The Season of Risks
Chapter Twenty-two

Elizabeth I asked if anyone was hungry.
"Leave us alone until we're finished," Roche said. She smiled as if he'd paid her a compliment and left the room.
"In fact, I did COVE a service," he said to no one in particular. "If Cameron had been elected, he wouldn't have helped our causes one bit. He's all about compromise and compassion. Fair Share Party, my foot." He glanced at Truckler. "Now, with Hartman, we have someone we can rely on."
Truckler sat forward, resting his hands on his knees. "Hartman's a simbo?"
"He's a mortal," Malcolm said. "Easy to control. He likes money. And he's gullible. He's completely in sync with the Nebulist agenda. We'll have no trouble with him."
"And if we do"-Roche's index finger and thumb simulated a gun-"bang!" He laughed.
I'd been nervous ever since I entered the house. Now fear pulsed through me, centering in my chest. More than anything, I longed to leave, get back to the hotel and my father.
Malcolm's eyes, trained on Roche, had contempt in them. "Tell me, Godfried. I'm curious. How did the Montero girl manage to escape?"
"Who knows?" Roche stroked his belly absently.
"The prototypes are kept sedated," Malcolm said. "So how did this one get away?"
"Once in a great while, one of them disappears. It's happened only twice. I can ramp up the building security, I suppose." Roche looked angry then. "But I don't see the problem. So they escape. So they go out and get lost in the world. Flotsam, jetsam. Dust in the wind. So what? They have no memories, no way to reconstruct what happened to them."
"The Montero girl does." Truckler told them about the testimony the council had heard. "The girl's journal is pretty incriminating."
"And what if she's recognized by the media?" Malcolm said. "She's a public figure now. What if she talks?"
Truckler said, "The testimony this afternoon wasn't pleasant. This Dr. Cho made you look like a fraud."
Roche's face contorted. The two Elizabeths rushed to his side, but he brushed off their hands. "Betsy, bring me my briefcase," he said to one of them.
Briefcase in his lap, he opened it, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to Truckler. I moved slightly away from the wall to read it. The heading was "Medical Consent." I had to move closer to read the small type:
I hereby authorize Dr. Godfried Roche, winner of the Xavier Prize, to inject me with the synthetic growth hormone Septimal. I understand that the diagnostic label of Growth Hormone Deficiency has been assigned to me.
I am aware that I will never be able to remove this diagnosis, or any other that will be added in the future, from my medical record. I understand that it is exceedingly difficult to determine what is brought about (both desired and unwanted) by a drug that has wide and diverse effects on the brain and other organ systems.
In consenting to take the drug as part of a research study, I understand that the researcher's primary interest and loyalty is not to me as a patient and not to my personal interests or welfare. I understand that the "needs of the research project" come before and have priority over my own personal needs.
I understand that the drug will have a wide range of effects on my brain, body, consciousness, emotions, and actions. My sleep, my memory, my judgment, my coordination, my stamina, and my sexuality are likely to be affected. I understand in particular that the effects of this drug may undermine my ability to accurately monitor and report upon just how the drug has affected me, even impaired me, perhaps in a dangerous direction (judgment, social perception, impulse control, etc.).
Having understood the above, I realize that the drug treatment may cause severe pain or discomfort, worsen my existing problem significantly, or even damage me permanently. However, most doctors or experts will never formally or informally acknowledge that the drug harmed me in this manner. I will have practically no chance of proving that the drug caused my damage and obtaining compensation.
I saw my signature at the bottom of the form.
Truckler read the document slowly. Then he looked up. "Brilliant!" he said.
Staying invisible requires energy as well as concentration. Even though I'd consumed two dozen oysters a few hours ago, when the aroma of food wafted into the room it distracted me. I willed myself to ignore it.
"Something smells good," Truckler said.
Roche petted his belly. "Elizabeth has cooked us a hare."
Now I could smell the meat beneath the scents of garlic and butter and cream. My stomach recoiled. Concentrate, I told myself. I took shallower breaths to avoid smelling the food.
But the men, thankfully, found it irresistible. They stood up and left.
I waited a few seconds, to make sure no one would come back. Then I inched my way to the end table where Truckler had left the consent form. If I was lucky, I could destroy it and leave before anyone noticed. But I debated: was it wise to destroy the document? It proved that Roche had injected me. Better to take it to my father and let him decide.
Paper in my hand, I'd nearly reached the door when Elizabeth appeared. Which one, I couldn't tell. She stared in my direction as if she could see me. But I remained invisible. I checked to be sure.
Then I realized: it was the paper she saw, apparently floating in the air.
Elizabeth didn't hesitate. She grabbed the form. But I held on, and it tore in two.
Enough of this, I decided. I turned and headed for the entryway. I was turning the door handle when I heard someone behind me. Something sharp stabbed into my back.
I whipped around. Elizabeth held a letter opener, a long blood-tinged blade with a crystal handle. She drove it into my chest.
Then I was dancing Butoh. I began to swoon but caught myself, twisted my body upright, only to spiral down again. On the ground, I moved involuntarily, in twitches and spasms, and then I stopped thinking at all.
A voice said, "No, no, no. Do you really want to add murder to your resume?"
I opened my eyes and shut them immediately when I saw Roche and Malcolm standing next to me. Apparently I was lying on a bed.
Malcolm continued talking. "On the one hand, she's too unimportant to kill, since you claim to have a strategy to discredit all she said. On the other hand, she's too important to kill. She's one of the rare half-breeds. Her death would be a significant loss to vampire research."
"Well, if she did die, Elizabeth would take the rap, no problem." Roche sounded unconcerned. "Elizabeth would be phenomenal on a witness stand. And if she lost the case and went to jail, I'd just make another Elizabeth."
Malcolm looked at him, his eyes sharp and critical. "There's something sloppy about the way you think," he said. "You claim to be so precise about details, but I don't think you're paying enough attention to any of them. This is a real mess you've made."
"I've made?" Roche's lips pressed together tightly, and his head tilted from side to side. " You were the one who hatched this particular idea."
"And you were the one who botched it. But that's neither here nor there." Malcolm paused. "I'm taking her back to her hotel. I'll make sure she doesn't talk to the press. As for the rest, you're on your own now."
I felt arms go around me, lift me up, hold me firmly. The wound throbbed. I couldn't have got away if I'd tried. I stayed limp, kept my eyes closed.
We were moving now. Behind us Roche was saying something, something about COVE. I heard a door open.
"Good luck with that," Malcolm said. "You can tape the form together again, but no one can read the part that's soaked in blood." The door clicked shut.
We were in a smaller space now, probably an elevator. "Golden ratio," Malcolm said, his voice contemptuous. Then he sang, under his breath: "Bye-bye, Betsy, good-bye."
I lost consciousness, of a kind. But I could hear voices, murmuring, then singing. Then I began to see them. I saw two young women, ghosts, dancing in a silvery garden-dancing not with each other but separately. They beckoned and dipped, graceful as figures on a Grecian frieze, arms lifted high. The opposite of Butoh. They sang some melody I couldn't quite hear. Then they called my name. "Ari. Come and dance with us."
I knew who they were: Kathleen and my other friend Autumn. This was their heaven, a garden on the ocean's floor. Tall grey coral formations framed them. Sea lettuce the color of steel undulated beneath their feet. They were home, and I was lost, much too far away to join them.
I can only imagine the scene when my father answered the door of our suite and found Malcolm standing there, me in his arms, both of us stained with so much blood that my invisibility suit had to be destroyed.
Awakening in another bed, this time with Dr. Cho and my father hovering over me, I saw anxious concern in their faces. I tried to tell them not to worry. They told me not to talk, but later my father said I'd kept repeating, "Yes I said yes I will yes."
Stab wounds heal almost immediately in vampires. Not so quickly for me, since I'm half-human. Dr. Cho told me how lucky I was-the blade had barely missed my heart.
Dr. Cho and my father took turns watching me those first few days. COVE had asked both of them to remain in Dublin until Roche's testimony was complete, in case the council had further questions. And that's how our prolonged stay was explained to my mother.
Everyone, perhaps me most of all, thought it would be a bad idea to tell her about my wound. Her initial rage over our decision to come to Dublin still terrified me.
On my third day of recovery, my father came in, wearing a midnight blue suit and carrying a breakfast tray. He set it on a table. Then he came over, put his hand on my forehead, and met my eyes. "How are you this morning, Ariella?"
"Better." I'd slept well, and the pain in my chest felt duller now. "Why don't you ever call me Sylvia?"
"You may have to use that name in the human world, but to me you are Ariella, always."
He helped me sit up, set the tray before me, sat in a chair by the bed, watched me eat oatmeal. When I'd finished, he said, "Do you feel up to talking? I need to ask you a few questions."
I'd been expecting them.
Malcolm had already told him what happened in Roche's place, along with a few details I hadn't been privy to. The Elizabeth who'd stabbed me had been alerted not only by the sight of the consent form apparently suspended in air, but by my triskele amulet. I'd forgotten I was wearing it.
"Why didn't the others notice it?" I asked.
"Malcolm said they must have been too absorbed in their business or distracted by wine. Even he didn't spot it until you'd been stabbed. Besides, the amulet is very small." He sighed. "What troubles me is this: you didn't remember you had it on, when you made the decision to emutate. That was very careless of you."
"Put yourself in my place," I said slowly. "What if you heard Truckler, who's clearly not on our side, talking to someone named Godfried. Wouldn't you have followed him?"
"Perhaps." He frowned. "But not invisibly."
"But I remembered what you'd told me," I said. "I decided that following him was absolutely necessary."
"Did you remember my warning before or after you made the decision?"
When I hesitated, he said, "I'm disappointed in you, Ari. I thought you'd grown up considerably."
I winced.
"Because you acted on impulse, our case against Roche may be lost."
I sank back against the pillows. "How could it be lost?"
"He can accuse you of breaking and entering, and of attempted burglary. And for what? That consent form you signed-"
"That form can't hurt us. It's illegible. It has blood all over it." I realized it was the first time I'd ever interrupted him. "I'm sorry," I said. "For interrupting, I mean."
He said, "Didn't you think his office kept a copy?"
While I convalesced, my father said, Roche had appeared before COVE to testify and answer questions. Anook Sharma had come to our suite the night before to report to Dr. Cho and my father about the case Roche was making against me.
Roche had told the council that he'd never heard of me until I made an appointment with him for a Septimal injection. I'd signed a consent form (a faxed copy of which was passed around the table), and he'd administered the drug. That was the extent of his involvement, he said. Yes, he had the means to make "models," but he'd never considered making one of someone as inconsequential as me. He told the council he was convinced that all of the actions I'd claimed were committed by a doppelganger had been actually executed by me (possibly directed by my father, one of his professional rivals). I impressed him as an unusually competent liar, he said, capable of fabricating the journal and the related notes. And I was clearly a thief, evidenced by my attempt to steal the consent form from his flat.
"Pity my poor Elizabeth," he'd told COVE. "She's not accustomed to invisible burglars. Yes, she stabbed at whatever was stealing the form, and she was horrified when a bleeding woman manifested herself on our carpet."
Probably horrified at the thought of carpet stains, I thought.
"The shock has taken its toll on her, but she came with me today to tell you what happened."
Sharma said that Truckler had licked his lips when Elizabeth entered the meeting room. She'd worn a high-necked, semitransparent white lace blouse that drew all the councilors' eyes to her, and she'd dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief as she spoke. She repeated her story twice, never changing a single word.
"A lace handkerchief ?" I asked. What a cliched prop.
"This fellow Roche doesn't know where to stop," my father said. "In any case, she seems to have most of the council convinced that she acted to defend her home and that she thought you might cause her and the others bodily harm."
"When do we get to tell our side of the story?"
"Dr. Cho and I have been summoned to appear tomorrow."
I was sorting through all he'd told me. "If I supposedly did all the things Kathleen did, then who died in the plane crash?"
"Someone you arranged to take your place." He rubbed his hands together, as if he felt cold. "He's thought it all out. He says the Septimal might have contributed to your psychosis but that the form you signed absolves him from any responsibility. He even suggested that you planted a bomb in that someone's suitcase to blow up the plane. He's painting a portrait of you as an amoral terrorist-a spurned teenager who lost her sense of right and wrong when Cameron tried to end your relationship with him."
I shook my head slowly. "But he has no proof of any of that."
"No," my father said. "All he has is a creative, malicious mind. He suggested that later, when you needed a new identity, you dyed your hair and came to Ireland." He sighed. "He's asking the council to censure us."