The Shadow Project, page 7
Look on the bright side, Dorothy thought. Apart from the headache, she was getting a bit better. Could open her eyes now. Just a slit, but couldn’t do that before. Not that she could see a lot because she couldn’t move her head yet, but it was still an improvement. So she lay there with her headache, looking at the brown stain on the ceiling.
There were voices in the corridor. Men’s voices and another voice she recognized as the ward sister—right old battle-ax she was too. Sounded as if they were having a bit of an argument. Men must be doctors, because they weren’t taking any nonsense from Sister: you could hear from the tone.
They were coming into the ward. “Well, it’s most irregular,” said Sister’s voice severely. And a man’s voice said, “If you have any further concerns, you can take them up with the ministry.” Which put manners on her because she said, “No, of course not, sir.” That sir meant she’d given in. Sister called nobody sir unless they were a consultant or some other big cheese. Dorothy wondered gleefully what was going on.
They were moving her out of bed! The fuss had been about her all along! She caught glimpses of white coats and uniforms as they lifted her onto a gurney. Next thing she was being wheeled along the corridor. Change of ward, obviously. At least she’d get away from that stain on the ceiling. And the smell of wee.
Except it wasn’t a change of ward. They were all in a lift, going down, and now they were in the lobby going out and there was an ambulance waiting: Danny called them “white sick cars” when he was little. They loaded her into the white sick car, gurney and all, like somebody being driven away in a disaster movie. Except in the movies they drove you to the hospital, and she was being driven from. There was a young doctor sitting beside her, face blank. She wished she could ask him where they were going. Another hospital, she supposed. Probably needed her bed.
All the excitement made her tired, so she closed her eyes and dozed a little. The noise of the ambulance doors opening woke her up. The new hospital was smaller than the old one and a lot better looking. Seemed to be in the country, for one thing. Nice grounds, like a convalescent home. You could see trees and flowers and grass. And when they wheeled her through the doors, the smell was different: less antiseptic scrub and more furniture polish. And the gurney wheels didn’t rattle the way they did in the last place, as if she was being wheeled over carpet, not linoleum. Maybe things were looking up.
Somebody adjusted the head of the gurney so she was propped up a bit, which was a real improvement because she could see where she was going. Which was a ward all to herself, could you believe it? Just one bed and a big color TV and a nice view of the gardens through the window.
There was a bouquet of flowers beside the bed.
There was a plump nurse with a nice smile who said, “Hello, Mrs. Bayley. I’m Cathleen and I’ll be looking after you most mornings and afternoons.”
There was…she hadn’t noticed it before. There was posh music playing gently in the background.
They lifted her—one, two, three!—off the gurney and into the bed, and it must have been an orthopedic mattress because the comfort was amazing, and the sheets were just washed and starched and smelled fresh, so she took in a deep breath through her nose; and as she settled into this heavenly bed, for some reason she found herself thinking of that peculiar dream she’d had where Stanley said to her, “I think our boy Danny’s getting into trouble.”
She hoped this wasn’t another of her premonitions.
20
Michael, the Shadow Project
From somewhere far away, Michael Potolo could hear the singing. He stirred uneasily in his chair—
A ton appel Mali
—but the microchips in his scalp were already beginning to tingle so that he was sliding steadily away from the reality of the Project’s operations room. He tried to focus. This shouldn’t be happening. Today he was not projecting. Today he was acting as anchor for Opal, his mind providing the link that ensured she was locked on her target, and more importantly, that she could be called quickly back. But even without leaving his body, the anchor experience could be very peculiar.
A ton appel Mali
Pour ta prospérité
Michael knew the reason from his basic training. Years ago, a surgeon named Wilder Penfield found that if you stimulated certain areas of the brain, it caused his patients to experience past events of their lives. Not just remember them, but actually relive them in vivid detail, as if they were happening all over again. Dr. Penfield made the discovery when he probed a patient’s brain with his scalpel, but the electrodes in a projection helmet sometimes had the same effect when set in anchor mode. The result was not always pleasant.
It was still black behind Michael’s eyelids, but he was beginning to feel the backlash. Something that was affecting Opal was affecting him as well. The main characteristic was helplessness. He could no longer move and seemed to have lost all sensation. His surroundings were fading. In moments he was floating in a sort of limbo—a lonely, disembodied mind—locked in a dark universe. Dark, that was, until the memories started.
A ton appel Mali
Pour ta prospérité
Fidèle à ton destin
It was growing light and the singing was becoming louder. But now it had taken on a tinny sound as if somebody was playing a transistor radio. What was happening to Opal? Michael fought the effects and tried to force himself back to normal consciousness. Then the memories swallowed him and there was a blaze of sunshine.
A ton appel Mali
Pour ta prospérité
Fidèle à ton destin
Nous serons tous unis
Un peuple, un but, une foi
Pour une Afrique unie
Alpha Konaré was president of Mali. His distinctive voice followed the national anthem as surely as day followed night, promising better times to the people and trying to explain why the water was cut off again in Bamako. Not that Michael’s father gave a damn about Bamako. His practice was in the north, about as far from the capital as you could get, in a settlement on the caravan route to Timbuktu. There was never any running water here and never had been. In most families, the women visited the water hole early in the morning to carry back pots on their heads. The water was muddy, bitter from the iron, and full of parasites. Michael’s family was lucky—their supplies were brought in bulk by truck.
Abégé Potolo was a doctor. Not because he had to be, but because he wanted to be. He was, by Mali standards, a wealthy man. Michael’s earliest memories were of lines of the sick at their door. Those able to pay—mostly supervisors in the salt mines at Taoudenni—handed over a few francs for an antibiotic against bacterial diarrhea or a vermifuge or whatever it was they needed. The rest Abégé mostly treated for free, although a handful sometimes traded chickens or performed some service in return.
It was one of these, a Tuareg named Suleiman, who first used the word sohanti in Michael’s presence. Michael was only seven at the time, in the middle of his lazy stage, and spent most days keeping out of the sun while doing as little as possible. Suleiman was supposed to help out around the clinic in payment for the medical treatment that had saved him his foot, but his temperament was broadly similar to Michael’s, so he was usually to be found dozing in the shade—an occupation he liked to describe as “communing with Allah.” Since the amount of shade was limited, they often found themselves together.
On the day Michael remembered, they were sprawled side by side beneath the only tree in the courtyard, listening to Papa Konaré on the radio and idly watching the patients beginning to crowd in. They were mainly women, as on most days, many with babies who did not cry, or trailing large-eyed children. Because of the numbers, it would be a long wait for some, so they found their own spaces in the courtyard and squatted, patiently enduring the heat and the dust until somebody called them. The mothers shaded the babies with their bodies.
The president finished speaking, the national anthem played again, and Mansa Konkon walked into the yard. He was a small man, painfully thin and apparently of little consequence, but there was an immediate hush when he appeared. He was known in the district as a sorcerer. He walked directly to a young woman sitting with a boy about Michael’s age. One of the boy’s eyes was a milky gray, and there was some sort of growth on the side of his neck. Mansa Konkon grabbed his hand and tried to pull him away from the woman.
The woman screamed.
A furious dispute began between Mansa Konkon and the woman. It was too far for Michael to hear the words, but the argument seemed to be centered on the boy. Both woman and boy looked terrified, but the woman looked angry too. For a few moments it was just words, then Mansa Konkon hit her. The woman fell back in shock. Those close by began to move away, their eyes fearful. Then the woman flung herself forward and struck a flurry of blows to his scrawny chest.
Although the woman was young, scarcely more than a girl, she was as emaciated as Konkon himself. Her eyes had the feverish look of malnutrition, and she was clearly weak. Konkon, though thin, was wiry, and the blows had little effect. He simply stood there, waiting for the storm to abate. When the woman stopped, he began to chant.
The effect was electric. The boy began to struggle in Konkon’s grasp like a rabid animal. The woman flung herself on her knees and caught hold of Konkon’s tattered trousers in a gesture of supplication. If she’d looked frightened before, she looked terrified now.
At this point Abégé Potolo, Michael’s father, emerged from the house. He was probably reacting to the scream.
Suleiman jumped to his feet at once, not wanting the boss man to see him lazing, and began to walk purposefully across the yard. Michael jumped up too, and for want of anything better to do, went with him. Michael’s father walked directly to Konkon, the boy, and the woman, all of whom were closer to the house.
“Stop that!” Abégé snapped, his eyes fiercer than Michael had ever seen before. “Stop that at once!”
Konkon stopped chanting but kept hold of the boy. Abégé reached down, gripped the child, and jerked him free. “Ce garçon est mon patient!” he hissed, using French. “This boy is my patient!”
“My son!” Konkon screamed back in Bambara.
Abégé half turned as if to lead the boy away, and Konkon pulled something out of his pocket. For just the barest second, little Michael thought it was a weapon—lots of men carried knives in Africa, and those who could afford it carried machetes—but then he saw that it was some sort of bone or root, roughly carved into the shape of a twisted man and tied with what looked like human hair. Michael, at age seven, had not the slightest idea what it might be, but he thought it was the ugliest thing he had ever seen.
There was panic among the patients in the yard. Weak though they were, many of them began to run, dragging their children with them. Several of the women screamed. Men shouted. Even the sick, silent babies began to wail thinly.
Abégé Potolo turned again to see what the commotion was about and at once released the boy’s hand. Konkon’s son ran too, but not to his father. Konkon lifted the thing in his hand and pointed it directly at Abégé. The woman on her knees near Konkon’s feet shouted a long drawn-out “Noooonnn!” Michael felt a wordless, shapeless fear.
Michael’s father raised his right hand as if warding off a blow. Konkon shrieked once, dropped the carved bone, and slapped his hand to the side of his neck like someone swatting an insect. And truthfully, young Michael could have sworn he saw an insect there, some sort of locust, big and black; then it was gone and he wasn’t sure he’d really seen it at all. But Konkon’s knees were failing and he was sliding to the ground, while the woman at his feet scrambled away on all fours with a look of horror on her face.
Konkon hit the ground and convulsed, like a man in the grip of some fearsome epileptic fit. He drummed his head against the baked earth of the yard. Arms and legs spasmed briefly. Then he lay still.
“Sohanti!” exclaimed Suleiman in a voice close to awe.
It was then that Michael felt the first wave of pain.
21
Sir Roland, the Shadow Project
Carradine entered the operations room at a run, but all the same, Sir Roland beat him to it. He was kneeling beside the slumped body of his daughter, still held by her restraints. Beside her, Michael had his eyes open but seemed out of it. Behind her, the control panel was lit up like a Christmas tree. The chamber was filled by the wailing sound of the alarm, which sent Roland’s panic soaring. He fought hard to bring it under control. It would not help Opal if her father panicked now.
“Mute that damn thing!” Carradine called, and a harassed Fran Hitchin threw a switch. The sudden silence was almost as frightening as the alarm.
“What the hell happened?” Sir Roland demanded. He was looking at Carradine, who hadn’t been there, too angry to be reasonable.
“I don’t know,” Carradine said. He looked across. “What happened, Fran?”
Fran shook her head. “I don’t know either. It was absolutely routine—all the parameters were normal.”
Sir Roland had his fingers on Opal’s wrist, searching for a pulse. After a moment he found one, but it was faint and erratic. “I want a medical team in here now.”
“I’ll organize that,” Fran said. Anybody else would have used it as an excuse to get the hell out, but she used the intercom. Even in his extremity, Roland appreciated that.
Carradine walked across. “Excuse me, Sir Roland,” he said firmly. “I need to take a closer look.”
Opal convulsed. Michael groaned. Roland’s whole instinct was to rip his daughter free from her restraints and hold her, but he forced himself to step back. He had to let the experts do their jobs. Carradine placed two fingers on her neck. Over his shoulder, he said, “Fill us in, Fran.”
She cut the connection on the intercom. “Medics on the way,” she murmured, half to herself. Then to Carradine: “Nothing to tell you, Gary. It was a routine operation until the alarm went off.”
“You’ve sent a recall sequence?” asked Sir Roland. Of course they’d sent a recall sequence—the electronic code that should have pulled Opal directly back into her body—but he had to be sure. He looked at Opal again. Her breathing was shallow, and she was as pale as a corpse. He’d never seen anything like this happen to any of the operatives. Why now, with his daughter?
“Twice,” Fran said. “Nothing happens.”
“Have you run a diagnostic?”
“Running now,” Fran said. “So far it’s negative. I don’t think this is equipment failure.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
As Carradine stepped away, Roland moved forward to feel for the wrist pulse again. He frowned. “Her heart rate keeps settling, then shooting up.”
“I know,” Carradine said quietly.
Michael groaned, even louder this time. He seemed to be in pain.
“Is he awake?” Carradine asked Fran.
“I doubt it,” she said. She left the control console and moved across. “Michael?” she said. “Can you hear me, Michael?”
“What’s on his EEG?”
“The alpha readings are off scale. For both of them. I’m not sure it’s even meaningful anymore. Everything’s runaway.” She bent forward again. “Michael…?”
Carradine slapped him.
“Jesus, Gary!” Fran took a step backward.
But some of the dazed look left Michael’s eyes, and he turned his head as if trying to focus on Carradine. “What’s happening, Michael?” Carradine demanded.
Michael murmured something that sounded like “Sohanti.”
The medical team arrived, headed by Dr. Hornfield. They ran directly to Opal.
“Don’t unhook her!” Carradine called urgently.
Sir Roland was stepping aside for the doctors. “Why not?”
Carradine took a deep breath. “If we break the contact now, we may never get her back.”
Roland said, “Has this ever happened before?”
“You know it hasn’t,” Carradine told him.
“I don’t mean here,” Sir Roland snapped. “I mean anywhere, any time. You’re with the bloody CIA—have they run into this before?”
Carradine hesitated. “Not so far as I’m aware.”
Roland glared at him. He smelled a diplomatic answer. Carradine was hiding something. Maybe the CIA had run into more trouble in their early experiments than they admitted. They’d sworn to Roland that the electronic process was safe, otherwise he would never have recruited Opal for the Project. Now Opal was a mindless heap slumped in the chair. He opened his mouth to push the issue when Hornfield distracted him.
“Tachycardia,” Hornfield said. He had a stethoscope poked through the top of Opal’s coveralls. “Some fibrillation.”
“What’s that in plain English?” Sir Roland asked sharply.
Frowning, Hornfield said, “It’s almost as if she’s being shocked.” He glanced across at Roland. “Elevated heartbeat,” he explained. “Intermittent loss of rhythm—fibrillation. That’s the part that worries me.”
“Can you do anything?”
“I’m tempted to give her a sedative.” Hornfield opened his case and began to assemble a hypodermic.
“Is that safe?” Fran asked. “She’s still projected.”
Hornfield shrugged. “I’ve never sedated a projected operative before. But I’ll tell you this: we need to get that heart rate under control. She’s young and she’s fit, but we can’t just let it run indefinitely, otherwise there’s a risk of permanent damage.” He looked expectantly at Sir Roland.
Sedatives acted on the brain, dampening the activity of the cerebral cortex, and as a side effect changing brain-wave patterns, the same brain-wave patterns that interacted with the electronics to make the machinery work. God alone knew what a sedative might do to someone in the projected state. It might leave her in a vegetative state or even kill her. But then so could tachycardia. Roland hesitated, but only for a moment. “Go ahead,” he said.
