Biofire, p.16
Biofire, page 16
The experience had made her feel things she had not felt since high school. She wanted to stay with him, never leave his side, go straight from work to his apartment, his bed. But that did not happen.
Though he behaved differently toward her after their first time together, Dr. Jorgan never touched her, and he seemed uncomfortable whenever their arms brushed together or their hands touched. She knew then that her work was not over. The man was wrapped so tightly that one sexual encounter alone would not be enough.
She waited a few days before striking again. And then a few more days after that. He seemed to loosen up a bit then. He would only touch her during their lunch breaks—pat her shoulder, her hand—but only now and then. He never, ever instigated anything himself.
Efforts to discuss the situation with him were met with silence. When the subject of their relationship came up, his eyes grew dark and pensive and he avoided the topic, simply refusing to discuss it. Miranda came to the conclusion that he had been badly hurt before, and that had resulted his complete immersion in his work, casting all else aside.
Miranda adjusted herself to the situation. She knew she could break him eventually, she simply would have to keep trying. And try she did, again and again. The sex was always great, but it did not happen unless she made it happen, and afterward it was as if it had never happened at all. Outside of the bedroom, he was a slave to his work. Except for the occasional touch of his hand or brief eye contact between them now and then, he had a one-track mind—and it was not on the same track as most other men’s minds, that was obvious. It certainly was not on the same track as Miranda’s.
But she was determined. More than that—she was in love. The only competition she had was his work, and she could deal with that. She was no fashion plate, no beauty queen, but she could handle going up against Dr. Jorgan’s work.
Even in bed she called him Dr. Jorgan. She was not sure why. Just saying it made her tingle, but saying it while they lay naked in bed together made her wet. It was more than that, though. She not only loved him and delighted in feasting on his body in bed—however pale and flabby it might be—she respected him, as well. Calling him Dr. Jorgan, even after they had been so intimate, was her way of showing that respect.
The change she saw in him was slight, but unmistakable. The change she felt in herself, though, was quite astounding. She felt a sustained giddiness she had never experienced before—not for that long, anyway. She felt…solid.
Sometimes, Miranda felt as if she were as ethereal as a ghost, as if, should she try to pick something up—a pen, a cup of coffee, a book—her hand would pass through it without feeling anything. She felt as if she could pass through walls from one room to the next, as if she could walk right through an embankment of solid rock. She did neither of those things, but she felt as if she could. Sometimes, she felt no more real than the vaporous exhalation of her breath on a cold morning.
It came and went, this feeling of not being solid, of being a mere wisp of smoke. There were times when she felt perfectly normal. Quite happy, in fact. Able to work hard, accomplish so much, always eager to move on to the next task once she was finished. That was how she had felt when she applied to OdysseyCorp: normal and happy. Otherwise, she never would have considered it. And even if she had tried to get work there while in one of her vaporous periods, she would not have been considered for a moment, she knew that now. The screening process at OdysseyCorp was rigorous; every aspect of her life had been carefully explored, from her school records to her credit rating, from her medical history to her political affiliations. She was tested for everything from drugs to loyalty, from skill to psychological make-up. But she was fine then, feeling good about herself, and confident that she would be able to do some excellent work at OdysseyCorp. She was shameless in her self-confidence, unafraid to show them how eager she was to work at OdysseyCorp, where she could do the kind of work she had always wanted and planned to do. Had she been in one of her shadowy states, that never would have happened, even if she had somehow miraculously mustered the courage to apply while in such a condition. She was aware of it, knew when it was coming on, when it had her in its clutches, but she was helpless to combat it or even lessen its intensity. It was while her ghostly, vaporous state seemed far, far away that she had successfully approached OdysseyCorp for a job.
Since she had started working there, however, those feelings began to return. She could sense them, feel that state of mind coming, moving in like a fog rolling in over a dark, still sea, growing nearer, closing in on her steadily.
Then Dr. Jorgan had entered her life. He had changed everything. Upon meeting him, she could feel the fog receding until it was a safe distance away. And, once again, Miranda felt real. The shadows did not come. Miranda was safe and solid. Her relationship with Dr. Jorgan held all those murky, dream-like things at bay, kept the light bright in her life. She knew that if she tried to explain that to anyone—like a friend, if she had any, although aside from Dr. Jorgan, she did not—it probably would sound silly, crazy. But when that darkness overwhelmed her, life became something like a waking nightmare. It had happened before she had come to the city to attend the university. It had happened several times, the dimming of the light, the closing in of those shadows.
But not now, not for a long time. Not since she had fallen in love with Dr. Jorgan. Not since she had shown him how much fun life and love could be. The shadows had not come into her life, and she thought they might never return again, if only she could continue her tutorial in carnal delights with Dr. Jorgan, softening him more and more until he told her what had happened in his past to make him so cold and afraid of warmth; until he finally realized—and admitted—how much she, Miranda, had done for him, how much she meant to him. How much he loved her.
That had been her fuel ever since their first time together. It had been her reason for waking up brightly in the morning and going to work and being productive. It had been the reason her hands had not passed through coffee cups and books, the reason her body had not walked through doors and walls.
But lately, things had been different. For the past year, Dr. Jorgan had changed. First he had become distant, even in bed. His wild behavior—the wailing and writhing, the crying out as he came—gave way to quiet grunting, and he was quick to leave the bed afterward, wanting her out so he could go to sleep.
All that had started with the arrival at OdysseyCorp of Emma Shaw. Beautiful, doe-eyed, auburn-haired Emma Shaw.
She was not beautiful anymore and hadn’t been for some time. Her hair had been shaved off twice and was now growing back in a spiky mess, and those doe eyes were puffy and usually looked confused and frightened.
Miranda had no idea what Landon Shaw’s wife was doing at OdysseyCorp as a subject in one of the lab’s projects and she did not care. That was none of her business. After signing the stiff non-disclosure agreement when she started working at OdysseyCorp, Miranda knew that if she breathed a word of what went on there she would be fired and would never work in the field again, so she simply ignored a lot of things she saw and heard at work. For all she knew, this was just Mrs. Shaw’s way of getting involved with her husband’s work. It did not matter.
The only thing that really mattered to Miranda was what Emma’s presence had done to Dr. Jorgan. Or, more importantly, what it had done to Dr. Jorgan’s feelings for Miranda. That was all that mattered.
It was almost as if he had known Emma Shaw well before she had shown up at OdysseyCorp. Their relationship was friendly, sometimes even warm, and the warmer it got, the colder his relationship with Miranda became. Dr. Jorgan did not treat Emma with the cool, professional detachment he reserved for all lab subjects. He even allowed her more freedom than any of the others. He had given her a room and moved her back and forth from the lab rather than quarantining her in a single location in the building. And he treated Emma with far more gentility than he had ever treated Miranda, even after they had begun their affair.
Although she did not know what it was, there was something between Dr. Jorgan and Emma Shaw that Miranda seemed unable to touch, because nothing she had done over the past seven months or so succeeded in getting him into bed. And the last time it had happened, Dr. Jorgan had behaved in a surprisingly uncharacteristic and even frightening way. He had held Miranda’s arms down on the mattress and pounded into her with a growling violence that had nothing to do with sexual passion. It had been angry, bitter sex, and afterward, Miranda had been sore and her inner thighs had been bruised; she had walked unsteadily for a whole day.
Since then, Dr. Jorgan had seldom heard anything Miranda said and she found herself repeating her words to him often. Too often. Sometimes he even became angry at her, usually for no discernible reason, like a cranky child in need of a nap. His moods had grown worse as time went on. Nothing she could do or say seemed to get through to him; she was either snapped at angrily or ignored altogether. It became apparent to Miranda that Dr. Jorgan had lost interest in her.
It was almost as if she were becoming a ghost again, fading to transparency.
But Miranda refused to believe that, or to let it happen. She might lose Dr. Jorgan’s attention for a little while, but she was determined not to lose him. Certainly not to some spoiled rich bitch whose husband owned the lab. Not as long as she could still hold a pen or a coffee cup or knock on a wall with her knuckles and hear the sound. Not as long as she was solid.
Miranda stepped out of the elevator and started down the third floor corridor toward Emma Shaw’s room, the silent guards at her heels.
The thing Emma missed the most since being brought to OdysseyCorp was a window. Her room was small, with bare walls papered a pale blue. Her bed was comfortable, she had a bathtub and shower, and she was provided with any reading material she requested. There was a TV set, but it showed only movies and TV shows that had been edited of all commercials and news broadcasts. She had no idea what had been happening in the world while she had been there in that small, windowless room. She craved a view of the outdoors to remind herself that the sky was still there and the sun still occasionally shone through the clouds.
Emma lay on her bed, eyes closed, but she was wide awake and alert. She knew that at any moment now, someone would come for her, either Dr. Jorgan or Miranda, and she would be pushed out of the room in a wheelchair and taken downstairs to continue working with Dr. Jorgan. She would kill more laboratory monkeys as he led her through further steps designed to help her tighten her control over her ability.
It would be different this time, though, if all went well. Emma’s palms were slick with perspiration as she lay in bed waiting, wondering if she could go through with her plan.
On her first day there, she had awakened in that small blue room quite suddenly, sitting up with a harsh gasp of terror. Dr. Jorgan had been smiling down at her, pressing a cotton ball to the stinging flesh of her inner elbow as he put a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down onto the bed with quiet reassurances. He had explained to her in soft tones that she was simply startled by the stimulant he had injected to revive her from the soporific she had been under while being brought to the facility. As she calmed down slowly and shakily, the way one does after experiencing a surge of adrenaline, Dr. Jorgan introduced himself in a soft voice and told her he was in charge of the project in which she had become involved. He seemed almost ashamed and apologetic as he informed her that, whether she could see them or not, there were armed security guards just steps away from her at all times. When she was not being watched directly, she was being observed on security monitors. If she made any attempt to escape or even resist, guards were under orders to shoot and kill her immediately, without hesitation, and she would be replaced. He assured her he did not want that to happen because he was her friend, and although she would be undergoing some uncomfortable and even unpleasant procedures while she was there, he promised to do his best to make the experience as tolerable and comfortable as possible for her—if only she would cooperate. For her own good.
Emma had felt confused as she listened to him, as if she had come in on the middle of a conversation and did not know the topic being discussed.
His name was vaguely familiar and, though it took a moment, she remembered Landon mentioning it, even remembered seeing him a time or two, somewhere, sometime. As her mind cleared, understanding came to her, unemotionally and without shock, as if she had known all along, even though she had not. Landon was using her, like some kind of lab rat, in one of his projects. That made sense, and everything Dr. Jorgan said made sense. But something was not right.
As Jorgan continued talking, telling her that she would begin a series of tests in about an hour, he looked every bit the wild-haired scientist in his thick glasses and white lab coat. He was restless, unable to hold still, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, jittery hands nervously fussing with each other, an uncertain smile coming and going on his face, eyes darting all around. She did not know what was disturbing her until his restless eyes settled on her and met with her own. Then she saw it.
His eyes softened, widened slightly, and the muscles of his face relaxed as his nervous movements fell still. He stopped talking for a moment, although his mouth opened and closed, as if struggling to speak. Then even that movement stopped and he simply stared at her for several long seconds. He finally pulled his eyes away from her, cleared his throat, and continued speaking, but now in a breathy, tremulous voice.
It scared her at first, his obvious attraction to her. But as he led her through the initial tests that day—blood, urine, X-rays, a brain scan—she realized he was not at all dangerous. Just the opposite, in fact. He made such a gallant effort to see that she was always comfortable that she was not afraid of anything being done to her. The attention he paid her, clumsy and halting as it was, held a certain charm, and in an odd way it eased Emma’s mind, because, although she did not show it outwardly, she was terrified.
Jorgan’s assistant Miranda was clearly unhappy that he was treating Emma. She maintained an icy demeanor throughout the battery of tests, and as time went on, she only became icier and her glances at Emma became deadly glares. While Emma became more comfortable with Jorgan in time, her discomfort with Miranda became fear.
Once finished with those first tests, Emma was allowed to “get a night of solid sleep,” as Jorgan put it. That was the last time she remembered having any sense of day or night. After that, she soon lost track of time altogether.
When Emma awoke, Miranda silently shaved her head, then Jorgan took her to a room filled with surgical equipment and complex-looking machinery, seated her in a reclining dentist-like chair, gave her a mild sedative, then administered a number of stinging injections into her scalp. Then he opened her skull. She remained reasonably alert and hooked up to something like an ECG as Jorgan attached ultra-fine wires to various parts of her brain; then they left her alone while he and Miranda, in surgical greens, went into an adjoining room to watch her through a rectangular window with a thick, tinted pane, and speak to her through an intercom. Emma remained seated in the chair facing a large white rat in a small cage on a metal table a few feet in front of her.
After instructing Emma to tell him of anything she felt or smelled or heard, anything at all, Jorgan began to stimulate those tiny spots in her brain by sending a small electrical current through the wires. In a low, slightly slurred voice, Emma described every sensation she experienced. The electrical stimulation made her limbs jerk and her face twitch; it made her smell bacon frying and rubber burning, hear bells and squawks, and made her melt with an overwhelming, uncontrollable orgasm. But none of it seemed to satisfy Jorgan—although he apologized profusely for the orgasm when he came back into the room. He adjusted the wires several times before finally getting the result he seemed to want.
Emma was overcome by a draining sensation, as if something were sucking the very soul from deep inside her, and the pacing, nose-twitching rat in the cage before her suddenly reared up on its haunches and began to screech. After several seconds, blood spurted from the rat’s eyes and ears. It fell on its side and convulsed violently. But it did not die. Not right away. That, it turned out, took time and practice.
The experience had exhausted Emma, but it excited Jorgan. He hurried back into the room, muttering to himself about locating the origin, tapping the source, and he asked Emma rapid-fire questions about how she had felt at the moment he had made the connection. Had her vision been affected? Had she felt the muscle? Emma had no idea what he was talking about and did not care. She felt anger growing within her, anger about the fact that she was reclining in a chair with the top of her skull opened up like a humidor and a dead rat in front of her while he asked about some muscle.
Later, Emma lay in her bed sedated while Jorgan explained, slowly and patiently, that he had found in her brain the source of an untapped ability, and he wanted her to get a hold of that ability and nurture it. Eventually, she would be able to do that without the aid of external stimulation.
“But first,” he said, “I will have to perform an operation. It’s a complex operation, somewhat risky, but I don’t want you to worry. You’ll be fine.”
“Operation? Why?”
“I’m going to introduce a synthetic virus that will act as a catalyst. It will help to enable you to do on your own what you did in the lab today.”
“With…the rat?”
“Yes.”
Upon hearing the word “virus,” something in the back of Emma’s mind prickled, recoiled slightly. But she was in no condition to ask about it or discuss it. All she wanted to do was sleep. When she woke later, she had no memory of the “synthetic virus,” and Jorgan did not mention it again.
Although Jorgan was pleased with her recovery after the operation, Emma felt she might never recover. She thought often of the white rat that had died in its cage before her, eyes and ears bloodied. There were so many after that—the early ones paralyzed, some bloodied, but not killed right away; Jorgan had to finish the job on some—but it was the first one that haunted her, perhaps for no other reason than that it was the first.
