Out Of Time. Cliff Ryder
But the disease has a mind of its own. It’ll take its own course and have done with you when it damned well pleases.”
“What can I expect? I mean—” Alex didn’t know what he meant. He wanted the doctor to tell him he had years before he went shopping for a personalized license plate for his wheelchair. He wanted the doctor to guarantee him a few years before he became totally useless.
More paper slid across the desk, this time in the form of fat pamphlets. Alex took them without really looking at them.
“You can read these and they’ll give you a better idea of where you’re headed. There are also plenty of informative Web sites on the subject. Do some digging and you’ll get a handle on what’s known about the disease. We’ll want to repeat several of the tests in a month, especially the MRIs, and then again in six months if you’re still—”
Alex’s head snapped up, eyes glaring daggers. “Alive? If I’m still alive?”
The faint smile disappeared from Dr. Britton’s face. “No, nothing that severe. But given what we’re looking at, if you are still walking I admit I would be surprised.”
Alex stood shakily. “I know. Not your fault. Sometimes, shit just happens, eh?” He turned toward the door, the pamphlets clutched tightly in his hand. “I’ll be back in a month. Then again in six.”
Dr. Britton stared after him, frowning. “Call me if you have any concerns, Alex. And try to minimize your stress. There are many worse neurological diseases than MS. It’s not fatal. I could have told you that your life is ending.”
Alex laughed harshly. “You just did.”
Britton slumped back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he said. “You’ll want to take some time with this at first. Just remember that stress makes MS symptoms worse. Go easy for a bit and maybe the symptoms will settle down a little.”
Alex nodded sharply, then left, stalking down the hall toward the elevator. His face was steady and he hadn’t blinked since opening the door to Dr. Britton’s office. The Muzak droned in the elevator, but he didn’t hear it. He stared straight ahead, stoic and silent. He showed no reaction at all until he stepped out onto the sidewalk and the bright midday sun assaulted his eyes.
There he stood, Alex Tempest, master spy and assassin, husband, father and soon…useless. For the first time, he became aware of the pamphlets in his hand. That hand trembled as it brought the pages closer to his line of sight and he grimaced. Multiple sclerosis. Didn’t that just beat the hell out of the band?
He realized he’d never really thought about walking. Everyone just takes for granted that they can. It might have been easier if it had been a death sentence. That would have been devastating to most people, but Alex Tempest was not most people. He had thought at length about the manner and time of his death. He’d always figured that he’d die in a blaze of glory, bullets raining down on him from every direction. He’d hoped he would die in brave, heroic fashion, maybe even in the process of saving someone’s life. Death like that was something he could face.
But he’d never imagined something like this. A disease, wasting him away, helpless in the face of an enemy he couldn’t see, couldn’t fight. It wasn’t even a good disease, the result of a life of excess or debauchery. If it were, he’d at least have something to show for it—some good memories.
Two blocks down the street was a dark little bar called Pete’s. Alex headed in that direction, the pamphlets clutched in his trembling hand. The prescriptions were tucked neatly into his wallet, folded twice to ensure a good fit. His free hand gripped the door handle and pulled, allowing him entrance to a world inhabited solely by the lost.
Inside, the bar was dark and the air smelled like stale beer and smoke. The faintest scent of burned French fries wafted out of the kitchen and the phone rang shrilly against the soft hum of voices. Alex slipped onto a stool and flagged down the bartender. “Double Black Jack, neat.”
The bartender nodded, and then reached for a glass. It was artfully filled and pressed into his hand. Alex traded him a twenty for it. “Four more. Line ’em up.” He downed the first one and tried to smile.
“Tough day?” The bartender was too young and too innocent to know anything about bad days.
“Last day.” The hint of sadness in Alex’s voice was unmistakable and it was enough to make the bartender leave him alone with his liquid friends.
Alex sipped at the second drink and spread the pamphlets out on the bar. Might as well know what he was up against. He flipped open the fat one, skimmed the opening details and gore, then cut straight to the dos and don’ts. He hoped that he’d find some secret remedy contained in those scant pages. Instead, he found bad news and more bad news.
Chief among the don’ts was drinking. “Fuck you!” he grumbled to the pamphlet, then slammed it shut and tossed back the third shot. The bartender stared at him for a moment, then turned away in silence.
There were few dos included. Not much advice and little or no hope. Apparently, nothing much helped, beyond doing none of the things you enjoyed up until you were left drooling in a wheelchair and then killed by something stupid, like a cold, when your immune system finally collapsed.
He thought about his wife, Brin, and his eyes welled with tears. He’d have to tell her, but he didn’t know how he’d do it. She was strong and brilliant and amazingly self-sufficient, but this would devastate her. And he didn’t want to think about what the news would do to their daughter, Savannah. She was Daddy’s girl, tried and true. Alex smiled as he thought about her, her sweet face, her tiny hand in his. Then he frowned. She was a little over two. If the disease progressed quickly, she might not even remember him, or worse, she might only remember an incompetent in a wheelchair who could never help her or protect her.
Alex thought he would rather be dead in some hell hole than face his wife and daughter with this kind of news. Dead that way, he was making a difference. He was a warrior, and if he couldn’t fight this disease, he could damned well go out fighting.
And who knew, he thought, maybe he was strong enough to beat it for a while. The power of the mind, his body was still in great shape, maybe he could will himself to overcome the disease. He shook his head and took another swallow of the burning liquor.
If not, what good could he do himself, his family or the world, with this damned disease?
He swallowed as the answer came to him.
None.
3
Denny Talbot heard the faint tone in his earpiece that indicated someone wanted to speak to him and he slipped on the wraparound-style sunglasses that allowed him to access the virtual world of Room 59. Using his avatar, he keyed in the codes that would transform the digital green lines of nothingness into what looked like a normal office in seconds. When it was done and his avatar was seated, he said, “Enter.”
Kate Cochran, the director of Room 59, came through his virtual door at a good clip, her platinum-blond hair bouncing around her neck as she moved. She had one of those damnable red folders in her hand, which meant this was important—life-altering important.
Denny leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest. Everything in the Room 59 virtual world could appear as real or unreal as the user desired. He preferred reality to the strangeness of a dream, so his office mirrored reality to the smallest detail. “A red folder,” he said without preamble. “What do you have for me this time?” A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Something big,” Kate said. “And very juicy.” She tapped the folder and set it on his desk. “Rare-steak juicy.”
Denny started to reach for the file but she pulled it back just in the nick of time. “Okay, why don’t you fill me in, then?” He smiled, full on, and laced his fingers over his belly as he rocked slowly in the chair.
“Ever heard of a company called MRIS? Medical Robotic Imaging Systems, Inc.?”