The final conflict, p.1
The Final Conflict, page 1
NIRANJAN K
First published by Geetha Krishnan 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Niranjan K
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Niranjan K (Geetha Krishnan) asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Editing by Fair Editions
Cover Design by Christian Willmanns (Taurus Colosseum Front Row)
Formatted by Fair Editions
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prelude
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty one
Twenty two
Twenty three
Twenty four
Twenty five
Twenty six
Twenty seven
Twenty eight
Twenty nine
Thirty
Thirty one
Thirty two
Thirty three
Epilogue
M
arvin Griffel entered the room, aware of the man in the bed, though he kept his eyes averted. He didn’t know what he expected, but somehow, he found it difficult to look at Gerald Lane. He’d always found it difficult to be in hospitals since Holly, and to look at someone in a hospital bed was awkward for him now. It was doubly difficult here since he was so filled with repugnance for Lane, he had no desire to look at him. It also made him wonder why he had come. Probably a morbid curiosity.
He wrinkled his nose slightly, the antiseptic smell making him almost want to gag since he had nothing else to focus on. He was conscious of the other man’s scrutiny and tried to guess what he must be thinking. He caught sight of his own reflection on the glass panel behind Lane, and he knew that his appearance probably did nothing to commend him or to inspire confidence.
He was of medium height, but he was too thin and stood hunched all the time these days. At the thought, Marvin hunched even more as if to make himself even less noticeable. He had been told variously that he was handsome and that his face was pleasant to look at, but he could only see the bags under his eyes, and that he looked as tired as he felt. His brown hair was cut short, surrounding his scalp in tight curls that looked like someone had shorn him. He looked down, not wanting to look at what was essentially only the shadow of the man he once was.
Not that it mattered. He didn’t really need to make an impression on a criminal awaiting trial, did he? Of course, he didn’t, which was why he hadn’t bothered to change from his ratty jeans and old shirt. He also knew his jacket had discolourations on it, and his shirt too was stained from the chemicals he worked with in his lab. He had no idea what Lane wanted, but he was wary and he wasn’t keen on making any kind of good impression on him. Marvin clasped his hands in front of him, and his eyes kept darting around the room, though he saw nothing.
When Lane had called him the first time, Marvin had refused to respond, but Lane had kept calling him. Marvin had stopped answering his calls, till finally he got fed up, and answered. Lane had been desperate, begging him, and somehow, though every instinct of his had wanted to say no, he hadn’t, agreeing to visit him here.
Lane sat up, gasping slightly, his hand groping for the switch that would lift the top part of the bed upright. His movements were slow and Marvin wondered with a kind of detached curiosity what was wrong with him.
“I thank you for coming, Mr. Griffel,” he said once he was upright. “Please sit down,”
Marvin sat down, his eyes meeting the other man’s briefly before shifting again. “I don’t know what you want with me, Lane.” He was confused, though he hid it, using an impatient tone. “Whatever it is, please make it quick.”
Lane took a slim device from the bedside, swiped his finger across, opened a page, and handed the device to his visitor, his movements slow, and so uncoordinated that he nearly dropped the device. “You’re the author of that article, I believe.”
Marvin looked at the page. He was surprised. How had Lane found this anyway? “Yes, but I wasn’t aware that it was read by anyone. The journal itself is obscure, and I am even more so. Why are you showing this to me?”
“Be that as it may, I found it. Probably because I was desperate.” Lane paused. “In that article, you talk of a treatment to my condition.”
Marvin looked up sharply, before looking away again. “Ashkii’s disease? So, that is what you have. Do you? Forgive me, but you don’t seem to be in any pain.” The reason for the painfully slow movements became obvious now, and Marvin could have kicked himself for not recognising it earlier, but it had just never crossed his mind that Lane could be fatally ill, especially since the government had kept it quiet, not giving out reasons for why Lane was in the hospital.
“They’re giving me pain killers in larger doses, more frequently. I’m far too gone now,” Lane said quietly. “The treatment you describe—the drug you developed—is my only remaining hope.”
Now that he was looking, Marvin could see that Lane was in the final stages. That explained all the tubes that protruded from the various parts of his body. Then, Lane’s words penetrated.
“But–” he stopped, and then said, still not looking at Lane. “It is true that the drug could help you, if it existed. I’m still in the process of developing it. I did explain that in my article.”
“That article is five years old,” Lane said sharply. “Am I to understand in five years, you haven’t managed to create a viable drug?”
Marvin’s shoulders squared and his lips compressed. When he spoke, it was with suppressed fury. How dare this man judge him! What did he know of what this disease had taken from him! “I’m not a rich man, and I’ve no funding for my research. I’m forced to do it in the time I can spare from my job!” Even if he had developed a drug, he wouldn’t be giving it to Lane, but that was something the other man didn’t need to know.
Lane frowned, “So, you’re saying there is no drug.”
“None that will do you any good,” Marvin said dismissively.
“But there’s something.”
Marvin was surprised Lane caught on to that. “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that, but it’s not ready, and I don’t think that it’ll do you any good.”
“But it could.” There was desperate hope in the voice, and Marvin found himself responding to it, his tone softer than he intended as he said,
“Look, I can’t just administer something which even I’m not confident about. It slows down symptoms in the earlier stages, but as far gone as you are, I don’t know what it’ll do. It’s too risky.”
“Under normal circumstances, I would agree,” Lane said with a grimace. “But do you know how long the doctors have given me? They say I could die within days. Even if your drug doesn’t help, I don’t think I’ve anything to lose.”
“Perhaps.” Marvin was thoughtful and he spoke slowly, “But I stand to lose a lot. I could go to prison, if it ever came out that I did something so unethical. What I’ve developed can’t even be called a drug yet. It is only a compound, and I don’t think I dare test it on even an animal, let alone a human being.” Not even if that human being was Lane, though he didn’t speak that thought out loud. Besides, even if the drug were viable, it was possible it would not do Lane much good. It might arrest the disease, but reversing of the effects was a long process, and Lane would be in a courtroom for his trial long before that, so, even if he lived, it would be as someone without use of most of his body and its functions.
“I’ll sign whatever is necessary to absolve you of blame.” Lane sounded uncertain, but Marvin wasn’t.
“You’re a dying man, and a desperate one, not to speak of, a prisoner.” He waved his hands, as he spoke. “Whatever you sign will have no validity. You know that as well as I do.”
“No one need find out you did this,” Lane said eagerly, “As you said, I’m a dying man. I can make a request that my body shouldn’t be autopsied after death, and under the circumstances, it is likely to be honoured. I’m also prepared to pay you.”
Marvin was surprised, though not happily. “I won’t deny that I need the money, but . . . I just . . . it doesn’t feel right.” It didn’t. Lane’s money was blood money, and worse, it was the blood of children. How could he just take it?
“Look, I’ ve nothing to lose from this and everything to gain. A day or two either way is not going to make any difference to me. I’m prepared to pay you any amount irrespective of the result of this.” Lane’s voice was shaking slightly despite the bravado of his words.
Marvin was silent, as he looked down at the floor. It looked pristinely white, but he could see that there was some discolouration here and there if one looked closely.
Lane spoke again. “Please. Please help me.” The desperation was there in the voice again, and Marvin tried to rally his defences against it.
“A man like you . . .” he said. “Why should I? This is what you deserve.”
In fact, it was better than what he deserved. What Lane deserved was to be tortured to death. Marvin knew first-hand what it meant to lose a child, but at least he’d had time to get used to the fact that he was going to lose Holly. He couldn’t even imagine what it would mean to a parent to have their child ripped away from them so violently and so suddenly.
“If you came here in the expectation of hearing a confession or a justification–” Lane began then stopped and began again stiffly. “I ask only this. How many police officers did you see on your way to my room? How many are there outside right now?” He made a vague gesture towards the door with his face.
“None.” Marvin’s tone was equally stiff, and he sat rigidly on his chair now. What did it matter if there were police officers outside or not? Lane was guilty. Everyone knew that.
“Even they accept that I’m a dead man.” Lane’s tone was bleak.
“Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a criminal, a murderer, a . . .” Marvin struggled for words to describe how vile this man that lay before him was. “And even if I give you this compound, even if it works, what difference does it make? You’ll be going back to prison, to face your trial and possibly a death sentence . . . Isn’t this better?”
“We do not know what the future will bring, do we? I may be going to jail and I may be facing a trial, but the outcome is not certain, is it? This is a chance I’m prepared to take.” Lane didn’t sound too sure, though, his voice wavering as he spoke. He paused, and was silent for a moment before he said. “I know that you think me a monster, but let’s not go into that, because I’m certain that it has nothing to do with anything. You’re a scientist, and I’m offering myself as a test subject and giving you an opportunity to further your research.” He sounded strange, and Marvin realized that Lane was choking on tears. He kept his face averted, disgust coiling in his gut, as Lane continued. “You chose to try and develop a cure for Ashkii’s, knowing you’re never likely to get any funding considering the rarity of the disease. This must mean a lot to you. And . . . this compound or whatever . . . it means a lot to me.” His voice was a whisper now, and even more desperate than before. “Please . . . please help me . . . this is my only chance . . .”
“Fifty million credits,” Marvin said suddenly. He looked at Lane for the first time as he talked, a defiant look in his eyes. “Fifty million and I’ll do it.” He spoke the words in a rush, as if he wouldn’t be able to say them if he didn’t get them out all at once.
He hated it, hated that he felt a twinge of pity for the desperation in Lane’s voice, that it reminded him too much of his own desperation when he’d begged the doctors to save his Holly’s life, hated that Lane had been able so easily to bribe him, but he did need the money. Without it, he would never be able to develop a viable drug, not if he lived to be a hundred, but with it, he might actually be able to devote all his time to his research, to upgrade his lab, to not have to wait to save enough money to buy the chemicals he needed.
Lane nodded, as he picked up his device again, not without difficulty, fingers moving slowly over the screen. “Give me your hand with the chip.”
Marvin opened his mouth as if to say something. He was completely nonplussed. He had not expected Lane to agree to the price so quickly. Then he closed his mouth, and his jaw set stubbornly as he held out his left hand to Lane. Lane’s touch was gentle, his skin feeling papery, as he struggled to use his device to scan Lucas’ wrist and the chip under his skin.
Lucas’ eyes darted around the room once more, as he tried to ignore the swell of pity he felt once more. There was still a faint smell of antiseptic in the room, but his nose no longer wrinkled at it. The room itself was bare and impersonal. Except for the bed on which Lane lay, there was only the chair on which he sat and a bedside table. There was a small monitor near Lane’s bedside which monitored his vitals and temperature, and there was a small tube from it to Lane’s right arm to administer drugs and vitamins at the correct times and other tubes to drain away the excrements and excess fluids from his body.
There was a glass panel behind the bed which was probably there for monitoring purposes. That brought another problem to mind. Lane was still under constant surveillance. Marvin’s eyes drifted to Lane’s form and drifted away just as quickly. He did not want to feel sorry for Lane, but the pale man who could not move without difficulty, whose lips turned white from pain every now and then, who had tubes sticking out every which way and who was dressed only in a standard issue hospital robe was a far cry from the clever criminal whose photographs and videos were on all galactic media as the architect of the tragedy.
“There,” Lane said. “The amount is transferred.”
Marvin suppressed the impulse to check as his phone chimed.
“That surveillance monitor,” he said.
“You do know who I am, don’t you?” Lane asked. “That monitor will show the police only what I want them to see.”
Marvin digested this in silence. He should not have been surprised. Lane was the best at what he did, illegal as it was. With a device in his hands, even in his deathbed, he probably wasn’t able to resist hacking into and disabling the surveillance in his own room. He wondered how Lane got his hands on a device. Probably he had bribed one of the hospital staff. He seemed good at that.
“How do you know I won’t just go away and not come back? How do you know I’ll actually administer the compound to you?” Marvin was curious more than anything. He and Lane were strangers, and how could Lane be certain he would come back?
“I don’t,” Lane said. “But I’m desperate. I choose to trust you. I have money. It signifies little right now.”
“What if,” Marvin cleared his throat. “What if someone starts looking into it after you’re dead?”
“I’ll draw up a legal document which we’ll both sign. It’s something that’ll say that I’m paying you this money to further your research, and considering what I’m dying of, no one will question the reasons behind it.” There was some relief in Lane’s voice now.
Marvin rose, and Lane pressed the switch that lowered the bed to a supine position again, placing his device near his head. Marvin stopped at the door, and turned again to look at Lane. Lane’s eyes were closed, and Marvin could just make out the bluish tinge on his eyelids. Lane was right. He had very little time left.
Marvin was frowning as he left the hospital. He wasn’t happy, despite all Lane’s assurances, and the very physical presence of the money in his account. What if the compound worked after all? There was the fact that Lane would be going back to prison and possibly to his death, even if he got well, so perhaps he shouldn’t be worried of the repercussions if the compound did work.
He shook his head, a wry smile twisting his mouth. The chances of the drug working were less than one in a billion. That was not something he needed to worry about. Lane had no partners, no family, and no one who was likely to question the donation he made to find a cure for the very disease that killed him, not even if Lane didn’t get around to draw up and sign a document like he had said. He only wished it was in him to simply walk away with Lane’s money, but that was not him, and would never be.
He hurried to his lab near his house. It was only a shed, made of wood and metal, but it was large and well-lit. He spent all his time in there these days, sleeping on the couch in the corner. He went out only to go to work and to eat. As he measured out the compound, poured it into a vial, and placed it into a container specifically designed for it, he was again assailed by doubts. What if someone found out? It was highly risky, administering it to a prisoner, and even more so when said prisoner was in the hospital, but it was even riskier to get Lane discharged, even if it could be arranged somehow.
