George
George picked absently at a scab on his upper arm. The tip of his tongue, held firmly in place by his teeth, protruded from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the pages of his final program for Pope Munoz. A smile spread across his face as he worked. These two programs would net him another three million. Not a bad haul.
He leaned back from the table. Reaching into his hip pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and patted it across his face while he scanned the conference room. Where the hell is the thermostat, he thought. It's too damned hot in here. Throwing his pen against the wall, he charged out of the room and down the hall to Bianca's lab.
"Where is it?" he yelled, slamming open the lab door.
Bianca looked up from her microscope. "Where is what, George?"
"The goddamned thermostat for that conference room. It's boiling in there. I can't even think anymore!"
She spread her hands, palms up. "The building is automatically controlled, George. There is no thermostat."
He scrubbed the handkerchief across his face. "I'm trying to get Rafe's program finished. How the hell do you expect me to do that when I have to spend all my time wiping sweat off my face? Goddamn it!" He hiccupped. Hiccupped again.
Bianca strode close and peered into his eyes. "When did the hiccups start, George?"
"Just now. Forget about the fucking hiccups, just get me some cool air. I don't know why the devil you haven't done something about it already, hot as it is in here."
"All right. I'll see what I can do. First, I want to check your eyes and lungs. You may be coming down with something." She motioned toward the papered examining table. "On the table, pet. Take your shirt off, leave the trousers on. This won't take long."
"There was a time when that order would have been reversed, Bianca." He smirked. "Am I getting to be too much for you?"
"You always predicted that would happen, didn't you? I guess you are smarter about this virility stuff than I gave you credit for."
"Damn right. A good man only gets better, you know." He removed his shirt and sat on the edge of the table. "Pants on or off, it's all the same to me. I don't feel much like screwing anyway."
She held the blue light to his eyes until his vision blurred and tears came. She listened to his lungs, making him breath. In. Out. In. Out. Strapping a black-light eyepiece to her left eye, she leaned close to a crusted pustule on his upper arm. Using a small, hooked instrument to lift the scab, she removed a sample of the tissue beneath, placed it in the center of a slide, and slipped the square piece of glass into her scope.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm sure it's nothing, but no sense taking chances after we've come so far."
"It's this thing on my arm, isn't it?"
"A serum allergy, I suspect." She bent over the scope for a moment. "It can't be," she muttered under her breath. When she raised her head, George saw the frown on her face.
"Can't be what?"
"Hmmm? Oh. I'm not sure. I'll have to run a few tests to be certain."
Craning his neck to see, he watched her jot down cryptic names and numbers in a notebook.
"How much more do you have to do before the Pope's program is finalized?" she asked conversationally as she wrote.
George swiped at his face again. "Polishing. Some redrafting to smooth out the final training segment. Another week, maybe, and that part will be completed. Two more weeks to set the holo tapes. I called my old partner and he agreed to bring some specialized equipment to the island for me to use. It's going to cost Rafe, but he'll like the results."
"I want to see the holos before they go to Rome." She laid down the pad.
"There may not be time. I'm running behind. I told Rafe he'd have the tapes on his desk in forty-five days and that's next week. I don't think there's going to be time for previewing." He caught the look on her face and shrugged. "Makes no difference to me. They're his programs. If he wants you to proof 'em, you can proof 'em." He scooted off the table and pulled his shirt back on. "If you don't get me some cool air down there, neither one of you will see tapes." He fumbled with the shirt buttons a moment then held his hands out, turning them back and forth. "I don't know what's wrong with my damned hands, they don't seem to remember what they're supposed to do."
"Come here. I'll do it."
He stood quietly while she buttoned his shirt.
"There." She patted his chest. "Nothing's wrong with your hands, George. The serum has a slight numbing effect that causes you to use more energy to accomplish the same thing, but you'll adjust."
His gaze dropped below her waist. "Yeah, I noticed that—if you get my drift. If I were you, I wouldn't count my pennies too fast. I doubt this libido-builder of yours is going to have a lot of takers." He swiped the handkerchief over his face and across the back of his neck.
I'll get through this, he thought. The Pope's tapes were nearly finished and the virility project was in its last phase, although why any sane person would want to put themselves through the treatment program was beyond him. But what the hell—he'd managed to hold on this long, he could hold on a little longer; whatever it took to complete his contracts. Then it was take the money and run—start over again and forget all about this shit. His mouth opened.
Bianca held up her hands. "Don't say another word. I know you're frustrated and I know you're tired, so tell you what—since you only have five injections left to take, let's stop the treatments until you finish the programs for His Holiness. A couple of weeks off shouldn’t affect the test results and will give you a chance to regain some of your energy. Okay?"
"Hell, yes. We can stop them forever as far as I'm concerned." Reaching up, he scratched at the back of his shoulder. "Now, do I get some cool air or not?"
She nodded. "I'll see to it immediately."
George lifted his face into the cooling air. About time, he thought, looking at his watch. Ten minutes to get a little comfort. He started to unbutton his shirt, desperate to feel the coolness on his chest. Struggling with the top button, he finally gave up. With a soft curse, he bent to the papers on the table and worked furiously on final revisions.
Until he began to shiver.
Arms pressed tight against his sides, he tried to continue despite the waves of chilled discomfort. In the pit of his stomach, a gnawing hunger strengthened, became a painful need. He slammed his pen onto the table. Leaning back, he hugged his arms across his chest.
"You bitch," he muttered. "Now you're trying to freeze me to death. And my shot. There's nothing in our contract that says I have to wait until these fucking tapes are finished before I can have my shot." He jumped up from the chair, yanked open the door, and jogged down the hall. Her laboratory door stood open.
"It's time for my shot and I want it. You got no right to keep it from me!"
Bianca looked up from an open book on her desk, then twisted her chair around and reached for the syringe. "Don't shout, George. It's ready."
He thrust out his arm, his hand already clenched into a fist. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
She plunged the needle deep.
"I'm cold. So cold," he whispered. He watched the pale pink liquid disappear into his arm, waited for euphoria to begin.
"Sit down for a minute, George. I have to tell you something—bad news, I'm afraid."
"Can't. Have to finish the program." His eyes were closed. He began to weave. He could feel her hand, warm against the coldness of his arm, as she steadied him. As if from a distance, the sound of her voice reached him.
She had it ready.
At first, the thought was fuzzy, but then it came again—clear and sharp edged.
"You'll have time to finish. I promise."
She had the serum injection ready! Eyes open, he focused on her face. "How come . . . what do you mean I'll have time to finish you promise?"
A muscle jerked at the corner of her mouth. "You're not well, George." She guided him to the chair beside her desk and slid forward the medical volume she had been reading when he came in. Her finger tapped an entry. "I suspected when I saw the tissue specimen, but the disease is so rare I couldn't believe it was true. In the last forty years, only seventeen cases have been reported."
"Seventeen cases of what?"
"That." She tapped the entry again. "MSM."
Bending close to the book, he tried to read the bold, black words. "Multiple . . . Multiple Sclero . . . Multiple . . ." He leaned back. "It's too blurry."
"Multiple Sclerothenia Myositis. The tests have confirmed it. You have MSM."
"What the hell are you trying to tell me?"
"It's an auto immune disorder. We don't know what causes it. All we know is that the body's immune system destroys the receptors in the muscles responsible for picking up nerve impulses. As it progresses, the central nervous system is attacked and spasticity develops."
"Then what?" His voice was hoarse and sounded nasal to his ears.
"That depends. If the white matter of the brain is involved, you'll experience fatigue, numbness, and slurred speech. In the early stages, the eye muscles are the most commonly affected, causing droopy eyelids and double vision. Sometimes a severe inflammation of all the body muscles occurs and a scaly rash covers the body, or sometimes the damaged muscle tissue is replaced by bone. In extreme cases—only five are listed in the medical journals—malformations of the face and hands occur. A nasty disease."
"If caught in time though, curable. Right?" His glance strayed to the open book.
She closed the book gently, shaking her head.
"You're a goddamned doctor. Find a cure."
"It's so rare, George." She lowered her eyes.
Rare. A memory flashed. He was eight years old and kneeling beside his mother's hospital bed, asking God to let her live. There was nothing more they could do, the doctors told his father. It was a cancer about which little was known. A disease that required specialized treatment—expensive treatment that would only prolong, not cure. It was a matter of finances, the father apologized to the son when the eulogy was spoken. A matter of finances. He could feel the rage begin and shook the memory away.
"I've got money—as soon as these damned contracts are up."
"It isn't that."
"Yeah. Right." He rose.
"It isn't the money. I know you have it. It's the time. It could take years of research to find a cure. Years of trial and error. Even then, I couldn't guarantee we'd be successful."
The rage rose like gorge into his throat. His hands tightened into fists. After all these years of planning and working and failing, he had finally hit the jackpot, had finally grabbed the gold ball; first with the virility program and then the holo tapes for his Holiness. Never again would it be a matter of finances.
Now this.
"George, listen to me. You know how the virility serum affects your body and that drug is FDA approved. Using untested, experimental medications wouldn't be wise." She shook her head. "I don't know how your system will react, but I suspect it would be unpleasant—if it didn't kill you. I can't take that risk, George."
The bitch. I need help and she's afraid of being sued. His mouth twisted at the thought. Anyway he turned it, it still came down to money. His voice thick with resentment, he said, "You're not the one with MSM, I am. That makes it my risk, not yours. You want a contract to protect your precious ass, draw it up, but don't give me any more crap about the risks. Just think of me as one of your apes. That ought to salve your conscience." With tightened jaw, he whirled and left Bianca sitting in the silence.
In his quarters, blankets pulled up to his chin, George felt a tear slide from beneath his eyelid and trickle down his cheek. Jumping out of bed, he scuffed into the bathroom and held his face close to the mirror, turning his head from side to side. It was subtle. Just shadows really—a lengthening of the nose and cheeks, a shortening of the jaw. Reaching back, he rubbed his finger across the roughness on his shoulder. He stretched his arm farther, felt another patch of scaliness. Bianca's voice rang in his ears. In extreme cases . . .
A blister of hate formed deep in his brain. She could stop this if she wanted to. He knew she could.
He stared at his mirrored image as a vague thought tried to surface. There was something he couldn't remember. Something about the serum. No matter, his head hurt too much to think. With a soft curse, he returned to his bed.