The Dreaming Dragons Part 9

'Judas priest.'

On the television monitors, Bill saw the autistic boy lean back from his panel, right arm dropping by his side. The soldier in the Cage looked up and murmured something. All the displays had gone blank. End of transmission.

'What is it?'

'Crisis time.'

A fierce red tell-tale lamp activated above the console, blinking twice a second. The astronaut took a slim plastic rectangle from his pocket, neater than a credit card. It went into a slot beside the terminal keys. One of the displays scrambled, cleared. A tattoo of man-machine communication. Hugh lifted a phone from its recessed rack. 'Lapp. Is the maser patched into High Roller? Mark.' Four fingers came down together, and keys locked.

'You're CIA, you furtive son of a b.i.t.c.h,' Bill said.

Lapp's breath came straight from the back of his throat. 'I'll never tell. Bill, you'd better clear out.'

'No way. The kid's the reason I'm here. You can't clam up now.'

'Sorry, buddy. Like your friend Lowenthal didn't say, there are some things man was not meant to know.'

A high, sweet voice said, 'Hubert Charles Lapp. Captain, USAF.' It came from a speaker in one of the monitors from the shielded cage. 'Operative Second Rank, active, National Security Agency, Fort Mead. Consider the doc.u.ment uncla.s.sified. Matthew, chapter eighteen, verse three: "Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." It is advisable for Dr Bill delFord to read the Kukushkin diary extract.' Mouse turned, in the silence, and over his shoulder smiled with extraordinary innocence into the lens. 'For your information, computer operator Dimitri Dimitrovich Joravsky represents the Glavnoe Razvedyvatel'noe Upravlenle.'

Everyone remained stock still. Almost simultaneously, three telephones buzzed, and a coded format started jumping across Lapp's screen. The astronaut's grim appalling expression galvanised abruptly into a spectacular grin. He dumped the printout into Bill's hands, and made a little bow in the direction of the Russian.

'What the f.u.c.k, Bill, let's go with it. Read, read, enjoy. It's Doomsday evening and the kid wants you kept up to date. But don't try peddling it for mucho roubles to the Military Intelligence Directorate, I fear our friend from the Aquarium has an edge on the market.'

Suddenly Bill delFord wanted no part of it. He looked down with uneasiness at the computer translation.

'You'll have to forgive my poor rendering toward the end,' Hugh said. 'The original hung the computer, but I think I've captured the gist of it.' He showed his teeth to Joravsky, who sat motionless and tense. 'Well, Spetznaz, we seem to have caught you cheating. How much 17-Tg-M have your boys ferreted away downstairs? Or is the point more subtle?'

In excellent English, the Russian told him: 'Captain Lapp, I suggest we arrange a conference between our commanding officers.'

Bill stopped listening. The first page was a copy of Mouse's handwritten Russian: hard, angular, adult. It was followed by the amended computer translation. His trepidation vanished. Hungrily, he devoured the communication from the Vault.

*8. Ekratkoye Complex*

*NOVEMBER 12*

Well, now that Nurse Kuenzli has at last brought me pen and paper, what am I to write?

It seems that my dogged habit of jotting down the day's doings in my journal has become something more than simple compulsive ritual. (That it has indeed become compulsive is an astonishing discovery, considering how painfully I had to force myself, those ten years ago, to maintain regular diary entries. Discovering how peremptory the habit has become shocks me somewhat -- as though in this respect as well I have become no more than an adjunct to one of my light-winking laboratory instruments.) I am for the first time today mildly amused, if only at the minor paradox. What I began to write -- nullified indeed by these words themselves, even if they are negated in turn by the circular triviality of my theme -- was that the ritual of keeping current my pretentiously leather-bound journal has become so stereotyped I could not write without it.

These sheets of Project-issue memo paper were fetched by Nurse Kuenzli when finally my monotonous complaints wore down her professional insistence that I should rest. The small success left me cheated and frustrated. I sat up in bed staring at the stack of virgin paper, irritably thumbing the retractable pen, and elaborated spurious conjectures.

Well. That exigency, at least, seems to have resolved itself. Perhaps (hallelujah!) I am after all more than a machine. To be candid, I suppose I first began my journal in the hope of allaying that bourgeois fear. After fourteen years in the neon halls of Novosibirsk the human part of me was shrivelling away, despite the fashionable ba.n.a.lities I could spout arguing the creative ident.i.ty of science and art. I needed to speak human truth to myself at least.

So much for the literary customs of the scientific animal. I am, frankly, indulging in the cra.s.sest diversionary tactics.

It is my belief that I am dying.

Why else would they have rushed me here? (I am unable even to give the place a name; Nurse Kuenzli adroitly skirts any direct answer to my question. 'The doctors will be here shortly to examine you, Academician Kukushkin.') It's the d.a.m.nedest hospital I've ever seen. A hospital with comfortable beds? Perhaps that is one of the side benefits of working in the most grandiloquent Security operation since the Sputnik project.

(Perhaps I infringe Security in writing these notes. Surely not: the medical staff must have clearance at least as exalted as anyone on the Project. I was accompanied here by Aegis guards -- I presume there's one or more on duty outside my room right now. Would they have allowed me pen and paper, for that matter, if they were concerned about Security? No.) My fears are doubtless without foundation. Apart from one extravagant vomiting episode shortly after today's anti-radiation shot, I have had no indication of illness.

My predominant sentiment is boredom.

That's my major complaint, and probably the explanation for my difficulty in starting today's notes. There's nothing to write about, except the unthinkable -- and I shan't encourage morbidity by going on about that.

The whole cursed tasteful place, I hope with the exception of Nurse Kuenzli, is, in short, intolerably tedious.

Writing about tedium is no less tedious. I shall lay down my pen and turn once more to the study of my navel.

LATER.

I have been provided with a wrist-watch. My own, together with all my clothes and personal effects, remains in custody. Presumably they will be destroyed to prevent further spread of the virus. The time is 2.17 a.m. Try as I will I cannot sleep.

The physicians have been to visit me.

Two of them. Lean, Ghandi-ascetic Zinoviev, who hurried me into the Project infirmary after my nausea yesterday, and then called the ambulance that brought me here. I vaguely recall his sombre manner from one or two bull-sessions in the Rec Facility. The other man was a stranger, a short hairy fellow of amiable mien.

'Good evening, Ilya Davidovich,' he said, offering his hand. 'I'm Sipyagin; I believe you know Dr Zinoviev.'

I nodded. 'Would it be appropriate to ask why I've been brought here?'

Sipyagin laughed easily, stepped back as Iosif Zinoviev put his black case on the teak desk beside my bed and began laying out diagnostic impediments. 'Of course,' he said. 'I daresay your removal here to Ekratkoye Complex was rather disconcerting.'

'That's where I am, then,' I said, none the wiser. Zinoviev gave me a sharp look, glanced at the shorter man, and started plying his stethoscope about my torso.

'A deep breath please,' he ordered. 'I didn't know you were familiar with non-Aegis Complexes.'

'No,' I said hastily between gasps. 'I meant that I didn't know the designation of this hospital. Now I do.' I was becoming quite rattled. 'It's nice to know a place has a name, even if it's just a letter of the alphabet and doesn't convey anything to you.'

Sipyagin came to my aid. 'I know just how you feel.' He hitched himself onto the edge of the bed and drew a folded sheet from his smock pocket. 'Here, I brought you a map of the Complex. We expect you'll be staying with us for a few days. You have complete liberty, so long as you don't leave this building.'

Zinoviev was peering at my facial acupuncture points with a tobiscope. He made another mark on the chart, took up a short syringe and drew a small quant.i.ty of blood from my thumb. Sipyagin continued to regard me with benign interest from the end of the bed. My mental turmoil changed to exasperation.

'Well, look here,' I said, 'what on earth's all this about? I grant I was bilious this morning, but I feel perfectly well now. Why am I being treated as an invalid?'

'No, no,' exclaimed Sipyagin, waving his hands in the air 'You've received altogether the wrong impression. It's most unlikely that you're seriously ill, but,' with a sly grin and gambit aimed perfectly at my self-esteem, 'you are a very important member of the Aegis team, Academician Kukushkin, and we can't afford to take any chances.'

I was ashamed to admit it, but his ploy was not without success. My face grew warm, a flush compounded in equal parts of pride and confused annoyance. 'Well, yes, but -- '

'We've reason to suspect,' said Sipyagin, all briskness now, 'that certain of the foodstuffs going into the Tse and Che kitchens this week contained impurities. A scandal. In short, doctor, you're probably suffering from a minor case of food poisoning.'

'Sabotage?' It seemed impossible. Besides, the Americans and the Jews were also working on the gluon shield. After all, their astronauts had made the original discovery of Selene Alpha.

Iosif Zinoviev gave a sour chuckle. He had packed away all his medical devices and stood at the door. 'You have a suspicious mind, Academician. No, Aegis security remains unbreached. The impurities involve a fatigue fault in one of the storage refrigerators. Unfortunate, but no machine is perfect. No more than any man.'

'As to its seriousness,' added Sipyagin, joining him at the door, 'the facilities we have in this hospital are more than adequate. Set your mind at ease, Kukushkin. You might be in for a little discomfort, but we'll have you out of here in a couple of days.' He nodded cheerily and strode out into the corridor. Zinoviev lingered for a moment, as though aware that I was far from satisfied. He had, however, little enough to add.

'There will be some pills brought in with your dinner. Take them before you go to sleep. If there's anything you want, press the b.u.t.ton by your bed.' Dumbly I nodded, and watched his narrow back disappear into the corridor.

I was violently sick again after dinner. Oddly, I was afflicted by little of the enervation and wretchedness which usually attend nausea. About midnight, unable to sleep, I took advantage of my liberty and briefly explored the surrounds.

Despite my earlier presentiments there was no guard at my door. The corridor was white and antiseptic, dully echoing. A different nurse nodded to me from her cubicle. I found a lounge complete with Max Ernst print and television, a pale blue-tiled lavatory and bathroom. At the far end of the corridor, looking out on to a floodlit compound, was a heavily sealed entrance, with three plategla.s.s doors each separated by a s.p.a.ce of three metres.

If my calligraphy is becoming shaky, it's as much due to anger as to belated exhaustion. Do they think me a complete fool? An ordinary hospital has no use for triple-doored Bio Containment airlocks. Unquestionably, this Ekratkoye Complex is a centre for bacteriological weapons research.

Food poisoning my academic a.s.s! Can there be any doubt that I have become the accidental victim of some experimental recombinant-DNA G.o.dd.a.m.ned Doomsday virus?

NOVEMBER 13.

I feel so strange this morning.

My sleep was broken and ruined by terrible dreams. I tossed and turned for perhaps five hours before Anna brought me a light breakfast. They were not nightmares, exactly, but torn and vivid pieces of my past -- my frightened childhood in the shadow of Stalin, my arid years at University, my corrosive marriage. I had thought them forgotten, in every sense well buried, but back they came to haunt my night.

There's more to it than that -- Not pain, I'm no longer sick, my stomach is rested and hungry indeed. But a vague dis I cannot find the word, a restlessness is what I meant but I've gnawed my pen for five minutes in a sweat searching for the word, a dis a dis a disquiet of course, good G.o.d the word just would not come until I dredged for it like some senile fool searching for his Christos, what's wrong with me? The sweat is pouring off me, all for one cursed replaceable elusive word. Again! I had to stop and worry and hunt for that word elusive. Something is sick inside me, something hurts, I don't know what it is but dear Jesus

LATER.

Anna, I am appalled to record, found me weeping. She was entirely sensible about it, gave me two large white pills and left an egg-nog beside the bed. I drank it a few minutes later and felt ten times better. When I rang she was good enough to fetch me another, which I sipped slowly while talking to her about herself.

I meant to note it earlier, before that lamentable frenzy burst over me. My little triumph! I have uncovered the charming lady's first name, and she now calls me Ilya Davidovich with hardly a trace of her previous professional distance. Sister Kuenzli no more; she is Anna, and I am her brilliant patient Ilya Kukushkin, and never mind the 'Doctor', the 'Academician'. (I did Anna an injustice earlier, in demoting her to nurse. She is, of course, a graduate Sister with, it appears, qualifications in biochemistry and, of all things, psychiatry. My blushing tear-stained face!) She is also beautiful, with plump rosy cheeks and a droll smile.

LATER.

I've been trying to get into Stanislaw Lem's new novel, which Zinoviev fetched over for me from the Aegis Complex, along with a selection of my other books. I'm not enjoying it much, though. I've also tried to distract myself by going over the fifth equation of our unified-interaction model. There's something wrong there I'm certain, but I'm having trouble concentrating on it.

The doctors came after lunch. Well, during it actually but Sipyagin chatted away pleasantly while I finished my sweet. Hardly the meal one would have expected for a victim of food poisoning -- slices of pork, an excellent salad, even a gla.s.s of tart white wine to refresh the palate. My dark suspicions of last night seem absurd. Nevertheless I remarked on the feast to Sipyagin.

'No reason to starve you, Kukushkin,' he smiled. 'Anyhow, the best way to cleanse your system is by offering it wholesome protein to work on.'

I gave him a guarded glance. 'You're sure of this poisoning, then? It couldn't be a bug of some kind?'

Zinoviev cleared his throat, an offensive sound. I am beginning to detest that man. 'You can safely leave the diagnosis to us, Academician.'

'Don't be too hard on the poor chap, Iosif,' Sipyagin said. He adopted a speculative pose. 'My theory has always been that intellectuals labour under the burden of what might be termed the Socratic phobia. Too well they remember the hemlock.'

Zinoviev grunted, tugging out his instruments; I laughed aloud. It was a poor enough jest, but it soothed my anxieties. I thrust the last of the dessert into my mouth and submitted to their attentions.

Since they left, fears have crept back. It really does seem quite incredible that an ordinary base hospital, even one serving the most important military project of all time, should have a viral-contagion clean room environment as elaborate as this one. Perhaps the other beds are all full?

LATER.

The time has dragged to five o'clock. I feel worse and worse, in some way which has little to do with my body's health. Whatever I mean by that. Well, I mean at least this: I have never _looked_ better since my childhood. The tired old gentleman has been taking quite some notice of himself in the mirror today, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g his raggedy beard, combing his hair. I even tried the nifty sunlamp I found in the bathroom, and my skin p.r.i.c.kles with a slight burn. Does the crisp crinkle of Anna Kuenzli's smart uniform, the curve of her lips, the luminous blue of her eyes, explain all? No doubt, no doubt.

So. The fact is, Sister Anna visits me only too rarely. Certainly she has other duties, though she's taken time to tell me something of her pre-Project life in a vast Life & Death factory in Moscow. Like all of us, Anna must know tedium and loneliness here in our self-protective Security blockade, but her obvious love of life (the French phrase which better expresses that escapes me, d.a.m.n it) seems to carry her through. She is not, it seems, married.

My real point is that I feel like h.e.l.l. And I'm scared as h.e.l.l. I took a further wander this afternoon, clad in pyjamas of a wild and purple hue supplied by the base and smelling faintly of antiseptic, my feet in ludicrous fluffy slippers, and found beyond the angle of the corridor a single blank metal wall. I put my knuckles against it, a sharp rap or two, and had in return a flat metal clunk. It must be another door, there's no alternative way out, but it's thick as a vault.

I'm trapped, in short, in a luxurious prison designed to keep in not only viruses but people as well. What would happen if I smashed the first gla.s.s door in the airlock? Another metal wall smashing into place at the other end? I would not be surprised.

The map Sipyagin left me shows nothing of this; it is the barest outline of Ekratkoye Complex, labelled cryptically with numbers. These are useless without the key, which the doctor carefully tore away, although the L-shaped section I inhabit is hand-annotated. The map's sole function so far has been to guide me to an artfully concealed liquor cabinet in the lounge. I've brought the vodka back to my bedroom, but self-restraint prevents me from getting thoroughly sloshed. This is the _weirdest_ hospital.

It is 13 minutes after 9 in the night.

My head is funny. Anna bent over me and her t.i.ts were pushing out behind her white dress and I wanted to give them a grab and a squeeze but I didn't dare. She's real s.e.xy. I groaned a bit so I could move and look up her dress but I didn't see much she was too quick. Get up now Ilya Davidovich she said and lifted me into bed.

I wonder if she saw my hard-on? Lets face it why should she get a charge out of me showing how randy I am G.o.d please believe me I'm truly sorry. It just stuck out and I didn't really mean it to and I got down quick as I could and hid but anyway why should she care when she can screw all them big tough mafia thugs and cops and generals and little smiling b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like Dr Sipyagin for that matter. Let's face it.

O my G.o.d I feel reel strange why am I writing all this stuff anyway, I must be crazy, someone will see it and then I'll be in the s.h.i.t up to my ears man oh man. Well I gotta coz I've always written it down every night for ten G.o.ddam years theres a funny ringing buzz in my ears I can see words jumping up and down in front of me leaking real fast out of the pen scrawly over the page, skid the page across the desk, what the h.e.l.l, grab another one, its liking raping the page the virgin white page my G.o.d how corny Sister Kuenzli's no virgin for sure with t.i.ts like that rape rape sez the pen jesus jesus forgive me oh jesus its like all my brains were flaking off away out of my head an pouring down my ears like dandruff

NOVEMBER 14.

I don't know what to do.

I really don't.

Habit, let habit show the way.

All right. Eight o'clock, maybe half a minute past. Ante meridian, morning of the day, an hour after breakfast and the doctors' silent visit, mutter mutter, or is my hearing impaired? I don't think they said much to me.