Herculanium, p.29
Herculanium, page 29
“Someone’s mugging the tour guide!” said the lead tourist, pointing in alarm while holding the light switch.
Preston immediately stood up and walked towards this new person, leaving the initial intruder sprawled on the floor. “Who are you people? What the hell are you doing in my house?”
The tourist quickly backed away towards the living room, frustrating Preston at the thought of giving another chase. But as he entered the room to try to cut her off from the front door, he immediately stopped and assumed a fighting stance. He quickly scanned the room for anything that he could use as a weapon, something to throw or club somebody with.
Armed with small pamphlets and oversized headphones, twenty intruders stood in his living room with him.
“Oh, shit,” said Preston under his breath.
He was the first to crack the seeming eternity of silence between them. With the odds stacked against him, he knew he needed to bluff if he hoped to survive. Where the hell was Jayna when he needed her?
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said, staring each individual in the eye. “If you leave now, I’m not going to kick your ass. I mean your asses.”
“I think he killed the tour guide,” said the initial tourist, hiding behind several men. “He broke his neck.” The crowd quickly became agitated. Preston clenched his fists and stood ready for anything.
“He didn’t kill anybody,” said tour guide, rubbing his throat as he emerged from the bedroom. Preston wheeled around and cocked his hand higher.
“Whoah, easy there, Mr. Jones,” he said, raising his arms up as a sign of non-aggression. “Yes, I know who you are. I didn’t get a chance to recognize you, what with you ambushing me in the dark and sitting on my chest.”
Preston alternated his gaze between the tour guide and the crowd behind him, puzzled.
“My name is Aaron Miller, the head curator for this wing. On behalf of myself and my group, I would like to apologize for interrupting your sleep. We didn’t realize you had returned.”
Preston hesitantly dropped his guard. “I repeat, what the hell are you guys doing here?”
“In your absence, we’ve been giving tours of your living quarters to the public. It was something we incorporated in our dailies for the past few months. The administrators felt that having a celebrity of your stature would boost our touring stature. Sure enough, they did.”
Preston looked at the group itself, whose members looked ridiculous with oversized headsets wrapped over and around their heads. “Who are these guys supposed to be?”
“They’re supposed to be touring,” said Miller. “And we’re supposed to be leaving. Our apologies again, Mr. Jones. I will let the administrators know not to have you disturbed again.”
Preston nodded in acknowledgement and watched as the large group exited the front door. Miller, the last person in line, abruptly turned around and posed a question.
“Mr. Jones, a few of our members were wondering if it would be possible to get your autograph?”
Preston smiled. “You guys break into my house, and scare the living crap out of me. Now you want my autograph, too? Fuck. Off.”
Miller nodded and looked away, walking through the door in seeming shame.
“Since when do people give tours to military housing, anyway?” yelled Preston in the guide’s direction. “You better tell your superiors this shit better not happen again.”
“But Mr. Jones,” said Miller, “this is not base housing. This is a museu…”
Preston slammed the door shut before the tour guide could complete his answer. Propping a chair beneath the doorknob so that no one else could get in, even with a key, he went back to his bedroom and fell asleep.
* * *
“You had no right to conduct an investigation without consulting me, Dr. Schaeffer,” admonished Dr. Bentley. “I was well-aware of the status of my patient and was proceeding at a pace that I thought best suited his wellness and schedule.” He stared at his office door, making sure it was completely shut. This conversation was going to remain private and uninterrupted.
“You know damn well the Administration requested it,” responded his colleague. “If you hadn’t been so remiss of your duties, none of this would’ve happened.” Dr. Schaeffer was stoic in Bentley’s guest chair, trying his best not to be intimidated by his supervisor.
“I had everything perfectly under control. I don’t need babying from them, nor you.”
“It’s called ‘returning phone calls.’ It’s called ‘responsibility.’ It’s called ‘reporting findings’ when you see something unusual and potentially dangerous.”
Bentley stood from his chair and leaned menacingly forward. “Don’t you dare lecture me. I helped get you this post. Now I’m really starting to regret that decision.”
“You saw the results, Julius. You saw his biopsy. It was plain as day that he had the Varicella virus swimming in his bloodstream.”
“A very, very small strain. He’s from two centuries ago. Most people in that era contracted chicken pox when they were young and built-up immunity specifically by having it dormant in their bloodstream. They’d developed a vaccine in his century to prevent it from coming back, including in the form of Shingles.”
“A vaccine that we don’t even enforce anymore. Suppose he gets a bloody lip? What if he gets in a car accident and spills his guts all over the pavement? Can you imagine what would happen if this blood-born pathogen became airborne? We eradicated the virus a hundred years ago. He can start a plague and wipe out who knows how many people.”
“You’re overreacting. Modern medicine can purge it from his system.”
“We got rid of it by inoculating people when they were children, and that took dozens of years. This is a fully-grown man we’re talking about. Who knows who he may have already infected?” Dr. Schaeffer lifted his briefcase from the floor and opened it on Bentley’s desk. He retrieved several classified folders and placed them in front of Bentley himself.
“I’ve read the report you’ve compiled,” said Bentley, coolly. “Your—our—team, as usual, was quite thorough. Unfortunately, all of it was inconclusive.”
Dr. Schaeffer was incensed. “That’s a bit of a cavalier attitude. Especially coming from our department head? The mere fact that you found the chicken pox virus in his blood at all gives our findings credibility. Not even your opinion can change that.”
Dr. Bentley sat quietly in his chair for a few moments, visibly pensive and under stress. He rubbed his temples vigorously before standing up and walking to his favorite window.
“He doesn’t pose a threat as long as he doesn’t…bleed.”
“He is a walking bomb without a timer,” said Schaeffer, slapping his palm on the desk. “What part of that don’t you understand?”
Dr. Bentley continued to look out the window, blinking his eyes and looking at nothing.
“Julius, why are you protecting him? That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?
“He’s a man out of time, Jim. We plucked him out of the ocean, and we’re now exposing him to a world he’s never seen before. He doesn’t have anything here. The last thing I want is for him to be all of a sudden thrown into quarantine for the rest of his life. He deserves better than that. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“You’re doing this out of pity?” Dr. Schaeffer threw his hands up in the air. “The great Dr. Julius Enoch Bentley, doing something out of pity. Now I’ve seen everything!”
“Who else knows about the results? Has anyone seen the report you’ve compiled?”
“If you’re asking if Administration has seen it yet, the answer is ‘no.’ Different people have seen bits and pieces; the techies who scanned the room and clothes, different nurses. But no one’s pieced it all together. Yet.”
“Do me a favor, Jim…”
“I won’t cover this up for you, Julius. Friendship aside, this is about ethics and duty.”
“I’m not asking for you to cover it up, damn it! A week; give me a week to figure this out. Let me come up with alternatives for my patient.”
“I will not participate in a conspiracy or anything subversive; not when it comes to my job, or our patients.”
“No conspiracy here. I am just asking for a brief Stay of Execution. Give me a chance to plan alternatives for Preston Jones. Give him a chance to live.”
Dr. Schaeffer removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes in gentle circles. “I think your oath has soured, doctor.”
“I’m trying to preserve a man’s dignity, yet you question my integrity.”
“I’m talking about the greater good. Besides, you’re not in any position to debate me on this, or on anything else, right now.”
Dr. Bentley smiled beneath his grim countenance. He knew his friend well enough to notice some capitulation in his voice.
“Administration will get its report in a week. You have that amount of time to do whatever it is you’re going to do.” Dr. Schaeffer packed the reports back into his briefcase. “No tricks, Bentley. If I so much as sense you giving me the runaround, you’ll be back to square one, literally.”
Dr. Bentley stared at his colleague as he left his office, knowing full well his threat was not a bluff. He wasn’t used to be on the receiving end of a dressing down from a lower-ranking worker. There was little time to savor his short-term victory, however. Suppressing the results from the beginning meant Preston Jones’ blood and tissue samples had been subject to various experiments already. He shuddered to think what had already been created, and what was yet to come.
Despite the one-week reprieve, he couldn’t help but wonder how many options a man with a literal plague swimming in veins truly had.
* * *
It had been a long time since Preston felt like celebrating. From the moment he woke up at the hospital, to the last horrifying sporting event he watched, his life seemed to be on a trackless rollercoaster, riding on peaks and valleys of drama and disappointment. With one destiny concluding tonight and an uncertain future looming tomorrow, he was determined to seize the moment and milk it for all it was worth.
He held his martini glass with poise, trying to imitate actors he watched in classic movies. He looked around the room with an almost royal demeanor: superior, yet understanding, a soldier and a gentleman, a common man’s ruler. The alcoholic buzz coursing through his body kept him smiling at all times, and made him at ease among the lavish preparations dancing around him.
His night began with a ride inside an eighteen-wheeler, double-decker limousine. Complete with a monstrous moon roof, indoor pool and private casino, the jet-black juggernaut was the most luxurious vehicle he had ever seen. It was a premiere party all its own, complete with two revolving spotlights on its anterior and posterior ends. Stretching to nearly half a block in length, it resembled a train cruising the streets, wreaking havoc when turning at intersections.
Arriving at the Las Vegas Infinidrome for the annual World Combattra Ares Awards was the fitting and final climax to his tour. Not only was it the most grotesque and largest structure in the city, it was almost the most historically infamous. Preston heard rumors that the mob and the military had on occasion participated on “joint ventures,” and the best way to deny—or solidify—a partnership was to have a lavish party together.
Upon leaving the limousine’s red carpeted platform, Preston and his entourage of movie stars and musicians were immediately swarmed with reporters, paparazzi, and fans eager to glimpse or threaten their idols. Velvet rope barricades couldn’t prevent the blinding nova of camera flashes from shimmering around them. Although he wasn’t a contemporary of the celebrities around him, Preston felt accepted enough, especially from the fan adoration and applause. A giant monitor flanked the entrance to the hotel, and Preston caught a glimpse of himself on it through a mobile camera.
It truly felt good to be a somebody again.
The Infinidrome’s McArthur Hall was an art-deco throw back from even before Preston’s time. As classic as it was garish, it was a reflection of the new military’s modern image of warfare, entertainment and competition. Ambient lighting textured the walls and ceiling from end to end, while a minimalist candle and ikebana sculpture crowned the center of each table. Running on tracks that ran the length and height of the room, cameras were busy at work, buzzing around and capturing the moment. Waiters roamed the floor serving exotic hors d’oeuvres, while two massive buffet stations were situated at opposite ends of the hall. The crowd made full use of the cocktail bars situated between the various entrances and exits that lined the room’s four corners. Flanked by two massive display screens, the central stage loomed in the room’s north quarter. It was a masterful arch, made of sculpted fabric and swirling granite.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Jones?” asked Captain Scott Barrows, Jayna’s commanding officer. At first glance, he seemed much too young to be holding his rank. His boyish haircut framed an even younger-looking face, freckled and offset by a pair of large protruding ears. Captain Barrows’ voice reminded Preston of an adult whose voice never reached puberty, uneven and doubtful.
“Yes, I am, thank you. I must say, this is a lot more than what I expected.”
“Splendid,” he said with satisfaction. “Combattra spares little when it comes to honoring one of its own. I’m glad you can join us in celebrating our greatness.”
“I’m just happy to be here, Captain. Happy to be among the living.” Preston smiled and raised his glass.
“That’s a healthy attitude. Have you ever considered joining? To be part of our team?”
“No one’s ever made me an offer, sir.” Preston could sense a sales pitch coming.
“Splendid,” repeated the captain. “After the ceremonies, why don’t you talk to one of our recruiters? He’ll go over the program with you, and help you decide if you’re Combattra material or not. With your background, I see no reason for you to be denied.”
“It’s a tempting offer,” said Preston, stalling for time. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Very good. I’m sure it’s a decision you will not regret. By the way, have you seen Corporal Rogers? She was just here a few moments ago.”
“I believe she left to change outfits. She said something about changing into something ‘more appropriate.’”
“I can never seem to leave a place and not have people talk about me behind me back.” Jayna walked up to the table, wearing a form-fitting nightgown. Preston stood up, speechless at her beauty. He couldn’t help but stare at her from top to bottom. From the style of her hair, to the curve of her body, to that dimpled smile she always flashed, it was safe to say that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Captain Barrows also stood up, but was a bit more reserved in his appreciation. His wife was mingling in the crowd, and would not take kindly to her husband ogling beautiful, if younger, women.
“Do you gentlemen like this dress? It was the last minute thing I could find.”
“You look very beautiful tonight, Jayna,” said Preston, with an almost teenage modesty. “Yes, you look quite nice.”
Jayna smiled in return. “Thank you, kind sir. And I may say so, you look quite dashing yourself. You wear that uniform well, or is it the other way around?”
Preston pulled the chair out for her and seated her like a proper gentleman. Captain Barrows raised his wine glass and acknowledged her return.
“What a grand night for a party,” she said, looking over the night’s program. “I wish we could do this every six months, instead of only annually.”
“I’m afraid it will lose its novelty,” remarked the captain, “but it is nice to be in the same room with all these movie stars and musicians. I should’ve brought my autograph book.”
“I know what you mean, sir,” she said with a giggle. “I forgot mine, too.”
General Mason Cube came up behind Captain Barrows and firmly squeezed his shoulder. Like his crewcut, his swagger was ever-present and annoying. “How are we this evening, Captain?”
“Fine, sir, thank you for asking.” Captain Barrows immediately stood up in a gestureless salute. “Can I order you a drink?”
“Thank you, but no. I’m joining the honorable Judge Thorne and the other officers up front by the stage.”
“You remember Corporal Rogers, sir? And her ward, Preston Jones?”
“Of course to both,” he said, as if he had been constantly attuned to their activities.
“Fine work you’re doing, Corporal.” Cube walked around and firmly shook her hand. “A reflection of her commanding officer.”
Captain Barrows smiled in humble acceptance.
“Mr. Jones,” he continued, “still among us, I see. Have you enjoyed our little excursion?”
“It’s been very educational, General. I’ve learned a great deal about your world. It’s been quite enlightening.” Preston stretched his smile from ear to ear, unblinking in his mock appreciation.
“Good. You’ll catch on. I’ll join you later. I must return to my table. Good evening, all. Keep up the good work.”
Preston kept his exaggerated face expression long after the general disappeared from view. Jayna slowly slid her elbow across the tablecloth and painfully jabbed him on the arm. “I get the distinct feeling you don’t like him very much.”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“I beg your pardon?” Jayna stared at Preston, certain of his sarcasm.
“A bear?” asked Captain Barrows in reflection. “Oh, yes, a carnivorous mammal; extinct for over a hundred years, along with the elephant and other large fauna. Yes, I do believe it defecates in its natural surrounds. That much is certain.”
“I don’t mean to sound anxious,” said Preston, shaking his head at the absurdity of his comment, “but I see people lining up at the buffet. Should we…?”
“I think they go by table numbers, young man,” noted the Captain. “We’ll go when it’s our turn.”
Preston stood up and grabbed Jayna by the hand. “Let’s live a little, folks. Besides, who’ll know?”
