D R . I M M O R T A L I T Y "Hey, man, the band wasn't thatbad," Les insisted, checking his hair tactfully in the marred mirror before turning back. He could still hear the pounding bass coming through the walls, occasionally punctuated by the cries of a one-night fan. Ward coughed sharply and spat, then looked up from the sink he was leaning heavily on. "Wasn't the band," he rasped from darkened lips before a shudder racked him and he leaned forward again, the plaster in which the sink was set cracking with his weight. Les let the smile fade, and was on the point of leaning against the wall nonchalantly when an idea struck him. "Tyler better not be making those drinks wrong," he seethed. "If the lace was cut with borax again..." "It's not the drinks," Ward's voice growled from around the faucet. He took a mouthful of water from the tap and spat, then stood and nodded towards the porcelain with a glare, as if to say, "take a goddamned look." Les glanced over without enthusiasm, saw the blood, and stared at the paper towel his friend was using to wipe the last of the crimson from his lips. "Christ n' Cain, what the hell is that?" A strange mixture of concern and anger fixed his eyes on Ward, while in the back of his mind a fear twitched nervously as he realized that this could be a product of lifestyle. "You poisonin' yourself, man?" Ward smiled in his twisted, cynical way. "Ain't that a newsflash, boyo." He tossed the towel in the general direction of the floor and stared at the scrawls etched into the mirror by a thousand blades and spikes. After what would pass for a contemplative moment he turned and leaned against the peeling wall next to his companion. His eyes stared straight ahead, leather collar half tucked in his jacket, as he started to explain. "I've been cursed." "You've gotta be kidding." "No, really, he just panicked," Maatef grinned, spinning the ice around his glass to accompany the faint song of the chandelier overhead. He took a sip of the golden liquer, eyeing the dancers in the adjoining hall, then turned back to the other two, the long white tails of his silk coat cutting an arc through the air. "So this guy, this lowlife, was coming in through the front door just as you were leaving?" Stefan remarked, humorously sceptical. He caught a jellied olive concoction in his teeth and delicately flipped the aluminum toothpick onto the tray of a passing gartered server. "I was just getting some supplies, so I didn't bother with the lights," explained Maatef. "He's lucky he ran into me instead of the security system." "Must've been after the pharamaceuticals," Dixon mused, eyes on the minidress of the waitress who had just left him his champagne noir. "And then?" prompted Stefan, greasing the wheels of high conversation with a little gratuitous interest. "Then I pointed at him, rolled my eyes a little--you know, the uhllall," Maatef grinned, demonstrating briefly,"And waved my hand a bit, then I said all sinister-like, `I curse you and yours; these next four weeks shall be your last!'--right before I hit him with the cancer cells." The other two chuckled, mostly in earnest. "I say, Matt," Dixon commented by way of encouragement. "I think I threw in a couple of ngai's and Nyarlathoteps as well," the storyteller laughed. "Who would've thought that TwenCen horror elective would've ever come in handy, eh?" The three laughed and toasted, let the brass sound of the dance floor wash over them for a few seconds before curiosity set in. "So what'd you use to deliver the, ah, dosage?" Stefan ventured. Maatef extended a forefinger and tensed his palm; a slim metallic filament, barely visable, balanced at the edge of his nail. "This," he said, eyes indicating the needle. "Ten foot reach, tapers to a monomolecular point. Thunked him right in the chest after I did my thing." Dixon and Stephan peered at the weapon in actual interest. "And the cancer will reach lethality in four weeks?" Dixon murmered, planning a purchase. The demonstrator smirked. "Four weeks, four years, who knows? It may not even kill him, but it'll sure make his life hell." He withdrew the needle by tensing his wrist; the gleam of metal disappeared invisibly into its resin-lined flesh sheath. "But I bet he doesn't even get it diagnosed. Just goes to show you how superstitous these `natives' are." "So just who is this guy?" "Don' worry, man, he's on top of things." Les brushed a damp sheet aside with his forearm, then ducked under the clothesline. Ward followed, steam blasting his boots from exhaust valves jutting from the tarred roof. "He's a mystic; maybe he can help." His friend led him through a maze of vents and chimneys; this high, the rooftops connected to form a jumbled landscape that stretched for miles and gave rise to an entire subculture that never ventured below the forty-first flooor. The air was thick with fog and steam, and the glare of the fire reached them long before the smoke. Les headed for the flickering light, moving blindly through the cables and antennae until an alley unfolded itself in darkness before them, the fire a clear bright point amongst the black. The more protrudant features of a still man were picked out in the darkness beyond the blaze, and as they moved closer a pair of black-on-white eyes tracked them. Domino flashed across Ward's mind briefly. "Judas," Les hailed. "I'm here again." The protocol was required, even if he had never before visited; only one person would decide whether or not he was worth seeing. The obscured face nodded, once, giving a brief glimpse of black hair worked into a thousand tiny, beaded braids. The two moved up to the fire leaping out of an old oil barrel, looked into the black, vaguely insectoid shades that neither had seen the man put on. Judas fixed twin lenses on Ward. "Your problem?" Ward shrugged, slightly nervous at the more-than-direct approach. "I'm cursed," he explained, withdrawing a bottle of black rum to place in the seer's outstretched hand. "I've got two weeks till I die." Judas took a large swallow from the bottle and smiled, revealing a mouthful of silver. "You got time. A little time, it's true. But time." He took another swallow, then passed the bottle to Ward, indicating that it should go around. Les accepted his hesitantly, unfamiliar with the generosity, and passed the bottle back to the mystic. Judas took another swallow, then gazed contemplatively at the invisible stars. "Time," he began, "is subjective. There's this chaotic sequence of events that is reality, and on the surface of this sequence a pattern is apparent. Here we get days, months, years. But look deeper, and this pattern disappears, unravelling like some temporal tapestry. The need for leap years, culture- specific calendars, and daylight savings time all arise." He paused to fuel his speculation."This pattern, being superficial, is merely a suggestion, and it is this suggestion that puts a limit on men's lives. On our own, each of us is timeless; we live our lives ignorant of anything coming before or after us. We are, each of us, our own timeline and reality, divided only by a succession of periods of light and darkness. Every lifetime is an eternity when unregulated by the social constraints like histories and deadlines, and it is only in accessing this eternity--in withdrawing oneself from the detrimental, aging influences of society--that true immortality can be reached." He paused to let this sink in, and sent the bottle around again to stop the reeling of the others' minds. A gulp of rum introduced his return as he began. "When time becomes measurable, it becomes knowable. It becomes an answer to be sought. Once introduced to the concept of time, most people react by trying to determine just how much they have left." The next swallow of alcohol left the impenetrable lenses fixed on Ward. "You, my friend, have been blessed with the knowledge of just how much time there is left in your mortal frame." He smiled again, as if at some jest which eluded his listeners. "These next two weeks you should live regardless of time, regardless of history and deadline, and so these two weeks will become for you an eternity. You have been granted the liberty to free yourself from responsibility and expectation; it would be wise of you to make good use of it." The shades moved, targeting nondescript points in space and time before resting at a reflective angle slightly above and to the left. "Of course, there's always Dr. Immortality." A pale green glow from the photosynthesizer splashed over his pale fingers and the white cuff of his starched shirt; blue lettering on a white screen reflected in the small circlular lenses of his glasses as he scanned the text, bony hands hovering over the grey keys, fingertips shaking slightly. The burnt smell of coffee wafted from the steaming cardboard cup off to the right, almost lost among the scattered pipets and flasks, and an herbal cigarette turning slowly to ash smoldered silently to the left of the keyboard. White glare from the screen made his gaunt face even more pale, and the intruding darkness sunk about the sharp edges to create a dramatic grim visage. Reading the various communiques from those who knew his netadd was always a relaxing break from the tedious art of preservation and rejuvenation. It is always easier to give advice than to give that which has already been taken away. The first message dealt with a description of exaggerated aging amongst the population of a ghetto a hundred miles away, along with a description of recent environmental changes which might have accounted for the symptoms. He spent a few moments in abstract contemplation, then begain typing what he believed to be the most appropriate solution: It is indeed plausible that the physical deterioration of the individuals within your community is the direct result of corporate intervention in your fuel supply. The changes you have described are similar to those brought on by Parkinson's disease as well as aging or Alzheimer's. At the turn of the century, an attempt was made to improve the efficiency of chemical fuels with the synthetic additive MMT. This additive contained the toxin manganese which, when present in brain tissue in sufficient amounts, caused rapid tissue and nervous degeneration that led to the symptoms of the above-named diseases. While increasing dependence on solarelectric power rendered the controversial additive useless, the current resurgence of synthesized fossil fuels may have led to the development of a similar compound. In most areas, the effects of manganese remain unpronounced; yet in low- income, undernourished areas such as yours, the overall calcium deficiency has caused individuals to become more susceptible to the effects of manganese than would normally be possible. It appears that your best option would be to appeal to a global regulatory agency to enforce minimum toxin standards within your locale, or to fund a private venture to produce an alternative additive which may be introduced into your fuel system at the cost of local corporates. Until such time as these effects take place, however, the effects of manganese can be minimized by high-calcium dietary supplements. It may be possible that such supplements will be funded at the county level, or by international relief organizations such as the Global Institute of the Red Cross or APEC. Doc Imm. The response satisfied him, based on the information he was given. He took a relaxed drag off the smoke, spilling a half-inch of ash to the blue-grey tiled floor, then turned his attention back to the screen. <> The paranoid superstition of the message made him smile slightly and reach for his coffee; for a brief moment he considered the current state of the lower strata of mankind in comparison to a similar population centuries ago, then he returned his concentration to the matter at hand. The language of the message indicated that the applicant had an educated ally, perhaps one with medical training who had actually taken his pulse. In this case, the message should be directed towards the intelligence level of this second party in order to avoid the potential for miscommunication that existed when contacting an under- educated, not to mention superstitious, party. To: <>
The symptoms you have cited indicate the potential for any number of physical disorders, most of which would appear stress-related. It is highly probable that the pains you are experiencing are the result of a temporary anxiety disorder which would best be relieved by either withdrawal from the stressful influence, or psychological or spiritual guidance. However, the possibility exists that you are afflicted with either malignant heart palpitations (incidating cardio-vascular problems) or a cancer of one of the major respiratory or digestive organs (specifically, the lungs, stomache, or intestinal tract). In order to attempt further diagnosis, I recommend that you obtain comprehensive blood, urine, and tissue testing in order to determine if what you are experiencing is in fact a fatal disorder. Should the test prove positive, send me a scanned copy of the results in order to determine what approach we should take towards solving your problem. Doc Imm. <<2ND.MAIN,SE-CTY>> His fingers left the keyboard to lift the cardboard cup to his lips, then quickly lowered as he grimaced. The other hand lent him a drag to kill the grainy taste of the cold coffee, then twisted the cigarette into the bottom of the black ashtray that rested on a wheeled aluminum tray to the left of his hip. After the briefest of pauses he blew the frantically writhing cloud of smoke at the white glare of the screen. Corine kicked her feet up sullenly, lifted the tumbler until it was a silver and amber blur, drained the whiskey and coke until the ice begain to numb her upper lip. Waiting, she realized with a tortured swallow, sucks. Three days of surveillance and all she had was a collection of advice and pharmaceutical remedies to life's more tedious moments. So much for her counter-culture exclusive. There's got to be some angle to this guy, she insisted to herself as she swallowed whiskey- water from the bottom of the glass, some reason behind his reputation. She looked about her for the bottle, eyes probing the phones, wires, shadeless lightbulbs and to-go containers for something solid, glass, and half-full. There's gotta be some excuse for the station footin' my drunk bill. "Cor," came the voice from the end of the table in the studio. "You might want to take a look at this." She got up reluctantly to her feet, moved to stand behind the right shoulder of her partner, the tumbler of ice absent-mindedly clutched in her right hand. "What's up, Neil?" She ventured, looking over his spiked brown hair to examine the black-on-white computer screen. "Big offer. This guy confirmed he has lung cancer, and the doc's offering to fix it." The younger man's fingers flew across the keys as he stole more of the precious message from the personal trash file. "Hot damn," Corine murmered as her eyes flicked down the scrolling text. "The corps don't even have this. They're still using clones to bypass that crap. Aren't they?" "Seems like," Neil nodded. "Unless there's something they're not telling us. Think this guy's from a black lab, selling his trade on a street level?" He smiled. "Humanitarian angle. Great story." "Only in fairy tales, Neil." She bent to study the screen more closely. "Besides, wouldn't the corps announce a breakthrough if they had this kind of skill? They are the bragging type; the reputation of any R&D corp is what decides their market share." Neil smiled, took the tumbler from her slender hand, frowned at how clear the liquid was, and set it down beside the keyboard. "Not if they want to keep the knowledge to themselves. Remember, the corporates are trying to outlast the government at this point." "And doing a good job, too," the reporter remarked as she leaned on the back of Neil's chair. "But you're being just a little paranoid, huh?" She smiled, stood up, patted his shoulder. "Besides, we better focus on the issue at hand--namely, how do we get an interview with the alleged doctor?" "Think you're gettin'the big-time story with this one, Cor?" "I dunno," she responded, eyes roaming the ceiling. "Immortality is a hot topic, whatever the times. We've got a lead on a guy who claims he can give eternal life, at a price, and plus we can identify a customer of his with a fatal disease. Think of it: the teaser, then follow up interviews with the doctor and his patient, finally an end-all wrap-up on eternal life, its merits and consequences." Corine stopped in mid-gesticulation, cocked her head, looked at the hacker. "Whadda you think?" "This wacked, man," Ward muttered under his breath as he checked the sights on his air gun. "Bust-ups are gonna be all over us on the way out." He glanced nervously towards the broad glass front of the clinic, the cheap holofield trailing static as it tried to disguise his moving features. "So you gotta be quick," Les replied. "Big deal; in an' out, a few jars under your arm. I'll blow smoke for ya if things get thick." He fingered the burnished aluminum canisters belted to the gas tank of his bike. "Besides, you ain't got much choice. The doc said B.Y.O. plus the grand, or your internals won't last a month." He glanced at his watch, met the other's eyes. "In five," he remarked by way of goodbye, then slid the mirrored plate of the black helmet over his drawn features. Wordlessly he turned and wheeled the light alloy streetbike into the deep shadows cast by the decorative hedges that lined the sidewalk. Ward took a slow breath, then began walking briskly up the wide white steps to the medical building. The bright hospital lights made him squint as he pushed open the heavy glass doors and strode professionally down the tiled white hallway, afraid to nod familiarly at the desk clerks in case his holo glitched. A series of turns, following the white-on-brown arrows to the transplant freezers, then a quick search for the physician's entrance to the meat lockers. No guard outside, he noticed, which made things significantly easier. As he opened the metal- reinforced door, his right hand drew the pistol from the folds of his tan trenchcoat, and he targetted the three white-coated individuals within the room in under two seconds. Six soft hisses of air whispered through the still room as each target received two darts loaded with a Class E serotonic neurotoxin. Two sets of hands raised to pluck the tiny needles from the skin, while the third reached simultaneously for a gun and an alarm. Ward brushed past them as the bodies started falling, assured by the potency of the drug. The steel handle of the locker was cold to his touch, and as he entered the cooler he tried to recall what parts of his body were failing. Lungs, he remembered as he shouldered through the frosted plastic strips hanging in the doorway for some obscure reason. And intestines. It took him a full minute to find lung and intestinal tissue of his blood type, then another fifteen seconds to make his way out of the steel, glass, and flesh maze, breath fogging in front of him like an ethereal guide. The hospital air hit him like an oven, and he started to sweat as he stepped over the unconscious bodies in the room. Once in the hall he picked up his pace, heart pounding, blood rushing with adrenalin, the canvas bag at his left shaking with his nervous arm. The lobby was more crowded than he remembered, and he realized that someone pounding the tiles behind him was calling for him to stop. Ward halted, planted in mid-step, locked eyes on his three pursuers as the gun found its way to his hand. Ten needles for these, his mind flashed as he sighted along the black cylinder topping the gun. A quick cloud of drugged metal to make up for his rushed aim. The flechettes were in the air, the solid toxin grafted to their surface itching to reach a bloodstream, as he turned back towards the doors. Fifteen feet, he estimated, with about twenty civs and six guards. Guns being drawn on all sides. His left leg pistoned from the tile as he split his stance into a run, thumb flicking the pistol to full auto. Ward lowered his head, put the arm with the heavy and awkward bag of tissue before him, and sprayed the room with the remaining 84 needles in the clip as he sprinted to the entrance, a shoulder slamming painfully into the door as cautious bullets shattered what glass his body didn't crack. Les had the bike running ready as he hopped on the back. Ward released the trigger on his weapon as he realized it was firing only dead puffs of air, the magazine depleted, then tucked it in a pocket and placed the sack in his lap, glass clinking as he gripped it with his knees. His left hand slapped Les on the back of his battered leather jacket, then gripped the backup handles by his thighs as the bike took off down the well-lit pavement, instantly throwing six blocks in front of the guards chasing them. The status call was still buzzing in her ears when Annis punched the broadcast relay with a glossy maroon nail, her left palm snapping out to re-route the next six incoming calls. "Two light AV's to Grand Avenue, six blocks north of Euclid. Two suspects on stripped Yamaha, leather and a trench, light weaponry. Echo." Her fingers paused, tensed as she awaited an answer. "Echo, AVU 6 Central. One-five E.T.A.." "Echo, AVU 32 Northwestern. Fifty E.T.A.." "Echo, AVU 15 Central. Ninety E.T.A.. Kudos, Annis." "AV's 6 and 32 respond, 15 circle south for arson detail. Sorry, Gary. Dispatch out." "You owe. 15 out." Annis smiled briefly before three amber lights winked red before her. "Ground units, backup at 1152 Pico, Olympic and Third, and 29356 Sac. Firefights all, officer down at Sac. Echo." She nodded briefly at the GV confirmations from her inner-earpiece, then switched to direct-channel link. "AV's 6 and 32, status." "AVU 6, en route. Visible scope of AVU 32." "AVU 32, in pursuit. Perps not responding to warning. Counter-measures underway." Annis waited under a second for the results. "Bike down, one suspect fleeing, driver trapped under bike. He's up, locking...down again. Wounded--arm, perhaps shoulder. Second perp out of visibility, repeat, second suspect got away. Moving in for apprehension. He's crawling away from the bike, throwing something... grenade, smoke. Mo-" "AVU 6, we have a situation here, officers down, probable fatalities..." "AV-6, what happened? Clarify situation immediately!" Annis fought to keep the panic out of her voice. It was so eerie, listening to it from this end...three deaths, not with a heroic cry or an apprehensive curse like Hollywood preferred, but an abrupt break in communication. No escape, no warning. "AVU 6, AVU 32 is down, repeat, AVU 32 is down. Perps out of sight, ground assistance required." Annis checked her status lights. "Ground units tied up, 6, at Sac. Life team under way. Clarify situation, 6." The voice was crackling and rushed over the airwaves. "The driver was shot in the upper torso and downed by AVU 32. 32 moved in for apprehension, and the perp ignited the fallen bike with an incendiary grenade. 32 was caught in the fireball from the fuel tank. Life teams approaching. AVU 6 out." "AV 6, sweep area for perps, two mile rad, full floods. Give it three, then head to Sac for high-alt strafing. Heavy firepower, repeat heavy firepower. We don't need another wreck tonight. Dispatch out." Annis took a deep breath, shivering slightly before five more lights winked amber on her display. Dawn was almost breaking; the vague haze that forever hid the sky was already lit in a mixture of brown, orange, and white that silhouetted the looming skyscape of the city and picked out all but the deepest shadows of the alley. Ward trained his wandering gaze on the once-green paint of the door before them, extended a finger to press the call button again. Pale blue light flickered like a strobe from the bulletproof video screen mounted by the top left corner of the door, halting his hand in mid-reach. An oversized temple, fading to a glittering eye and short dark hair, bobbed in center view. "Gentlemen," greeted the disembodied voice as the hidden eye scanned them vicariously through a lens embedded below the screen. "Please come in." The riveted door gave slightly with a dull clack, a thin line of shadow growing from the left doorjamb. Ward looked over at Les where he leaned against the dirty brick wall, right palm clutching his reformed shoulder, and jerked his head towards the doorway. Les righted himself with a groan, demonstrating the lack of any effect on behalf of the anesthetics that were supposed to make his six- hour recovery go smoothly. Tolerance level, Ward realized belatedly as he forced the door open with a palm. Not the best thing to have when you start relying on painkillers. Ward paused, offered an arm, then dropped it as Les shook it off. He shrugged, stepped into the thin doorway, waiting briefly for his eyes to adjust before continuing in the darkness. Les followed slowly, using his heel to force the door shut behind him, and gingerly touched his shoulder to check the progress. The room was cool and dry, with a white antiseptic smell that remained resolutely in the background, refusing to be identified. Tall metal pressure tanks, similar to oxygen containers, lined the left wall, and reflected on their smooth sides a line of the faint bluish light that emanated from the doorway at the far end of the hall. A low gushing sound came from above their heads, and Ward leaned his head back as he walked, shuffling, to glimpse portions of a network of pipes and tubing susepended from the invisible ceiling by thick, hanging chains. Condensation from the lines filmed the wall and dripped from the steel links overhead, forming long pools at the base of each wall. Just opposite the doorway Ward could make out a bank of circuit boards and sensors, shrouded in clear plastic to prevent the moisture that fogged their red LEDs from shorting the bare connections. As they drew closer and the blue-white glow began to cling to their faces, a sporadic scraping and huffling sound could be heard. Ward paused in the doorway, icy water dripping onto his navy hair, squinting in the bright light. A white-coated figure was moving back and forth among the shelves and tables that filled the room, occasionally stepping in front of a glaring white sphere that threw it in sharp silhouette and left bright purple-pink after-images on Ward's retinas. He took a tentative step inside, almost slipping on a pair of finger-thick black cables that snaked over the naked concrete. The figure turned, white coat dipping lower to the floor, then the white light was extinguished, drawing itself into a large olive-shaped bulb that was set on a high table towards the back of the room. The filament faded to a low orange and glowed silently, unobtrusively. Ward and Les entered the room. Before them stood a man in black jeans, a starched light blue shirt, and a white lab coat. His face was long and gaunt, with a jutting chin and nose, high cheekbones, and pale grey eyes that lurked behind the smoked lenses of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His skin was light and dry, smooth yet wrinkling suddenly when he flashed his yellowing teeth or flexed his bony fingers. The remains of the man's hair was grey-white and of medium length, crowning his considerable height like a decaying halo. He smiled functionally, extended a palm in invitation. "Greetings," he began in a voice that was fresh and youthful while without any emotion or drive whatsoever. "I am Doc Immortality." He paused with the unconcious hint of a smile twisting the corners of his mouth, looked the two visitors up and down, head jerking slightly, like a bird's. "You must be Ward." Ward nodded. "From the tests you delivered, it appears that eighty percent of your lung tissue is destroyed. I trust you have brought replacement tissue." Ward hefted the canvas bag at his side as an indication. "Good. Now, is this going to be cash or trade-in?" "Cash," Ward replied quickly. In the past few days he'd heard more than a few tales from those who had traded a spare organ to the Doc. He dug his free hand into his jacket as Doctor Immortality waited expectantly, then handed over a thick sheaf of bills. The doctor flipped through them quickly with deft, lively fingers, then looked up into Ward's eyes. "Good," he smiled briefly. "Follow me in back. Your friend, I fear," for a moment he looked slightly heartbroken, "Must wait out here, perhaps in that chair." He indicated a not-totally- uncomfortable metal chair with a nod of his narrow, angular head. "It should be about three or so hours. He should be fully recovered by then." Without another word he turned and, waving for Ward to follow, disappeared through a black plastic curtain on the left wall of the room. "Throwing in the towel already, Corine? That's not like you." Corine looked up at the station manager's admonishment as she dumped a handful of binders and tattered notebooks onto the crowded top of her desk, knocking a few pens and a stapler off the edge and onto the scrub-carpet floor. "It's no use," she told him, straightening to be able to look down on him from her spiked heels. "No-one will talk about him, and he won't contact me directly. I don't know what he does, but after people see him they refuse to discuss it." "You think this is a horror-show process? Some sort of trauma?" Len shifted uncomfortably as Corine's green eyes gazed at him from between the twin black curtains of her hair, resolving to never talk to her unless she was seated. She shook her head. "Maybe more like a bribe." "What about that thrasher Neil got a line on last week? He shouldn't be too close-lipped." "Thrasher--Hell, Len, they're street-people. No homes, live in boxes, you know? I can't trace him, I have no idea who he is, and no-one out there can place the name. And besides, what could he tell me? Guy wouldn't know science from sorcery, no exclusive news there." She sighed, looking down as she fingered the roll of scotch tape on her desk. "Guess we'll chalk this one up to urban rumor." Then, looking up, "Unless you want to fund a sting." Len paused. Immortality was a hot story, but a very unlikely reality...."Mmmm. We'll see. I suppose if we do, you'll want first shot?" "Damn straight, Len, I've been-" He cut her off with a hand. "I know, I know. Until the network kicks us some funds for the project, though, don't get too excited. In the meantime, dig up what you can this mercenary, whatever his name is, guy with the sword. Dramatic type." "Style?" She clarified, the only name she'd heard the guy get hired under. Probably didn't answer to it. One would hope, at least. "Yeah, that's the one. Check him out, apparently he's feeling like telling tales. Perhaps an insider of the thrill-kill lifestyle, you know, the downtown spectacular?" She nodded soberly, started to sit down. Len rapped her desk, smiled briefly. "Get on it." Les sauntered up to the stained white tables, pulled up a soft plastic chair. "How you feelin'?" He asked, stealing a gulp of Ward's coffee. "Not bad," the other replied. "Hell, I feel great. I've got this energy, like I should work out or something. And I've been clean since you last saw me--or mostly; still coffee and beer, y'know." He reclaimed his paper cup to demonstrate. "I haven't seen you since the Doc's, man. That's a long time to be clean. What've you been doing with yourself?" He paused, lit up a smoke, blew the cloud away behind him. "Haven't seen you at any of the clubs or havocs. Thought maybe the op didn't take, or..." He paused, took a drag to fuel thought, let the smoke drift out of his nostrils. "So where have you been?" "Channelling my energy," Ward smiled. He stuck two fingers into the lining pocket of his leather jacket, flicked a thin plastic card across the table. "Take it. For your bike. It's more than enough to get you another." Les picked up the card delicately, unbelievably, as if trying to ascertain its existence. The shimmering blue lettering embossed on the marbled plastic declared it to be an CanAm bank card, platinum grade. The minimum balance alone was more than three bikes would ever cost. He arched an eyebrow, briefly obscuring an old scar on his forehead, and looked at his friend. "And a little extra for your arm," Ward smiled. "Christ n' Cain, Ward," Les murmered, fingers rubbing the card to reinforce its presence. "What've you been doing?" Ward drained his coffee, signalled to the counter for another, then gazed down the crowded street, as if looking for an omen among the nomads and wage slaves that hurried by the cafe's streetside veranda. Finally he looked up to receive his refill and, fueled by a gulp of diluted caffeine, he explained. "I've been doing a number of things. Since that op, I've had a more energy, like I said. A lot more. I found I've needed less sleep, I have more adrenalin to work with, I'm in better shape. My body is more efficient, I'm more alert and more powerful than ever before." He paused, took another sip, one fingertip shaking slightly. "So I started doing jobs--as many as I could find, just to keep myself busy. It started underground--you know, here and there at some clubs, then some security on a few jobs, getting more rep and cash every day." Ward offered the coffee to Les, who took a swallow thankfully. "Within a week it was out of control. I got a job as a freelance for Response, who needed a point man--apparently one of their supes was on the bad end of one of my pull-outs down by the river, and thought I'd be worth a hire. Past few weeks, I've been working full-time plus on their teams, and hiring out on the off-hours to Response clients who needed a one-man security team." He smiled, gazed up at what should have been the sun but was instead a diffuse glare of clouds and high-altitude fog. "Things are looking up, Les. I may be able to pull a career out of this one." Les nodded, tucked the card that represented a major portion of the other's recent earnings into his pocket. "Hell," he smiled. "That's the best news I've heard all decade." He drew one last lungful from his smoke, then flicked it at the scores of shoes plodding along the concrete, sending pinpoint orange sparks dancing across the sidewalk. "I guess there's an exception after all." "To what?" Ward asked, a little puzzled but, considering the circumstances, unconcerned. "To the whole Doc Imm thing," Les explained, running a hand through his recently forest green-dyed hair. "From what I've been hearing this last month, you mess with the Doc, you get burned. Haven't heard of a case yet, except yours, where the operation wasn't quite what they expected." "What do you mean, people have been short-changing the Doc? Think he's got some sort of protective mechanism worked into the cure?" Les shook his head, sending a few flakes of greenish dandruff to the shoulders of his torn and scraped leather jacket. "No, not like that. It's like everyone who deals with Doc Immortality comes away tainted, somehow. Not the same. Although in your case, it seems different--like instead of getting tainted, you got blessed or something. Charmed." Ward laughed, took the cup back from Les and gulped the hot liquid. "Well, I was pretty screwed up to begin with. Probably this `curse' can ony take you so low, and if you're already there, you can only go up." He stopped, breathed deeply, gazed at his hand and the cheap braided-steel ring he had bought for it recently. "I guess you can only be cursed so many times, huh?" "Guess so," Les agreed noncommittally. "C'mon, man, let's go. Haven't seen you in awhile, and your break is cause for a scene." He stood, shifted his shouders jerkily to re-settle the leather. "And with this card, I'll be buying," he smiled, patting his pocket. The first pangs hit a week later. Ward was disturbed, but not unduly so, and continued through his activities with a grimace. The painkillers he tried were barely effective, and even alcohol only made the pain that much more apparent. Irritating, he noticed, but not insurmountable. The pain gave him an extra edge, always a plus in his new line of work. After two weeks it was distracting. He slipped up at jobs, missing a sound or a flash of motion as occasional stabbing pains occupied his senses. Entire operations were put in jeapordy, and once he was saved from a knife in the back only by the fortuitous appearance of a colleague who heard his grunts of pain. Response retired him early. Ward relied on his limited base of personal clients, hyping himself on every painkiller and stimulant possible to maintain reputable service. One night, over a month after the pains began, Ward lashed out at an unexpected movement while in the midst of a flood of agony, his reflexes pinning his client to the wall with a solid blow to the diaphragm. He was never called in for a job again. The next day found him at a vid-phone booth just outside of the Hard Rock cafe uptown, a sweaty gloved hand running through the stiff hair that was still trying to regain its natural color. He hunched over the screen secretively, desperately as rockers and ex-punks milled through the yellow light on the sidewalk to his back, trying to pool enough cash to buy a burger so their respective groups could deserve a table. "Doc," Ward was saying. "What the hell is up with this? I get these pulses of agony that are pretty damn distracting; it feels like I'm dying all of a sudden. I thought you removed that cancer?" This was not exactly a question, but panic caused it to lack the angry edge of a shout. "The cancer?" The Doc asked, his flickering image appearing to look off in thought. "Ah yes, Wade, with the lung and intestinal cancers. The tumors have, of course, been removed, and the associated tissue has been replaced. Still, the disease with which you were infected was viral in origin-- a synthetic cancer--and it was impossible to remove all traces of the cancer without cloning you an entirely new body--an operation which, as you may realize, was beyond the scope of the fees and materials supplied for your situation. What you have is, in effect, a hostile living organism within your body which attempts cellular usurpation and destruction on a daily basis." "What the hell am I supposed to do, then?" Wade demanded, spinning to glare out at the street in anger. A few heads of spiked, shaved, and dyed hair turned to glare back at him from beneath razor- edge shades. He looked down at the screen in time to catch Doctor Immortality scrolling through screens on a terminal just to his right. Brilliant bluish light beamed off a heavy ring as his fingers tapped keys, providing an unearthly clash with the pale green glow that suffused his skin and coat. "The viral cancer can be kept at bay with infusions of fresh blood. The plasma within the blood feeds the cancer, and when the plasma is relatively depleted the cancer feeds on the arterial walls and the various organs." He paused, looked up at Ward. "Be careful to introduce blood of your specific type--A positive--or any other blood which has been treated with the Stillinger A+ enzyme. About four pints should be plenty. Synthetic will do." "How often will I have to do this?" Ward demanded, like an irrate customer negotiating the repair bill on an expired warranty. "Is this going to be a one-time thing, or what?" "No. The blood-plasma in your system should need to be replaced about every six to eight months, depending on your metabolism." Doctor Immortality paused, looked up slightly as if seeking Ward's eyes through the cameras and wiring. "I'm sorry, Ward, but I did all I could. A fresh infusion of plasma is the only way to keep the cancer from spreading through your entire system." A white gleam shot off the lenses of his glasses as the tall man turned his head, smiling faintly. "But I can't afford to replace my blood plasma every six months, even with synthetic," Ward protested, developing a feeling of extreme anxiety that rose hauntingly from the pit of his stomache. "Then you'll have to steal them. Get a donor. I'm sure you'll find a way. You seem pretty resourceful." "You expect me to break into hospitals for the rest of my life? Beg at blood banks? Kill people for their plasma?" The image on the screen was still and silent. "Alright," Ward sighed, leaning against the staticy screen of the public terminal. "I'm coming back in. Take it out, whatever you did to me." "Oh, the process is quite irreversible," the Doc told him. "It's out of my hands, now; you made the choice, remember." Pain shot through Ward's chest as he stood up in anger. "Fine," He seethed. "I won't come in. I'll just stomache this until my system runs down; I can die the hard way if I have to." Better that than the existence of a monster, he told himself. Killing and stealing are the acts of desperate men; he did not plan to be desperate for eternity. "Oh, you won't die," the pale figure assured him. The screen flickered as if in time with the low chuckle. "You will experience pain, to a debilitating or invigorating degree, and may even lose control over your actions. But you cannot die. Ever. That's why people come to me." Ward disconnected quickly, silently, sinkingly. Tainted. Yeah, that's one way of putting it.