Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

“The food, the sky, the certain, uh — sexual temptations—” The microbiologist tapped his pencil against one finger. “You haven’t become addicted, have you, Cole? To that dying world?”

Cole shook his head. His mouth was dry; he could already feel sweat trickling down his neck, but his voice was steady as he replied.

“No, sir! I just want to do my part. To get us back on top in charge of the planet. And I have the experience, I know who the people are—”

“He really is the most qualified,” the zoologist said softly.

The microbiologist leaned back in his rickety chair, tilting his head so that his black glasses caught the light. But all that — behavior .”

The astrophysicist nodded. “You said we weren’t real , Cole.” He sounded a little hurt.

Cole thrust his shoulders back. “Well, sir, I don’t think the human mind was built to exist in two different — whatever you call it — dimensions. It’s stressful. You said it yourselves: it gets you confused. You don’t know what’s real and what’s not.”

Behind his dark glasses, the microbiologist’s expression was unreadable. “But you know what’s real now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can’t trick us, you know. It wouldn’t work.”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, I understand that. I want to help.”

The three scientists looked at each other, then at Cole. After a moment the microbiologist stood and walked over to the wall covered with fading photos and newspaper clippings. In the middle of these a worn, much-creased map of the world was held in place with tacks and curling tape.

“Let’s consider again our current information,” he began, using his pencil as a pointer to indicate various spots on the map. “If the symptoms were first detected in Philadelphia on December 27, 1996, that makes us now that…” He turned questioningly to Cole.

“That it was released in Philadelphia, probably on December 13, 1996.”

The microbiologist allowed himself a small nod of approbation. “And it appeared sequentially after that in?”

Cole shot a quick glance at the others staring at him from the long table, then answered in the dutiful tones of a prize student.

“San Francisco, New Orleans, Rio de Janeiro, Rome, Kinshasa, Karachi, Bangkok, then Peking.”

The microbiologist raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“That the virus was taken from Philadelphia to San Francisco, then to New Orleans, Rio de Janeiro, Rom, Kinshasa, Karachi, Bangkok, then Peking.”

“And your only goal is…?”

“To find out where the virus is so a qualified scientist can travel back into the past and study the original virus.”

“So that?”

Cole frowned. “Uh, so that a vaccine can be developed that will, uh, allow mankind to reclaim the surface of the earth.”

Murmurs of the scientists turned to each other, nodding as they assessed Cole’s performance. Cole allowed himself a small sigh of relief, then let his eyes drift across the mélange of clues spread across the walls: magazine covers, newspapers, obituaries, charts. Among them was an 8 X 10 photo of graffiti on a wall, crudely painted letters that spelled out an urgent message.

His gaze lingered on the photo, trying to figure if he recognized it, when he heard a voice saying, “Cole — Mr. Cole—”

He turned and saw the silver-haired astrophysicist, his earnest face creased by a smile repeated in the faces of the other scientists who were now crowding around him.

“That was very well done, Cole. Very well done.”

Standing in front of a glass wall in his office, Leland Goines paced angrily back and forth, cordless phone to his ear. The wall overlooked a vast sterile lab where workers in white, hooded suits, like astronauts or surreal ghosts, scurried among stainless steel vats and freezers, peering into cages and withdrawing tubes and bottles and trays. In the office behind him, Goines’ assistant, a man in black T-shirt and jeans, his lank red hair pulled back in a ponytail, flipped idly through the latest issue of Lancet .

“You have reason to believe my son may be planning to do what? ”

Goines waited impatiently as the woman on the other end of the telephone went on, “Yes, I do understand, Dr. Goines, I know it sounds insane but—”

Goines waved a hand dismissively and broke in. “I’m afraid this doesn’t seem very professional to me, Dr. Railly. In fact, it’s distressingly un professional! I don’t know anything about “monkey armies,” Doctor. Nothing whatsoever. If my son ever was involved in—”

He paused, then went on angrily. “Well, it would be doubly inappropriate to discuss matters of security with you, Dr. Railly, but if it will put you at ease, neither my son nor any other unauthorized person has access to any potentially dangerous organisms in this laboratory. Thank you for your concern.”

He slammed the phone down and glared across the room at his assistant. Seeing Goines’ expression, the red-haired man tossed the magazine aside and stood.

“Dr. Kathryn Railly?” he asked casually.

Goines nodded and raised his hands in exasperation. “The psychiatrist who was kidnapped by that man who broke into my house. She seems to have been suddenly struck by the most preposterous notion about Jeffrey.”

His assistant rolled his eyes. “I attended a lecture of hers once. Apocalyptic visions.” He stretched and walked over to a coat rack, took down a white lab jacket with DR. PETERS embroidered on the pocket. “Has she succumbed to her own theoretical ‘Cassandra Complex’?”

But Leland Goines stood lost in thought at the glass wall, staring down at the white-suited lab workers in their glass-and-steel city. “Given the nature of our work, we can’t ever be careful enough,” he said last. “I think we should review our security procedures, perhaps upgrade them.”

At the door Dr. Peters stopped, nodding obediently, and waited for further instructions. When there were none, he said, “Of course. I’ll notify Hudson and Drake immediately.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Goines said absently. Long after Peters was gone he remained where he stood, his face impassive as he gazed at his kingdom below.

Inside Iacono’s abandoned butcher shop, five nervous animal activists crouched motionless amidst cardboard cartons and topples stacks of brochures. After a few minutes Fale took a deep breath, pushed a strand of pale hair from his pale face, then scuttled across the floor to the front window. He pressed his eye to a slit between posters and peered outside.

“Who is it?” whispered Bee.

Fale shook his head in disbelief. “It’s that kidnap woman — the one who was with the guy who tied us up.”

“What’s she doing?”

“She’s drawing attention to us, that’s what she’s doing!” Fale glared over his shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re up to this time, Goines, but you’re gonna get us in deep shit!”

Jeffrey Goines yawned and leaned back, pillowing his head on a stack of MEAT IS MURDER flyers. “Whine, whine, whine. What about walkie-talkies? We used to have walkie-talkies.”

Fale and the rest looked at each other blankly.

“Well?” demanded Jeffrey. “ Didn’t we?”

Outside, Kathryn Railly pounded futilely at the door. Further down the littered sidewalk, several derelicts watched with interest as she furiously stalked back and forth.

“I know you’re in there!” she yelled, rattling the handle for the hundredth time. “I saw you! I saw someone moving!”