IDIOPOTENT

Chapter 2: Interview

"This is Texas?"

The landing pad, in lieu of an airstrip, was of a kind with the aircraft Phin exited: smooth lines, modern materials. What lay beyond, though, seemed a vision from medieval Europe. A wide walkway bordered by tall, straight pines extended from the platform and led to a towering Gothic structure built in a grandeur and style that rivaled any cathedral he had ever seen.

Ash chuckled and crossed his massive arms. "You were expecting a desert and horses, weren't you?"

"No, it's just that this looks more like the cathedral at Amiens," said Phin. "I mean, yes, Texas has its share of historical churches, but they're usually missions in the Spanish style. 'Remember the Alamo,' and all that."

"There you go! That's technically a movie quote. Well, I expected desert and horses when I came here," said Ash, pulling two large red-and-white duffel bags from a cargo hold he had opened in the X-15's belly. "One more example of Hollywood rotting my brain. Hey, it's the Stonepriest! Hey, Stonepriest!" He saluted.

Walking to the edge of the landing pad was a man in a dark grey cassock. Thick, keratinized growths covered his face and hands, except for a crescent of normal skin under his eye that curled down past his cheeks to his mouth. He nodded at Ash.

"Welcome, Doctor Cole," he said in a deep African accent. "I hope your journey was a pleasant one. My name is Amare Berhanu. I serve as the chaplain at this institution. If you'll follow me." Chaplain Amare smiled, and Phin was slightly impressed at the range of movement the man's face could accommodate.

Ash waved. "May the force be with you, Doc." The muscular captain went off in another direction, the pair of huge bags slung over his back.

The Stonepriest - Phin found himself mentally applying the moniker, since the chaplain's skin condition did bear uncanny resemblance to a rocky surface - led him in silence for a while, allowing him to absorb his surroundings. The gothic feel was more than facade; inside the building, arches and pillars abounded, each masterfully carved and joined, but all chipped and worn by years that he knew couldn't have been spent in Spanish, independent, or American Texas.

"Chaplain, where did all this come from?" Phin asked. "I thought I knew of all the great cathedrals."

"If you please, young doctor, my name is Amare, and you may call me by it." Phin nodded his assent, and the chaplain continued. "This Mission was originally built to address maladies of a supernatural and diabolic nature: demon possession, vampirism, curses, and the like. To facilitate that function, it was built from stones rescued from the ruins of the hidden Knights Hospitaller of Saint John cathedral near Acre, disassembled by them in the face of the advancing Mohammedans during the Crusades."

On its face, this was a full answer, but Phinehas had inhaled history books, hours each night, since he was a small child, and the questions raised by what Chaplain Amare had just said - things he'd never seen mentioned anywhere, in any context - were too numerous for him to know where to start asking, so he stayed quiet. Amare kept talking.

"An expansion in experimentation-induced conditions led to the creation of a section of the hospital dedicated to such problems. Another addition was built to deal with radiation-related entities in the 1940s. In the 1970s, we were the first to begin treating AIDS patients. The initial suspicion was that the symptoms were a result of some sort of self-propagating curse, but when a viral vector was discovered, we allowed traditional medical research and treatment to take over. Ah, here we are."

The wooden door before which they stopped was closed, unmarked, and old. Amare knocked once. A voice from inside said, "Enter." The chaplain pushed the portal open and motioned Phinehas inside. He nodded his thanks, acutely aware of his suddenly-sweaty palms. Before he arrived in Texas, Phin didn't have a single inkling of what this interview would entail, or even what sort of place had invited him. Now, he had the faintest idea, and he realized how very much he wanted to be here.

The stone walls were unadorned, the desk simple, the chair he was offered plain. Phin sat down. A bookshelf took up the entire wall to his left, its contents protected by glass doors that reflected the orange glow from the medieval lamps, the room's only source of light, and prevented him from reading the titles on the spines. This was, by far, the most interesting feature of the small office, especially for a bibliophile like Phin, until he looked properly at the man across the desk from him.

His features were middle Eastern, or possibly Greek, deep lines in his face matching wiry forearms he rested on the desktop. Phin guessed he was in his forties, but for his eyes. They were deep and old, incongruous with the rest of the man; it was nothing objective, but the effect was uncanny nonetheless. "Welcome, Dr. Cole," he said, rising slightly out of a chair that matched Phin's and shaking his hand firmly. "My name is Professor Lazarus."

The older man released Phin's hand, and as he did so he put a small glass vial in it, capped and without label.

"Do you know what this contains?" asked Lazarus, settling back into his seat.

Phin examined the vial's contents: a black paste, possibly a resin. "It's organic," he answered. "Likely botanical."

"Yes. The substance is curare. Tell me about curare."

The history of medicines was often fascinating and unexpected, which is one reason Phin enjoyed reading about it. This was especially true for drugs used in the delivery of surgical anesthesia, which made recollection of details about them relatively easy for anyone, like him, who was interested in the subject.

"Curare is derived from South American lianas - two different species, but I don't recall their names - and is a nondepolarizing neuromuscular-blocking drug, competitively binding acetylcholine receptors and causing time-limited paralysis of skeletal muscle."

Professor Lazarus nodded. "An answer almost textbook. Strychnos toxifera and Chondrodendron tomentosum are the plants to which you allude. That property inherent to it, however, does not determine its purpose. For what is it used?"

Phin gathered his thoughts. "Well, medically, it was refined into d-tubocurarine and used as a muscle relaxant to facilitate surgery." He glanced at his questioner and knew his answer had been deemed incomplete. "And before its discovery by Western explorers and scientists, it was also used by indigenous tribes to coat poison darts and arrows."

"A tool to heal, or a tool to harm," said Lazarus. "But you have overlooked a possibility." He extended his palm, and Phin handed back the vial of curare, which he replaced in a drawer. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward on his elbows.

"It can sit there, Dr. Cole. In a vial, inside a desk drawer, rife with potential that will never be realized. I know of your condition..." This surprised Phinehas. He had thought his parents were the only ones fully aware of...well, whatever it was. "...and how you have chosen to utilize the time it has afforded you. What one does with the gifts inside him matters a great deal, but what comes first is that one does something with them. With yours, you have. Here, if you consent, you and your gifts will be tested and refined."

Phin had already made his decision, and he knew it was the right one. "Thank you, Professor Lazarus." He shook the man's hand again. "I accept."

"I'm pleased you do," said Lazarus. "And so you know: this invitation is extended because of what you've done with the gift - that is what I believe it is - you have, not because of the gift itself. Still, you need feel no hesitation to share your state with anyone here."

"Thank you, Professor Lazarus," said Phin, "but I would prefer to be defined by what I do, not what I can't do."

Lazarus nodded. "I feel precisely the same way about myself." While the older man scribbled on a piece of stationary, Phin wondered what he meant by the statement, but such musings were cut short when Lazarus handed the paper to him. Phin scanned it; it was an official letter of acceptance, Lazarus' fresh signature written in a bold hand at the bottom. Professor Lazarus smiled, the first time Phin had noticed him do so.

"Welcome to the Mission, Dr. Cole."