The Lazarus Particle (6 page)

Quint seemed hardly interested in Unser’s word, already gesturing for a fresh hit of morpho as the feed went dark. Unser, meanwhile, could hardly have been more pleased with himself.

“And there you have it, esteemed members of the tribunal. Proof positive that Xenecia of Shih’ra does not deserve the life premium affixed to Fenton Wilkes’ bounty in the event of his safe return—for as we now know he was
not
returned safely. Moreover, we have been presented with unequivocal evidence that in the course of apprehending said subject she committed hostile acts against credentialed, contracted employees of Morgenthau-Hale.” Unser seated himself primly, folding one leg atop the other and his fingers over the leading edge of his knee. “Thus concludes our presentation. We await your decision, Madam Chairwoman.”

Chairwoman Gyun, for her part, pursed her thin, colorless lips as she looked from one table to the next. “You have remained conspicuously silent throughout these proceedings, Xenecia of Shih’ra. Do you have anything to add? A rebuttal to offer in your defense?”

“I do not.” She had known as a matter of course that the fix was in even before the opening gavel; Quint’s testimony was the final proof. Nothing she could say or do would change that now.

“Very well.”

After a brief show conferring with her fellow panelists on the tribunal, Chairwoman Gyun laid out their final decision. “Having heard both sides to the extent they wish to be heard, it is the decision of this panel that Xenecia of Shih’ra acted unduly and with reckless intent toward a fellow contractor. Furthermore, this tribunal has seen and heard sufficient evidence to leave open the question of Fenton James Wilkes’ mental faculties following his capture. Therefore, it is our decision to advise a hold on the paying of the life premium for his unharmed capture, until such time as he can be examined and the state of his mental faculties determined. In the event he is unable to provide the information for which he was sought, the life premium, as well as the bounty itself, will be canceled outright.

“This panel stands adjourned.”

Xenecia sat for several long moments after the holopresence avatars had dissolved. A low-heat, phosphorescent rage boiled through her at the realization that Fenton’s bounty was now almost certainly forfeit to her.

As a matter of course, that simply could not stand. She had to do
something
.

At which point,
something
happened to resolve itself in the form of a strapping young corpsman. “I’ve been instructed to escort you back to your quarters, ma’am.”

Xenecia tilted her head, her lips assuming a predatory half-smile as her gaze slowly climbed the span of the corpsman’s uniformed body. She stood, cocking out a leather-clad hip and eyeing him suggestively.

“I have a better idea,” she ventured. “Why don’t you escort me to
your
quarters instead?”

07 • VENOM

Fenton cast an eye about his new digs. He nodded, not so much with approval as acknowledgement.

He could only assume the sudden upgrade in his conditions was the result of her doing. Not that he was complaining. It felt good to stretch his legs, for one. Bracing his hands against the wall, he twisted at the waist this way and that. A series of clicks and pops sounded from the small of his back on up and he groaned with an even mix of pleasure and relief.

The room itself was small and windowless but no less of a step up from the last one for it. A combination toilet-sink unit presided over the far corner. Unlike the last one, this new room boasted such amenities as a table, chairs a person might actually feel somewhat comfortable sitting in, and a rack complete with a thin mattress smelling strongly of rubber and some sort of ammonia-based disinfectant. There was even a mirror—made of polished metal, of course, not glass—riveted to the wall above the toilet-sink. The reflection it presented was murky and slightly warped, but it allowed Fenton his first look at himself since being knocked unconscious in the Greasy Spanner.

He gave a start when he noticed the fifty-caliber channel parting his reddish-brown hair, only then realizing how close Quint’s bullet had come to separating the crown of his head from the rest of it. All in all, though, he didn’t think he looked that bad. Not really. His nose was definitely broken, his face swollen and bruised around it, but the station’s chief medical officer had assured him the consequences of his scuffle with Xenecia were superficial at worst.
 

“You’re lucky,” Dr. Jenner had said to him after the examination. The silver bars shining brightly against his hunter green uniform informed Fenton that in addition to the title of doctor he held the rank of captain. “It looks as if you came away from the confrontation with no long-term damage.”

Lucky
, Fenton thought with an internal scoff. There was that word again. He briefly considered telling Dr. Jenner that if his idea of luck was having his lights punched out by a giant pink lizard woman, he could keep it, but then thought better of it. The man was only following orders, after all, which at the time had included ensuring his health and general well being.

Besides, Fenton supposed he was pretty lucky, at least in a manner of speaking. If not for the life premium hanging over his head, the huntrex could have easily contented herself with giving him a concussion or fracturing his skull instead of checking the blow that had simply knocked him out. Hell, if not for the life premium, she almost certainly would have shot him dead on sight, and then where would he be?

It wouldn’t mean much of anything if the trial didn’t go his way, but at least it gave him some semblance of hope to cling to in the short term.

After the examination, Fenton decided to see how much he could leverage from his meeting with the chief medical officer.

“So, what’s the chow situation like here?”

Jenner glanced up as he zipped closed his bag. “Can’t complain. Feeling a big peckish, are you?”

“Starved.” And it was true. Even before being captured a day or so earlier—Fenton wasn’t so clear on the timeline—he had been nourishing himself on a mostly liquid diet, namely copious amounts of alcohol.

“So, your appetite is returning,” Jenner said, hoisting his bag. “That’s a good sign. What meal is your body telling you it’s time for?”

Fenton thought for a moment. “Breakfast, I think.”

“Close enough. A few hours yet, but I’ll see what I can scare up for you.”

“Thanks, doc. I owe you one.”

“Just try not to make the acquaintance of any more rifle stocks and we’ll call it even.”

With that, Dr. Jenner had excused himself. There was a bit of murmuring among the guards posted outside the door, and then Fenton was alone once more. Mostly he paced the room from end to end, exercising what little freedom it allowed him. After examining himself in the polished metal mirror he laid out on the rack for lack of anything better to do.

He was just drifting off after several minutes when a commanding voice jerked him awake unceremoniously.

“Fenton James Wilkes,” the voice said authoritatively, “kneel in the far corner of the room and place your hands behind your head.”

Fenton yawned and shifted into a sitting position, letting his legs hang over the edge of the rack as he searched the otherwise empty room for the voice’s unseen owner. An intercom, he presumed. “Is this about my food? I was almost about to fall asleep.”

“Fenton James Wilkes, kneel in the far corner of the room and place your hands behind your head.”

“Is this really necessary? The doc was just in here a little while ago and he didn’t seem to think—”

“Fenton James Wilkes—”

“Right, right, okay. You win.” Fenton shuffled over to the corner and lowered himself onto his knees, then fixed his hands behind his head as ordered. “How’s this?”

The door slid open in response. One of the station security personnel swept in, his rifle pointed steadfastly down at Fenton. Another followed with a plastic tray bearing the hallmarks of a hearty breakfast: bacon, eggs, and toast. He set the tray on the table along with a packet of plastic utensils, then backed out, followed closely by his partner.

Fenton carefully lifted himself to his feet. Walking over to the table, he examined the contents of the tray. “What, no OJ?” he said.

Silence.

He shrugged and sat down to open the packet of utensils. The cellophane gave way easily enough, yielding a plastic spork and knife as well as a thin napkin. Fenton tried the eggs first. They were scrambled, with a dry, grainy texture he suspected of being the result of powdered or preserved eggs. Not surprising, he thought as he worked his way through vaguely stale-tasting bites. The bacon had a similarly synthetic, almost chemically maple taste. If you crewed one of these stations long enough, he wondered as he munched it down, did the flavor become a de facto part of life, the real thing becoming false and the false thing becoming real?

At least the toast was real. There was no faking bread, even if all the (fake) butter had softened it up some.

When he finished, the intercom sounded anew.

“Fenton James Wilkes, kneel in the far corner and place your hands behind your head.”

Rolling his eyes, Fenton walked back to the far corner of the room.
 

“Sorry I couldn’t leave a tip,” he quipped over his shoulder as the guard detail swept in. One kept a bead on him while the other cleared the table of the tray. “Hey, I was wondering, do you guys notice the bacon tastes kind of funny, or does that just become normal for you after awhile?”

“Shut the fuck up,” the one with the rifle snapped. “This isn’t a social call.”

“Okay,” Fenton said. “Noted.”

Having collected the tray and utensils, the second guard left. Fenton started to lift to his feet but the first guard remained, motioning him down with a flick of his rifle. “Not so fast.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re about to have a visitor. Sit tight.”

Before Fenton could even ask, Roon’s godfather appeared in the doorway. “Not to worry, Sergeant,” he said, “Mr. Wilkes poses no threat. Do you, Mr. Wilkes?”

Fenton was just about to answer when he felt his pulse begin to quicken. Slowly at first, then more and more rapidly. Like the pulse of a bird or a small animal. His heart hammered in his chest, beating out a staccato rhythm he found difficult to keep time with. The lids of his eyes fluttered as he tried to steady his breath, keep his balance. His pulse danced along with the unruly time of his heartbeat. He realized they must have put something in the eggs. It was the only explanation that made sense.

“Easy, Mr. Wilkes. Stay calm and this phase will pass.”

The second guard returned, bringing in another chair he set along the far side of the table. Roon’s godfather nodded and the two helped hoist Fenton into the first chair, then disappeared from the room altogether.

“Can’t… can’t breathe,” Fenton managed to bleat. “Help…”

“Give it just a moment more, Mr. Wilkes.”

As if on cue, Fenton’s lungs expanded, allowing him to suck in a deep, life-affirming breath. It filled them near to bursting before he could finally let it out. When he finished, he felt more alive in that moment than ever before.

“Better?”

Fenton nodded enthusiastically. “Yes.”

“Good.” Stepping forward, he leaned over the table until he was practically nose to nose with Fenton. “Tell me, Mr. Wilkes, do you know who I am?”

Fenton grinned a wide-eyed, almost leering grin. “You’re Roon McNamara’s godfather. She’s my advocate."

“Very good,” Carsten said as if praising a schoolboy. “Allow me to introduce myself more formally. My name is Ivor Carsten.”

“Fenton James Wilkes. But you already know that.”

“I do, indeed. Even so, I consider it a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance. You are a fascinating study in character.”

All at once, the grin fell from Fenton’s face. “I can’t say the feeling is mutual, Mr. Carsten. I get the feeling Roon doesn’t like you very much.”

“We have something of a complicated history, that much is true,” Carsten allowed. “And you, Mr. Wilkes? Are you fond of my goddaughter?”

“I don’t suppose I have much of a choice, now do I? She’s my advocate.”

“True enough. Perhaps we should dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business. Do you know where you are right now, Mr. Wilkes?”

“Aboard M-H Orbital Station
Tau
. I’m in a holding cell. I was captured by a huntrex.”

“Precisely. Very good, Mr. Wilkes. Now, tell me about this ‘Lazarus Particle’ you and your team were working on when you defaulted on your contract with Morgenthau-Hale.”

At the mention of the project, Fenton smiled brightly. “It would have changed everything.” He took a reverent breath, looking off and shaking his head with nothing less than sheer wonderment. “It would have…”

“Mr. Wilkes?” he prompted.

Fenton’s whole body was singing along with the beautiful, musical frenzy of the trip. Pure, unfiltered ecstasy coursed through his veins. He was so keyed up he found it impossible to ignore the slightest opportunity to speak, to thrill in the emphatic, animal urge to howl at the moon. Giggling just a touch maniacally, his eyes alight with possibility, he opened his mouth to answer. Instead, all that came out was a shrill, choked-off squeak.

“Mr. Wilkes?”

It started with a facial tic that rapidly devolved into a full-blown seizure. Fenton collapsed out of the chair and fell against the room’s cold, hard floor. His body spasmed violently as the alien stimulant crescendoed through his cerebral cortex. The music had stopped, the ecstasy filtering down to a toneless, unleavened agony.

Somewhere deep within that mysterious electric bundle of neurons and synapses that is the human brain, Fenton James Wilkes had blown a fuse.

Carsten blanched at the suddenness of Fenton’s collapse, standing so quickly he nearly collided with Dr. Jenner as he burst into the room. He watched helplessly as Fenton flopped and foamed at the mouth. His eyes rolled up behind the lids, showing only empty slivers of white between. Trickles of spumous saliva overflowed the corners of his lips. His body flailed and jerked as if possessed of some demonic force yearning to break free of its flesh-bound prison.