if by doing so it might be able to roll its diseased body over and give some relief to the pressure the rat’s weight applied to the weeping sores on its underside. Not that the action would have made much difference, even if the animal's strength had permitted it. The sores had already ravaged every part of its dying body.

  It blinked a beady eye covered so thickly in cloudy cataract tissue that it could not have seen him. Still, Dr. Ernesto Rodriguez could not shake the feeling that the rat stared up at him accusingly.

  Dr. Rodriguez, Ernie as his friends called him, walked along the line of cages, each housing a rat in a different stage of disease. The diseases ran the gamut of genetic illness. Animals used for contagious experimentation were kept separately in a biohazard area.

  At the end of the row, Ernie stopped before the next-to-last cage, bending low to stare at the readouts from the instruments attached to the little brown fellow. As opposed to its dying brother, this little guy was the epitome of health. Heart, lungs, circulatory system, and brain function—in every category the lucky fellow exceeded the norm.

  Ernie reached a finger through the cage, gently stroking the tame animal's soft side with his fingertip. Noticing that his glasses had fogged, he withdrew his hand, dabbed at his eyes, and then wiped the lenses on his shirt.

  As usual, Ernie had stayed at the lab until everyone else in this wing had called it a night. It was almost time for him to go home, although the thought ripped at his heart. He should be there now, helping Angela care for their son. Most women would have broken under the strain long ago. But not Angela.

  For two years now, their son, Raul, had struggled valiantly against the cancer eating at his brain, maintaining a sunny attitude despite his deteriorating strength. Raul should be in his third year of high school; instead, he had to be rolled from side to side during the day to try and keep the bedsores under control.

  They had tried everything: chemo, radiation, cryosurgery, self-administered homeopathic cures, everything. Now all that was left to them was self-administered hospice care to ease his final days. Angela had rejected the hospice workers who had offered to assist her with the burden, insisting that she would care for her son.

  She had moved a rollout bed into Raul’s room and now slept next to his bed, just in case he needed something during the night. Sometimes, during the sleepless nights, Ernie would tiptoe down to Raul’s doorway and listen to his wife’s prayers to the Madre, to the santos, and to Jesus Christo himself to grant her just one miracle. Just one.

  Ernie wiped his eyes once more and returned his glasses back to their accustomed position on his nose. He stared at the rat as it scurried about its cage sniffing for food, now completely accustomed to the wireless electrodes attached to its skin.

  One week. Ernie could not get the thought out of his head. It had been only one week since he had applied the test serum to this rat. One week since this healthy rat had lain in a cage next to the dying rat, its condition even worse than its unfortunate sibling.

  Human trials were scheduled to begin next month. He didn’t have a month. Angela didn’t have a month. And Raul damned sure didn’t have a month either.

  Having made up his mind, Dr. Rodriguez walked over to the intercom and pressed one of the buttons. After several seconds, a familiar voice answered.

  “Stephenson here.”

  “Dr. Stephenson, this is Dr. Rodriguez from Omega Lab. May I speak with you? It is very urgent.”

  After a brief hesitation, the deputy director's voice continued. “I’m in my office, Ernie. Come on down.”

  Ernie logged himself out and switched off the lights, enabling the security system before locking the lab behind him. Then, exiting the Omega Wing, he made his way rapidly across the huge room that housed the Rho Ship.

  Coming to a stop just outside the door into Deputy Director Stephenson’s private office, Ernie paused to wipe his glasses yet again. Then, with a deep breath, Ernesto Rodriguez straightened his shoulders and stepped through the doorway, one thought screaming in his mind.

  “For Raul.”

  43

  At breakfast, Heather was unusually quiet, despite the presence of the entire Smythe family, the twins bantering in their usual, boisterous fashion. The headaches were back, worse than before. If they lasted longer, Heather might have mentioned it to her friends. But this was brief, stabbing pain. It was probably only stress. After all, it wasn’t as if the three of them hadn’t been under some pressure lately.

  “What’s up with Heather? I need to pull her aside and get to the bottom of it, if only Mark will leave us alone for a bit.”

  Heather looked over at Jennifer. “What was that?”

  Jennifer glanced up questioningly, her mouth full of honey-buttered biscuit. She swallowed hard. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

  Heather rubbed her temples. “Sorry. I must be hearing things.”

  Her mother set down her coffee cup. “Is something wrong, honey? Are you feeling all right?”

  Heather smiled. “I’m fine, Mom. Just a little headache this morning. I’m sure it’ll pass as soon as I get out and start moving around.”

  “I’ll get you some ibuprofen.” She rose and moved toward the
stairs to her bedroom.

  “Mom, eat your breakfast. I’ll be fine.”

  Heather might as well not have spoken for all the effect it had on her mother’s progress. She returned shortly with the medicine. Heather took the small, burnt orange tablets, popped them in her mouth, and washed them down with a swig of orange juice.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her mother beamed over her coffee cup. “No use suffering through a headache.”

  “Great game last night, Mark,” said Heather’s father. “It’s been a while since you got into a scoring groove like that. Not that you haven’t been outstanding all year, but it’s been a while since you scored forty points.”

  Mark grinned. “I guess I was just feeling it last night. We all have to get hot sometime.”

  Mr. Smythe leaned forward, slapping his son’s shoulder. “I keep telling him to shoot more. No need to overdo the passing when you’ve got the best shot in the state.”

  “Dad.”

  “I’m just repeating what your coach tells you.”

  “Dad, I shoot when I’m open. If someone has a better shot, I pass the ball. That’s the only way I know how to play. It’s a team sport, you know.”

  Mr. Smythe grinned. “You know we have to give you advice. It’s the only way we old cats get to be involved in the game. Sort of like yelling at the refs.”

  Heather’s father laughed. “Good analogy, Fred. It’s pretty much our civic duty.”

  “Speaking of civic duty, that was a nice young couple sitting on the other side of you at the game.”

  “Oh, yes, the Johnsons. We met them at the church bingo night on Wednesday. Jack and Janet.”

  A warm smile lit Heather’s mother’s face. “The nicest young people. Reverend Harvey introduced us. Jack’s an EPA man, and Janet is a teacher. She’s subbing at the school and applying for a full-time position for next fall. Both of them volunteer at the hospital. I hope you don’t mind, but I invited them to dinner tomorrow night so they could meet everyone.”

  Mark choked on his juice.

  “That sounds wonderful,” Mrs. Smythe said. “In all the commotion of the game, I barely got a glimpse of them over Fred and Gil. Especially the way our guys kept jumping up and yelling.”

  “It’s a game, Linda,” said Mr. Smythe. “You’re supposed to cheer.”

  “I understand that, dear. My point is that the environment wasn’t conducive to introductions.”

  “Good then,” said Heather’s mom. “How about meeting here at four o’clock? That way we can visit for a while before the roast is ready.”

  By the time the breakfast chatter ended and the plans for Sunday afternoon were finalized, it was well past nine. Mark, Jennifer, and Heather pulled out their bikes and headed for the Second Ship, taking their time this morning. The day was the first warm day in weeks, the sun so bright it seemed almost as if there was no atmosphere present to filter its rays.

  The ibuprofen had worked. Heather’s headache was now a thing of the past. Being outside in the sunshine, feeling the warm breeze brush her cheek as she pedaled, made her feel as if she had suddenly awakened from hibernation. The tang of pine-scented air, the songs of birds in the trees, and the beauty of the mountain country lifted her soul.

  At one of their stops along the way, a group of squirrels scampered through the leafless branches of a large cottonwood tree. The little animals looked like they were playing a huge game of “follow the leader” as they raced around and around the large branches, then up and out onto mere twigs, leaping out to grab neighboring twigs, then scurrying back to thicker limbs.

  For several minutes the friends watched the squirrels at play, probably some sort of mating ritual. Obviously she wasn’t the only one feeling a hint of spring in the air, Heather thought.

  When Heather, Jennifer, and Mark arrived at the top of the canyon, above where the Second Ship lay hidden, they paused under a group of pines, spreading out the picnic lunch they had brought with them. Best to eat now, even if they weren’t hungry. They had a lot of work to do.

  Unfortunately, by the time they finished lunch and made their way down to the cave, Heather’s headache was back, her head throbbing so badly she wished she hadn’t eaten the sandwich. Doing her best to ignore the pain and nausea, she boarded the ship and slid her headset into place.

  No sooner had the lightweight band slipped over her temples than she became aware of a new sensation. Instead of the gentle massaging action that usually followed sliding the headset into place, a gentle thrumming filled her head. It felt—no, it sounded like it was coming from the medical lab. In her mind she could see the table of the tentacles, pulsing red, shifting to orange.

  A strong compulsion to go to the medical lab engulfed her, almost as if the table called to her. Heather found herself moving in response to the call before she was aware of having decided to do so.

  Without waiting for Mark or Jennifer, she moved to the hole leading up to the next deck and jumped up, landing crouched on the floor above. It was a bit surprising to be able to jump like that instead of pulling herself up and kicking a leg over the edge as she had been forced to do in the past, but the compulsion left no time for reflection on the oddity. Without pausing, Heather moved through the doorway, which slid open to admit her. She could hear faint cries behind her, someone calling out her name. Then the door swished shut, blocking all external sound.

  Heather moved to the table, hopped up onto its edge, and lay back, feeling its tentacular embrace enfold her body. So wonderful.

  The tentacles on her head were doing something new this time, crawling across the surface of her face and forehead as though seeking new connections. Searching, in the way a mother seeks a lost child in a crowd. Rapidly. Urgently.

  The tiny tentacles moved from nerve ending to nerve ending, spreading the lovely warmth along her central nervous system, gradually easing the pain in her head. And as a smoky haze glazed her eyes, the lights in the room slowly faded away. Just like the old Pink Floyd song, she…had become…comfortably numb.

  44

  Heather sat up, the wondrously supple tentacles melting away from her body as she moved. She felt something. What was it? Somehow different.

  For one thing, for the first time in days she felt not even a hint of the headache, which had been coming and going but always leaving just a fragment of itself in her head. It was as if a loose connection in an electrical circuit, one that had been spitting sparks, had been correctly spliced and wrapped with electrical tape.

  Looking around the medical lab, Heather suddenly noticed that the door had remained closed. Mark and Jennifer must be frantic on the opposite side. As she visualized the door opening, it complied. Mark and Jennifer both raced into the room before it could close again.

  Mark looked as if he were ready to kill something. “Heather, are you all right?”

  Jennifer raced over and threw her arms around Heather’s shoulders, a flood of tears streaming down her face. Heather hugged her back.

  “It’s okay. I’m fine now.”

  “What the hell happened?” Mark yelled. “We were just about ready to go get help.”

  Heather paused, looking at Jennifer’s accusing face as she pulled away. “I’m not sure. I think the ship detected something wrong with me and decided to fix it. I hadn’t told you, but I have been having the headaches again. This morning was especially bad. Anyway, when I put on the headset, I felt compelled to come directly here, so I guess that’s what I did.”

  “You didn’t just come up here,” Jennifer said. “You jumped up the six feet to the second deck like you were Batgirl or something. Mark followed, but the doors had already closed and wouldn’t open for us. It’s been half an hour since you disappeared.”

  “We banged on the door, yelled, tried visualizing the thing opening, but nothing worked,” said Mark. “You really scared the shit out of us.”

  Heather touched him on the arm softly. “I’m sorry. I must have been in som
e sort of trance. Anyway, I think the table fixed whatever was wrong with me.” Heather paused. “You say I jumped up instead of climbed up?”

  Mark nodded. “You just leapt straight up in the air and landed on your feet on the next deck. I had to concentrate to manage the same thing myself.”

  “Well, there is a big difference in weight.”

  “Don’t give me that. It’s a matter of weight ratio to muscle mass. Your muscles were performing like mine or there’s no way you could’ve done it.”

  Heather shrugged. “There’s something else I didn’t tell you guys. This morning at breakfast, I think I heard Jen’s thoughts in my head.”

  Jennifer turned pale. “All of them? You were in my head?”

  Heather shook her head. “No. It wasn’t like that. You were thinking about telling me something, and I picked up on that. It was just the one time, but I thought it might be a good idea for all of us to keep each other in the loop on what is happening to us during the change.”

  Mark tilted his head. “Did you just say, ‘during the change’? What change?”

  Heather paused. “Did I? A Freudian slip. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “Aren’t Freudian slips supposed to be based upon a real thought?” Jennifer asked.

  “Forget I said anything about Freud. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “You got away from explaining the world record girls’ high jump,” said Mark.

  “I was getting to that. It just confirms an idea that’s been growing in my mind for a few days now. Do you remember when we first got onto the medical table? It showed our brains with about the same level of activity. There weren't any real differences between us.”

  Mark’s lips tightened. “Yes. What of it?”

  “I think we all have almost exactly the same abilities.”