Taji's Syndrome (47 page)

“Why isn’t it right, Missus Porter?” Jeff interrupted. “The NCDC is funded by the government”—he had almost said controlled instead of funded—“and you’re a taxpayer. Let me make the necessary arrangements for you.”

“All right,” she said, squashing all the years of training that had told her to be reliant on no one but herself. “Who should I see in Salt Lake City?”

“Good for you,” Jeff approved. “You speak to a Cory McPherson in the FAA office in the main terminal. He’ll be waiting for you. One of the jets will be ready. You’ll have a pilot and a doctor from the regional office of the NCDC, so that the trip can be official. If that’s all right?”

“Sure. Sure it’s all right. I’ll call before we take off.” She was surprised at how helpful Jeff was, though it also made her apprehensive.

“Look for a physician named Dien Paniagua, I’ll arrange for her to be in Salt Lake City by morning.” He hoped he would be able to convince Dien to accompany Mrs. Porter to Canada, for the only other physician he could think of who was available was also an arrogant fellow given to issuing orders to show his importance.

“Chicano?” asked Alexa. “I know some Spanish.”

“And Vietnamese,” said Jeff. “I’m sure you’ll do very well together.”

Alexa shook her head. “I’ll call you from Salt Lake. I got to get going, Doctor. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but—”

“I understand. Good luck, Missus Porter. Please keep me informed.”

As Alexa collected her luggage, Jeff placed a call to Dien Paniagua in Idaho.

—Irene Channing, Jeff Taji and

General Barton Warren—

“—and therefore we are requesting that all of you take the Standard Public School Blood Screen when your children return to classes in September. This is to enable us to offer early treatment for those who have been exposed to TS but have not yet shown outward symptoms. While we have yet to discover a vaccine for this killer—though I am absolutely confident we will—we have treatment. Those with type-O blood—and you type-Os constitute almost half the population—can be easily and completely cured. For the rest of you, we now have treatment available which can arrest the progress of the disease while a cure is being developed. And it will be developed; doctors and scientists are working on it now.” On the TV screen, President Franklin Hunter looked over the enormous crowd in the Tulsa Civic Auditorium. “Every one of you has lost friends and relations to this dreaded killer. I share your grief, and I know you join with me in mourning those dedicated public servants who have been stricken by this fatal disease. Vice-President Arthur Ling was a terrible loss to the nation and to this administration.”

“He’s quite an act to follow,” said Irene to Dale as she watched the President. “But I suppose the General insisted.”

“Of course,” said Dale, looking quickly at Jeff Taji. There had been more to it than that, but neither man wanted to go into it with the time for the interview so close.

“During this administration,” President Hunter went on, “we have seen losses to this disease unprecedented in this century except by the ravages of war. Make no doubt about it, we are facing the most implacable of enemies, and only our single-minded purpose will bring us the victory we all long for. I pledge to you, to every one of you living now, and to the memories of those struck down before their time, that in my second term, we will see this scourge wiped off the earth. We were able to stop AIDS; we will stop TS.”

As the Tulsa audience applauded, Irene began to pace. They had been provided a good-sized dressing room that was actually a three-room apartment, and she went from the sitting room to the make-up room and back, her face tense with concentration. “Damn it, I wish we could have found one other survivor, one other person who could back me up.”

Dale went and put his arm around her. “Irene, don’t work yourself up. Save it for facing the General.” He kissed her cheek.

“I am living proof that we can conquer TS,” President Hunter intoned. “Those who have type-O blood and have received the treatment have all recovered. The health of this nation must always be the first priority of this or any administration. I promise you that I will not be satisfied until we have abolished TS just as we have abolished slavery and weapons proliferation.” The applause was accompanied by whoops and cheers this time.

“What do you think?” Dale asked Jeff, watching Hunter.

“About the President? He’s a competent man. And just now he’s very grateful. He’s lost two children, his Vice President, his Secretary of Commerce, three Ambassadors, twenty-two Senators, two Supreme Court Justices, one hundred thirty-six Congressmen, three nieces, four nephews, a sister, and two brothers-in-law to TS. The chances are excellent he’ll be reelected because he has never dodged the issue. I met him a couple of times while he was in Atlanta and I know that he takes TS very seriously. Will I vote for him over Booth Stanhope? Yes.”

Dale had guided Irene back to the sofa. “Have you found out anything more about the research in the Seventies and Eighties we can use?”

“Not as much as I’d like,” said Jeff. “You’ve seen most of the material. I have a few other references.” He took the folded sheets from his jacket pocket and handed them to Irene. “Here.”

“Thanks.” She opened them and began to read. “I wish I knew what I was looking for.”

“So do we all. I circled those that happened about the same time you and the other women became pregnant, but there’s no saying how significant that is. It’s entirely possible that the agents that caused the mutation were developed before that, possibly as far back as the Sixties.” He sat down where he could not see the TV screen. “I think you’d better limit yourself to those, though. Otherwise it’ll look too much like you’re taking a scattered approach.”

“Which I am,” said Irene. “How much documentation do you have on the PK?”

“Very little, but there are enough eyewitness accounts to establish that it is the standard result in survivors of TS.” Jeff looked over at Dale. “How many other survivors besides Irene have you heard of?”

“I’ve seen two, heard of another dozen in the Dallas area. From what one of the nurses said, there are a few more, but not a great many. They all agree about the psychokinesis.” He held Irene’s free hand between both of his own. “Other than Irene, I’ve only seen one other instance of it.”

“And you have information on the substitution of drugs when you left the hospital?” Jeff asked, wishing he could rid himself of the doubts that consumed him now that a confrontation was looming.

“I have it here, with the lab reports,” she said, touching the large handbag. “Along with the reports from the hospital.”

Dale brought his valise out from under the sofa. “I’ve got most of the corroborative evidence in here. I hope you don’t have to use it.”

“I hope so, too,” said Jeff.

There was a muted roar from the TV and a band, reduced to a tinny toy whisper, launched into “The All-Out March” from
High Street.

“When I was a kid,” Irene said, part of her attention on the TV, “it was ‘Happy Days Are Here Again.’”

“Styles change,” Jeff said, aware that she did not want to discuss their material any more.

There was a knock at the door. “Missus Channing, Doctor Taji, ten minutes, please.”

“I guess we’d better get out there.” Irene swallowed. “Have I eaten off all my lipstick? That make-up lady will be furious.”

“You look beautiful,” said Dale, rising and helping her to her feet.

“You say that at seven in the morning; you’re no judge,” she teased, doing her best to smile through her nervousness.

“I think you look fine,” said Jeff. “I keep looking to see if there’s a grease spot on my tie.”

“You’re fine,” said Irene, appreciating his effort to put them both at ease.

Dale opened the door and held it for them. “Be careful of General Warren. He’s known to be a sneaky bastard.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Irene as she kissed him on the cheek.

“Good luck. I’ll be waiting,” said Dale, waiting in the open dressing room door as Jeff and Irene walked down the hall.

“Is Steve handling things okay?” Irene asked Jeff in an undervoice as they went down the stairs to the next level where the studio was located.

“He’s doing as well as any of them. He manages pretty well most of the time, but he has bad days. They all do. Ever since their psychiatrist died, they’ve all been depressed and withdrawn. They aren’t doing very well with the new shrink. Be glad he isn’t like Harold Porter—”

“Is that the one they just found?” Irene asked.

“That’s the one,” said Jeff. They were almost at the bottom of the stairs. “He’s run away twice. We’ve been able to find him and bring him back fairly quickly both times, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to take to this isolated living very well.”

“Poor kid,” she said. “The other parents?”

“Two survivors other than you: Susan Ross and Brandon Harmmon. Neither of them had more than the first stages of the disease. Harmmon is type-O. Susan Ross is doing Public Benefit for those with type-A blood.”

Irene was about to say something, but the assistant producer came up to them and their conversation ended.

The studio was enormous. The
Plain Talking
set occupied only a fraction of its space. The moderator, Stewart Thayer, divided his time between this program and his professorial post at Haverford. He was already seated at the oval table where his interviews took place; he was wearing a tweed jacket in spite of the heat of the day, and his black skin glistened under the lights.

“Doctor Taji,” he said, taking Jeff’s hand. “And Missus Channing. I’m very glad you can be here, especially in the wake of the President’s speech.”

They both made neutral, cordial noises and sat down at the places Thayer indicated.

General Barton Lewis Warren arrived five minutes later, his uniform immaculate, his greying hair perfectly in place, the lenses of his glasses bright as an insect’s eye. He acknowledged each introduction with a single nod and he sat down as if his chair were covered in uncooked eggs. “I want you to know, Professor Thayer, that there are areas of national security that I am not at liberty to discuss.”

“Oh?” said Thayer with deceptive calm.

“I am sorry to inconvenience you and your guests. If there are matters that they ought not to discuss, I will have to ask them to desist.” He was used to being obeyed and so did not notice the expression in Irene’s eyes or the lift to Thayer’s brows. “I’m sure you understand,” he said, looking around the table.

“Better than you think,” said Stewart Thayer, handing a letter to the General. “We’re two minutes to air time. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the contents of the letter. Doctor Taji has a duplicate copy with him.”

It was on Presidential stationery, embossed with the Great Seal of the United States and was handwritten: it specifically and completely removed all security restrictions from any information directly or indirectly related to Taji’s Syndrome. It was signed by the man who had written it, Franklin Hunter, and was countersigned by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“I . . . I should have been informed of this,” General Warren stated, his handsome face darkening.

“There wasn’t time,” said Thayer. “Your mike, General. We’re just about on.” He sat down and checked the papers on the table in front of him.

General Warren was still trying to argue while the assistant producer attached the button mike to his lapel and stepped out of camera range.

“Good evening; I am Stewart Thayer and this is
Plain Talking
.”
For the next three minutes, he succinctly recapped the known information and history of the last ten months regarding the appearance and spread of TS. “What has added to the mystery, and what we are concerned with tonight, is the fate of those who have survived TS. Current statistics suggest that twelve to fourteen percent of those who catch TS survive it, yet of those fortunate few, most have disappeared.” He let this statement sink in. “To address this question, we have with us this evening Doctor Jeff Taji, of the National Center for Disease Control, Environmental Division. Doctor Taji was the first to isolate and describe the syndrome that bears his name, and was part of the team that developed the current treatments for TS.”

As the camera focused on him, Jeff lowered his head.

“With him is one of the survivors of TS, Missus Irene Channing of Dallas, Texas. Missus Channing is also the mother of one of the known carriers of TS. Welcome to
Plain Talking,
Missus Channing.”

“Doctor Thayer,” she said, though she was watching the General as she said it.

“And last, General Barton Warren. General Warren is with the Anny Counterespionage Task Force.”

“Professor Thayer,” he said, sounding as if there were crumbs caught in his throat.

“Tell me,” Thayer said, looking directly at Irene, “how does it feel to have survived TS?”

“Lucky,” she said at once. She gave a short description of her illness. “I didn’t think I’d get well. I thought anyone who got TS died. But it didn’t turn out that way. Eventually I began to get better.”

“What about side effects?” Thayer was being deliberately provocative, both to Irene and General Warren.

“Well, apparently the changes that TS creates in brain chemistry continue even after recovery, and it results in . . . in emerging abilities that no one fully understands yet.” She looked over at Jeff. “It seems that those who survive TS become capable of moving things . . . objects, with the power of thought.”

“Psychokinesis,” said Thayer helpfully.

“Yes.”

“And you can do this?” He was determined to drive his point home.

“Yes. I haven’t much control over it, and when I do it, it leaves me exhausted. It’s easier to pick up the front end of a truck with your hands than a dish towel with your mind.” She tried not to look at General Warren but she could feel his irate disapproval across the table.

“Doctor Taji,” Thayer said, turning his attention to Jeff, “you’ve been closely identified with this disease since its first appearance last fall. How do you account for this?”