The Paradox Initiative (18 page)

Then—

“Jack, your lip’s bleeding,” George noted. Wolfe swallowed hard, his eyelids flickering.

“Did you bite yourself when you fell?” Jim guessed.

Wolfe coughed again, covering his mouth with that same hand.

“I’m
all right,” he said when he lowered his arm, his voice watery. “Just got to get out of all these people.”

He turned, and shouldered his way through the crowd. People let him pass, but instantly closed the gap behind him, straining to watch him as he went. Kestrel, heart thundering, clawed through them, shouting “excuse me!” whenever she thought of it.

She burst out of the pub, into the crowded corridor, searching, searching…

Her heart
beat stalled. Where did he go—?

There.
Heading toward the lifts.

She broke into a run.

His strides faltered. He started coughing again.

Kestrel reached him—

He fell to his hands and knees, his whole body wracked with furious choking.

She threw herself down beside him…

As blood spilled from his mouth onto the glassy flooring.

“Oh,
God!”
Kestrel cried—a plea to heaven that tore straight through her. “
Jack!”
She grabbed at him, but he was fighting too hard to breathe. Blood ran down his chin even as his skin turned completely white. He thudded down onto his right shoulder, grimacing. He twitched once, hard—twitched again. His eyes flashed open for an instant and found hers—silvery and stunned. He gulped, coughed and strangled—scrambled for her hands.

Tears streamed down her face as her icy fingers found his. Gripped them hard.

“Somebody help me!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, frantically searching the crowd. Everyone had stopped and now stared, stricken.

“Help me!”

Wolfe heaved a breath, shuddered, then his head fell back onto the floor. He kicked out. Blood leaked from the sides of his mouth and trailed down his cheeks. His hands went limp.

“Jack!” Kestrel dropped his hands and pressed her fingers to his throat. “Somebody
help me!”

“Back up, back up.”

The hurried English tones came from right above her head. Kestrel whipped around—

And through her tears, she saw the angelic, golden-headed form of Dr. William Anthony
kneel on the other side of Wolfe, his sky-blue gaze intent on Wolfe’s face. Anthony wore a white lab coat with full pockets. He pressed a firm hand to Wolfe’s jugular, his brow furrowing.

“Pulse is thready,” he mused. His expression tightened. “Hm. Gone.”

“Gone?” Kestrel twitched, her tears turning cold.

“Hang on,” Anthony said, bent down and tore open Wolfe’s shirt.

Kestrel flinched back, squeezing her hands into fists. Wolfe’s great chest did not rise or fall. Fleetingly, her gaze noted a maze of old scars that riddled his skin. Anthony dug in his pocket and pulled out a small square device, then pressed it to Wolfe’s right pectoral. He dug in his other pocket and pulled out another machine, which he unfolded into a breathing mask with tank. He clamped the mask over Wolfe’s nose and mouth, then flipped a switch. Next, Anthony pushed the small red dot in the center of the device on Wolfe’s chest.

Wolfe’s torso jerked. Anthony felt his pulse. His intense expression deepened.

He pushed the button again.

Wolfe jerked again—

Coughed, and gasped. Kestrel clamped her hands over her mouth.

Pounding footsteps assaulted her hearing. Anthony’s head came up.

“Good—I need a breathing tube here, right away. Get me a stretcher,” he snapped his fingers. “Move, move!”

Three other d
octors dove down all around Wolfe—they shuffled Kestrel out of the way before she knew what was happening. They all pulled things out of their pockets, moving so fast Kestrel could barely track. One of them lifted Wolfe’s head, pulled off the mask, forced his mouth open and shoved a tube down his throat. Kestrel hurriedly looked away.

Within moments, another white-clad doctor appeared with a floating stretcher. Anthony got out of the way as the stretcher lowered beside
Wolfe. The stretcher flattened to paper thin, and slid right beneath Wolfe without moving him. Then, it lifted smoothly into the air, and a shield closed over him. The next instant, it lifted higher than head level, and shot off down the corridor. Kestrel watched it go.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up. Dr. Anthony stood there, watching her, concern in his eyes.

“Is
he
?” she asked. He smiled gently at her and held out his hand.

“He will be,”
he said. She reached out and grasped his hand. His fingers thawed her icy ones. He pulled her to her feet, then tucked her arm around his.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll go with him, shall we?”

“Sounds good,” she managed shakily, wiping at her face with her right hand as they started forward.

“He’s very lucky he had you with him,” Anthony said. Kestrel snorted, fighting back more tears.

“Yeah. I was
so
helpful.”

He pressed her hand.

“I’m quite serious,” he said. “You were his voice. I never would have come if I hadn’t heard you.”

Kestrel looked up at him
again. He gazed at her kindly. The stab of panic in her heart faded, and she found strength enough to nod—but not enough to let go of him.

Kestrel paced back and forth in the small, white waiting room. The faceless, box-shaped android behind the desk made no movement, and only emitted a low beeping sound. Kestrel’s boots tapped endlessly on the tiles. She
wrapped her arms around her middle, battling back the cold, and glanced at the glowing blue clock for the millionth time.

Two in the morning. He’d been in there for five hours.

Footsteps.

Kestrel spun to face the hallway.

Dr. Anthony, dark circles under his eyes, sighed and ran a hand through his curls as he emerged.

“Please sit down,” he gestured to a c
hair. Kestrel immediately did so. He pulled another chair over and sat down across from her, setting his datapad in his lap. He regarded her seriously, tiredly.

“You’re his next of kin, are you not?” He glanced down at his pad. “He is Jack Johnson, and you are April Johnson.
” He met her eyes. “His wife, then?”

Kestrel just nodded.
Dr. Anthony sighed.

“Well, I have some rather difficult news,” he began. “He has stage four
Viridi Carcinoma.”

Kestrel lifted her head
and gripped her fingers.

“Cancer?”

“Yes,” Anthony answered. “It translates literally to ‘Green Cancer.’ It’s very specific type of cancer, almost exclusively found in veterans of the Halogen Police Action ten years ago.”

Kestrel’s brow furrowed.

“The weapons used in that action have since been banned, due to the disastrous side-effects,” Anthony explained. “They were hand-held weapons that emitted a green beam of energy that surrounded a building-sized target, then caused it to explode. Anyone standing within a hundred yards of the reaches of that explosion who inhaled the fumes would
inevitably
contract this cancer. No exceptions.” Anthony’s eyes grew sad. “For years, the symptoms can often be dismissed as a simple chest cold—then the disease suddenly attacks the lung tissue, growing tumors that cause severe bleeding. As you saw, if left untreated, it’s a strange and painful way to die.”

Kestrel swallowed
. Anthony’s eyebrows came together as he considered her.

“Your husband would have been very young to fight—
no older than seventeen,” he noted. “Has he ever spoken to you about that part of his life?”

“No,” Kestrel said.
Anthony sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“I can understand why—not many veterans enjoy discussing it.” He glanced down at his datapad. “The scarring on most of his upper body, however, indicates some severe trauma incurred during combat.” He flipped through several images Kestrel couldn’t see.

“Shrapnel wounds in the central chest area, suture marks; a very long, deep scar on his right side, and…” he paused, then glanced up at Kestrel. “He has a scar on his upper left pectoral, near his shoulder joint—a scar unlike any I’ve ever seen. It almost looks like a blunt puncture, and whatever-it-was traveled all the way through him and came out the other side.” Anthony searched her face. “I’m sure you’ve noticed it. Do you have any idea what caused it?”

Kestrel’s already taut stomach tightened further.

“No,” she said again. “He’s never talked about any of his scars with me.”

“Hm,” Anthony murmured thoughtfully, his gaze unfocusing.

“So this…Viridi Carcinoma,” Kestrel ventured. “You said there’s a treatment?”

“Yes,” Anthony nodded. “And as soon as we stabilized him, we started it. It’s both an intravenous and oral treatment—a breathing treatment. The intravenous treatment is pumping him full of vitamins and other strengthening essentials
—as well as nano-bots to repair the mutated DNA—while the breathing treatment kills the cancer in his lungs. Then, in a few hours when that’s done, his body will purge the tumor tissue, and we’ll start on a different breathing treatment that will rapidly heal the delicate tissue in his lungs.”

“Purge?” Kestrel repeated.

“Yes, he’ll—well, he’ll cough it all out,” Anthony explained. “Under strict supervision, with all of us handy to make certain nothing obstructs his airway. It’s a well-practiced procedure, and as strong as he is otherwise, he should do very well.”

Kestrel felt sick to her stomach. And cold.

Dr. Anthony quickly reached out and took her hand.

“Are you all right? Do you feel dizzy?”

“I’m okay,” she whispered, a tear falling. “When can I see him?”

“Not until later tomorrow,” he answered carefully. “Probably after noon.”

“Do you have someplace I can sleep here, then?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. “We have guest rooms for just such a purpose.
And I can have someone go to your cabin and bring you whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Kestrel sighed.

“Right this way,” he bid her, standing up. She got up and followed him down the hallway.

At the far end
, she could see several other doctors, nurses and androids bustling through different corridors. Dr. Anthony didn’t have to lead her far, though, before he stopped in front of a door that opened silently. Inside, lit by a single soft lamp, stood a white bed, a chair, a desk and a wardrobe. She also caught sight of another door that probably led to a washroom.

“Try to get some sleep,” Dr. Anthony advised. “Someone will come to get you if anything
develops with your husband.”

“Thank you,” Kestrel said again, and entered the room. She sank down on
to the bed as the door shut, thankful that at least now she could spend the sleepless night someplace soft and comfortable. She lay down on her side, curled up, and stared into the lamp. She took a breath to pray…

Then squeezed her eyes shut and let her heart loose into the silence, waiting to hear the sound of the door opening.

Kestrel pulled her knees up to her chest and w
rapped her arms around them. This chair was stiff, but she didn’t move from it. She sat next to the bed in the softly-lit ivory-colored room, directly beside Wolfe’s left shoulder. White sheets swathed his tall form—his face looked about the same color. A needle protruded from the inside of his right elbow, connected to tubes and hanging bags of different liquids. She blinked slowly, studying his motionless profile.

Long eyelashes. A strong brow, dark eyebrows slightly drawn together. Perfectly-straight nose; a solemn, sculpted mouth—lips chapped by the forceful entry and removal of tubes. A hint of a beard tracing the edges of his jaw.
Careless strands of hair fell across his forehead, covering the scar. His pale throat showed the marks of fingers and instruments pressing hard there. Bruise-colored taints beneath his eyes. Together, a handsome, weary, weathered, young face.

Kestrel glanced at the clock at the other end of the room. One o’clock in the afternoon. She hadn’t eaten all day, but they’d just given her permission to come in half an hour ago, and she was in no mood to leave him now. Besides, she didn’t have any appetite.

“What are you doing here, Brown Eyes?”

Kestrel’s head came around.

Wolfe’s face tilted toward her. He had opened his brilliant eyes—pale gray, like a morning in chilly spring...

He smiled briefly at her. Gentle lines appeared around those eyes.

“Hi,” she gasped, reaching out to touch his arm for an instant before pulling back. “How…How do you feel?”

“I have to say,” he said, his voice broken and hoarse. “If I told you I’ve felt worse, I’d be lying.”

Kestrel tried to swallow the pain her throat, but it just graduated to her chest. She scooted closer.

“
You’ll feel better soon,” she said. “Promise.”

“So
…” he asked, his smile gone now. He watched her gravely. “What have I got?”

“It’s a…A
rare type of lung cancer,” she answered, trying to smile. He blinked once, swallowed once.

“
I’m dead, then.”

“No!” Kestrel said quickly. He frowned.

“But—”

“No, they caught it,” Kestrel told him, taking hold of his
forearm arm now. “When you collapsed in the hallway, you stopped breathing, but Dr. Anthony came and got you started again. Then they stabilized you and ran you through all the treatments.” She nodded firmly. “The cancer’s gone. You’ll get better from here.”

Wolfe stared at her.

“How did Dr. Anthony get there so fast?”

Kestrel paused.
Something in his tone unbalanced her.

“I…
I called for help.”

He slowly lifted his eyebrows.

“
You
did.”

“Yes…” she nodded, uncertain.

For a long moment, he gave her a piercing, stricken gaze, his eyes so vivid that they hurt her.

“Too bad,
” he finally whispered. “I wish you hadn’t.”

Kestrel’s
mouth opened, but her mind went blank. He let out a shuddering sigh, turned and searched the ceiling—and his brow twisted in sudden, weakened anguish. He gulped, and squeezed his eyes shut. A tear trailed down his temple.

Kestrel got up. She could hardly breathe—and what breaths she pulled in felt like she was sucking water. She closed her hands to fists, then turned and left the room.